Abby's Alley

Hiccups Inside

2012-02-05T09:35:00.000-08:00

Springis here. It’s not just the position of the sun now. It’s the reddish-tintedleaves on the Boston Ivy outside our front door and the glossy green shoots onthe Crape Myrtle that we planted less than a month ago. Our squatty NavalOrange is blooming, and the Loropetalum's firework flowers are making apink show. There’s still some light in the sky when Phil calls to say he’s onhis way home, and I don’t have to close the living room shades all the way tokeep the sun out of my eyes. Yes, spring, come, come, come! Let the Jacarandasturn yellow and lose their leaves so that they can bloom purple in June. Letthe lawn look its worst so that it can come back in full force. And let thatsun rise higher and higher so that our new citrus trees aren’t in the shade allday.

Andyes… let February pass. Let it go like the end of a vacation or saying goodbyeto a good friend. Let it go and let the real spring equinox arrive on March 20^th,when the daylight hours are equal to the sunless hours, and the house will beready for a spring bean…I hope.

Plantyour tomatoes alongside the house, fasten stair treads to the spiral staircase,and put the nightstand in the garage. Say goodbye to your students, hand theclasses over to Megan Hotz, ask Phil to help tie your shoes, and pack awayanother load of clothes that don’t fit. March is coming, and I cannot slow itscoming.

February 11^this my Valentine’s decorating gathering. February 23^rd is past thepremature months. March 3^rd is shower 3 of 5. March 5^this my last staff meeting. March 8^th is my final teaching day. March10^th is my final hurrah to the Montage. And March 25^th isJacob’s birthday.

Let me live thisday now and not those days: this blustery day of sunshine, this day in ourstudio that suits our every need, this day of work or rest, cleaning ororganizing, writing or listening. This is the day my God has given to me and Iwill be glad in it, rejoicing for the new growth on our plants, the Gingermarinate on the chicken, the peach tea with Ashley Emerson, and the hiccups.Yes the hiccups once or twice a day. They make me feel like I am hiccuppingtoo. Just last night there was such movement that Philip and I watched the showtogether. He looked at me wide-eyed. “That’s crazy, dood!”

It helps. It helpsto see it and feel it: 5am, 8:30am, 11:45pm, 3:30pm, and 9pm, with little jabsall throughout, sometimes at my side, sometimes straight out. The cashier workers atTrader Joe’s frequently ask me if I’d like help out to my car. The first time Igave them a blank stare, but now I know why, and I politely say, no thankyou. I wasn’t as gracious when ourfront house renters asked if I wanted help lifting a pot and I snapped, “I’mnot handicapped, James!”

I also haven’t figured out how to be gracious to thechurch crowd who must make comments like, “You’re getting bigger,” “When’s yourdue date?” “Oh isn’t it wonderful!” “When’s the baby coming?” “It’s comingsoon,” “When are you due?” “Aren’t you excited?” “When’s the birth?” “Enjoythese days.”

Just shut up! Everyoneshut up! I’m considering wearing a sticker that says, March 22. IT’S MARCH 22^ND!STOP ASKING!

The one thatreally irks me is when another mom holds up her baby and says, “Take a sneakpeak at what’s coming.” I want torespond with a finger on my chin and an enlightened look in my eyes. “Oh, isthat what I get out of all of this? Good thing you told me, cause I thought it wasgoing to be a hippopotamus.”

God gave all thegrace to Phil in this marriage. When we’re together, I just shut up and let himdo the responding. He’s a natural. Me…well…I have to spend my Sunday morning’spraying for a miraculous change in my attitude, and even still I get peoplelike Doug Francis asking me if I’m mad at him. Oh dear! I thought after 4months of this, I would have gotten a little better, but I think I’m gettingworse.

I findinteracting with my Junior High students easier.

“Mrs. Stevenscan I have a candy?”

“No.”

“But your babywants me to have a candy.”

“Oh really? Letme ask him… nope, he said no candy for you.”

“Mrs. Stevensare we going to get to see your baby?”

“Sure, I’llbring him or her one day.”

Their eyes getbig at that. Then I pick up my tablet and scribble up another Algebra problemfor them to try. My Mimio tablet allows me free range in the classroom whileI’m teaching so I can check that their desks are ready for class, that they’redoing the problems correctly, or that they’ve written in their organizers. Oneparticular student thinks it’s the time to poke me in the arm, wave his paperin front of my face, and ask, “Is this right?”

My philosophywith teaching is to ask questions. “Let me see. Okay, so tell me what you didhere and why.” Between my asking and their explaining, they often find theirown errors or realize that they don’t have a clue what they’re talking about.The trick is to burden them with the responsibility of learning instead offeeling burdened to get it into their heads. I’ll run through the regular listof teaching aids when introducing a new concept—say it, show it, have them repeatit, draw a picture, give real life examples—but after that it’s up to them. Ifafter all my songs and dances, they still ask me questions that I’ve alreadyanswered, I give the lesson over to the class and let them teach each other. Ifigure that if they won’t listen to me, perhaps they’ll listen to their peers.

