Igor.... It LIVES!

The sad thing is, this blog is probably an accurate depiction of my life.

Moving on, because I've been silent too long and I have things to say! 

Thank the springtime rain. The shift in weather seems to have awakened my deeper sense of the world. Or something. 

Firstly, I stumbled one step deeper into that dark, cavernous realm called "adulthood". I'm pretty sure I stubbed my toe, and what on earth is that dripping sound? Am I the only one who hears something very large breathing?

My Monday last week started off like this. Yes, that is self-inflicted. Thankfully I'm able to keep the greater life lessons contained to my work place so I at least have someone around to help me pick up the pieces. 

Long story short (because frankly it's embarrassing) I swallowed my tears and replaced the impaled tire with my donut, arranged for and paid to have the tire replaced, and, with the help of a new jack and tire iron, replaced the tire. 

All this with only a little muscle and prodding from my parents. Despite the pain to my pride and my savings account, I'm proud of how I handled myself. (Also, one of my co-workers said I got farther by myself than his wife would have and, coming from him, that's a true compliment.)

2) We have 30-odd eggs about to hatch. 

Item three: there's also a guinea pig now (not mine). No pictures, though. Chubs is extremely shy. We now have poultry (too many to count), canines, reptiles, rodents, and fish. All we need is a house bird and a pony and we will be complete. (Mom also wants goats. We're holding her at bay for now, but no promises. (We don't even like goat milk.)) Someone may try to add felines to that list. I'm dubious of the wisdom of that plan. 

     3.5 - we are also now the hosts of our own hoarde of little cannibals. 

Do not be fooled by their fluffiness. Do heed the warnings of the red light. These are meat birds. Their sole purpose in life is to grow big and fat really quickly and then...! *mimes slicing throat* This picture is a little old and they're already well on their way to the dinosaur stage. They eat, they sleep, they drink, they eat, and if their food isn't constantly full they will turn on your...or each other. If regular chickens are the sharks of bird-kind, these are piranhas. 

Four, as most of you know, is that I have discovered a new artistic outlet which has lasted longer than a month: painting on canvas. Mostly words, because I love those, but a few are just awesome patterns. 

It's all very trial-and-error but I'm catching on quickly. Now master calligraphy.... (More pictures on my Instagram account [the_magicmirror] , because they be many.)

And speaking of social media and the like, (5) I broke down and joined Pintrest. (That's how I broke into the canvas gig.) No, I will not share. The last thing I need is encouragement. Next up: Etsy!

VI. I have managed to sustain a houseplant for more than a month! 

It got a little withered at one point but is surprisingly resilient and perked back up overnight with some water. I looked for one labeled "low diffused light" and "light watering". That is the key. 

7) I haven't washed my hair since Monday. Be jealous. I have rediscovered dry shampoo, and it feels a little like cheating, but my temples get greasy. (You're welcome for the random fact you probably never wanted to know.)

Ocho - my favorite word at the moment is "embrace". Think about it: not only does it mean acceptance and open arms; but is also means safety, arms wrapped tightly. It's a warm hiding place against the world; it's a place of rest; it's a promise of support. *pulls out canvas* plus, it rolls rather nicely off the tongue. 

That really is all I have for now. The goal was to bring everyone up to speed. Can't say as I covered everything, but it's the first step that's always the messiest. I wanted to get over that one quickly. 

The Truth Behind My Name (Also: Planking)

I was sitting at my desk this morning wondering what I was going to blog about today, since it's Tuesday and I'm trying to make that a post day. I have a few posts "in the works", but they're either in-depth or extensive rants and aren't ready for sharing.

I don't believe in karma. I do, however, hold a great appreciation for coincidence and irony. A few minutes after pondering this blog dilemma, I received a voicemail from a customer. It started out, "I was talking to a young lady at your office yesterday," and ended with, "could you please have that young lady call me?" I called her back, and the first thing she said was, "You said Amber? I couldn't remember your name when I left the message, but it's such an unusual name I should have been able to."

Thus contradicting my life-long belief that "Amber" is a fairly ordinary name.

(Counts number of Ambers I know....)

Congratulations, Dad. Not only did you help in choosing nine names collectively for your kids, you managed to pick ones that were relatively unique! Who knew? I certainly didn't.

I suppose now is a good time to share with you the history of my name. Wesley's name story is Mom, Dad, and friends in a car shouting out boy names until they hit upon one they thought sounded nice. Mine? I have the honor of being named after a character in "The Running Man".

Y'know? The Arnold Schwarzenegger movie?

Imagine my delight when I learned that tidbit.

At that point I had never seen "The Running Man". A couple years later, I walked into the living room while Mom and Dad were in the middle of it.

All that hard work learning to appreciate and accept my name started to peel around the edges.

This is why:

Don't even get me started on the suits. Nah, what gets me is that my namesake (or am I her namesake???) spends a good portion of her screen time screaming.

I mean, I probably would spend most of my time screaming if I was in her shoes, but.... Just no. It doesn't help that she plays in a Schwarzenegger movie. (For those of you who can't sense sarcasm through the screen or who haven't already learned this of me: I don't like Arnold Schwarzenegger very much. The fact that I've had to spell his name three times already isn't helping.)

<end rant>

I actually had thought of another topic to amuse you with before the aforementioned phonecall, so since I have the time I'll move on to that!

In the wake of my first post of the year, I sat back and reevaluated several aspects of my life. The conclusion at which I arrived is no surprise: certain things need to change. And unlike some people who are rational and tackle on thing at a time, I've gone for the overhaul approach.

I have a working budget in place and am trying to remain aggressively dedicated to it because, if nothing else, I need a car. I'm already doing OK with my eating habits but they could stand to be adjusted. And I'm trying to stay fit.

Since I miss my 1/2 mile jog at work every day because of the snow, I was starting to get worried about what to do in place of that (not to say a 1/2 mile jog everyday is all I need to do to keep fit, but it's a start). Browsing facebook around the New Year, I came across a post for the 30-day Plank Challenge and thought, "That looks my speed. I do need to strengthen my core. Why not?"

I actually started it Sunday morning, and this is what I have learned so far:

1) My thighs are already killing me. Everything else feels fine so far, so either it's too early to for the rest of my body to get on board the "good kind of pain" train or I have my form all wrong. Possibly both.

2) Never judge a workout routine based on the pictures. I should know this by now. I really should.

3) Never do anything like yoga with my dog around. The moment I lie down on the floor she's in my face. Either she's worried about me; she sees a perfect opportunity to snuggle; or, in her twisted way, she thinks I am finally submitting my authority to her. In any case, I have to ban her from my room when I do my morning stretched.

4) "The secret to getting ahead is getting started." - Mark Twain

5) Half of my problem must surely be the face that I'm trying to plank on a laminate floor.

I've never been very fit. (I ceased being able to touch my toes when I was, like, ten.) The idea is exciting, but I tend to lose my drive pretty quickly. We have Wii Fit and for a while I was going pretty strong on that, at least with a bit of yoga. But have any of you ever had the Wii give that shocked little "Oh" when you wobble on the board? Yeah, I got sick of that. I was walking my dog pretty regularly, but then winter hit and I'm at work sunup to sundown. So planking it is, until I break something or find a better alternative.

I'll keep you posted.

Living vs. Existing

"To live is the rarest thing in the world. Most people exist, that is all." - Oscar Wilde

It's been over 6 months since my last post. While I thoroughly enjoyed the hiatus (including the one I took from Facebook), I've developed quite a list of topics I have wanted to blog about. Also, a few southern friends requested I restart the blog so they could keep up with the family. Mom covers the chicken topic enough now, so maybe the reading will be better than before.

For the last few months I've been wrestling with the feeling that I'm just spinning my wheels. I go to work, work 8-9 hours a day at a job I enjoy, come home and try to find something creative for supper, tap out a few words of one of my current stories, and go to bed to start all over again. On the weekends, I sleep in until 7:30, read a book, eat one meal, maybe go to town, and tap out a few more words.

