The Secret Ingredient

My husband’s mother is mother to more than just him. She has six other children, a whole mess of grand and great-grandchildren, and has been married for over fifty years . Several years ago, she partnered with her husband running a 500 cow dairy farm in western Wisconsin. This brings me in a round-about way to the subject today.

First, I must elaborate a little more.

She has always cooked for a big family. She has always cooked for a table full of hired farm hands, plus her seven children and grand children. She cooked in quantity - seemingly effortlessly. On the farm, meat and potatoes were plentiful, a staple of the meal. She used a pressure cooker to tenderize less desirable cuts of meat. She served fresh vegetables from her garden. Yes, dinner was in the oven while she was milking cows.

My mother-in-law collects cookbooks. She cuts recipes out of magazines and newspapers. Her recipe cupboard is filled to the brim, the doors bursting at the seams – propped shut with a ruler slid between the pulls. My mother-in-law loves to get ideas from the recipes she collects.

She just doesn’t like to follow the recipes.

I remember one time there was an insurance salesman at the house. She offered him a slice of fresh peach pie. He loved it. He asked her for her recipe. She just laughed and changed the subject.

After he left, she told me that she added the morning’s leftover pancake batter in with the pie crust dough.

Yes, she adds this, and leaves that out. She doubles this and substitutes that. She doesn’t measure, she just knows.

And it all turns out. And even though we know this, we still ask her for her recipe. And she can’t give it to us, because she didn’t use one … exactly, anyway. But still we ask.

The subject today – the secret ingredient.

In preparing the turkey for our family’s Thanksgiving dinner, I wanted to get the same delicious results that I’ve had eating turkey dinner that my mother-in-law has cooked. So I boldly asked her for her recipe, confident that whatever she told me would be good enough for me.

“I stuff the bird with chopped up carrots, onions and celery. I season it and put it in a cooking bag. Oh, and drizzle some maple syrup on top.”

I must admit, it turned out delicious. But I didn’t write it down.

The next fall I called her again, pleading “Could you please give me that recipe again for turkey? I promise I’ll write it down this time.”

She is more than willing to share with me. “I stuff the bird with apples and dried apricots. I season it and put it in a cooking bag. Oh, and drizzle some maple syrup on top.”

I finally figured it out. It really doesn’t matter how you cook it. As long as you use the secret ingredient, that is. Maple syrup.

The Thanksgiving Rite of Passage

The Thanksgiving Rite of Passage happens very gradually. It migrated in its entirety to me about five years ago.

When I was first married, which was in fact, ages ago, all I needed to do was show up for Thanksgiving Dinner at my mom and dad’s house. My grandmother was there, and her and my mom could be found bustling around getting that turkey ready for us to devour.

Gradually, and unbeknownst to me the rite of passage began.

Relish tray. “Could you bring a relish tray this year?” I could do that! After all, cutting up carrots and celery was virtually foolproof.

Jell-o. During the little-kids-under-my-feet years, the relish tray became my sister’s job and I was assigned jell-o. “Would you like to bring a bowl of jell-o this year?” Of course, I excitedly obliged. I had to go and buy a bowl first, though.

Scalloped corn. As the years flew by, I moved on to scalloped corn. This was my opportunity to try a few new recipes and really blossom in the creativeness category.

Pumpkin pie. My grandmother always brought the pumpkin pie to Thanksgiving Dinner. But after she passed away, Mom asked me “Would you bring the pumpkin pie this year?” I baked two pumpkin pies, thinking of Grandma as I checked to see if they were done, putting a knife into the center of each, making sure it came out clean.

As my mother grew older, somehow my sister and I just knew it was time.

Turkey time, that is.

The Thanksgiving Rite of Passage took place. Over the span of thirty years.

You will find me baking turkey again this Thanksgiving. And with my sister and brother's help, everything that goes along with it. Almost everything - except the jell-o.

My nineteen year old niece is bringing that.

Just a Peek

Peeking around the corner, I see my new sink, new cabinets, new lighting, new floor and appliances. For just a second, I don’t recognize anything.

It’s been about a week since the last of the strangers have left my house. All is quiet.

The drywall installer is gone. All of the little globs of joint compound have been scraped off and wiped clean. The primer and paint is dry. And touched up. And primed again. And dry.