I’m justfinishing up a lesson on fractions in two-step equations with my eight graders,and they’ve dragged their feet every bit of the way. These problems are longand complex. If they mess up at the start, the whole thing is wrong. I tried tohelp by putting all the homework answers and work online, whichtook me an extra hour each time I did it, but they were so lazy that only 3 or 4went online to check their answers. I tried assigning corrections as a regularhomework assignment, but I still had the same 3 or 4 students going onlinewhile most everyone else was satisfied with doing all his or her problems wrongtwice. It was time to get clever. I covered the next online assignment withpictures of sharks, and then threw a pop quiz asking them what animal wasonline last night’s slides. Only four got the answer right. The rest earned apainful zero on a quiz. The next day we tried again. I told them that duringroll I was going to ask them if they’d checked their answers online, and ifthey hadn’t check, I wasn’t going to accept their homework. And it worked! All but one student had checked his or her answers online.Finally! Sometimes this job makes me feel like Thomas Edison testing lightbulbs. I try and try again until something works.

I hope I can passthat on to Megan Hotz. I hope she can learn how to keep control of herselfinstead of demanding control of the class. I hope she can find the humor inthese little monsters. I hope she can learn how to communicate with the fewestwords possible. I hope she speaks slowly. I hope she finds out how sayinginstructions once while everyone is listening is better than saying it five timeswhen no one is listening. I hope she can keep her emotions out of tensesituations. I hope she can lay down the laws and uphold them. I hope she’s willingto sit for an extra half-hour dreaming up manipulatives or real life situationsto drive the lessons home. I hope her patience grows so that she can wait for them to do it on their own, instead of doing things for them. I hope she loves them, like I’ve learned to lovethem.

Vacation To-Do's

2012-01-01T22:29:00.000-08:00

The beauties of the Huntington Library were equally as stunning as the destruction from the winds that closed the gardens for over a week. Philip and I ambled through the succulent gardens, the jungle pathways, and the Chinese garden for tea. We sat on benches; Phil to sketch; I to jot down descriptions.

Splintered Bamboo at the Entrance

Aloe Tree Ripped Off

Ancient cactus trees have toppled over. Trunks of old oak lay like piles of chopped carrots on the statue lawn. A collection of ferns now exposed to the sunlight leans in odd directions like someone's bed head; this is where a great tree fell. The Camellias too have suffered from the fall of those giants that used to shade them. The White Perfection's branches are held together by a wire and all that remains of the Bleichroeder Pink is a skinny stump. The Vedrine looks untouched. It is covered in red blooms as red as the Queen of Heart's red roses. The blooms hang down like lanterns, red like pomegranates, lipstick red.

Wedges of Oak Trees

The Fountain Lawn

Piles of Oak Branches Beside the White Marble Statues

Palm Fronds and Oak Branches

The jungle suffered the most I believe. The view south from the main entrance used to be blocked by these massive Ficus trees. Now I can see over the tops. The once shaded forest floor is completely exposed to the sunlight.

The Jungle Ficus Trees Completely Stripped

The desert conservatory, which is located up an obscure path just within the succulent gardens, was open this time. There we saw all sorts of South African plants: cacti so other-worldy that if canned, their labels must read, "Made from 100% unnatural ingredients."

Tightly packed balls with stringy flowers

Green spotted crab claws

The pac-man plant

Looks like a monkey's tail

Ribbons of variegated color

Wafer thin coin-shaped leaves on this cactus

All this is billowing from the tops of little cacti.

Is that cotton seeping from this cactus?

Boston Ivy Berries

Visiting the Huntington Library was only one of our Christmas vacation to-do's. We drew up an extensive to-do list after Phil got off work the Friday before Christmas. He'd put in a full week at Land Concern, staying until 10 pm the last three days before Christmas Eve. So when he was free, he drew a picture of our plans in his sketch book. As of today we've accomplished almost all of it.

One item that was NOT on our list was squirrel proofing out avocado tree. Using the Murphy Oil that Grandma and Grandpa Seelye gave us for Christmas, we put together the concoction, which included cayanne pepper and tabasco sauce. Phil—who by the way was dressed in his orange jump suit to paint earlier in the day—climbed the tree and misted the leaves. We clogged or broke all of our spray bottles in the process, so the last few branches were doused instead of misted, but I don't think the squirrels will be able to tell the difference. They BETTER not.