Maybe it's just a phase. I don't really buy into the whole "young people finding themselves" mentality, but perhaps this is just one of those life transitions where I'm finding my rhythm. Maybe.

Something with which I have always struggled is being anxious. By now anyone who has read this blog knows this. I worry too much and over-think things and second-guess myself, and I know a lot of what I'm working through is managing that aspect of my brain.  But then I sit still and try to count all the things I accomplished in 2014. It doesn't really amount to much in 10 minutes' hard consideration. Drawing it out, my life is pretty colorless. Again, maybe it's just a stage. Maybe I'm in a quiet place where all I'm supposed to be doing is sitting still and learning, listening, developing. Maybe.

I found the above quote from Mr. Wilde quite a while ago and it often comes to mind when I hit one of these contemplative moods. Much as it scares me to admit, I'm not really living my life so much as muddling through it with as little effort or involvement as possible. I'm so caught up in the personal struggle to find my place, of learning the steps, that I've sunk deeply into myself and blocked pretty much everything else out. (I'll be the first to agree that my social interaction is at a level which is undoubtedly detrimental to my health.)

And then I pop out of that shell, take one look at the world, shiver, and withdraw again. Back to the anxiety.

I know I'm here for a purpose. In my family, in this city, as the particular job I hold, in the certain church where we've found a home. In this time, these circumstances.

Another quote which I hold close is from J. R. R. Tolkien and The Fellowship of the Ring. It's more like my life quote at the moment:

"I wish it need not have happened in my time," said Frodo. 

"So do I," said Gandalf, "and so do all who live to see such times. But that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us."

God picked me specifically for this location so I could do something for Him. More and more I'm coming to terms with the fact that it may not be very grandiose by the world's standards or even by Christendom's standards. But it's my role. I may be that supporting character who meets one of the key players ten years down the road and has traveled just the right path to know how to nudge them back onto theirs. When I look at it that way, I can't help but get a little giddy.

It's not about finding a springboard to move one from a quiet town to a big adventure. It's about making the most out of whatever circumstances in which one finds oneself. We can't all be world explorers or geniuses or composers. Those people need the clerks and babysitters and nurses. They need the girl behind the phone whose name they can't remember who relieves one small distraction on their plate by informing them that the timeframe they need will work just fine, and who bids them good day with a smile in her voice and doesn't correct them when they get her name wrong again while saying good-bye. (It's not that I'm bitter, but "Amber" is not an unusual name. I can't count the times I've been Amanda, Amy, Andrea, Samantha, or Heather. At this point I just smile and choke down a laugh.)

It is about making what I have been given count in more ways than monetary. It's about loving sleep a little less and hanging out with a lonely friend instead, or meeting for a Bible study. We're here to interact. We're meant to touch, to see, to hear, to speak to, to sing, to guide, to hold. Not to just revel in a sunset, but to glory in Who painted it. Not just to catch our breath after wrestling with a kid, but stopping to read a Bible story and talk about it before helping them crawl into bed. Not just giving candy to an orphan, but the truth as well.

We may not live expansive, bold lives, but we are meant to live on purpose. Wherever we find ourselves, we are meant to make the most out of it for the glory of God.

I beseech you therefore, brethren, by the mercies of God, that ye present your bodies a living sacrifice, holy, acceptable unto God, which is your reasonable service. - Romans 12:1

It's reasonable, after all God has done for us, for us to surrender our lives to Him. 

So this post isn't all I had hoped for it to be. They never are. But I think I've said what I set out to. And here are some other quotes and verses which contributed to the concept:

"The fear of death follows the fear of life. A man who lives fully is prepared to die at any time." - Mark Twain 

"Just breathing isn't living!" - Eleanor H. Porter, Pollyanna  

"It is never too late to be what you might have been." - George Eliot 

"Worry does not empty tomorrow of its sorrow, it empties today of its strength." - Corrie ten Boom, Clippings From My Notebook 

"You're not here on accident; you shouldn't live on accident." - Hugh Taylor

The Definition of Happiness

Please note: the following post is long, confused, disorganized, and raw from my brain. I do apologize, but it's something I needed to say, and the best way I know how is to spew it straight from brain to screen.

Recently it was brought to my attention that I possess a crippling habit: list making.

I can't really be sure how this came about in my life. I used to abhor lists. Heather was always the one with the to-do list she was checking off. Maybe it was just the fact that I never seemed to accomplish as much as she did. Or perhaps she wasn't ever as detailed as I in list making. Where she put "clean room", I may have listed: "make bed, sort laundry, vacuum, etc". Who knows? I'll have to ask.

Anywho, at one time in the last couple of years I discovered the thrill of checking things off a list. Something about that tangible evidence that you accomplished something (even though you might be staring at the freshly scrubbed dishes or folded laundry, it's not the same unless you put a check mark next to that line). Hunger for that thrill developed into an obsession, and suddenly every aspect of my life went onto a list somewhere so I could proudly mark complete every visit to the bank; trip to the store to get ranch dressing (check), tissues (check), dog treats (check), flower pots (check), notebooks (crossed out because, turns out, I don't need another); and game prep completed for Wednesday classes.

I think it must have really started when I tried out that Day Zero Project back when I was sixteen or seventeen. At least in that case, it was all fun long-term goals I didn't really need to accomplish, but it was downhill from there.

Lately, I found that those lists were nothing more than a burden. They mocked me, especially when I forgot to turn off the notifications on the newly-discovered "Reminders" app of my phone: "walk your dog", "please put away that horrendous pile of laundry hiding your floor", "find time in your hectic schedule to tap out two or three hundred words so you don't fall behind", and on and on. Also, every Tuesday and Friday for the last couple of weeks, I've scribbled "BLOG!" on my daily list of things to do. Clearly I have a clear grasp of priorities. 

I also found I was relying on my notes for everything, particularly at work.

It hurts, guys. It's painful, like some terrible addiction I know I need to quit but can't bring myself to quit because it hurts. In her own subtle (or not-so-subtle) way, Mom intervened. (Love how I'm making this into a mock-drama of a drug addiction? You have no idea.) She casually remarked that, for goodness sake, I needed to quit writing notes for everything and just use my God-given (and God-ordained rather poor) memory like humans are intended to.

That's probably the most terrifying part: I'm so scatter-brained, without some sort of note to rein me in, I'm bound to forget something crucial at some point. But slowly I'm forcing myself to let go of that security blanket.

The lists are being reduced to taking notes from phone calls and to writing reminders for things I absolutely cannot forget at any cost (which turns out to be very little, really).

And now, I'm starting a new kind of list.

The idea started months ago, when one of the girls mentioned a challenge their youth group team leader had put to their group: every day, write something you're thankful for.

I have often found that I tend to focus on the negative side of life and don't stop to appreciate the bright side: I see the puddles and don't smell spring rain, which I love.

On the radio the other day, I heard something to the affect of "Instead of bashing the things you don't like, try promoting the things you do like". Which is something else I'm working on: not voicing rude things that come to mind when I'm in a bad mood, but smiling whenever I come across something that perked me up.

But back to that list: happiness.

When I force myself out of my own mental puddle and take a breath and a good look around, there are plenty of things that bring that smile to my face. My goal is to learn to appreciate those things rather than getting glum over their muddy counterparts.

Happiness is....

Sunshine

Fresh air

Home-cooked meals

When another driver lets me go first (unless, of course, their kindness results in me getting rammed into, but I've moved on)

Years ago, our youth pastor preached a message which has stayed with me. He talked about our personal levels of contentment, and I believe he used Philippians 4:11&12:

11) Not that I speak in respect of want: for I have learned, in whatsoever state I am, therewith to be content. 12) I know both how to be abased, and I know how to abound: every where and in all things I am instructed both to be full and to hungry, both to abound and to suffer need.

