Summer means pulling into that gravel driveway on Barberry Lane and racing down the boardwalk and swinging open that back porch door. It means walking into Buddo's kitchen and wishing she were there to greet me. It means claiming the hammock for your afternoon nap and enjoying the hum of jet skis that go by. It means a double scoop of vanilla at Hank's Frozen Custard. It means bon fires, boat rides, friendly neighbors, American flag t-shirts and the annual softball game at Gibson Park. It means sneaking out early for a morning ski while the lake is still glassy and calm. It means going to bed to the dissonant melodies of a million crickets. It means waking up, realizing where you are, and knowing you couldn't be happier to be anywhere else.
Tuesday, July 2, 2013
I'm back?
Hey I'm back! I don't even know if anyone will read this. But here I am again. It's been a while.
Saturday, August 27, 2011
relay for life
I'm participating in the American Cancer Society's Relay for Life on September 24. Check it out!
Sunday, June 5, 2011
"know that your work is not in vain"
I realized something about the preschool class I teach at church. I realized that while I adore each and every precious little one that enters on Sunday morning, and while sometimes many of them drive me to my very last nerve, there is always a significant purpose to what I'm doing there. Sometimes the class time seems so mundane. That sounds terrible, but it's honestly how I feel when half the kids are screaming at each other because "He won't share the blue truck with me!" and "She tripped me on purpose!"
I stopped and realized something. Even on Sundays when those kids are completely bent on disregarding everything I do or say -- when they aren't listening to the lesson, when they aren't sharing the blue trucks, when they're tripping each other on purpose -- they may still get something out of it. It may just be something I'm not aware of. God can still work on their hearts in phenomenal ways, even if they're just crazy little four year olds.
Something else that gave me an even more renewed sense of purpose in that class. Those rowdy kids may not have learned anything spectacular in the class, but their parents may still have gained something from the main service. By sacrificing my time to spend it with a dozen preschoolers, I allow their parents the chance to go to service -- perhaps to experience God's love for the first time. They get a break from their kids so that they can sit and listen, free of distractions for a little while. When I remember this, it's so much easier for me to see how serving in KidZone really is a special opportunity.
I stopped and realized something. Even on Sundays when those kids are completely bent on disregarding everything I do or say -- when they aren't listening to the lesson, when they aren't sharing the blue trucks, when they're tripping each other on purpose -- they may still get something out of it. It may just be something I'm not aware of. God can still work on their hearts in phenomenal ways, even if they're just crazy little four year olds.
Something else that gave me an even more renewed sense of purpose in that class. Those rowdy kids may not have learned anything spectacular in the class, but their parents may still have gained something from the main service. By sacrificing my time to spend it with a dozen preschoolers, I allow their parents the chance to go to service -- perhaps to experience God's love for the first time. They get a break from their kids so that they can sit and listen, free of distractions for a little while. When I remember this, it's so much easier for me to see how serving in KidZone really is a special opportunity.
Monday, April 11, 2011
ecuador is on my mind
Dear Ginger,
This letter should not even be written in English. Not for you.
Here I am sitting thousands of miles away from you in my cozy American house, while you are probably running around barefoot as you play on the dusty back roads of your Ecuadorian neighborhood. I remember that place well; the image of it is glued in my memory like a photo pasted into a family album. How could I forget it after having spent two solid weeks of my life there with you? Something I carry with me everyday is a resonant reminder of that adventure. It is something of very little monetary value: I spent barely a dollar on it. Yet the slightest idea of losing it breaks my heart. To lose it would be to lose a piece of Ecuador, a piece of something that brings back a flood of memories at the mere sight of it.
It is a bracelet.
Made simply of colored string that spells out the name of your precious Latin American country, it graces my left wrist and has done so for the past eight months. I never take it off. I bought it thinking it would serve as a proper souvenir; nothing more. Instead it became a tangible symbol of everything I did, everyone I met, every aspect in Ecuador that I never want to forget. I will not let myself forget, Ginger.Whenever I remember my bracelet, I go back to Ecuador. I go back to the concrete floor of the church we slept on for so many nights; to the open field where we played countless games of soccer; to the Sunday school where I stumbled through leading a lesson for you and dozens of your friends. I go back to the night I left you in your hometown, and you asked me if we could be sisters forever. Thank goodness I knew some Spanish, because you went on to ask me when I was coming back. I had to tell you I did not know. I still don’t, Ginger. All I know is that looking at this bracelet takes me back to Ecuador in my mind. It may be only a memory I am returning to, but at least we know that means I am never going to forget you.