A day of creativity was on the list of to-do's and that meant Shinodas for the Stevens ladies. We spent three hours walking the aisles of silk flowers, plastic foliage, and ceramic vases in search of ideas to beautify the church sanctuary. We are three independent minds, so we each took our own shopping cart and veered off different directions. Occasionally we met between the Christmas topiaries and the pink flower aisle to compare notes. "What do you think of this flower?" "Do you think these sunflowers will be enough?" "What sort of vase should I get for these?"

Heather cutting foam for the vases. It's harder than it looks.

The final products will be used when no one signs up to bring flowers to decorate the GHFC stage. In the long run this cuts down the church's expenses. Plus I think our arrangements look much better than those awful leftover conglomerations thrown together by the florist.

Tearing out our cactus was also not on our list, but planting a Crape Myrtle in the alley was, and at Ayon Nursery, Phil was so overcome by a multi-trunk Strawberry Tree that I said, "Would you replace our cactus to get this Strawberry Tree?" I do not like that cactus. I have never liked that cactus. Now the cactus is in our neighbors' green bins. There just wasn't enough room in our own green barrel even though the segments cut as easily as watermelon, watermelon with agitating white sap. Phil and I both found red abrasion on our limbs after this.

Perhaps you're wondering how we lifted that 24 inch box into the planter. It's too big for one man, and I'm feeling more and more pregnant these days. Solution: we rocked it back and forth, alternately tucking bricks under the crate until it was level with the planter. Finally we slid a wooden plank beneath it to smoothly scoot it into its hole. I say smoothly, but Phil did the grunt work.

Crape Myrtle replaces Pony Tail Palm in the alley.

We planted sharp agaves around the base to discourage thieves.

We've one day left of vacation, which we plan to spend planting a Boxwood hedge, replacing a cracked window, watching the Rose Parade, and sharing a meal with the family. I wish it wasn't ending. This time has reminded me how much I love working and being with Philip. It feels like a honeymoon all over again complete with night time walks, lazy mornings, movies, and meals out on the town using long forgotten gift cards. Alas, we've no more gift cards, movie passes, or Christmas cash to use up.

When Men Throw Baby Showers

2011-12-13T07:57:00.000-08:00

My days are punctuated by findingour spinning attic vent in our courtyard after a day of wind, teaching mystudents how to third an egg for a recipe, watching 4-year old cheerleadersmarch in the Whittier Christmas parade, snapping a shot of the agaves bloomingat Laguna beach, creating a paper wreath from Phil’s old landscaping plans,finding yet another roadblock for the placement of the light on the bathroomwall, getting my next baby-bump picture taken by Mom, and reading aboutCommunism in Wild Swans by Jung Chang.

Sometimes the extra-ordinaryhappens: like having a group of men throw me a baby shower at my last trusteesmeeting. If only all baby showers could be like this one: two gifts, lemoncake, tea, and lots of discussion about church politics and the stageconfiguration. No games. No ogling at me or feeling my belly. Kurt Plubelldiscussed his bouts of morning sickness when he was pregnant, and Bob Deklotzwas interested to know if he gained any weight. As was only fitting they gave Philand I a Fisher-Price Drillin’ Action Tool Set. They said they weren’t losing atrustee, but making a new one. Afterwards I started to wonder, but what if thebaby is a girl… no… I guess it doesn’t matter. The trustees have seen how afemale worker can do some Drillin’ Action too. Hurrah to them!

I will miss ourmeetings on Monday nights in the church workroom. They start with KurtPlubell’s questions, “Well, shall we start the meeting?” “Tim White can youpray?” “Should we review the financials?” “Shall we take a look at theminutes?” Kurt says his job is easy because TomCalderwood types up the minutes, Tim White leads the meetings, and Phil andAbby do all the work. However, he’s leaving out Bob Miller’s reports andRichard Tucker’s comic relief. We bicker sometimes and get real loud, watch YouTube videos and go off on tangents, but I never have to worry that after themeeting the guys are going to go home to their wives and gripe about so and so.No drama. Well… no drama outside the meetings.

However, I know I’ve madethe right decision to go off the trustees. When I left I felt a pressurerelease. I don’t have to fix the garden fountain. I don’t have to cover the oldgutter holes. I don’t have the retrench the bendy-board holes. I don’t have tobaby-sit the watering schedules. That’s their job now. I doubt I’ll be able togo to GHFC though without inspecting the buildings.

Climbing and Kicking

2011-10-31T17:15:00.000-07:00

Middle of Greenleaf on the Uptown 5k day

Ifelt it last night. It was like when your eye twitches involuntarily or whenyou see your pulse beating in the flesh of your hand. A kick. Maybe a punch.Phil felt it too. How are you able to do that? You’re just a little one. Mostof my co-workers and friends can’t even see the evidence of you. I see themgiving me the belly glance, and I’m so glad that I’m hidden beneath a looseshirt.