The idea was that we can choose how much good we require to be content with ourselves and our lives. We define our own level of contentment. If we can agree with ourselves that we can be content with three square meals, a comfortable house, and a car that runs, we will be happy when we have those things. Furthermore, anything about and beyond that measure will be received as a blessing.

On the other hand, if we convince ourselves that we will not be content until we have a car manufactured after the year 2000, a house with an extra bedroom, money to eat out more than once a month, and our favorite store's entire spring clothing line, we will probably never feel content even with the many things we do have.

I have learned to be content with the condition of my life: my poor beater car, our big drafty house, my amazing family, and a talent for making a meal out of practically anything. However, when it comes to the day-to-day circumstances, my personal happiness can flop like a broken pendulum every time someone walks by.

I have a hard time taking every throw in stride, both good and bad. It takes me a while to recover from a hard word, a mistake, or bad news. And yes, I am severely affected by the weather, and possible the lunar phases as well, but I am consciously working on that.

Last year something I dedicated a post to Philippians 4:5 (or at least I tried to, but looking back, that post was all over the place). Very often these days that verse comes to mind:

5) Let your moderation be known unto all men. The Lord is at hand. 6) Be careful for nothing; but in every thing by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known unto God. 7) And the peace of God, which passeth all understanding, shall keep your hearts and minds through Christ Jesus.

Brave the old post if you dare. In short, the idea is maintaining a steadfastness about your nature, not tossed back and forth from despair to joy as the wind changes; leaning on God, trusting Him with tomorrow (rather than borrowing its troubles today), and letting His peace reign.

Happiness is only part of the issue. Happiness is a temporal thing, measured and dictated by our current condition or circumstance, even when we struggle to be content with our lot. The real thing is joy. True joy is something only God can bring, and it is not defined by our outward condition. It's defined by our inward state and our identity in Christ.

I go back to Paul whenever this topic comes to mind. If you want to read about a man who took everything in stride, look at Paul. And after everything, when he stood before King Agrippa and was permitted to give an account of himself, this is what he said: "I think myself happy" (Acts 26:2).

He had suffered shipwrecks and stonings, betrayals and rejection, and now at last was brought as a prisoner before the king. Yet he found himself happy, because he was exactly where he wanted to be, with the king's full attention. Read Acts 26 sometime; Paul makes full use of the opportunity and lays out his testimony in full. Festus calls him a mad babbler, but Paul politely disagrees. He was confident in his work, knowing full well that he was right where he belonged and serving God to the best of his ability, and that was enough.

So maybe I don't have some "great calling" like Paul. I don't think I'd do too well with that sort of adventure right now, anyway. It's better that I bide my time, training myself to take every rude customer and bad day in stride and learn a lesson from each of them, the better to serve when the bigger opportunities rise.

Most of all, I'm learning to be content exactly where I am rather than longing for one more thing, dreaming of a bigger adventure, wasting my time wishing I was doing something else. I'm right where God needs me. I just have to be open for Him to use me in the ways I can't yet see. 

I Must Confess....

I know, I know, it is neither Tuesday nor Friday. Evidently I will need a little while to adjust to that self-imposed schedule.

In the meantime, I can say with all certainty that I would rather not dwell on this week. It's been one humdinger of a month, really.

The highlight was yesterday. I got out of work on time. I was driving home with planning the new game I was going to introduce in game time that evening. I had to make a stop at the drugstore for some much needed allergy medicine. Said drugstore has two entrances, and accessing the most expedient route home from either of those requires turning left.

In short, I pulled out in front of some cars which were graciously waiting for me to go and right into the path of a car that was switching to the turn lane.

I registered a brief squeal of tires before impact and spun into the far right lane.

Neither driver was so much as bruised, his car had a dented fender and a cracked light, my driver door will no longer open and the passenger door on that side is dented, and we traded paint. Blessedly there was an officer just pulling out of the parking lot from which I had made my exit, so we could get the whole business over with that much quicker.

I had a ticket and some car repairs to pay for, and that's all I'm going to say about it. That and: good grief, but I am sending out my teenage years with a bang.

I don't mean to seem like I'm brushing it off. By all means, that's what I wish I could do; but one of my worst faults is dwelling on my failings.  For whatever reason, I have an issue with learning from my mistakes, great or small, and letting the rest go. Somedays I live in the land of "What If?" I'm working on it, believe me, but it's not as easy as buckling into a plane seat and holding on for the ride.

So on to brighter things! (You'll get the joke in a moment.)

Ladies and gentleman, my name is Amber, and I am a heliophile.

*collective gasp of horror from audience*

Yes, yes, it is true. I am in deep like...with the sun.

(For those of you not trained in Classic Mythology and etymology, "heliophile" is derived from "Helios, Greek god (Titan?) of the sun", and "phile", meaning "lover of, enthusiast". Proof that Percy Jackson encourages learning.)

But I'm not kidding when I say I love sunshine. Sure, starry nights are great, and I know how to appreciate a good lighting show. One of my favorite ways to fall asleep is to the sound of rain on the roof and thunder in the distance. But my favorite weather of all is sunny.

The only downside of our new house is that it has a grand total of two east-facing windows: one in the living room and one in the downstairs bathroom. Whenever we move, I look for the bedroom with the east-facing window. I had to settle for south, which is second best (oddly preferable over west). I have my room arranged so that when I'm laying on my bed, my head faces east. Probably something to do with how many Disney movies start with morning sunshine on someone's face. Deep down, I bet I do it hoping I'll wake with a smile and a contended yawn like those obnoxious princesses (minus Anna, who is now my morning hero).

Unlike most of the United States at the moment, we had a bit of a weather break yesterday involving sunny skies and temperatures above freezing. Up until I got out of work, I was having a great day daydreaming of springtime. I'm actually getting quite desperate for it.

Allenna and I went to the library last week, and on the way home, I decided I needed to stop by the nursery near our house. Just walking into a room bursting with greenery and the smell of growing things made me happy. When one of the employees came over to ask if I needed anything, I said I was just looking and admitted I needed a vegetation fix. She smiled and told me she'd already met several people who had said the same thing.

People who have known me a while may be a little surprised when I say how much I enjoy being in the sunshine. As a kid, I was more often pale from lack of sunlight as opposed to tan. What can I say? I lived voraciously through others as a child. I'm mostly over that now.

Maybe it's weird, then, that my favorite season is not summer, but spring, when we're more likely to wake to rain clouds than sunshine and birdsong. I think part of my deep appreciation for sunlight comes from missing it during the cloudy months. 

And I'm rambling now. I'd better scoot before things get completely boring.

How I'm Slowly Coming to Grips with Adulthood

I'm sitting in another coffee shop this evening, polishing off some hot chocolate and contemplating the wrap and pie I just ate, which almost filled my meal budget for a week.

Yes, it was delicious.

Per usual, I don't really have much to say. I'm trying to work myself back into the blogging rhythm. Bear with me. Or, conversely, come back in a month and see how I'm doing.

In a month, I'll be 20. Yikes.

I'm not ready for that, guys. Mostly mentally, though a little emotionally as well. 12-year-old me was sure I would at least have a boyfriend by now and be halfway around the world on some grand adventure, or autographing my latest best-seller.

I miss childhood. The world felt so much bigger then. Now I'm settled into my adult job, doing my best to budget and dealing with the responsibilities of maintaing my own car, buying my own clothes and food, and not having to run every social engagement by my mother for approval. (Seriously, she is insisting I be the independent little adult she raised me to be and plan stuff without her ok. It's weird.)

Most days I struggle with my lack of time management skills. I get the feeling this may be a life-long practice. Bother it all, but I am bad at it. Once upon a time, I was that little girl in the corner stuck in her book with a bag of chips. Now I only snatch enough time to read right before bed or in the morning before work. It hurts.

