Deeply Rooted

But blessed are those who trust in the Lord
and have made the Lord their hope and confidence.
They are like trees planted along a riverbank,
with roots that reach deep into the water.
Such trees are not bothered by the heat
... or worried by long months of drought.
Their leaves stay green,
and they never stop producing fruit.
Jeremiah 17:7-8

I've been trying to come up with a new name for our youth group, so I turned to my Bible for some inspiration. Technically, I turned to biblegateway.com but same difference. I was trying to recall verses and stories I had read in my Bible, and find the specific addresses in the Bible. This passage has been one of my favorites for a long time. I can't really remember when I first read it, but I remember how I felt. Refreshed.

Like slowly drinking a cool glass of water on a very hot day, this verse just gets inside of me. I can picture such a tree in my mind. Maybe a weeping willow with long wispy branches reaching down to touch the water which gives it life. Maybe an apple tree with branches reaching high into the sky, providing shade, producing fruit, giving life. The imagery is refreshing. The idea is refreshing.

Letting roots grow deep and strong. My generation is a rootless one. Our friends change, our interests change, our phones change. My grandparents have lived in the same house for over 60 years, my grandmother has only lived in that valley in her 90 years of life. They know everyone on the mountain and in the hollow. Things have changed. We have starter houses, we switch neighborhoods, switch schools, switch friends, switch careers. Roots can't grow where things are always changing.

I long to be rooted by a riverbank, always producing fruit, but more than anything I don't want to be bothered by the heat or worried about droughts. That phrase really captures my heart right now. I worry about drought all the time. Not a literal one, but emotional and spiritual droughts. I worry that I don't have the same emotional experiences about God as I once did. It's a drought. But it's not permanent. A tree with strong roots by a riverbank knows that and just keeps standing, drawing on the strength and resources in its' roots until the drought is over.

I worry that prayers will go unanswered. I worry that this drought in my womb will never be healed. I wish I had an easy answer for that one. But I suppose there are years when trees don't bear fruit, or as much fruit. A tree with strong roots by a riverbank knows that and just keeps standing, knowing that the next year will be a bumper crop of blessings. My blessings may not be what I'm expecting, but God doesn't give us stones when we ask for bread. He will only give me good things, even if I'm not so sure at first.

I may not have roots in my neighborhood or even with old friends, but I can have roots in something far better. It's the difference between having roots in a puddle or in a riverbank. One will dry up and leave the roots with little to sustain the tree; the other will last into forever giving the tree plenty of nourishment. It's time to dig deep and let my roots sink into God's soil, soaking up the water He provides, and growing strong on His nourishment. It's time to be deeply rooted.

For I am like a tree whose roots reach the water,
      whose branches are refreshed with the dew.

Job 29:19

Oh, the joys of those who do not
      follow the advice of the wicked,
      or stand around with sinners,
      or join in with mockers.
But they delight in the law of the Lord,
      meditating on it day and night.
 They are like trees planted along the riverbank,
      bearing fruit each season.
   Their leaves never wither,
      and they prosper in all they do.

Psalm 1:1-3

I pray that you, being rooted and established in love, may have power, together with all the Lord’s holy people, to grasp how wide and long and high and deep is the love of Christ, and to know this love that surpasses knowledge—that you may be filled to the measure of all the fullness of God.

Ephesians 3:17-19

Deeply Rooted

But blessed are those who trust in the Lord
and have made the Lord their hope and confidence.
They are like trees planted along a riverbank,
with roots that reach deep into the water.
Such trees are not bothered by the heat
... or worried by long months of drought.
Their leaves stay green,
and they never stop producing fruit.
Jeremiah 17:7-8

I've been trying to come up with a new name for our youth group, so I turned to my Bible for some inspiration. Technically, I turned to biblegateway.com but same difference. I was trying to recall verses and stories I had read in my Bible, and find the specific addresses in the Bible. This passage has been one of my favorites for a long time. I can't really remember when I first read it, but I remember how I felt. Refreshed.

Like slowly drinking a cool glass of water on a very hot day, this verse just gets inside of me. I can picture such a tree in my mind. Maybe a weeping willow with long wispy branches reaching down to touch the water which gives it life. Maybe an apple tree with branches reaching high into the sky, providing shade, producing fruit, giving life. The imagery is refreshing. The idea is refreshing.

Letting roots grow deep and strong. My generation is a rootless one. Our friends change, our interests change, our phones change. My grandparents have lived in the same house for over 60 years, my grandmother has only lived in that valley in her 90 years of life. They know everyone on the mountain and in the hollow. Things have changed. We have starter houses, we switch neighborhoods, switch schools, switch friends, switch careers. Roots can't grow where things are always changing.