The flooring installer is gone. It was a long project, and the most difficult of all aspects of this kitchen and laundry room remodel, because I had to move everything contained in those two rooms completely out of the house for four days. Some things have not yet returned, and may very well never return.

The cabinetmaker is gone. He arrived on schedule, spent thirteen hours installing my beautiful quarter-sawn oak hand crafted cabinets, complete with brushed nickel pulls and knobs. The beauty of his work escalated as he added the crown molding. What was once just a name to me now means much more. Crown molding is truly the crowning touch.

The electrician is gone. With great expertise, he wove countless wires in and out of the old house wall, bringing light and power to corners of the kitchen I have never seen before. Gone are the dark days of baking, preparing meals, and struggling for a spot to plug in the toaster. Plus, I get to look at new, cool looking light fixtures.

The appliance installer is gone. With a helping hand he moved my old appliances out and moved my new ones in. He took my old frig to my son’s house, and brought Nate’s old frig back to my basement (my son upgraded). And then he moved them back out again, along with my washer and dryer for the floor install. And then he moved them all back in again and also installed my over-the-range microwave/fan hood combo. He hooked up my new dishwasher, installed my ice maker line and even added a shut off valve for the dishwasher for me. A week later (to the day), his appliance store burned down. My heart goes out to him and his wife in the loss of their business. But that’s another blog post.

The countertop installer is gone. With great care he checked my countertop measurements, and then I again checked his math, making sure I ordered the exact size countertop. Lifting the tremendously heavy piece of quartz into place took the work of three men.

The plumber is gone. The final piece of the remodel fell into place when he hooked up the water line to the kitchen sink. A month without water in the kitchen finally came to an end.

In closing, I have realized that all these people know a lot more about me than I probably wanted them to.

They know that –
I don’t vacuum behind my refrigerator.
I don’t know how to organize a closet.
I don’t know how to operate a filing cabinet.
I don’t clean my basement very often.
I don’t always make my bed.
But most importantly –
I don’t usually complain too loud if things don’t turn out quite as anticipated.

For me, there’s always Plan B.

Enjoy the peek at my new sink.

The 8 x 10

I held the 8 x 10 in my hands, turning to her dad with a puzzled look and asked, “Where in the world does she get her beautiful looks from?” He agreed, and thought for a second. In a very politically correct manner he said, “I think she’s got a mixture of both of us.”

Mickey is a beautiful, almost 14 year old girl. She has a very sweet personality. Her sense of humor makes us laugh. And she is smart.

She was born 13 years after her brother, taking away his spot as the youngest. When people look at me with the “why did you have a child so late in life” look, I simply add, “She’s the icing on the cake.”

Because she is so sweet.

I had a piece of Mickey’s heart from the minute I knew she existed. Likewise, I know she has a piece of mine.

And now she wants to share the 8 x 10 with her friend. Her friend who is a boy.

It won’t be long and some boy will want to share her heart as well. And I know that I will have to let him.

But not the 8 x 10. That’s mine.

All That Remains

“They took everything but the kitchen sink.” No. That’s gone too. All that remains of my old kitchen stands here in this spot. The hot and cold water pipes.

Everything we own that was in our kitchen is boxed up, shelved, and otherwise scattered throughout the house. I feel like I am living in a pile of stuff. The milk is in the frig in the basement, down a flight of steps and sixty feet from where it is supposed to be. The cereal is on a shelf in the hallway next to the disposable bowls and spoons. The toaster is on a cart in the living room. It’s a challenge to eat breakfast. Or any meal, for that matter.

The picture of my new kitchen is engrained in my brain – and I call upon it frequently to keep my sanity.

Like last night when I was scraping the dried joint compound off the old floor to prep for the new floor. My back and feet were aching. My husband helped me carry a few things out of the room. Then he looked at me and said, “I think I’ll go hunting for awhile.”

Thank goodness I didn’t have a hammer in my hand or I would have killed him. Well, not literally …

He paced around the room for a minute. I whined for some more help. Then he made the mistake of opening his mouth one more time.

“Well, this was all your idea,” he said sort-of-under-his-breath as he walked into the living room.

Again, I have no hammer.

Deep breath …

I finished sweeping up the joint compound crumbs.