Also, I forgot to mention that over the winter (starting in September, really) I went on something of a health kick. Suddenly I found myself enjoying hummus (which I once swore I would never eat), buying essential oils at the health food store downtown, craving organic granola, and snubbing potato chips and pizza. What? Part of it can be attributed to the fact that by September I had been working a real job for a year. A job that required me to be on my feet and moving around. Turns out what I wanted during my beautiful childhood was a little more activity and a little less curling up to read. Much as it pains me to admit. (Come on. One fencing class made up the whole of my school sports career.)
When I switched to my desk job this September, I had a small moment of panic. Suddenly I was back to sitting for most of the day.
In short, I'm more conscientious of what I eat now. I'm even contemplating a membership at the gym. (Please contain your shock.) But I'm still learning, still adjusting. I'm slow like that. My biggest struggle right now is the feeling that I'm just spinning my wheels. I can't quite explain it, but it's like I just can't manage everything in my life, like I'm missing something in the chaos. Not that I have a lot going on, but I'm trying to figure out how to arrange everything so I can still do the things I love, the things that matter.
I think part of it is this horrible weather. Usually I love winter, or at least know how to endure it, but this one is making me feel a little stir crazy. I'm daydreaming of my garden this year. We didn't get one in last year, and that was rough. Which is silly, because before then I had a grand total of two years as a gardener. I put in a load of bulbs around the front of the house, and I'm eager to see how they will look. Mom is making plans for the vegetables we will have. Mostly I'm happy that the chickens will be contained to their run and I will be able to enjoy the fruits of my labors in peace without worrying that someone's beak will destroy them for a snack.
I'm also hoping to get into a good walking/running habit with Sasha. She's been driving us all a little crazy lately with her boundless energy. It's embarrassing what a terrible dog owner I turned out to be. Live and learn, right?
The beauty is that I can only imagine the ways God is going to use all of what I'm learning. I'm just trying my best to make the most of it while I'm here. My inner child whispers that somewhere there is a lesson that could save my life one day. That annoying mature, practical part of me groans.
I came here tonight with Mom, who had a Search and Rescue group meeting. Wanting to meet the people she and Dad always talk about, I joined them in their separate room for a while. It got weird when I choked on a bite of lettuce and realized if I showed signs of distress, I'd have half-a-dozen people jumping to offer assistance. Wesley and Heather know how well I handle the suggestion of CPR. I carefully and slowly swallowed that lettuce and soon left. And now I'm waiting, because I didn't expect it to take this long.
At least here I don't have the distractions I'd have at home. Like chores and a dirty room and a cuddly puppy and one of Allenna's shows on TV. That's the problem with me and time management: I have time, but worrying about how to manage it leaves me tired and I end up wasting my time.
And I'm just rambling. I should probably go. I will say, before I do, that my goal is to blog Fridays and Tuesdays as often as I can manage. I never realized how much of a stress relief blogging is to me. (Well, the stress mostly came from guilt that I wasn't blogging, but....) So until Friday, I hope!

The Ocean

My trip to Peru held many new experiences. One of them was the fulfillment of a personal dream of mine: to see the ocean.

Yeah, I've never been to the ocean, at least that I can recall. Plenty of lakes 'round here, sure, but they aren't the same thing.

It was the Monday we went to the other children's home and the holding tank (and also the day Dad and I went mountain climbing). Actually, we'd seen the ocean earlier in the trip when we visited a more ritzy part of Lima to eat lunch, but it wasn't up close. We watched from a distance while a couple people tried to surf, and shivered sympathetically every time they fell. But Monday we got up close and personal.

First we drove through the yards full of shipment containers. The less pleasant ocean-related smells seemed to gather around there. The area where we disembarked was a clean little park, complete with small grassy lawns and a statue involving a cannon. The shore was all rocky and kind of steep at points. My lake tourist-side kicked in and I immediately started watching for sea shells. Some people in the group started skipping stones or trying to catch fish, and others spent most of their time getting too close to the water and having to outrun the waves.

I think one of the coolest parts about that visit was just listening to the water. The view certainly wasn't that great, what with us being near a port and there being so many ships blocking the horizon. There weren't many seagulls like we get at home, so that did help a little. But the sound of the waves in and of itself was amazing, especially when the water receded: the sound of so much water rushing over the rocks, shifting them and pulling them and dragging the smaller ones back down. It wasn't a roaring, like how waves are usually described, but more like a...shushing sound, almost. (Susurrus, anyone?) It was one of those sounds that can be difficult to describe, like the wind in a hemlock* forest (which remains one of my favorite nature sounds). I wish there was some way I could have recorded it well. On that stretch of rock-covered beach, the sound probably was loud, but it didn't have that powerful quality like thunder.
We all wandered the beach for a while. I got a pocketful of shells and a couple neat stones. Many of the shells were stained a greenish color, and where worn smooth by the water. I ended up sharing them with Allenna when we got home, because she likes seashells and I could say I picked it up at the ocean.
I did double-check all my shells to make sure they didn't still have residents. It's not so much bugs that make me squeamish as the slimy, oozy, blobby creatures like slugs and things that live in shells.
There were other people there besides our group, though not many of them. I was kneeling down looking at rocks when a little Peruvian boy stooped next to me and picked up a tiny star fish. Excited by his find, he immediately leaned over to show it to me, exclaiming enthusiastic things I couldn't understand. I nodded and smiled and declared, "Muy bonita," which may not even be correct. Suddenly the boy was more curious about who on earth he was talking to than about his starfish. He took one hard look at me, realized I wasn't Peruvian, and scrambled away.
Our trip to the ocean turned out more profitable that just a collection of shells and fossils. Some in the group had been handing out tracts to the other visitors, and a couple ladies ended up getting saved right there as a result. That occasion served to remind me of the real reason we were there.
Years ago I noticed that I have a habit of staring at the ground when I walk. It's probably in part because I'm so clumsy and I'm trying to avoid anything that might cause me to trip. However, when I noticed this habit, I decided I should probably correct it, or I'd end up walking through life too focused on the dirt and miss everything else. I still have to make a conscious effort some days to lift my head and make eye contact with people and admire the flowers and look at what's ahead of me.
At the beach, I spent most of my time staring at the ground searching for tiny seashells which I could stuff in my pockets and admire as trinkets. I wasn't handing out tracts or even saying "hello" to the other people there. I barely noticed them until that little boy wanted to share in his discovery.
We get the same way in life: so focused on find seashells and watching our footing that we forget or ignore the people around us, and we forget that there's something ahead of us that we should be pressing for.We wander around, lost in our little world and careless to the rest. In the end, all we have to show for that are some shiny, broken, fragile little shells even the sea creatures don't want.
Putting myself in a new environment jolted me enough to wake me up to this reality, but already I'm off that "spiritual high". I'm not worried about losing the somewhat manufactured excitement and enthusiasm, but I am worried about losing or forgetting a true passion for people.

I enjoyed my visit to the ocean, but I'm disappointed that I missed the more important thing that happened there.

Culture Shock

One of the things you hear a lot about concerning international travel (and, it seems to me, especially travel related to missions) is culture shock. 

culture shock: noun

a state of bewilderment and distress experienced by an individual who is suddenly exposed to a new, strange, or foreign social and cultural environment

I'm sure we all pretty much know what "culture shock" means, but I like how this definition is worded.*   :) 

I can't say I really experienced culture shock, at least going into Peru; I'm not even sure I truly had jet lag. I'd heard enough stories to be at least a little prepared for the culture of Peru, particularly the driving.

Some of us gringos (and I mean that in the nicest sense) were freaked out by how Peruvians drive. I actually found it enjoyable. To Americans it might look dangerous, but it's anything but reckless.

Picture this: a loaded bus roaring down a dusty mountain road at 70 kilometers/hour**, weaving in and out of traffic, passing slower buses and "motor-taxis" (which are basically a covered backseat attached to a motorcycle) and slowing only for speed bumps (which are so common they become unremarkable to most people). The horn and the outside arm of the passenger riding shotgun are the most frequent traffic signals. Superior size earns right-of-way, and if there's a space just wide enough for the vehicle to park in, it'll get through without slowing.