I long to be rooted by a riverbank, always producing fruit, but more than anything I don't want to be bothered by the heat or worried about droughts. That phrase really captures my heart right now. I worry about drought all the time. Not a literal one, but emotional and spiritual droughts. I worry that I don't have the same emotional experiences about God as I once did. It's a drought. But it's not permanent. A tree with strong roots by a riverbank knows that and just keeps standing, drawing on the strength and resources in its' roots until the drought is over.

I worry that prayers will go unanswered. I worry that this drought in my womb will never be healed. I wish I had an easy answer for that one. But I suppose there are years when trees don't bear fruit, or as much fruit. A tree with strong roots by a riverbank knows that and just keeps standing, knowing that the next year will be a bumper crop of blessings. My blessings may not be what I'm expecting, but God doesn't give us stones when we ask for bread. He will only give me good things, even if I'm not so sure at first.

I may not have roots in my neighborhood or even with old friends, but I can have roots in something far better. It's the difference between having roots in a puddle or in a riverbank. One will dry up and leave the roots with little to sustain the tree; the other will last into forever giving the tree plenty of nourishment. It's time to dig deep and let my roots sink into God's soil, soaking up the water He provides, and growing strong on His nourishment. It's time to be deeply rooted.

For I am like a tree whose roots reach the water,
      whose branches are refreshed with the dew.

Job 29:19

Oh, the joys of those who do not
      follow the advice of the wicked,
      or stand around with sinners,
      or join in with mockers.
But they delight in the law of the Lord,
      meditating on it day and night.
 They are like trees planted along the riverbank,
      bearing fruit each season.
   Their leaves never wither,
      and they prosper in all they do.

Psalm 1:1-3

I pray that you, being rooted and established in love, may have power, together with all the Lord’s holy people, to grasp how wide and long and high and deep is the love of Christ, and to know this love that surpasses knowledge—that you may be filled to the measure of all the fullness of God.

Ephesians 3:17-19

In The Fullness of Time

He hath made everything beautiful in His time....Ecclesiastes 3:11

My mom cross-stitched this verse for me when I was very small. Maybe a baby, I'm really not sure. All I know is that I've had it for as long as I can remember. It's become a life verse for me, as it has has meant different things to me at different times, and probably always will. These days it's the last word that has me thinking. Time.

Not just any time, or anybody's time, but His time. I'll spare you the cliches on God's calendar not matching ours and all that rigmarole. They're very true but we all know them. Let me try to be original.

I've been wrestling with time and His time for awhile now. I feel frustrated and disappointed about my life right now. It seems that nothing is going according to plan. Things are taking longer to get accomplished or to change. I'm getting burned out and tired from the struggle to get through each day. I'm spending more and more time shaking my fist at Heaven.

And then I get clobbered with some Truth. I use a capital 'T' because it seems to me that truth from Heaven is worthy of some capitalization. God's truth should be a proper noun. And the Truth of the matter is that God's time takes far more into consideration than just me, or just the people around me. God's time takes all of eternity into account. This seems obvious, something we all know, but it's something we can all take for granted if we're not paying attention.

The specific situation in my life has been this struggle to have children. I look at every month that goes by as a big fat 'no', a big fat failure, a big fat disappointment. This morning, I discovered, that God sees it as another month closer to the fullness of His time. Another month closer to the goal.

The fact of the matter is that while Curtis and I want to be parents, it's just not God's time. And it's not that we're not ready, good enough, or deserving. It may be that God needs this baby to be born or to come into our care at a later date. God already has plans for this child and the first part of that plan is his/her conception. It all must fit.

If God had given Isaac to Abraham & Sarah fifty years earlier, Rebekah wouldn't have been there for Isaac to marry. And without her there'd be no Jacob & Esau, no Uncle Laban for Jacob to run to, no Rachel and Leah for him to marry. The whole Old Testament unravels.

If God had let Rachel get pregnant right away, would Joseph have been the treasured son? And if Joseph wasn't favored, his brothers wouldn't have sold him into slavery. And without Joseph's ultimate success in Egypt, the tribes of Israel would've perished in the famine.

If God had given Hannah her precious son, Samuel, the first time she'd asked for a child, she wouldn't have dedicated him to the Lord. And if Samuel hadn't been given back to the Lord and lived with Eli in the temple, he wouldn't have become a priest. And if Samuel hadn't become a priest, who would've anointed both Saul and David? Who would've spoken Truth to Israels' first king?

If God had given Elizabeth and Zechariah their son, John, earlier in life he could not have really prepared the way for Jesus. Their ministries had to overlap. If John had been born sooner, who would've baptized Jesus?