For those of you who are dying to know, did my husband go hunting?

No.

Twenty minutes later the electrician showed up and he helped him fish a couple wires up through the wall.

Then I handed him a hammer …

So he could take a couple staples out of the old floor that he missed the other night - when the light was too dim, and the old set of eyes he has had already checked out for the night.

My Life

A fellow blogger, Genny, at My cup 2 Yours, after reading the book One Month to Live by Kerry and Chris Shook, invited her readers to contribute a blog post on this subject. After getting past not wanting to think about this, and reading some other beautiful posts by other bloggers, I have mustered up enough courage to share my thoughts with you.

While all of us know that our time here is limited, none of us know exactly when we will leave the earth. I’m not sure if my Godmother knew how long she would be here with us, but nonetheless, she prepared for it. She prepared for it spiritually as well as physically. My Godmother never doubted her faith. She was a strong Christian woman, despite the trials and tribulations life sent her way. She looked to God for strength and courage as she lost her seventeen year old son in the early 1960s and her husband in the early 1970s. When her body was sickened by cancer in the late 1990s, she spent the remaining years of her life fighting this disease, and at the same time, making the most of her life, spending precious time with her family.

As for me, I don’t have any place in this world that I need to see. Take me down a road where the trees are framing the hillside in beautiful hues of red, orange, yellow and green and I will see the beauty of God’s creation. Take me to a valley where the snowflakes are gently fall from the sky, landing ever so quietly on the ground, one by one filling in all the brown with pure white and I will see the splendor of God’s creation. Take me to a lake where the water is as smooth as glass, and the ripples of a pebble quietly spread out in circles, gently washing up on the shore, and I will see the gentleness of God’s creation. As I soak in this beauty of God’s earth, with each day I am here, I have but a glimpse of what beauty lies beyond this, forever and ever.

From time to time, I have always thought that if I knew I would be leaving, I would write a letter to each of my children. An excerpt of it would go something like this.

Dear child of mine-

You were brought into this world because of the love your father and I have for each other. You are the greatest accomplishment in my life. You have made my life a worthwhile challenge, an exciting and enjoyable journey. I am far from perfect, and so are you. I didn’t do everything right, but I have loved you unconditionally all along the way, despite our human flaws.

I hope that you have learned from me. I have tried to teach you to treat others with love and respect. I have tried to teach you life skills that will take you far in this world. I’ve taught you by example that family sticks together through the tough times, and that these difficult times will only make you stronger. But most of all, I hope that you have learned that the most important thing in this world is to love God and to live a Christian life, asking God to help guide you when you are lost, and thanking Him always, for everything He has given you.

Never doubt that God has a place waiting for us which is so much more beautiful than any place here on earth. “Faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see.” Heb. 11:1.

Love, Mom

The War Zone

After three months of do-it-almost-by-yourself remodeling, I am still working on my kitchen and laundry room. I greet guests at the door by saying, “Welcome to the war zone.”

The bank of cabinetry that housed the old range cook top, wall oven and refrigerator are gone - replaced by patched-in drywall, torn up flooring, re-routed venting and updated wiring in the wall.

My Tupperware is in a tote in the office. My pots and pans are on the bed in the guest room. My canned and boxed foods are on a bookshelf in the hallway. Cookbooks and other seldom used items from my cabinets are piled high on the dining room table. My baking pans are in a box on the dining room floor.

One day, I looked all afternoon for my blender. Giving up, I borrowed my mom’s.

When I opened the cabinet in the laundry room the other day, there was my blender.

My new refrigerator is parked in front of the window. The kitchen table is pushed up against the wall in front of another window. My new stove is sitting in the spot my refrigerator will eventually call home. My new dishwasher and micro/hood are still at the appliance store, waiting for me to pick them up.

Until the drywall is done, I have no lighting in my kitchen, other than the fixture over the table, a small plug-in night light by the stove, and our battery operated camp lantern.

Yes, I called in a favor from someone who does drywall. He works evenings, when he has time – and when he seems to need the ambition to show up at my door, I call him to pester him just a little. So far, I have been pretty patient.

Until Wednesday night.