I know some people in the group where grinding their teeth and holding the back of the seat in front of them with white knuckles, but I loved it. As Dad described it, it was like a dance. Everyone worked together and it all flowed effortlessly. Horns are a method of communication there, almost a language of their own.  The appearance of reckless and angry drivers was scarce, and I think I saw a grand total of one accident in all the 10 days we were there, and we did a lot of driving, mostly around Lima. Bus rides were a daily routine for us. Only once did I actually get a little nervous, and that was when another bus appeared to almost T-bone us as they pulled forward to pick up more passengers.

That was only one taste of Peruvian culture. Another is the dog population. They're everywhere, and come in every size and color possible. They're as common as deer in Michigan (actually, more so, I think). Eventually a person could tune them out, too. During the parade on Saturday a dog made himself comfortable in the exact center of the road, and the parade marched around him. For a while we had a running tally of how many cats we saw, and it stayed around 3 until we came to one market (ironically there was a gypsy art show and market there). The only other animal I noticed were birds; mostly pigeons.

Peru struck me as a very colorful place. Peruvians enjoy bright colors and get away with painting their houses all manner of shades that would be hideous here in the states. There, it's almost beautiful. There are also a number of bright flowering plants wherever they can be made to grow. The people dress the same way, with the same bright and perky flair. As I think I mentioned before, they do dress well no matter how poor they might be. 

Take away the houses and the people, though, and you're left with a barren, boring landscape. That can have it's own kind of rugged beauty if you're viewing it from the right angle, but it also gets kind of bland sometimes. I'd like to see the other climates of Peru one day. My opinion of it is a big limited, I have to admit.

There was also was danger factor whispering at the back of our minds. Keep your purses close, hold your cameras, don't walk alone, stay with people who know the area. It's the same way in big cities here at home; I think we just hide it better.

The biggest culture shock, as I knew it would be, is the poverty. It might not come out in people's faces, but you see it in the living conditions. We're spoiled and think we can't live without this or that, but they know just what they need to survive, and it's considerably less than our commodities. It seemed like they were people more prone to being happy and content, and perhaps it's because they don't demand as much as we do to define their happiness.

People, especially people like me, tend to romanticize missions a lot. It's all thrilling adventures and bright new worlds and interesting people in our heads. But working alongside missionaries, even for those brief 10 days, was a reality shock. A friend who went pointed out how we're reminded of the human element: they still have to work and cook and go to school and pay the bills. That nitty-gritty, ordinary routine makes up the bulk of what they do every day. It might be another world, and though they're working to do what God called them to do, they also have to survive.

Sometimes it takes culture shock to clear our heads so we can see that. They're doing exactly what we ought to be doing: not just surviving, but working for God. We all have the same mission; we don't have to get a visa and travel to a foreign place to be useful. It only feels more important over there because it's new and exciting and challenging and feels like hard work because we're out of place and have to adjust; but eventually that wears off, and we're stuck calculating how much rice we need to feed the orphans or how much more support we need to finish building the church.

The real culture shock is coming home. We Americans can rush around just as well as a Peruvian bus driver, but we do it without making eye contact; with angry hands laying on loud horns; with no thought for anyone but ourselves, because our silly little business is all that matters. The daily grind of the American dream tends to drown out the true reality of what actually matters. It's a wake up call going to another culture and seeing it clearly, without the veil of gadgets and work schedules and extra-cirricular activities; if we aren't careful, all of that will lull us back into a spiritual coma when we get back to our safe, comfortable lives.

Missions trips tend to leave people experiencing one of those thrilling, empowering "spiritual highs", but those don't last forever. What happens when the dust clears and we have to get back to our lives? Does it become a "cool trip" and a few stories to tell, or do we make sure we're impacted in a way that changes our direction instead of glancing off our private bubble of comfort and apathy?

I experienced Peru in a wonderful way, and from an average human standpoint, it was a neat, enlightening experience. But I also experienced something deeper that stirred me like a wake-up call. My eye did indeed affect my heart, but I have to make a conscious effort if I want that affect to change me.

* Here's another fun one: depaysement: when someone is taken out of their own familiar world into a new one.

** I'm still not clear on how fast that is, but it sounds fast. We may have actually gone faster on the mountain roads where there was little to no traffic.

The Language Barrier

When we were passing out tracts one day near the Presidential Palace, one of our group members handed a tract to a police woman. I wasn't nearby, but as he told the story, the police woman asked him a question in Spanish, and he told her, "No habla Espanol." She asked (I'm assuming in English, though it might have been through one of our translators) why on earth we were there passing out tracts without being able to speak the language.

An excellent question.

The moment I stepped off the plane in Lima, I asked myself the same question: why, oh why, hadn't I studied Spanish a little more? And I kept asking myself that question the whole trip.

I also witnessed how true it is that immersion is the best way to learn a language. The longer we were in Peru, the more I remembered from my two years of Spanish class and the more I was able to pick up. When we didn't have a translator to accompany us, I ended up helping Mom and Dad as much as I could with understanding what prices the vendors were giving. I'm pretty good as catching words and sorting them in my brain. Most words I filed away under "to look up".

I had the presence of mind to bring my Spanish/English dictionary with me, and that was a huge help (until one of the boys at the home stole it and wouldn't give it back, claiming it was his). 

Still, I only knew enough to squeak by, and barely that. I couldn't even have a conversation with the kids, much less the adults. If I wanted to say anything, it had to be through a translator.

Two days in a row we went to a nearby school. The first day, in the morning, we met with and talked to elementary and middle school kids, and the second, in the afternoon, with high school students. The first day, I had the opportunity to give a short testimony. I was super nervous and wasn't sure what to say, but I'd watched some others in our group (we'd split into three groups to save time) and knew I had to have a turn. Take note of the word "opportunity". I had to remind myself that it was a great opportunity, not a burden or something to avoid.

The nice thing about having to talk through a translator is the knowledge that said translator will sort out your rambling and make sense of it. That was my only consolation.

After our three groups had cycled through all the classrooms, we met outside on the court/assembly area/entrance place and got to spend some time with the kids. Mostly, they wanted our autographs.

I wasn't expecting that.

If you didn't have a pen, they'd steal one from a friend. Their workbooks provided the paper. You just had to scribble your name and the next one would be there in a second. Some of the kids were so excited, they didn't really pay attention to who was signing their books. Near the end, I was mostly pointing to my name and then pointing to myself. "That's me, there."

Halfway through, I decided I needed to leave some sort of note alongside my name. I knew the phrase "Jesus loves you" = "Jesucristo te ama". After some trial and error (mostly my English-speaking brain wanting to spell out "Jesus" and "Christ" as I know them) I got it down. I hope the kids saw it and took it to heart.

The next day, we gathered all the kids for one large assembly. It was the end of the school day and they were getting ready to go on break for their Independence Day, so this saved time. Some of the guys (including our youth pastor's son) gave testimonies, and then our youth pastor presented the gospel. The kids listened really well, and you could see on some of their faces that they were taking it to heart.

Afterward, we were approached by a number of kids who wanted to practice their English. Mostly they said  "thank you" when we gave them candy and tracts and waited anxiously for our "you're welcome". A couple girls came up to me and Mom and asked my name, and then hers. I introduced her as "mi madre", and they excitedly corrected, "your mother!"

In some ways, however, language wasn't a barrier. Some of my friends and I have this habit of turning any road trip over half-an-hour into a sing-along. Said friends, including my sister Heather, were present on the trip, and we quickly reverted to our old habit. 

This led to our being invited to sing a special (or three) at one of the churches we visited on Sunday. First we sang a version of "At Calvary" set to a different tune, but then we picked a couple familiar hymns. When the congregation started humming along, I was content. They might not know the words in English, but they knew the tune, and so knew what the song was about. That was a connection we shared, though we couldn't speak to each other. In that moment, there was no language barrier.