God had a specific plan for Isaac, Joseph, Samuel, and John. Their parents had to wait, suffer even, before finally getting the child they so wanted. Sarah, Hannah, and Elizabeth all praised God, fully acknowledging that their sons had been born in the fullness of God's time in accordance with His will and His plan. Rachel did not, and died trying to have another child. It seems to me that is significant.

Waiting for God's timing isn't easy. Ever. But I have to change my perspective. I have to remember it's not just my life I'm praying about, it's the life of my future child. And God has a plan for that child,  more significant and eternal than any dream of mine. I need to be grateful for God's timing, and look forward to the moment when His plan and mine finally converge. In the fullness of time, everything will be beautiful.

This Aging Generation of Giants

At church Sunday morning we had some time left over at the end of the service, so our pastor opened the floor for people to share what God had done in their lives this past week. *cricket, cricket* One man finally stood and shared a story about making a difference in peoples' lives. *cricket, cricket* Another man, my guess is somewhere in his 80s, stood up toward the back of the church. Like an Old Testament prophet, he pointed his finger at the congregation and, in no uncertain terms but in a completely honorable way, called us out. The sermon had been on the rapture and this gentleman declared that while he can't know for certain, only God can, that he very much doubted that the church would be empty should the rapture occur in that moment. He told us to humble ourselves at the altar (something our pastor had emphasized during the last worship song...and no one came forward), to get right with God, because someday it will be too late.

He didn't yell, he didn't thump a Bible, he wasn't passing judgment. In fact, the only reason he was pointing is because he was just so passionate about the salvation offered through Jesus Christ. And quite honestly, if we were all a little more passionate about that our worlds might change. Each one of us has our own little world peopled with friends, co-workers, neighbors, relatives, people we like, people who aggravate us, people in lines ahead and behind us, people who wait on us, people we wait on...and if we were truly passionate about salvation, those little worlds would start to change.

I think the old timers knew that. They lived and served out of their passion for Christ and that's why people like me sit here and write this blog. As this gentleman spoke, I sat up on stage behind my keyboard and my eyes started filling with tears. I was thanking God for giving our church a man brave enough and bold enough and passionate about God enough to speak the truth. And I went over the mental photographs in my mind of other old-timers that are bold enough to serve, to speak, to pray.

My grandmother's church used to be filled with these kinds of people. Perhaps that is an exaggeration but childhood memories are vague and the characters are often larger than life. But it seemed to me then that there were spiritual giants in that church. Not Rick Warren, Max Lucado, or Joel Olsteen giants. Humble, quiet giants. Giants that teach Sunday school every week, change diapers every week, teach little ones new songs about Jesus every week. Giants that make snacks for Vacation Bible School and fill in at a moment's notice. Giants that get down on their knees every single week, if not every single day, and pray for revival to begin and to begin there. Giants that send cards, make phone calls, and drop-in on the lonely and hurting. Giants that read their Bibles every morning and every evening, even when their aging eyes have to strain to see the words. Giants that feel about hymns the way I do about praise choruses. Giants that have done service unto the Lord that only He knows about.

My grandparents are such giants. My grandmother served outwardly--teaching Sunday school, always keeping a couple lessons in her back pocket that she could teach at a moment's notice, she formed choirs for children, teens, and ladies, she participated in the Ladies' Missionary Society, she made snacks and volunteered for Vacation Bible School, she could even fill in playing the piano on a Sunday morning. My grandfather served more privately. He reminds me of John Walton. Working hard, putting God and family first, giving generously both to the Lord and to those in need. Hard work, generosity, faithfulness. As far as I know he never once served in front of the congregation, but he was and is a servant of the Lord all the same. They've prayed together nearly every night since their marriage on September 27, 1939. They shared each other's burdens, and brought them together to the Lord.

Those of us that are blessed and honored enough to have known some of these spiritual giants should be taking notes. That generation based their lives on the Bible. My grandmother has entire chapters of the Bible memorized, and now that she struggles to be able to read her Bible, she misses it. There's an empty void in her day that used to be filled with scripture reading. She tries, and some days its easier than others, but her poor old eyes don't let her see the Words she's always leaned on. I fear that our generation, and especially the next, are Bible illiterate. We insist that it's too hard, we don't have the right translation, we don't have the time. Explain to me how women who had to pump their own water, make fires to cook, bake bread, churn butter, sew & mend their clothes, do all the washing (dishes, clothes, housework) by hand, had time to read their Bibles? Let alone serve in their church community.