Mymale co-workers are already making their vows, “I just wanted to let you knowthat I will never touch your belly. I’m just not into that.” Female co-workersare bending over and saying in high-pitched voices, “Oh, oh, is that a littlebump I see there? It’s about time.” And my students like to distract me from myAlgebra lessons by ask questions like, “But Mrs. Stevens, what if your babylike chocolate? You’re depriving him of nourishment.” One of my students hasnamed it Bob, and as she leaves class everyday she says, “Goodbye Mrs. Stevens.Goodbye Bob.”

In as much as Iwince at all the talk, I think it’s doing me some good. It’s like thetemperature slowly changing in the pool, so I can get used to the water. Myschool knows that I’ll be gone in March. Grandma Taylor bought me pregnancypants. Gretchen Stevens has offered to put together a pre-birth scrapbook.Terri looked into buying a full body harness for rock climbing. My co-workersask how I’m feeling. Phil sometimes says goodnight to it… I mean… you know… thebaby. Nope, that still doesn’t come easily. I thought after 19 weeks I’d beable to say that with more ease, but I can’t. Even while browsed through a babymagazine, I had to shut it on the pictures of childbirth. Ah! Too muchinformation! I can’t believe this is going to happen to me!

I’d ratherrespond to all the attention with, “Nothing to see here. Carry on. Back towork. I’m just fine thank you very much. No I haven’t had odd food cravings.I’ve always loved pickled turnips and celery before bedtime. My feet have givenme problems since I started teaching. And I have always had a bad memory andgas problems. Everything is absolutely normal; so carry on with your lives.”

I want to saythat, but half my pants have gone into storage, and I often look at my bellybutton in the shower and think, “So this is what it’s like to have an outtie bellybutton.” I’m short of breath while singing in choir, I burp a lot, and certainparts of my anatomy have never been so big. And then… last night… a big strongwhap to my stomach. Good grief?! Are you really that big?

The doctors saidthat I’d start feeling things around 20 weeks, but they also said that they’dmeasure my stomach every time I came in for a check up and they haven’t donethat yet. So far they’ve just take my weight, blood pressure, potty, and thensmeared jelly all over my stomach to listen to the heartbeat. As they rub theirmini-iron looking device across my skin, I wonder if it’ll still be there. Thenthey find it, and Phil and I gaze at each other wide-eyed. Yep, it hasn’t goneaway.

Phil has beentaking off work to go with me to my appointments, and I’m comforted to have himthere as each new doctor gives me their different health speech. This doctorsays drink more milk and eat more meat. That one says don’t eat too much fruit.That guy said to take fish oil. The other one tells me all the abnormal thingsthat are normal to feel: pain here, soreness there, pressure here, diarrhea,constipation… good grief, if I add that to all the troubles that others havetold me can happen, I shouldn’t be surprised if my eyes turned blue and I grew atail. I think the doctors would just nod and say, “Yes, that can happensometimes.”

Unfortunately noone prepared me for a partially torn rotator cuff. That’s not a symptom ofpregnancy, but of rock climbing. Too much strain and now I’m grounded. I couldtry it again after the pain goes away, but then I’d either be risking fallingfrom a sudden muscle spasm or ripping the cuff all the way. And I’d reallyrather not go through that pain again: four days on Ibuprofen and a week withno right arm movement. Phil helped me get dressed, and we switched cars so Ididn’t have to drive stick shift. I discovered frozen food dinners at TraderJoe’s and learned which grocery stores will help me out to my car.

I’mdisappointed. I felt smooth and capable rock climbing. Phil and I had workedour way up to bouldering level V3. Our fingers were strong and the calluses onour hands were thick. On one of our last visits we were sitting on the climbingpads with a group of guys who kept trying a particular tricky route. It startedabove a doorway with two smooth round handholds and no footholds. The nextreach had to be done with all upper body strength. Phil and I watched the guysattempting it before we had a go. Phil’s big hands helped him grip the slipperyholds, and he had plenty of upper body strength to launch himself to the nexthold. Sticking the hold was the hard part. I tried a tamer method. I did thesplits in the doorway and worked my feet up one by one until I could just reachthe second hold. We grinned at each other afterwards. We love to climb. But nowthe dead yellow skin on my hands is coming off in shreds, and we take walksinstead. Maybe one day we’ll go back.

Autumn's Songs

2011-09-19T17:18:00.000-07:00

Fall doesn’t seem so bad when Ithink that this is the last time I’ve got to go over classroom rules with mystudents; this is the last of the teacher’s meetings; this is the last time Ihave to put up scalloped borders and give integer quizzes at lunch. I only haveto make it to March and then it’ll be over.