Our plan was to strategically move around the kitchen and laundry room, never having to upset the apple cart just too much, moving everything back and forth. But that did not happen. Tuesday night he came and put up one corner bead, then left. Wednesday night he asked me to unload the upper and lower cabinets to the left of the sink so he could pull them out to work on a spot adjacent to them. He would cut the countertop to save my kitchen sink. Because I absolutely refuse to be without my sink for more than a week.

In an instant, the ball is now in my court.

So this morning I tackled the job. What a good job for Saturday morning, right? I moved the plates, bowls and mugs to the cabinet at the right of the sink. I moved the cereal and other pantry items to a tote and put it in the hallway. I cleaned out the cabinet with vases, funky glasses and Christmas plates. The silverware tray fit right on top of the microwave. Our paper plates, paper napkins and cups are in a box in the office. The phone books are on the dining room table. All that was left was the “dreaded cabinet.”

My dreaded cabinet was a catch all spot. I cleaned out all the other ones first. I did a couple loads of laundry. I swept the floor. Finally, I took a deep breath and opened the cabinet door. It was filled with wall calendars from 2004 – 2007, a few small containers of items I’ve collected through the years – nuts, bolts, spare change, a box of bb’s from the boys’ bb gun (which had spilled – of course), a couple of unclaimed chess pieces. An old phone and its cords, a couple candles, a pottery piece Jonathan made in art class, keys that belong to something. And a lot of junk. Most of it went in the trash.

Now the ball is in his court again.

And I suppose I will live in the war zone for another month.

Sometimes its nice when time flies.

Seventeen Years Ago

Time flies. We all know it. We’ve all said it. It’s the topic around the water cooler at work. Where did the time go? Once in a while something really hits you though. Where were you seventeen years ago? I asked myself that today.

Seventeen years ago …

… we were just putting a new floor in our kitchen – and here we are, doing it again.

… my boys were fighting over which one would sit in the front seat of the car – and now they have their own cars.

… I had shoulder length permed hair which I dyed for the fun of it – not to cover the gray.

… my oldest son was taking hunter safety class, had just started junior high school, and was still pudgy around the middle – his own kids are in school now (and he’s replaced the pudginess with muscles).

… my middle son was learning the saxophone and had a squeaky little voice which sounded just about the same as the saxophone did when he tried to hit the high notes – the saxophone is long gone, replaced by an electric guitar which doesn’t squeak, but rather, makes a loud, sometimes annoying sound.

… we were raising hogs on our farm – now our barn sits empty, with thick cobwebs in the corner of the ladder to the haymow.

… my husband and I stayed out until the wee hours of the a.m. with friends – now we wake up at the wee hours of the a.m. when those coming home race noisily down the road past our bedroom window.

… my daughter Mickey wasn’t even a thought in the back of my mind yet – now she is a real part of my life and in the front of my thoughts.

… I was 31 years old - I don’t even remember ever being 31 years old.

And get this -

… Survivor, one of the first television reality/game shows started its first season on national tv.

Can you believe it’s been on that long? I still don’t believe it.

The Education of Man

Hope you enjoy this from my August, 1999 journal -

All summer long I struggled trying to teach my (grown-up) guys where to put their dirty clothes. When out of the blue, I came up with an idea! I decided to make signs on my computer. After all, technology is the name of the game today.

I made a sign for each of the three hampers in the laundry room. The blue hamper read “dark colored work clothes in here”; the white hamper read “light colored work clothes in here” (seems logical, doesn’t it?). The green hamper read “good clothes of any color in here” (I’ll admit that might throw someone off).

I even opened the lids on the hampers.

Then, the most awesome thing happened. For the next twenty-four hours there were no dirty clothes on the floor in front of the hampers, no clothes on top of the closed hamper, and all the dirty clothes were where they belonged.

You can only imagine what this led to.

I thought to myself, “If they can read these signs, they can read other signs.”

I quickly fired up the ‘puter to make a sign for the hamper in the bathroom – “washcloths and towels in here”. I was on a roll. I couldn’t stop. A “nothing goes here” sign was attached to the wall in the bathroom, next to the hamper, visibly prohibiting anyone from putting their clothes on the floor next to the hamper. By the way, why do they do this?

For twenty-four more hours everything was where it belonged.

For a brief moment, my hopes were high. Visions of an orderly house were rampant in my mind. I even considered making signs for the bathroom vanity reading “contact solution in here’; “hairbrush in here” – the list in my mind went on and on.