Honestly, I think it's shameful that we hide behind our work or class schedules, our 'me time', our phones and computers and insist that we're too busy. What will happen when this aged generation dies? Who will lead? Who will speak truth? Who will know the truth? As that generation fades away, one by one, we need to pick up their legacy. They, after all, inherited it from the generation before them. Our faith, our traditions, our passion, our servitude has been passed on from one generation to the next for centuries. Let us not be the ones to throw it away out of ignorance, selfishness, or pride. It is hard sometimes to make it a priority--it was for them, too--and the Bible can be hard to read. But those are lousy excuses for not keeping the faith, and if this aging generation had just given up when they were busy or when it was hard...where would you be? I shudder to think where I would be without their humble serving and faithful guidance.

I write this as much for myself as anyone who might chance to read it. That is always the case with this blog. I must take time to lecture myself a bit, to dish out a bit of my own advice to take. I must train myself, with the Spirit's guidance and help, to be faithful to pray, to read my Bible and to serve the Lord. These are both the commandments of God and the legacy being left behind.

A Hurricane Tamed (or Resting in Gratitude)

Typically when I read my Bible I like to have a plan. I know this is surprising for all of you. I feel frustrated wasting precious time flipping through pages, trying to figure what to read--Old Testament or New? Narratives or directives? Poetry or prophesy? Too many choices. Give me a reading plan to follow and I'll be happy.

But the last couple nights I've not looked at it that way. It finally dawned on me that the precious time I spend flipping pages, trying to decide what to read is part of the quiet time. Instead of me deciding what I need to read, I've been letting that small quiet stirring (Holy Spirit) lead me. And I've been led to the Psalms. Psalm 34 on Tuesday, Psalm 104 on Wednesday. Tuesday I was searching for peace, Wednesday searching for words to praise. It really only make sense that I would respond for the peace I was given with praise.

But I'm not really one to stop and praise God, if I'm going to be painfully honest here. Oh, sure, I'm grateful for dazzling sunsets, expansive twinkling night skies, the simple beauty of a carefully crafted flower. Yes, I'm relieved and grateful when things don't blow up in my face or don't all crumble to bits. I can think and talk for hours on God's greatness--both in size and in goodness. But all of this 'feel good' doesn't really translate into sincere praise for God. I have a hard time stopping to just revel in His protection and provision. To rest in gratitude.

Rest in gratitude. That just came to me and I think it's hitting the proverbial nail right on it's proverbial metal head. I think there is a certain amount of resting involved in praising God. When I'm truly taking time to praise Him, to thank Him for what He's done, to think about and rejoice in His goodness and grandeur, I'm not doing anything else. I'm not asking for the next thing, worrying about the next thing, planning for the next thing. And for someone like me, whose mind is always going around 100 miles an hour with frenzied thoughts, it's difficult to not simply give a nod to Heaven, and then start on the next thing.

I'm learning, ever so slowly, that taking time to really praise God, to give myself a mental and emotional break by dwelling only on His goodness, is really a healthy choice for me. It's healthy mentally, emotionally, spiritually, and I would argue, even physically.

To illustrate this...Monday night I knew I was headed into a big, fat, busy week. Preparing for a licensing check at work and the first youth swim & study at our house--happening on the same day--was looming in front of me, stressing me out. Monday night I got virtually no sleep. My brain wouldn't turn off. Consciously I wasn't thinking about the things that were subconsciously keeping me awake. My brain will appear to be thinking about stupid things like TV shows, cookies, funny things the dogs did...but underneath the gears are churning because of the things I am worried about.

I already told you that Tuesday night I was looking for some words about peace. I found this: The righteous person may have many troubles, but the LORD delivers him from them all (Psalm 34:19). I wrote down some thoughts about righteousness (which I may share someday), and instead of 'praying' about my problems (which is really just whining directed at God), I simply rested in these words. And I slept.

Last night, Wednesday, my heart was full of praise. All I wanted to do was to find some words to praise God, and I found this: I will sing to the LORD all my life; I will sing praise to my God as long as I live. May my meditation be pleasing to him, as I rejoice in the LORD. (Psalm 104: 33-34). The last couple of verses of a beautiful poem about God's mastery and wisdom in creation. After writing my thoughts, I took a few minutes to really praise God, to agree with the words of the Psalmist, and then I slept through the night.

Reading my Bible, praising God, thinking about Him, allows my brainwaves to settle. The hurricane of thoughts dissipates. Jesus calmed the storm out on the Sea of Galilee, He can, will, and does calm the storm in my mind--when I do my part to allow Him. When I'm not flipping through the pages of His letter to me in frustration, needing a plan to follow. When I'm quiet, not in control, and really there for Him amazing things can happen. A stressful week is tamed, a roaring lion turned into a purring cat, a hurricane turned into a soft spring rain.