As much as thisthought presses me to the finish line, I wonder if I’ll miss the long chatswith Natalie Fikejs or the regimented bell schedule or the laughter in theteacher’s lounge or seeing Gretchen Stevens everyday. Will I transition intothat odd state of parenthood where the adults actually look forward to theprimary-colored “Back to School” signs? How backwards!

As of now theonly autumn comfort is Grandma Taylor’s. She loves fall as much as I hate it,and I think her love dulls my hate. It’s hard to hate any season in GrandmaTaylor’s house because each one comes with the change of the colors: thepillows, the dishes, the flowers, the candles, the tablecloths, and napkins.Last Thursday she ran the AC particularly cold, so a cup of hot tea with mypumpkin muffin was a cozy comfort.

Dear Autumn, ifyou look like this, you may come and replace the August heat with your crispycurled leaves on my Boston ivy and angled sun blinding me through my livingroom window, and… well… and shorter days, I suppose, but I’ll still hold thoseagainst you.

Everything seemsto start back up in autumn, which is strange because the annuals are gettingready to die. The church choir is back in session. We had our first all-daypractice a few Saturday’s ago, and afterwards I had a sore throat. Jack Shwartsrattled off his jokes without a hint of a smile. “We’re running a little lateso I hope you’re all prepared to stay until 6pm.” “How many of you rememberthis piece? Then why aren’t you doing better?”

The roofers wereup above us knock-knocking for several hours while we sang, but that didn’tstop us. Our voices rang louder against the competition. It felt good to beback in the loft with a stack of old music on my lap. The covers are a mixtureof 70’s colors, pastoral scenes, and Christian symbols. The words jump intolife more vividly because there’s a new believer sitting among us. I wonderwhat she thinks about this Lord Most High. Does she see that He is hersalvation? Does she know that those who wait on the Lord will renew theirstrength? Does she see that it is enough that Jesus died for me? Is it wellwith her soul.

For the sake ofpublic decency I held back tears, which come too often these days. Nothing likepeople asking me what’s wrong when nothing’s wrong at all, but emotional tidalwaves caused by chemical imbalances. Music triggers it.

We’re singingthe words that I should’ve been saying last month. These are the words thatpreachers don’t say: the psalms to music, old hymns, truth put to the soul’stune. I wonder if the… um… the…you know…the bean…can feel the vibrations of thewords.

Before & After The Beans Spilled

2011-08-17T17:28:00.000-07:00

Before the first call to the doctor's office, I didn't realize that they counted these things in weeks. Give me a break; nothing happens in a week! Tell me the months. But now that I'm taking deep breaths before each bite and tossing and turning every other night, I'm counting the weeks too. How much further until trimester one is over? Two more weeks to go before the fog MIGHT lift. Two more. Two more.

August has been a long month.

August 6: The worst part about being pregnant is suspecting everyone else suspecting that I'm pregnant.

August 8: There's no chance I am going to act like an adult in this situation, and there's no swallowing of pride in this decision. I want my MOMMY! I will NOT go to my first pre-natal exam alone. The nurse on the phone told me that I was seven and a half weeks along and the further along the better. At the first appointment I will be 9 weeks, which is perfect. The 2 hour visit will include an ultrasound and info about classes. By the time the lady told me this, my eyes started watering, and I wanted to drop the phone like a hot potato and yell, "MOMMY! They're talking to me about babies!"

August 9: I know I haven't eaten hardly anything all day, and I still feel nauseous, but I really want some Swedish fish.

August 9.5: I caught a glimpse of a new vacant space approaching. It's like those dreams that I have where I'm underwater and rapidly running out of air. My lunges are going to burst and eventually I have to give up and suck in water. But I don't drown. I find out that I can breath water just as well as air. That is the feeling I get. It's a little like when I was trying to breath while skydiving. There's a gasping sensation. It's like discovering an empty room in our house that we didn't know existed. Oh my! There's more!? My world is growing larger and I'm gasping.

August 10: Oh no! Don't leave little appetite. You were doing so well. Stay! Stay!...

August 12: "'How far along are you?" The CVS cashier asked. Ah! She knows! My face turned bright red, and I didn't need a sweater anymore even though I'd been cold all morning. Of course, she knows, you moron, you're buying prenatal vitamins. I tried to recall what the doctor's receptionist told me. "I think I'm 8 weeks. I haven't been to a doctor yet, so I don't actually know. It's all new to me." "I'm 18 weeks," she told me. So then of course I couldn't keep from peeking at her belly bulge, which could've easily been mistaken for fat. Outside I took off my sweater and thought about how strange the list of confidante's is becoming: a waiter at a fish restaurant at Monterey's Wharf, a doctor's receptionist, and a CVS cashier.