At the church right by the children's home (because we also went to another one) there is a drum player. He's a really cool guy in general, but then he's musically talented. I heard him humming along while we had a sing-along session on the bus, and made an effort to pick hymns.

The children's home houses a few interns, and on a couple different outings they came along with us. One day, one of the interns sat with the church drummer and chatted a while. They spoke in Spanish (he's still learning English), and from what I could gather by the tone of the conversation, he was helping her with her grammar and pronunciation. (And I don't think it counts as eavesdropping when you can barely understand the language.) I had a moment of revelation when he said a word and it automatically clicked in my brain. That was a wonderful moment.

As some of you may have seen on facebook, we also visited what is known as a holding tank. For those of you who don't know, a holding tank is kind of like a half-way house between the streets and a proper children's home. It's one step in a long process of finding safety and security in a home, and many kids don't get beyond this step.

The one we visited was for girls. Heartbreaking as it is, it's generally accepted that they come from backgrounds of abuse and human trafficking. What's amazing is that, though they're obviously hurting and some clearly have trust issues, they're still so sweet and open and aching for love and acceptance. They touched me deeply, because theirs are the stories that so greatly lack of hope. They might never get placed into a children's home; many of them are too old, or nearly so. They don't know what's in store for them.

There's a lady, Ms. Peggy, who works at the children's home. After one of our girls said hello and met each of the girls there (9 of them), Ms. Peggy shared her story and the gospel. The girls, especially one, were so attentive and so eager.

I'll share more of their story later. What of it relates to this post is one of the girls. She was born in Korea but her family moved to Peru. How she ended up in that building, she never said. What she did tell us was that she knew three languages: Korean, Japanese, and Spanish. She spent a few minutes with Bro. Mike, teaching him how to say certain things in Korean and Japanese. She was such a fun person to watch and to listen to. Then she asked Bro. Mike how many languages he knew. His answer?

1) Spanish, 2) English, and 3) Southern English

I don't think she understood the joke, but we did.

Somebody asked how Bro. Mike and his family still had such strong Southern accents. Someone else laughed. "Because that's the only English they hear."

Again with the whole living immersed in a language: our youth pastor is from the South, and his accent used to be a lot more defined. Now, however, he's spent time among us Yankees. Bro. Mike and his family and Ms. Peggy all have Southern accents, and they remain pronounced. I think I was even picking up on a little by the time we left.

When we reentered the States in Miami, we all struggled readjusting to an English environment. When the employees at customs were native Spanish speakers, we instinctively wanted to respond in kind. To every "thank you", we muttered "de nada"; to every nice thing, "gracias". When we bumped someone or needed to get by: "permiso, por favor". And then we had to remember that the prices were in American dollars, not Peruvian soles.

Communication - or lack thereof, rather - was probably the biggest problem of our group as a whole. When I go back, I fully intend to go armed with a better grasp of Spanish. And I do intend on going back! (Also, it's common courtesy, to me, to know at least a little of the language of the country you're visiting, because you're the visitor.)

I love languages. There's something so fascinating about studying the structure, vocabulary, and roots of a language; of seeing how it relates to other languages and how it differs; and, especially in regards to English, how it develops. And I've discovered that the more you learn about another language, the better you can understand your own. My geek fantasy is being the lead linguist on the Starship Enterprise. Yes, I seriously just admitted that.

Another fantasy I developed while in Peru is to become a translator. Seeing how myself and my friends struggled to be understood and how the translators sometimes struggled to help everyone, it would certainly help. Of course, first I have to actually learn Spanish.

There's the end of the story, but I'm going to try something knew here. There's this thing called "participation". I know normal bloggers like it when their readership participates in their blog, so I thought I'd try, just to switch things up and because I feel kind of self-centered making everyone read these long, boring things and then leaving like you don't matter (and also starting far too many sentences with "I", but I'm working on that).

So here we go!

To my fellow "Trippers" (including those who went in previous years), how well did you cope with the language barrier?

Do anyone else have a silly fantasy related to Star Trek? Which office or job would you most like to have on a Star Ship? Or am I just weird? (Because that's completely likely.)

There and Back Again

It's taken me a few days to sit down and write this because I'm still struggling to process everything. Tonight at church most of us "Peru Trippers" had a little testimony time where we got to share about our experiences in Peru. I had such a hard time sorting through my thoughts. I kind of knew what I wanted to say, but I lost it as soon as I stood up. Thankfully, I didn't dissolve into tears. But there was so much more I couldn't find the words for. I still want to share all of that.

I'm planning on doing a series of detailed posts after this one, rather than cramming everything into one long, unorganized, rambling post. For right now, however, I'll do an overview of sorts. 

Practically everything I knew about Peru before this trip was what I saw in movies, read in books (though few fictional characters ever go to Peru), and heard from my family and others who have gone there on missions trips. I looked up Peru on Wikipedia after my trip, and I can tell you that short page doesn't even begin to describe Peru for real.

I didn't realize how little those stories would prepare me for the reality. I think we all tend to develop ideas and pictures of places we've never been based on what we're told or pictures we see. I know I do. Turns out all those images I'd subconsciously developed over the years were not even close to correct. I can't say I really had culture shock. I did wish I had dedicated myself to my Spanish studies.

We had a number of bus rides between the children's home and the city of Lima and its suburbs. During many of these, Bro. Mike, the missionary whose family founded the children's home, rode with us. He provided little educational lectures rather like a tour guide, acquainting us with Peru. I learned that Peru contains every kind of climate existing in the world, from snowy mountains (3 hours away from us they were having snow storms) to rainforests to deserts. The area with which I am now familiar is the "costal" area: rocky, arid, and among the foothills and edges of the mountains.

We arrived at the end of their winter and rainy season. "Rain" there is actually a fine mist. We rarely saw the sun and most days were cuddled up in sweatshirts. Once or twice I wished for gloves. One the warmer days, we Americanos locos went barefoot, and the nannies asked if our feet weren't freezing.

While we visited the ritzy areas of Lima on occasion, that area and class weren't our focus. We spent most of our time among the normal people, the "average" population (and I'm not sure how else to word that, but I don't mean it offensively). The houses are small and full of large families, the conditions are poor and often filthy, there are dogs every where (I mean everywhere).... But that's not what I'll remember. Almost instantly, I was impressed by the spirit of the people we met. They were happy, open, humble, friendly, kind, and even content. Yes, many talked of how they wanted their children to have better lives; but they weren't consumed with that. They work, they struggle to get by, they laugh, they love. 

Peruvians (or los Peruanos, as we learned) are proud. Not high and mighty proud. It's more like dignity. For example, they might be poor, but they dress as well as they are able.

While we were there, we got to witness their Independence Day celebrations (which we didn't even realize we'd be there for). The actual date was the 28th, which was a Sunday, but most of their celebrations took place on Saturday. Just down the street from the children's home was a parade which lasted a good four hours. It was mostly school groups, all dressed in costumes reflecting different parts and times of Peru's history and culture. You could see the patriotic pride there. 

From a tourist's standpoint, Peru might appear very religious. There are certainly plenty of churches, and I'd guess the majority of the population, at least where we were, had some sort of religious ceremony they went through. But it's not real. It is simply religion: a practice, a pattern, empty words and actions in an effort to earn one's way to Heaven. There's no relationship with God, no fellowship, not faith. That was one of the most heart-breaking things of all.