In The Story of Our Lives Together

In the Story of Our Lives Together I want the theme to be love expressed through friendship, grace, and forgiveness. I want the next generation, our own someday children and our nieces and nephews, to read in us not a story of pride but a story of humility.

It's hard when differences and disagreements arise. I'm not surprised by their presence in our marriage. Every married couple has differences which lead to disagreements. And what story doesn't have a conflict? Especially a story unfolding across a lifetime together? There will be conflicts, hurt feelings, and frustration. What matters is how we handle it, and in this I can only take my part. I can't decide for Curtis what he needs to do any more than I could make him do it. I can only be responsible for the wife's part. My part.

I'm learning that what God wants me to do is to humble myself, submit to my husband, to not let things get blown out of proportion. I have an obsessive compulsive streak that makes it very hard for me to forfeit control. I want to dictate the best way to do things, instead of simply allowing my husband to do things his way. I find myself getting absurdly frustrated over small things just because it isn't the way I thought it would be or should be done.

The easy thing to do is to make a snarky comment, or a 'simple' suggestion, or to fly off the handle. That takes no effort at all. The harder thing, the right thing, is to remind myself that in the entire story of our lives this moment will be a single line unless I make it something more. It's up to me. I can decided if three chapters get dedicated to the way dishes should be done, or if its simply omitted all together.

If I want our story to be about graciousness and submitting ourselves to one another, then it must start with me. I must learn to pull back, to smother my pride, to laugh at the small things, to choose my words carefully, to let very few disagreements become battles, and let nothing become a war. I must align myself with God, listening carefully to the Spirit, obeying His commands, even if I don't want to or if it's hard.

Then and only then will the story being written be about love.

Before It's Too Late (the love edition)

Our Sunday School class is currently doing a series on the Song of Solomon. This seems to be one of those books that people skip but it's one of my favorites. I started reading it a few years ago...must've been around 2004. It's my go-to book when I don't know what else to read. It's a bit of a puzzle trying to sort out all those ancient Israelite metaphors. When I read it to find out how passionately God loves me I am always comforted. When I read it to find out how it is I am to love my husband I always find direction.

This is a great series about dating, relationships, and marriage. One comment the speaker/teacher, Tommy Nelson, made sparked some conversation between myself and my married friends. Tommy Nelson encourages husbands to keep their wives emotionally well nourished by giving compliments, listening, etc. The comment was made that a person can't do that everyday because it gets taken for granted or loses its meaning. Initially I agreed. Then I did some dishes. I always start thinking when I do dishes, especially if I haven't turned any loud music on.

So whilst I was washing my dishes I wondered what a person who had just lost their spouse would say to that? Would they agree? Or would they wish that they had told their spouse more often how much they loved them, what they loved about them?

Which led me to this thought: what if today was the last day I had with my husband and today I didn't tell him I loved him, or that he was a good husband, or that I appreciate his hard work? And while some might say that it is extreme or dramatic to live your life that way...I have to listen to my friends and relatives that have experienced devestating loss.

When I was in high school a dear friend of mine lost his father to a sudden heart attack. They'd had an argument that morning about something, and then his father had a massive heart attack and died before the ambulance even arrived. He never could take back the words he said, he never had the chance to communicate love one more time. And while we're all certain that his father knew that he loved him, no one wants angry words to be the last things said to a loved one.

This is why I won't leave the house without telling Curtis that I love him. I won't leave the house angry, no matter how infuriated I feel. I know that whatever is going on in that moment is less important than the love I have for my husband, and his knowledge of that love. I refuse to get to the end of my life, or his, and have to admit that I should've said it more.

Along similar lines, this is why I tell my friends and my family what they mean to me. It makes me the sentimental cheesy one but I just can't help it. I think it is important to tell people they are loved and why they are loved, what difference they have made in your life, while they're still here on Earth to hear it. Eulogies at funerals make no sense to me. Shouldn't all that stuff have been said before death? While it is good to remember and to reflect, isn't it better to share that love before it's too late??

So, true, it may get old, it may 'lose it's meaning', it may be taken for granted, but I believe it is important to communicate love, appreciation, tenderness, respect for the ones I love as often as possible. I'd rather be a little cheesy, or a little compulsive, than to leave someone wondering if they were loved.

Sticky Cobwebby Memories

Memories are a powerful thing. So easily evoked, so much harder to shove back in the shoebox and under the bed. Especially complicated memories. Memories that are wholly good are welcomed gladly. Come in, stay awhile, let me reminisce, chuckle to myself, or even better share a belly laugh with a friend. Memories that are wholly bad are quickly banished from thought and stripped of their power to summon my emotions to react.