August 14: Elise Hamel is pregnant or so I hear. Shayleen, the baby detector told me yesterday as we watched the wood chips get sprayed into the new kids play place. That was exciting. That made me feel like a healthy person again. But I'm relieved to hear about Elise. Ya! The pressure is off. I was afraid of being the only Granadian...the only newbie. Now Teri Elfelt is pregnant too.

August 15: I'm actually counting down to Wednesday. What a relief it will be. Wednesday is the designated day to tell people. I dreamt last night that I burst. Not literally. I couldn't keep from telling Gretchen Stevens, and I just burst. Then I woke up with a start wondering what day it was and if I told too early.

August 16: One more day of keeping it in. Hallelujah! I wonder if after the fact I will wish for the days of secretive silence.

August 18: My highlight was seeing how each of my family members owned the information. Grandpa Stevens asked if he could tell all of his old lady friends who are always bragging about how many great-grands they have. Dad Stevens said he'd just congratulated Murry Alcorn on being a grandpa. And Mom Stevens wanted to know if she could tell a list of other people. Grandma Taylor was so funny. She showed me a knit dress that she said would look great on a pregnant lady. Jacob made me laugh. He texted back: "And WHO may I ask is the father?" Later he texted Phil saying, "You dirty old man." Mommy cried. Terri couldn't wait for a texted response; she had to call me. See, Lord, that's why I need twins: more love to go around.

August 20: When I lay down to go to sleep I feel my heart echoing off the big empty spaces in my bloated stomach. Then I feel it in my arms and legs. It feels like dozens of little men are doing jumping jacks in there. "Quiet down!" I want to tell them. "It's sleeping time!" The sensation keeps me up at night. I've also learned that when having a baby all your poop comes out too. EW! Becca Shaw told me that, and I think she enjoyed watching me react to the news. What a twisted sense of humor! Daddy has enjoyed some infrequently used terminology like: preggo and fertile myrtle—thank you Daddy for that. I try to get him back by calling him grandpa, but I think he takes it as a compliment. Mike Hamilton was the first one to send a congratulatory card, and Grandma Taylor made a baby hat in less than 24 hours. I told Phil it was a chalk bag, and it wasn't until later that he asked, "No really, what is that?" The crazy hat sits on our lamp top. It's the first piece of baby gear that we've had. Weird.

August 20.5: Marie helped me see something wonderful today. I told her I was rather depressed about school starting in a week and she said, "But isn't this the last time you're going back?" Oh my! Just think! I'll be in constant summer come March! No more teaching! I just have to make it to spring, then I'm done!

August 21: I'm tired of talking about babies.

August 23: I don't want to see anyone. I hate everything and I especially hate happy people, especially if they're happy about my Lima Bean. That's what it looks like. No, no twins, and I have nothing to say to God about that. The doctor didn't give me enough time to anticipate it. He just stuck the wand up, and there it was: Uno Lima Bean with a small vibration that was supposed to be the beating heart. I was rather emotionless. Sure wish I was now.

August 23.5: Going to Parkville, I need a sign that says, "Don't disturb, cranky pregnant lady."

August 24: Oh Joanne Clark, why can't more people be like you? At Parkville yesterday she scooted past my office and said, "I just wanted to say Congratulations, and I hope all this crap ends soon."

August 26: Crowds of little birds hang out by our trash cans in the morning. I hope they're eating our maggots. I've slept four nights in a row without tossing and turning. Hallellujah! I hope that's over. I can't wait for the nausea to be over too. So far I have normal sized breakfast and normal-sized lunch—although I eat it really slowly—, and then a pathetic dinner.

August 30: Today was the first day that I thanked God for being pregnant. There's a lady at my school who's been trying to get pregnant for years and nothing has worked. Phil and I didn't have to wait. This is what we wanted; we wanted kids sooner rather than later. I guess sooner it is.

Contemplating Manual Labor

2011-07-16T20:22:00.000-07:00

The body can’t know rest, unless it has first known work. Real work. Work that stings your eyes with sunscreen and salty sweat, that sends rivulets of muddy water down your shower drain, that transforms bottled water into sweet life-giving nectar, and knocks you out less than five minutes after your head hits the pillow.

This is the drumbeat of my summers. Early Saturday mornings with my CRV back seats laid flat to make room for shovels, digging bar, and grade rake. Hot tea in one hand with my other on the wheel; Phil shifts for me. At Granada someone brings donuts, usually Tim White or Bob Miller, and I always try to eat one, never learning from all my past donut-eats that when I’m half-way through, I ask myself why did I take one of these horrible rings of sugary dough.

I lace up my old hiking boots, the ones that hiked 2/3 of the John Muir trail ten years ago. The toes are scuffed to a lighter shade of brown, and if I lace them too tight, I give myself a welt on the ankle. They are water proof, slip proof, bash-yourself-in-the-toe proof, but not fine-dust proof. Before noon I can feel the grit between my sweaty toes. But they are far better than converse, flip-flops, running shoes, and any other footwear that I’ve seen volunteers show up in—except Kurt Plubell’s steel-toed boots, but then again, who can outdo Kurt when it comes to equipment and gear?