This bracelet feels like a part of my wrist now; I guess eight months of wearing it could only cause me to become completely accustomed to its presence. Is that not how the memories are to me now? The bracelet feels like a part of me. In the same way, those experiences I remember by the bracelet are experiences that have become a vital part of growing me into who I am today. I carry this bracelet as a constant reminder of a country where I served, I taught, I learned, I sweated, I cried, I grew. It is where I met a little girl whose sweetly caring and content nature touched me deeply. You are that little girl, and I promise I will always remember you. Just as this bracelet stays on my wrist, your memory will stay in my heart.
This letter should not even be written in English. Not for you.
Here I am sitting thousands of miles away from you in my cozy American house, while you are probably running around barefoot as you play on the dusty back roads of your Ecuadorian neighborhood. I remember that place well; the image of it is glued in my memory like a photo pasted into a family album. How could I forget it after having spent two solid weeks of my life there with you? Something I carry with me everyday is a resonant reminder of that adventure. It is something of very little monetary value: I spent barely a dollar on it. Yet the slightest idea of losing it breaks my heart. To lose it would be to lose a piece of Ecuador, a piece of something that brings back a flood of memories at the mere sight of it.
It is a bracelet.
Made simply of colored string that spells out the name of your precious Latin American country, it graces my left wrist and has done so for the past eight months. I never take it off. I bought it thinking it would serve as a proper souvenir; nothing more. Instead it became a tangible symbol of everything I did, everyone I met, every aspect in Ecuador that I never want to forget. I will not let myself forget, Ginger.Whenever I remember my bracelet, I go back to Ecuador. I go back to the concrete floor of the church we slept on for so many nights; to the open field where we played countless games of soccer; to the Sunday school where I stumbled through leading a lesson for you and dozens of your friends. I go back to the night I left you in your hometown, and you asked me if we could be sisters forever. Thank goodness I knew some Spanish, because you went on to ask me when I was coming back. I had to tell you I did not know. I still don’t, Ginger. All I know is that looking at this bracelet takes me back to Ecuador in my mind. It may be only a memory I am returning to, but at least we know that means I am never going to forget you.
This bracelet feels like a part of my wrist now; I guess eight months of wearing it could only cause me to become completely accustomed to its presence. Is that not how the memories are to me now? The bracelet feels like a part of me. In the same way, those experiences I remember by the bracelet are experiences that have become a vital part of growing me into who I am today. I carry this bracelet as a constant reminder of a country where I served, I taught, I learned, I sweated, I cried, I grew. It is where I met a little girl whose sweetly caring and content nature touched me deeply. You are that little girl, and I promise I will always remember you. Just as this bracelet stays on my wrist, your memory will stay in my heart.
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
it's storming tonight
I love thunderstorms, but as I listen to the thunder the wind, I can’t help thinking about this one little old man I saw by Giant this afternoon. His sign said “Homeless and Hungry.” He had parked himself outside the vacant storefront beside the grocery store. Mom and I had the same initial reaction: We really have to finish these errands and get back home; maybe he’s not really in that much need. But then we realized how silly that was. Selfish, actually. It was 55 out and the temperature was dropping. The gloomy skies were threatening rain, and the rain was definitely falling by the time I came out of the store with my groceries. I wanted a Panera bagel to take to school tomorrow, so it was only kind - only right - to pick up some warm chicken noodle soup for the man. Jesus said, "Whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me." As I presented the man with the meagre food, his eyes lit up, and he murmured his gratitude to me bashfully. I got back in the car and quietly thanked God for how very blessed I am in life. Then I smiled at how a simple bowl of soup could mean so much to someone. I hope he isn’t too cold tonight.
Saturday, March 12, 2011
cupcake rant
Ok. You all know I adore my job. (If you didn’t, well, you know now.) Today I was reminded of how NOT to parent my kids when I eventually come to that stage of my life. I work at this cupcake/coffee shop, right? It’s the most beautiful situation in the world. (That is, as long as I can maintain enough self control. I usually do a pretty good job, but hey, I may still end up with diabetes.) I listen to the relaxing music of Jason Mraz and Michael Bublé while I make people lattes and frappes and serve them gourmet cupcakes. It’s divine.