But despite that, the people were still so willing to accept our gifts of tracts and Bibles. They're hungry, and they don't deny that. Again, they're so open and so humble, willing to receive, quick to love, ready to help. The people we went to serve and to be a blessing to turned out to be an even greater blessing to us.
This is turning out to be just as confused and rambling as I feared. I'll try to work on that. Before I close, I suppose I should mention something about the plane ride.
I was strangely composed when we boarded our first plane. Referring again to things I learned from movies, I expected it to be bigger than it was. Turns out all those planes in the movies were the long-distance type, while ours, for two hours of travel, was considerably smaller. The first take off wasn't as terrifying as I anticipated. There was the initial felling of weightlessness and I clutched the seat in front of me (where, thankfully, Dad was seated) and probably went pale. Mom was laughing at me, so I guess I was a sight. But after we leveled out, I actually was able to enjoy myself. It almost felt like riding in a van or bus, until we hit turbulence (which we did while passing the Andes on our longer second flight). Turbulence still bugs me, but I'm cool with the rest.
And our 7 hour flight from Lima had personal TVs with a wide selection of movies. Though I was exhausted from a long day, I did watch one. Heather turned on Sound of Music, of all things.
So the thing I was most worried about turned out to be no big deal. Yay for me!
I'm going to go now before I make any more of a mess with this post. I'll be back soon.

Packed and Ready to Go

Our family is ready for Peru!

I surprised everyone including myself when I was pretty much completely packed by yesterday. ("Pretty much" because I still had a couple articles of clothing which needed to be washed, and my carry-on wasn't sorted.) This afternoon, Mom, Dad, and Heather worked to get their stuff together and I finished with mine. We're now all packed and ready to go. I wrote instructions about pet care for the friend who's coming to tend to the animals (and whom Sasha will hopefully love instead of hate). I have a list of last-minute things to do in the morning. Now I'm sitting in bed trying to decide when I should turn in.

I don't think the reality of this trip will hit me until I'm on the plane. At least, it hasn't truly hit yet; not the whole, "Yes, this really is happening" feeling. It's more of a vague anticipation and curiosity, I guess. That, or I'm handling it extremely well. The part of my brain claiming to be the rational part is trying to convince me I need to be a little more worried about the plane ride, while the part which is supposedly the more bold, irrational part is getting excited for the new experience. The former side is starting to gain ground. By the time I'm fastening my seat belt, hopefully I'll be shaking from excitement and not the onset of a nervous breakdown.

The group is meeting at the church at 9:00 tomorrow, and we'll drive from there to the airport a couple hours away. Where we'll eat and then wait for hours to board our plane. I packed books. Whether or not I'll be able to read them remains to be seen.

I had so many people tell me at church and over the last few days that they'll be praying for our trip. I can't begin to describe how encouraging it is to know my friends are lifting me up and keeping me in their thoughts. Perhaps that has something to do with my sudden calm mindset regarding airplanes?

As this missions trip looms just in front of me, I have to say the gravity of this opportunity is beginning to sink in. I only have a vague idea of what to expect, from stories Mom and Wes brought back and what we were told we might be doing while we're there, but I have high expectations: expectations to bless and be a blessing, to serve and to minister, to touch and to connect, to impact, to see and be affected, and to carry that back with me. I have a journal I plan to write in as often as possible. I know it won't be enough to capture everything we experience, but I hope it will help.

I will not be taking my computer, though it was an option. It's one more thing I have to worry about, and I don't want to deal with that.

Like always, I keep thinking I'm forgetting something. Odds are I'll realize what it is around Day 5, and by then it won't matter. I hope.

Well, I should probably go. Big day tomorrow!

In the Wake of VBS

So that plan didn't exactly work. To be fair, it's been a long week; and, for me, the week can't even begin to be wrapped up until today is over and done and I'm curled up in bed with my breathing and heart rate back to normal.

VBS was phenomenal! Even though myself and my amazing assistant teacher were tucked up in a hot corner room where half the time the food workers forgot about us and the other half of the time they were avoiding us for the sake of their well-being, I enjoyed my job. (Plus, I got to play dress-up as a cowgirl all week. No complaints there!) I've had plenty of practice teaching memory verses thanks to Mom and Dad, and despite the fact that the kids were far more interested in their food than in me, I think we accomplished something. And I had enough wonderful, angelic, attentive kids to almost outweigh the not-to-good ones. Almost.

I'm not sure if the fact that every night but one we had to call in the reserves for crowd control is a testament to my poor ability to handle children, or testament to poor judgement with placing kids on teams. I was ashamed.

There were deadly dog-piles and the handing out of "men" and children whose vocabularies were temporarily reduced to "no" and "why", but we survived with our sanity only slightly damaged and some fun memories. And I reminded myself that it doesn't matter if it feels stupid; sometimes I need to play along and laugh at myself, because the kids will love it.

Yellow Team won the overall points for the week. And that's historic at our church. Yellow has had a losing streak for longer than my family has been attending, I think. Some years they may have won third instead of fourth; once I think they got second. But I've never seen them whip everyone else like they did this year. Even though my own Green Team fell in third, I was happy. Even better was the amount we raised in the penny offering for some beloved missionaries of ours. I think we're finally getting the hang of the penny offering.

One of the youth workers, who's more like the "All Youth Activities Director, Supervisor, and Supreme Overseer" at church, is not only brilliant, but I think a little crafty. Our verse for last night was Colossians 3:23: "And whatsoever ye do, do it heartily, as to the Lord, and not unto men." I explained to my kids what "heartily" meant: quickly, happily, and with excitement, the way your parents want you to do your chores. I also reminded them that the verse is saying it doesn't matter if man praises you; man's opinion doesn't matter. All that matters is doing right because it has to be done.

When the Supreme Overseer pointed to a vacuum parked in the middle of the sanctuary and said, "That's yours", that verse rang in my head, and then this sneaking suspicion developed: I bet she picked that specific verse for tonight as a reminder to the workers who get stuck cleaning in the aftermath. Halfway down one row of pews and three banged knuckles later (have you any idea how difficult it is to vacuum between church pews?) I was convinced. Smooth.

I like getting recognized for my work. Who doesn't? And I try to make sure I recognize others for their hard work and when they are honestly putting in an effort. Which is why I incorrectly used the box of candy given to me for prizes in class. The candy was intended for kids who could say all four of their verses. When the head Cowboy for the week came in and suggested a quiet seat prize, I jumped on it. I can do bribes, too. In my last class, I extended it, and all eight of the kids left with candy in their hands (except one who, for reasons I still can't quite figure out, gave his piece to another boy because "I know you worked really hard on your verses"). I had four problem kids in that class, and the last night they all worked harder than I could have hoped, and most said at least one verse. Victory!

Anyway. People did tell me "thank you, Miss Amber" (what is with this "Miss" stuff? Boggles my brain, I tell you) and I sang back over the whine of the vacuum "You're welcome!" But I kept telling myself that, though the praise felt good, I would have put in the same effort if everyone else had all gone off to bed or (because few people my age make a habit of going to bed by 10) out for ice cream. Right? Of course right.

In short (because I have to get going for the longest day thus far in my career), I learned a lot this week. And I'm convinced I'll need every lesson down the road, from child care to knowing the right balance of discipline and bribery to doing what needs to be done simply because it needs to be done and there's a vacuum standing in front of me, even though some silly person will probably come along in 10 minutes leaving behind a trail of dust and garbage. But it's okay.

If I'm still alive and sane, I shall see you...probably next week. Tomorrow is going to be a long one, too.

Changing Gears for Summertime

I think a personal summer challenge should be to write more than three posts a month. Even that will be a challenge with the way our summer is shaping up.

It isn't really warming up, that's for sure. We're somehow still in spring mode, weather wise, including the rain. We don't even have our garden in the ground yet because of all the rain and cloudy days. No corn this year.

I'm trying to think what happened in the last couple of weeks. Well, for starters, I came home one day by bus, skipped up the front steps greeting the chickens, and was met at the door by my grim-faced mother. 

"Before you come in, I need to tell you something."

Naturally, my first thought is, "Great. Who died." My bus driver no doubt saw the shift in my demeanor. I know my shoulders drooped and I tensed up.

"What?" I asked cautiously.

"Sasha was hit by a car."

Commence meltdown.