Before anything in landscaping can be done, first there’s the digging. There’s always digging; there’s no way around it. Taking out plants, dig. Installing irrigation, dig. Switching out a valve, dig. Fixing a leak, dig. Planting, dig.

We come to a smooth plot of grass and tear it up until it looks like a gopher’s heaven and we’ve put piles of clay soil in the parking lot and tracked mud all across the sidewalk and cemented a crust of dirt onto our shovels. There’s no way around the digging and there’s no way to look at a finished project without feeling jabbed in the ribs by the memory of the digging. Maybe a year or two will make you forgot, but this isn’t like child labor. You remember the digging. You remember the mini-avalanches of fine earth backsliding into the perfect hole you just dug because you stepped too near the edge. You remember the inverted pendulum swing of the pick mattocks overhead, and the labyrinth of pipes that’s hiding underneath those healthy plants.

There’s dirt under my throbbing fingernails. They throb from gripping handles tightly. And I’ve bruises on my arms and legs, but I don’t know how or when I go those. General fatigue from the gut is the least I feel when sitting down, but as soon as I get up, the stiffness is like trying to walk with my legs taped straight.

Perhaps the worst part of it—unless I’m planting—is that at the end I can’t look back at what I’ve done and admire the beauty of my work. No. I’ve made the ground look like Swiss cheese. It looks worse now than it did when I started. It’s like organizing your dresser. First you take everything out and clean the bottoms of the drawers. But the day’s work ends there, and on Sunday’s the people file by and look confused. What is this supposed to be? What are all these holes?

I guess any average Joe would feel the same way if his house was raised and he saw all the under guts of ABS drains, Verizon cables, copper pipes, and support braces. I think that 75%—no 85% of redoing the landscape happens under the dirt where no man, woman, or child will ever say, “Oh my! What a fine PVC gluing that is!” or “Look at how deep you dug that hole! It’s amazing!”

I don’t want the praise, I want the beauty, but no, that doesn’t come until the plants go in, and when they do, the beauty grows and grows every week. The Crape Myrtle is blooming! A hummingbird drinks in our fountain. The Boston Ivy has taken hold! The Spider Plant is trying to spread again. Should we cut back the Kangaroo Plant?

Is it funny or cruel that God does the best part of it? And isn’t it exactly the opposite in our furrowed and torn up souls. God is laying the lines for new drainage and better irrigation. He digs the holes, he plants the plants, and then we take charge of the garden, trimming here and there, watching the plants grow, dropping chlorine tablets in the fountain, raking up the fallen leaves. All of it is useless without the pipes that are running beneath that dirt. But no, I don’t think that’s quite right, because just when I think my garden is right, there he goes with the demolition hammer, chiseling away what I thought looked lovely.

C.S. Lewis says it better than I, naturally.

“Imagine yourself as a living house. God comes in to rebuild that house. At first, perhaps, you can understand what He is doing. He is getting the drains right and stopping the leaks in the roof and so on: you knew that those jobs needed doing and so you are not surprised. But presently he starts knocking the house about in a way that hurts abominably and does not seem to make sense. What on earth is He up to? The explanation is that He is building quite a different house from the one you thought of—throwing out a new wing here, putting on an extra floor there, running up towers, making courtyards. You thought you were going to be made into a decent little cottage: but He is building a palace. He intends to come and live in it Himself.”

The Jungle Law

2011-05-13T19:58:00.000-07:00

In the book The Giver the character Jonas must receive the world’s worst memories and thus protect all laymen from pain. As he takes on memories of war and starvation and loneliness, he sees his childhood fading and adulthood taking its place. He loses the spring in his step and the listlessness in his play.

I have had to be a disciplinarian today…this whole week actually, and I think I know why the world has so many bad parents. It’s easier to let things slide. It’s easier not to call home after I’ve threatened. It’s easier not to write a referral after the warning. It’s easier to talk than act.

My students are growing tired of the same old school routines. They know the rules, so now it’s time to break them and brag to friends about what you got away with in Bible class. A couple in love sneaks off for some privacy. Kids text in class. They see how many teachers won’t notice gum in their mouths. They squiggle and squirm and the greatest weapon we teachers have against them is the referral.

A referral covers a multitude of sins: a referral for being tardy, for an academic appointment no-show, for back talking, disobedience, chewing gum, and cheating. A tick mark on their record and off to a lunchtime detention for 20 minutes in an air-conditioned room where most of their friends are too. Oh yes, and they get first pick at the lunch line because they aren’t allowed to be late to detention. Tell me how this is punishment.