Anyways, this woman waltzes in with her spoiled 8-year-old twin daughters. They scan the counter with their haughty blue eyes. I can tell they are pondering which cupcake to choose — we have quite a variety to choose from. Surely there will be one pleasing choice out of the ten flavors we offer. BUT NO. I notice how they are deliberating amongst themselves, whispering as if I can’t hear them. I can. I know they are allowed to take their time deciding; I understand. If you’re going to pay three dollars for a cupcake, you might as well choose a good one! The first words the mother says to me, however, blow me away. People don’t do this very often:
“Ok, they’ve decided. So could we get this vanilla one, but instead of the sprinkles could we have a purple flower like you have on this one? And then could we get this chocolate one with no sprinkles? And then could you add this one, but have the icing be like this ripply icing instead of the rounder icing? OH, and could you also get me this yellow one with no colored sugar on top, but instead with the little pink ball on top?”
I just wanted to stand and stare. I’m all for good customer service and the-customer-is-always-right and all that, but I was dumbfounded. Of course, ma’am. Let me hold up the rest of the line while I indulge you and your ridiculously specific pastry needs.
But of course, I would never let myself be so openly rude to her. I just calmly informed her that all of our cupcakes were already decorated and ready to be served. If she ever wanted something specific, we would happily take an order for her to pick up at a later date. She relayed this information to the twins, who promptly huffed and whimpered as if they had just been told we were completely sold out of cupcakes and they would be getting none at all. (All of this is going on while Kevin and Brea are trying to help our other patient patrons.)
The threesome did make an eventual decision. The girls settled for vanilla cupcakes with, heaven forbid, the usual rainbow sprinkles. I bid them a good afternoon, silently hoping this mother would not continue to ruin her daughters like this. I guess this sounds really silly and exaggerated. Then again, I couldn’t help but think about how there are kids in Africa who have never even SEEN a cupcake. I couldn’t believe the fit these girls were throwing over not having their cupcakes made extra-special just for them.
But I still love my job. The end.
Anyways, this woman waltzes in with her spoiled 8-year-old twin daughters. They scan the counter with their haughty blue eyes. I can tell they are pondering which cupcake to choose — we have quite a variety to choose from. Surely there will be one pleasing choice out of the ten flavors we offer. BUT NO. I notice how they are deliberating amongst themselves, whispering as if I can’t hear them. I can. I know they are allowed to take their time deciding; I understand. If you’re going to pay three dollars for a cupcake, you might as well choose a good one! The first words the mother says to me, however, blow me away. People don’t do this very often:
“Ok, they’ve decided. So could we get this vanilla one, but instead of the sprinkles could we have a purple flower like you have on this one? And then could we get this chocolate one with no sprinkles? And then could you add this one, but have the icing be like this ripply icing instead of the rounder icing? OH, and could you also get me this yellow one with no colored sugar on top, but instead with the little pink ball on top?”
I just wanted to stand and stare. I’m all for good customer service and the-customer-is-always-right and all that, but I was dumbfounded. Of course, ma’am. Let me hold up the rest of the line while I indulge you and your ridiculously specific pastry needs.
But of course, I would never let myself be so openly rude to her. I just calmly informed her that all of our cupcakes were already decorated and ready to be served. If she ever wanted something specific, we would happily take an order for her to pick up at a later date. She relayed this information to the twins, who promptly huffed and whimpered as if they had just been told we were completely sold out of cupcakes and they would be getting none at all. (All of this is going on while Kevin and Brea are trying to help our other patient patrons.)
The threesome did make an eventual decision. The girls settled for vanilla cupcakes with, heaven forbid, the usual rainbow sprinkles. I bid them a good afternoon, silently hoping this mother would not continue to ruin her daughters like this. I guess this sounds really silly and exaggerated. Then again, I couldn’t help but think about how there are kids in Africa who have never even SEEN a cupcake. I couldn’t believe the fit these girls were throwing over not having their cupcakes made extra-special just for them.
But I still love my job. The end.
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