Then, just as quickly as it started, it abruptly ended. My realm as queen of the orderly house was over. Reality set in quite rapidly and quite frankly, things went right back to normal.

The education of man. Short-lived.

My Sister

The study of birth order sparked my attention from the first day I learned about it in high school psychology class (which was just about as many years ago as Alfred Adler’s theory was old when I first heard of him.)

Many of these things – not all good – about me as the first born are true. I am a take charge person. I like to organize (not my closets, though) and put plans in motion. I like to have things my way (just ask my husband). I try to please people. I am reliable. I crave approval. I am a caregiver.

My sister is the middle child. Naturally, I tease her about it from time to time, often using it to jokingly explain something that has happened (well, she’s the middle child, what do you expect?). But seriously, as the middle child, my sister is a good friend. She has patience (even if she doesn’t think so). At times she can be slightly uptight. She is very diplomatic. She has a rebellious side (I’m remembering the teen years). She is creative.

Tales can be told of sisters. Tales of horror. Tales of love. Or, our tale.

When I am indecisive, my sister can help me decide.

When my sister is nervous, I can help her be calm.

When I am frustrated and confused, my sister can help me see straight.

When my sister is scared, I can help her feel safe.

When I am in tears, my sister can help comfort me.

When my sister is weak, I am strong.

When I need her, my sister is there.

When my sister needs me, I am there.

By ourselves, my sister and I are incomplete. What one of us lacks, the other one has. And sandwiched in the middle of us both, we share our heart.

Together we are whole, my sister and I.

Grandparents Day

Grandparents Day came a day early this year. I had the privilege of spending yesterday afternoon with my sweeties.

With fall leaves and cold winter days just around the corner, our summer is fading fast. It won't be long and this swing set will be covered with snow. And my sweeties will be all grown up.

When I look at this picture I realize that as the seasons change, so do the seasons of our lives.

Savor the days on the swing set.

Closed On Sunday

“Is the internet closed on Sunday?” asked my dad with a laugh in his voice, as he gave me the name of a web site he wanted me to look up for him.

“Of course not,” I said reassuringly – trying not to chuckle.

“Then I’ll be over this afternoon.”

My dad doesn’t own a computer. He doesn’t want to touch one. He knows you can do your bookwork on them. He knows you can write letters and play games and look at family photos on them.

And he knows there is a thing out there called the internet.

I know that my dad will never touch a computer. I know that because it took him five years to trust the microwave oven, and then only enough to warm up his ice cream for ten seconds.

I also know that because he gets awfully mad at his satellite dish when it freezes up, and then mostly because he knows he will have to pull the power cord and start over.

And I know that because he knows that all of his kids and grandkids will do the computing for him – if need be. That is, only if it can’t be done with a yellow legal pad, pen and a calculator. Because he’s a champ at that.

I know that he is amazed at what a computer can do. But I also know that he is satisfied just being amazed.

Dad got here at about 4:30. He and I sat down at the computer and I quickly typed in the web address. Click, click, click and I found the right page. Except it didn’t tell us what we wanted to know. FOR MORE INFORMATION CALL US AT... blah blah blah.

We tried a second web address. The page loaded displaying the following message:

“WE'RE SORRY OUR WEBSITE IS DOWN TODAY FOR MAINTENANCE. TRY AGAIN ANOTHER TIME.”

“I guess the internet is sometimes closed on Sunday”, I said to Dad as I pointed out the message.

He smiled.

I told him I would call them on the phone tomorrow.

Off to College

I saw a mom and her son college shopping for bed sheets the other day at Target. I can’t help but remember very well the day back in 1999 that our middle son went off to college. In fact, it was our first experience with one of our children living away from home.

I thought we would never get going because he waited until the day before to pack. That night when he was wandering around aimlessly, I made him a little checklist. Good thing I did, because he would have forgotten his alarm clock.

In less than 24 hours I think I managed to tell him everything I thought he needed to know. Not that I hadn’t been trying to teach him all along, but you know – it’s the last minute second-guessing, wondering if you did the parenting right that gets you.