Most of you already know the end of this story. Mom had warned me because Sasha was in miserable agony and on edge. I came in quietly and knelt beside her where she lay on a towel spotted with blood. Mom explained that she'd just put Sasha out and was painting when she heard a noise outside and looked out to see a dog lying on the side of the road across from our house. Some older lady had been driving a van (which hadn't reached the speed limit for our stretch of road, as evidenced by the fact that my dog was still alive) and Sasha, who had mysteriously escaped from her run, had darted in front of the vehicle. Mom went out calling to Sasha, who didn't respond at first, and the lady turned around in a neighbor's driveway and came back, hysterical.

"Is that your puppy?"

By this time, as I understand it, Sasha had stood up on her own and dragged herself into our yard. Mom got her inside and called the vet. They said it wasn't safe to sedate her in order to x-ray her while she was so alert and still so much in shock. Mom was afraid her leg was broken.

I'd heard the nasty stories of people with broken bones, and how sometimes you can see the broken parts pressing the skin. Sasha's right front leg, the injured leg in question, didn't look mangled or twisted or unnaturally positioned in any way. She also had a cut lip (as in you could see how her tooth had bit right through it) and a few small-ish open wounds on her other legs. She was quiet and still, which in and of itself is startling. Mom said when she'd first brought Sasha inside, Sasha had been hyperventilating and thrashing around.

A little while later, Sasha started that back up, and I about broke down, wondering why on earth we had to wait for tomorrow morning to help her. We couldn't give her any sort of human pain meds in case there was internal bleeding (which, Mom warned me, the vet wouldn't be able to deal with).

However, as the day worn on, Sasha started rolling onto her back to encourage me to scratch her belly and even hobbled a bit when I carried her outside. She didn't drink much and wouldn't eat, though.

Fast-forwarding to the vet visit the next day:

Thankfully, no one else was there. Sasha's last vet visit was a nightmare, as you may recall. However, miraculously, Sasha didn't turn into a slavering beasty when the vet and his assistants appeared. She just maintained her miserable appearance. The vet had me walk her around (I'd carried her from the car and up the steps) and decided her leg wasn't broken or fractured, because no dog would walk on a leg in that condition (although, this is my dog...). Then he took her into the other room.

I cowered in a corner, afraid of the moment when Sasha would snap and show her dark side.

She growled darkly for a while as Mom stood beside her and the vet checked (or tried to check) her mouth. Finally, the vet asked Mom to step outside. Like children, animals act differently when their "parents" are around. He said a soothing owner reaffirms an animal's suspicions that the situation merits fear and retaliation. Good to know. If I want my dog to behave, I'll just step out of the room.

Fast-forwarding again: in the end, the diagnosis was bruising and nerve damage on her right leg and shoulder and some cuts that would heal on their own. Huzzah!

For the next few nights, while she still was having trouble walking, I slept in the living room with Sasha. She wasn't supposed to get excited (and for that we had medicine, which turned Sasha from her hyperactive self to a semi-normal dog). Oh, and we were warned that "in rare cases some dogs will up and die a few days after an accident as a delayed reaction from the shock, even though they looked healthy. I don't want to worry you, but I have to warn you." Comforting, no?

So my obsessive self eyed my dog nervously for the next few days, wondering if, true to character, she was one such rare dog. I know: morbid. I don't know what to tell you.

And that was that. She's still hobbling, but her spirit is back.

Mom thinks her mysterious escape ("mysterious" because she didn't break any part of the lead or her collar) was brought on by the presence of a certain rooster who had been stalking our house for the past week. No one will claim the stupid bird, and he kept strutting up crowing like Peter Pan and attacking our chickens to assert his authority. He even had the ducks scared. He plucked poor Presley's head feathers and chased some of the others under the cars. It took days, a lot of rocks, gardening tools, and other flying projectiles and eventually Dad with a disc to convince him that this was our territory. We haven't seen him since.

Our own roosters (and we have at least six, and one crowed once at me but which Heather still believes is a hen) are starting to work on their crowing. Rex (formerly "Arexi", the little Bantum) is the loudest. He's still by far the smallest, though one of the Polish (Elvis, the girl) is close, but Rex knows how to strut his stuff and crows defiantly at anyone or anything who questions his authority. The ducks are bigger and still as nervous and clique-ish as ever. We had some friends over a couple days ago and the girls wanted to catch one of the ducks. At one point Heather was following them and they came around a car not knowing the ducks were there. One of the ducks was so startled that he fell over like a fainting goat.

I can't think of anything else right now except for VBS, which I am helping with this year. (I haven't attended or helped with VBS in a while.) It helped me make up my mind that the theme is "The Great Western Round-Up". I am working with the kids on the Green Team to memorize their verses each night. While they eat.

Do you know how hard it is to get hyper, excited, hungry children to pay attention when there's food in front of them? It's a study in patience, I will say. And I think I may already be losing my voice.

The kids are split into three age groups after the opening assembly and penny offering. The groups rotate throughout different activities and classes before returning to the main auditorium for a final lesson, songs, and a couple group games. We were all singing along and I was repeatedly poking the shoulders of misbehaving children in front of me when one of them turned around and informed me that I had "the voice of an angel." And I don't think it was a compliment. 

I'm just trusting that someday I'll be thankful for all my voluntary work with children. I'm already thankful for past experience. I only uttered one dangerous word (being "butt", as in "those workers are busting their butts *cough* to get you your food, so please be nice to them") and I don't think I really lost my cool, though I was almighty close.

We return again tonight. I wore my only decent Western outfit last night (and it turned out better than I'd hoped). I might go into town later and check out some thrift stores, it being my day off. Can you believe I only have one decent denim skirt? Me, the former homeschooler. I know.

Oh! We also had our annual BBQ Fundraiser Dinner. I forgot about it because it wasn't the usual tiring day for me. I worked the money table. Well, before that Mom and I and a lady from church spent all day baking 45 cakes at the church. We had a decent turn-out, and I always love helping. 

Well, I need to go. Hopefully I will return tomorrow....

Juicing Apples...for the last time

Lately I've developed a craving for fresh fruit juice. Mom has a juicer (ancient but amazing), and she just bought some fruits and veggies with the intention of doing a little juicing. This morning, I decided I'd do some myself. (Sunshine makes me want to eat healthy, it seems.)

The parts to the old, good juicer were apparently misplaced during the move. I ended up finding a newer, smaller juicer from Grandma and had to settle for that. I grabbed a handful of grapes, sliced an apple, chopped a carrot, and got to work.

A few minutes later (after I wasted part of my apple because I'd forgot to put a cup under the juice spout), I had a small glass of juice. It looked disgusting (pinkish-purple from grapes and apples don't mix with bright orange from carrots as far as coloring) but tasted delicious. And for the next couple of minutes, I was content.

Then I started coughing.

I've been taking medicine every day for seasonal allergies, and I wasn't due to take more for a couple hours, but suddenly I felt like I might need to. In under five minutes my cough was steady and my breath was squeaky.

Mom was rushing to go, needing to drop me off at work and then take care of some business in town. I coughed and told her I was wheezy. She immediately got a knowing look on her face. "What'd you just drink?"

Right. My own sneaking suspicion confirmed. "Oh." There goes any future plans for fresh apple juice.

Let me just say that fruit allergies rot. No, scratch that. Allergies to fruit pesticides rot. Because I can have pure and simple, all-natural, untreated apples. Allenna had warningly pointed out as I sliced my apple that I usually had a reaction to them, didn't I? And I disregarded her caution and said I could still drink apple juice. (Which isn't entirely true. I hate store-bought apple juice. I like cider.)

However, I've also had a few reactions to raw carrots. Never as bad as apples, but I can't ignore the fact, either.

About an hour later, my urge to cough had subsided and I could breathe clearly, but I feel a tad bitter and irritated. Guess if I want to try juicing any more, I'll have to stick to berries and grapes. Oh, well. Blueberries are good, too. But they can't compare to apples.

Speaking of berries, I think Mom is planning to go berry picking sometime soon. I haven't been in years, and I always loved it.

Well, it's short, but I have to go.