But those messy complicated memories are another story. Half good, half painful, they flare up at the most inconvenient and unexpected times. I'll be going on my merry way in life, enjoying the sunshine, smelling the roses and suddenly something happens which transports me faster than the Delorean back into my past. A scent, a song, a photo, a phrase, and I'm somewhere in the chronicles of my past. I suspect that even my facial expression changes, that I get a bit glassy eyed as if hypnotized by something, which is partly true. I shake it off, sometimes literally, like trying to shake sticky cobwebs out of my hair, but the feeling of the memory lingers. Like a sticky cobweb, it feels all day as if it's still in there.

Perhaps this is why movies like Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind seem appealing, until we discover what we would be without our memories. I may wish to shed my old memories, the unsettling, confusing ones but with that I would shed entire years of my life.

Historians can't find whole years of Shakespeare's life. There's census records and other official documentation that tells us where he was for most of his life apparently, but here and there large chunks are missing. Not a year here or there, but several years in a row he goes undocumented, unable to be found. No one knows where he was or what he was doing. That's how it would be for me if I were able to erase those memories. Two, three, four whole years, or more, would be gone. Two years worth of stories, both good and bad, I can no longer tell. Two years worth of faces I would no longer know, songs I would no longer recognize, moments I could no longer cherish.

My memories are messy because I am a real person with a real story to tell. Life got complicated, I got  complicated, and the aftermath of that is complicated memories. As convenient as it would be to never feel suddenly back in 2003, drowning in old memories, I think, no, I know that I would lose something of myself without those memories. Those years shaped me, perhaps more than any other. From 17 to 22 I grew up, changed, made choices, made memories that have defined the woman I am today. For the better or for the worse, I don't know. If forced to choose I would say better. More complicated, more difficult (especially for my husband who never got to know the carefree me) but better. Wiser, stronger, smarter, more humble, more sure of and realistic about the woman I hope to someday be.

My memories are mine, to keep, to throw away, to share, to hide. One of the most true lines from a movie is from Titanic when Old Rose tells her captive listeners, "a woman's heart is a deep ocean of secrets." What she means are memories. Complicated ones that arise at the strangest moments. But I'm grateful for mine, they serve to remind me of who I used to be, who I am now, and who I want to be. And it has been my memories, those sticky cobwebby memories, that have given me a reason to write. To write my novel, write poetry, write this blog. Writing makes sense of the complicated, keeps the painful ones at bay, and invites the good ones to come in and stay awhile.

My Furry Little Ones

Bode woke me up relatively early this morning when all I wanted, perhaps needed, was to sleep in. He must think this motherhood thing is gonna happen soon because he is all kinds of enthusiastic about getting me ready. So this got me thinking about raising my little furry guys, everything I've learned, everything they've learned, everything Curtis and I have learned together...

Curtis and I adopted Shiloh while we were still dating just because we both are crazy about dogs. We learned a lot about what it means to care for and be responsible for another living thing. We had to teach him right from wrong, his name, words, potty train him. Shiloh is a high maintenance dog. As a puppy he'd chew his paws until they were swollen and bleeding. We discovered it was a mixture of anxiety and allergies. He has to eat hypoallergenic dog food (lamb & rice only!) and we try to make sure he's not over-stimulated in stressful situations.

When he was hit by a pick-up truck, only a year and a half old, I moved back from Cuyahoga Falls (where I was living before the wedding) to Bowling Green to take care of him. I slept on the floor for several months so he wouldn't be alone and in case he needed anything in the night. Shiloh can't talk, obviously, and even the ways dogs normally communicate were taken away from him. Because he couldn't walk and was heavily medicated, he had no way of telling me if he was in pain, hungry, thirsty, or needed to go out. I had to spoon feed him oatmeal and other warm people food, per the doctor's instructions. I learned to change his bandages so we could stop going to the vet literally every other day. Our vet would stock us up with wraps so we'd only have to come in once a week. Curtis and I had to decide when he was ready to start walking around the house, going up stairs, going down stairs (we carried him up & down stairs and outside for months), jumping into cars, jumping out of cars (we still pick him up and set him down in tall cars like our SUV), playing with us, playing with other dogs, going for walks. We have to watch him carefully to see that he's not over-using his paw, especially when his allergies flare up like they did this spring. Almost every month we have to get out his 'first aid kit' and doctor up at least one of his feet due to his allergies, or his 'bad paw' due to over-use.

Bode is just a puppy still and he has so much to learn. We adopted him from a rescue group that had him in a foster home. In his foster home there were several dogs but he wasn't allowed to play with them and he wasn't taught anything other than sit. He didn't even know his original name (Fritz). The people were very, very kind and loving--don't get me wrong--but he learned nothing with them. They found him wandering around, alone, at about four weeks old. He should've still been with his mother, learning how to be a dog from her. Bode needs to be socialized because he doesn't know how to be around dogs. He can't read their signals and that's not something we can teach him, being human. He should've learned it from his mama, but no one knows what happened to her or if he had brothers or sisters.