The drive into unknown territory took a couple hours. As we were parked outside his dorm unloading our car, I quickly realized that the girls I saw moving in were carrying quite a bit more than we were. Lamps, furry chairs, bulletin boards – lots of big stuff. I do remember picking out a set of extra long twin sheets for his bed, plus a basket to carry his shampoo and soap in to the shower, but other than that – he packed up the most important things – his computer, stereo and television. Oh, and some clothes. Plus a pen, notebook and folder.

As we stood in line to check in, I found myself leading the way. All of a sudden I realized – I have to let him do this by himself. So I stepped back.

And waited.

Finally he got in line. He picked up his keys, filled out the paperwork and we trudged upstairs to find his room.

I did the introductions to his roommate. Well, someone had to say something! You guessed it, he is very shy. So shy in fact, that he proceeded to put his computer together without even looking at the other guy in the room. So I did the small talk - my thoughts are in parenthesis here for you to read.

Where do you live? (Just got out of prison.)
What do your parents do? (Alcohol and drugs.)
Do you have brothers and sisters? (In half-way houses.)
What are your hobbies? (Playing with knives and guns.)

We walked around campus and took care of some business. I think we walked about ten miles – or at least long enough for my feet to really hurt. We ate some lunch and then went back to the dorm room. His roommate wasn’t there right then, so I thought we should say our good-byes and get going. No eighteen year old guy wants a kiss from his mom in front of his new roommate. Plus, we had to pick up Mickey at Grandma’s. That’s right, I still have a 5-year old at home to take care of. Almost forgot.

I gave my son a big hug and kiss and told him I loved him. I told him to call me. (This was before cell phones and instant messaging, mind you.) Then we left.

About 29 miles out of town, my eyes welled up with tears. I silently sobbed for a half hour and then was real quiet the remainder of the trip. Finally I was okay - until that evening, when I went downstairs to his bedroom.

As I got to the bottom of the steps I looked around. A lot of his things were gone – but a lot were still there. His golf ball collection and the posters on his wall. His cds and dart board. Plus the clothes he didn’t need to take along. I opened his top dresser drawer. I counted about 52 white socks that were missing mates.

And I bawled my eyes out.

P.S. My sadness was short lived. He eventually came back to visit, along with his dirty clothes. I’m convinced that its God’s way of preparing us for the day our children will leave home for good. Blessings to all college kids on the brink of independence. And blessings to their parents during this tough time of giving them wings.

Something Else Much Greater

Letting go.

We do it all our lives.

We let go and are filled with excitement as we help our toddler take his first steps.

We let go and are reluctant as our five year old climbs onto her school bus for the first time.

We let go and are overjoyed as our daughter finally takes off on her bicycle, teetering back and forth until she finds her balance.

We let go and are filled with fear as our son drives out of the yard for the first time.

We let go and are filled with emptiness as we let our graduate pack his bags for college.

We let go and are filled with happiness as we send our son down the aisle to be married.

We let go and are filled with pride when we see our son become a father.

We let go because each time we do, it is because there is something else much greater to be found.

My sister and I held our mother’s hand tonight as she lay in bed, overcome with tears of disgust over her failing health. We cried with her.

I realized tonight that there will come a time when I will have to let go one more time. Because I know that my mother has something else much greater to be found.

And someday, when the time comes, with great sadness in my heart and tears streaming down my face, I will let go.

And desperately, I will try to remember something else much greater.

Empowering Youth

In my last post, Leap of Faith, I realized after-the-fact that I had just taught my nieces a valuable skill in life. How to paint. Sounds simple, doesn’t it? It’s maybe not empowering them to become the next world leaders, but it’s the faith I had in them that matters.

I came to this conclusion because I’m currently reading the book, Empowering Youth: How to Encourage Young Leaders to Do Great Things and came across the term leap of faith. This book is written by Kelly Curtis from New Richmond, Wisconsin. Kelly’s book is filled with various tools and tips about how to empower our youth to become more socially responsible as adults and to reach their full potential.

Who is Kelly Curtis? Kelly Curtis, M.S., is a school counselor, a writer, a speaker, and the founder of Empowering Youth, Inc., which publishes positive youth development curricula. Her work has been published in numerous anthologies and magazines including Boy’s Life, All You, Chicken Soup for the Soul, and Poetica Grandmatica.

And she is my first cousin. And she was the cutest little flower girl in my wedding.

If you get a chance, please visit her websites http://2passthetorch.com/my-book/ and http://www.empowering-youth.com to read about her book.

And if you decide you want to see it closer up, it’s available at Amazon.com.
That’s where I ordered mine from.

Leap Of Faith

I had a big job to do and not much time.

There were two weeks left to get my student rental ready for the new tenants. At last minute (such as most of my life goes) I decided that the rental was in dire need of new carpet and paint (two bedrooms, a hall and stairway, plus the dining and living rooms).

My sister listened intently to my self-inflicted feel sorry for myself since I’ve bit off more than I can chew and could use help attitude (with the rental, not with the lunch) while we ate. The girls giggled and chatted about teenage girl stuff.

All of a sudden, I thought – maybe they could help me paint. The girls. The fourteen year old girls.

“Have you ever painted before?”

“Just pictures”, they both answered.

My sister quickly processes where this conversation is going and I can see her cringe with thoughts of paint spattered floors, walls and girls.

“I can teach you. It’s not that hard.” I also added, “I would pay you.”

Eyes light up. Ears perk up. They both sit up straight in their chairs. “Yes, we’ll help you.”

We decide on a date and time. The plans are set. I instruct them, “Wear clothes you can get paint on.”

Because I am not entirely naïve, I go a couple days ahead and do the edging.

On painting day, and after a quick lesson in Painting 101, the girls take over. I stay in the house, but away from the paint tray.

Giggling warmed the house all day long. Tons of giggling.

And after five hours of rolling until their arms felt like rubber, I stood back to admire their work.

There were quite a few drips – which I showed them how to catch. And there were a few oops – which I showed them how to wipe. And there were some splatters on the floor – which would soon dry and be covered by new carpet.

And there were my two nieces, paychecks in hand – who saved me at least two days worth of painting.

All because I took a leap of faith.

For the Love of the Game

As I watched the Olympic 2008 opening ceremony the other night, I couldn’t help but notice the faces of the Olympic athletes.

In this day and age, when something so simple as a game is marred by talks of boycott and talks of illegal drug use, we tend to forget the meaning behind it all. Behind all the billions of dollars spent on the facilities, the advertising, the sponsorship and the festivities, we tend to forget the real reason most of these athletes are there.

For the love of the game.

Looking at their faces as they proudly paraded together, filling the stadium, I saw young men and women, much like their peers all over the world. These are young men and women who are not set apart by the color of their skin, the sound of their voice or the wealth of their families. I believe that most of these young men and women are there for one reason only.

For the love of the game.

Although I take great pride in watching our American athletes, I remember that each and every one of these athletes, no matter what country they come from, has a mother (or other person whom they are close to), cheering them on as well, bursting at the seams with pride, and wishing them the very best.

And as the gymnasts dust their hands with chalk or the swimmers adjust their goggles, I'll bet none of them are thinking about where they are. They are thinking about why they are there.

For the love of the game.

Waving to your mom in the stands is just something you do. And the gold medal is truly icing on the cake. Congratulations to our Olympic athletes!

Number Two Son

On Monday, my number two son will turn twenty-seven.

He came very quickly into this world - after twenty minutes of labor on a hot, August day, and just as quickly settled into the number two spot in our family.

My son survived his older brother’s antics – shaking the playpen while he was sleeping, fighting over toys, and fighting for the front seat of the car. He survived being removed from the spotlight as the baby of the family, as he was catapulted smack dab into the middle when his sister was born thirteen years later.

In fact, I truly believe that he is destined to be a survivor.

A tragic automobile crash in the early morning hours of January 18, 2004, left several dead and injured, and one young man fighting for his life – his family at his side. It was my son.

Thrust into the frightening world of torn neurons and axons, I – without question – have devoted over the past four years of my life to help him recover and become whole again. I was determined to embrace with my whole heart the life challenges my family had been given, as we began to understand the reality of the “invisible disability” that goes along with traumatic brain injury.

Looking deep inside him, I found bits and pieces of his personality still intact, amidst all the chaos, and I reveled in the fact that those certain things about him that I knew and loved remained true.

By not grieving for what had been lost, but celebrating what had been saved, I have been able to remain relatively positive in a very negative situation.

I believe that my son’s destiny in this journey is part of God’s master plan for him.