We're trying to teach him things, and he has come along way. Bode is extremely sensitive. We always thought Shiloh was because he'd get mad at us when he was punished. Literally. We'd put Shiloh outside after an accident and he would refuse to look at us because he was mad. Bode, on the other paw, is terrified when he gets in trouble. We learned quickly not to raise our voices or react with lots of emotions/gestures after an accident because it would only cause another accident. We've had to go about training him in an entirely different way than we did Shiloh. In many ways, we're still learning just like he is.

Bode is extremely affectionate and loving. He likes it when I hold him like a baby--either cradled in my arms or resting on my hip with his paws around my neck. He's content to just be cuddled. In many ways, Bode and I needed each other. He needed a home and a mama, and I needed something to nurture, love, and mother. When I hold him on my hips I often laugh and tell people, "well, we prayed for a baby, I guess we need to be more specific next time!"

I realize my dogs are nothing really like babies, and that parenting a dog is nothing like parenting a child. But they are my babies and they always will be. Babies grow up, go through new phases, become children, become teenagers, become adults. My dogs will always be dogs. Bode will mature some, but I don't expect him to ever be like Shiloh. The getting up early, cleaning up messes, breaking up doggy arguments, picking up toys, giving them baths will only stop when they're gone from this world. And then I will miss it terribly.

And I do believe that Curtis and I will be better parents someday because we've raised not one but two little furry guys. We learned how to divide our attention, when to separate them, when to let them play, who's story to believe (I'm not even kidding on that one), and more than anything how to nurture and care for another living thing completely dependent upon us for everything from food to affection. We've had to learn how to come to an agreement on what to do and how to do it with the dogs. Bode has been especially trying in that sense because he is so different from Shiloh. We've had to learn how to work as a team, using his strengths and my strengths, and learn to do new things together. This is all practice for parenthood. Or else opening some kind of dog orphanage. In which case, the new carpet was a total waste...

Finding My Way to Shakespeare

I'm a snob. I have to admit that. The first step is admitting you have a problem, right? Well, I have a problem. I am a book snob. I blame it on my degree. Majoring in literature will make you a book snob. At least it did for me. The funny thing is, I never realized it until today. Because when you are a lesser snob among snobs you don't realize it's happening. At BGSU everyone's into postmodern or modern literature, they look down their noses at fluff that I love like Anne of Green Gables or A Little Princess. Fluff! Doesn't belong on the canon, any canon. Fluff and nonsense. You know, because James Joyce's Ulysses makes perfect sense...*heavy sarcasm*

But I am a book snob. I have turned my back on my roots and denied my past. The fact is what made me fall in love reading, with books, and ultimately with "literature" (* heavy British accent*) was books for kids. I remember really starting to like books when we read The American Girls series, the original girls: Felicity, Kirsten, Samantha, and Molly (Addy was added just as I was about to out-grow the books so she was the last one I read). As I grew older other series like The Baby-Sitter's Club ( I owned all of them), and Sweet Valley Twins/High became my favorites. I made my own kid kit and liked the idea of baby-sitting (I never trusted myself to actually take care of kids until high school...now I do it full time!). My best friends were twins so the Sweet Valley High books were amazing. I read Nancy Drew, The Boxcar Children, and most of the Anne of Green Gables books in upper elementary and into middle school. My collection was peppered with dozens of other books: The Judge Benjamin books (little known series about a Saint Bernard...loved 'em!), Dear America books, Beyond the Burning Time, Summer of My German Soldier, A Little Princess, The Mandie series, Misty of Chincoteague (and sequels), anything I could get my hands on.

Are any of these books striking you as terribly intellectual? Some of them have educational content, many are historical in nature but not something a academic committee would select for a canon. Literary theory applies to very few of these books. Some people have managed to write theory on Anne of Green Gables, I can see Marxist theory or feminist theory in A Little Princess, possibly some feminist theory in Nancy Drew, everything else would be a real stretch. And yet I loved them. I still love them. I love the smell of my books, the feel of the soft pages. Sometimes I try to remember how old I was and what I was thinking the first time I thumbed through those pages. I feel connection to the old me when I read those same words.

The fact is it wasn't until middle school that I started reading true literature, the classics. I read Jane Eyre in sixth grade, I attempted Les Miserables the following year (got bored with Hugo's dissertations on everything 19th century and French), I read Frankenstein, Dracula, and Jekyll & Hyde the year after that. Apparently I was in a science-fiction/horror phase. I remember reading Dracula by the light of my nightlight (something I did a lot so my parents would think I was sleeping) and having the absolute dickens scared out of me. Perhaps that's why I don't like Dickens (really, really bad pun, I know).

In high school I was introduced to Pride & Prejudice, Wuthering Heights, and The Awakening. Loved them all. Especially The Awakening. I was completely inspired. I read Canterbury Tales, Beowulf, and lots of Shakespeare. I became completely enamoured with British literature, which is probably why my favorite college classes were the ones 'normal people' hated--the two Brit lit survey courses. The Dream of the Rood, Arthurian Tales, The Faerie Queen, essays by Mary Wollstonecraft, poems by Byron, Shelley, and Keats; I couldn't get enough of it. It was hard, it challenged me, but I loved it. The reward was worth the effort. It was normal for me to spend an hour trying to figure out the meaning of Shelley's poem 'Mont Blanc' but I was excited and thrilled when I finally 'got it'.

Looking back I can see how step by step I came from The American Girls to Twelfth Night. I was lucky enough to fall absolutely head over heels in love with reading and words as a child. And it was that love that carried me through the tough stuff, and the stuff I didn't like, to the stuff that absolutely inspires me today. It's entirely normal for me to read two or three hundred pages in a day, if I have the time. I tend to go on reading binges. Rather than nibbling a bit every day, I gobble up a four hundred page book in a day or two. But it all started sitting with my mom on her bed reading the books about Felicity Merriman, word by word, page by page, chapter by chapter.

I have high expectations for what a book 'should be' or how a book 'should be read'. It's because I've been trained to read, not just taught. I've been told what makes a book good rather than just feeling it instinctively. I try to not impose my snobbery on others, especially the kids I work with that are still trying to figure this whole reading thing out. I want them to love it because it is fun. That's why I loved it, and that's what eventually made me fall in love with the intellectual stimulation part. I want to help them choose books that they will love because they are fun, exciting, or interesting. And then, maybe, hopefully, they will start to choose harder books, older books, and make their way to Shakespeare like I did.

It's Not the End of the World

I love making plans. I'm fanatical about it. I think we've discussed this before...but always in a negative light. While it is true that I can plan things to absolute death there are times when it is good to plan things out. Apparently there is a time to plan and a time to fly by the seat of your pants. Right now my life is in a season of planning, lots and lots of planning.

With my job it is an absolute necessity that I plan, plan, plan and then re-plan all my plans for summer. Four adults need to keep 15-30 kids engaged for 11.5 hours a day. Do the math. Without plans, it ain't pretty. I've been creating calendars, checklists, sign-up lists, charts for everything. Besides this I've been photocopying activities, emailing people, calling people, and making plans for things to do. Trying to get all my ducks in a row is really starting to feel more like herding cats. Although...really...I would imagine literally getting ducks in a row wouldn't be easy.

At the same time I'm preparing for summer with the youth group. We're hosting a swim & study at our house to continue spiritual growth and fellowship over the summer. So here we go again with the plans, lists, calendars, emails and wandering duck-cats. Choosing a theme for the summer, deciding how to go about that theme, settling on a format for lessons. All of this requires planning.

I have to tell you, I'm always pretty proud of my plans. Especially if it involves lists. I love my lists. To do lists, checklists, idea lists, whatever. If it's a list, I'm in love with it. I've had a certain amount of enjoyment with all this planning. Yes, I still feel like I'm going to lose my mind by the end of August BUT at least I will have planned for that.

However, I have to say that I am looking at my plans differently this time. I've learned a new definition for the word 'plan'. A plan is not what will happen just because I've said that it should or put it on a list. A plan is what is supposed to happen, what could happen, what would be nice if it did happen. I've got to leave room for flexibility, improvising, change. I suppose that's why there's margins on all those lists I type up. There's margin for error, modification, or creating new better plans.

If I'd learned this lesson sooner I would've saved myself a lot of anxiety. But I suppose it was through that anxiety that I came to learn this lesson. The world doesn't come to an end if I don't get to cross off everything on a list or if people don't follow my plans or don't do it 'right'. I may feel frustrated and things may not go well, but life goes on. As I tell my students when they're having a melt down, the world is still spinning on its' axis, the sun is still in the sky, life goes on.

Life will go on this summer even if it's one big epic failure. Believe me, its a possibility. With so many plans, activities, and people involved there's a huge margin for error. But life will go on. We may have to improvise, go off script a little bit, but it won't be the end of the world.

So I'm making my plans and doing the best that I can, all the while knowing that something will go wrong. It won't be perfect, but it won't be the end of the world. I plan on repeating that a lot this summer, a little planning mantra...it's not the end of the world...it's not the end of the world....it's not the end of the world...