Yes, he did survive the crash, and he also has survived the difficult years following his accident. With our help in keeping him moving forward, he has finally begun on his own to rebuild his life – in spite of how terribly slow this journey has been.

And so on this day, I celebrate my number two son. Happy Birthday, Jonathan.

The Lord says, “I will guide you along the best pathway for your life. I will advise you and watch over you.” Psalm 32:8

Love, Mom

Forty Dollar Toast

The toaster my mom and dad had when we were kids was the same one that they got for a wedding gift. It lasted forever. It was a silver toaster with black trim – kind of like this retro looking one I just got in May.

This is the first toaster I have purchased. Our wedding gift toaster (almost thirty-two years ago from my brother and sister-in-law) lasted about twelve years. The four or more subsequent toasters that I received from my kids for Christmas each had a useful life of about four years each. (Yes, I always ask for toasters for Christmas – it makes their shopping so easy – and you can get them almost anywhere, cheap!)

Back to the subject. Now if you do the math, you will realize that it doesn’t compute.

Yes, I’ve tricked you! I said “useful life”. Each of my toasters also had at least a year of “un-useful life” as well.

You’ve probably done it too. Pushing the lever down several times to make it stay down, cranking the darkness knob up more and more each time you used it to get the toast the color you wanted, or letting the toaster cool down between slices so it wouldn’t pop up right away again while the bread wasn’t even warm yet.

My new toaster was expensive in my books. It cost forty bucks. It has four push buttons for reheat, defrost, bagel and on/off. Although I don’t know what I would ever use the first two buttons for, the bagel button caught my eye. I quickly put the toaster in my cart before letting myself second-guess this expensive purchase.

The box and its directions (who needs directions for a toaster?) went unread and in the trash can and my new toaster found its home on the counter next to the refrigerator. I set the darkness dial in the middle and tried it out. Perfect!!

By now, Mickey has moved the darkness dial up and down from the center mark and I haven’t noticed. Until I hear my toast pop up and see with disgust just how dark it got. I put two more slices in and try again, this time moving the darkness dial a little towards the way I think it should go to make it lighter. The toast pops up and again I am disgusted! Still too dark. I am convinced that this toaster is a lemon.

Unless maybe I’m not reading the darkness dial right. Hmmm……

The little darkness dial has no words, just pictures. Two pictures, one of a piece of bread filled in with solid white, and one of a piece of bread outlined with white. With the directions long gone I decide to test my toaster.

I started with a piece of bread and the darkness dial all the way to the solid white. After almost four minutes, I smell burning toast. I pop it up and toss it.

Making sure to let the toaster cool down, I wait about twenty minutes and then try another piece of bread – this time with the darkness dial all the way to the outlined white. It pops up in less than two minutes with just barely warmed bread.

People always ask me what I am doing this summer since I have taken time off from work. I tell them I am working on my book and tearing my kitchen walls down for remodeling.

Now I can add wasting time playing with my new toaster to the list.

It sure is a nice toaster, though.

Direction

It’s not about going right or left. It’s not about going north or south.

It’s about guiding your children in their decision-making. It’s about asking“What do you think you should do?” instead of saying, “I think you should do this.”

But, instinct tells us to protect them and take care of them. So saying the latter is much harder – especially when you can see disaster coming.

For instance, relationship issues sure can tug at a mother’s heart. We see them happy in relationships and it warms our heart. While at the same time, we remember from our own youth just how devastating relationships can be when things go south. We mothers may even ending up gaining or losing a new found friend out of the deal whom we hold dear in our hearts as well.

The whole picture-

It’s so easy to get caught up in our children’s lives that we often forget that being a parent is about helping them see the whole picture so that they can make a good decision on their own. Or maybe a bad decision – in which case, would be one to learn from.

We need to ask questions like, “How does that make you feel?”, or “What do you think will happen if you do that?” And once in a while (if you have a grown boy, for instance) you might need to be pretty specific and say, “Here it is from a female perspective”, just to remind them that girls often think quite differently.

And in the end, we are always there to help pick up the pieces, get them back on their feet, brush themselves off and continue on with life – their own life. Hopefully – a bit wiser the next time around.

Hey, did you figure out that the "we" in this story might really be "me"?