This past weekend when I discovered blatant signs of cheating among homework papers, I decided that I had to be firm. I had to be tougher now than I’d been at the beginning of the year. If my kids started testing the waters, I had to remind them that the deep end still existed.

God help me be firm. Help me to be level headed and unemotional.

I brought about justice for twelve offenses. I assigned sentences for forgotten school supplies. One kid was in twice. I guess the first time didn’t leave a big enough impression on him, so I had him fill both sides with sentences the second time around: “I will bring my composition book to class.” I called students in to fix the stapler they broke. I e-mailed home. I sent girls to the office for low shirts and high skirts. And yes I wrote referrals as well—school policy requires it.

Tomorrow is Friday and I feel weighed down, like Jonas with the world’s memories. The world looks different when I play the part of disciplinarian. Sometimes it feels like I’m trudging through mud. Maybe I see what my Dad meant when he said, “This hurts me more than it hurts you” right before he gave me a spanking. That made no sense when I lay awake in bed with tears in my eyes and a stinging bottom. But I know I didn’t think twice about the spanking the next day.

“One of the beauties of Jungle Law is that punishment settles all scores. There is no nagging afterward” (Rudyard Kipling in The Jungle Book). There is relief in the pain, as if the students want it. Please. Please. Please. Just punish me. Aunt Robin told me about how she and Uncle David once returned from a trip to their daughters. One of the daughters had been naughty and when her mother came in, she ran up and begged, “Spank me, Mommy. Spank me!”

The sins that haunt me the most are those that I’ve not been punished for, but I’ve never thought to ask God for punishment. Perhaps I should. If only my punishment could be a quick slap on the bottom.

My labors haven’t been without rewards. One student thanked me for having him write sentences. Another has grown more congenial with me. The cheating ones didn’t pout. They accepted their punishment and slipped right into their daily Math lessons, raising their hands to ask me questions and even volunteering to do work on the board.

The highlight of the week was when I told my students that they each had to complete one homework problem before the bell rung or else I’d make them late to their next class—automatic referral.

One student asked, “Would you really do that?”

“Oh ya. She’d do it,” another replied.

I think I’ve put the fear of the deep end back into them.

O Lord, keep me consistent.

Go to the Trees

2011-02-04T17:12:00.000-08:00

Being married to a man who speaks latin when he's talking about trees has inspired me to make up my own names for trees: names for the ordinary folk, and names that I think are better than many species' common names. In fact when I use my made up tree names, Phil and my grandmother know exactly what I'm talking about. So... I give you The Trees, by Abigail Joy Stevens

Here we have the Butterfly Tree, easily recognized by the shape of its leaves. I can just imagine all its foliage taking flight. It's common name is the Hong Kong Orchid Tree (Bauhinia variegata). And yes it does get little orchid flowers on it. It also get long spiraling seed pods that make a delicious crunch in the fall.

A perfect seed pod makes four crunches when stepped on... or so Philip says.

I call this one the Tulip Tree. The blooms all look like Tulips. (Common name: Saucer Magnolia. BORING Latin: Magnolia soulangiana) You'd never notice it if it wasn't in bloom. They bloom right after the first cold spell of our Southern California winter. This year they started the show in January. As I drive through Whittier I look for them: bouquets of lovely flowers.

The Tulip Tree's blooms have a gentle purple tint.

Phil calls this tree the La Mirada Abomination. It's actually an Olive Tree at the mercy of the gardeners' hedge trimmers. When Phil and I see these insults to the landscape, we scheme about going to the residents' home in the middle of the night and uprooting the abomination.

This particular brand of Eucalyptus I call the Dr. Seuss Tree. If you've never read a Dr. Seuss book, this will make no sense to you. But if you have, you'll see the resemblance to those skinny trees with a puffs of foliage at the top. It's common name is the Lemon Scented Gum Tree. That's dumb.

Painter Avenue is lined with what I like to call the Broccoli Trees. Jacob and I used to pretend we were giants eating our broccoli at dinner, and that caused us to inspect our broccoli very well. If you ever closely examine your own broccoli, you will see the resemblance to the Ficus Tree.

These trees are actually Uptown Whittier's Bane. They cost hundreds to trim and hundreds in Trip and Fall lawsuits. They rip up the concrete and get into pipes. They drop berries that stain the asphalt and concrete. Their white bark scars terribly. Their wood is useless, it can't be burned or used to built anything. They are majestic looking, but that's about it.

Uptown Whittier has two main streets lined with these trees: Painter and Greenleaf Avenue. Greenleaf's trees are trimmed to look like gumdrops.

These are the blooms of the Snow Tree. Latin: Pyrus calleryana. Common Name: Evergreen Pear. Why Pear? I don't know. This tree doesn't produce pears. And why evergreen? It's not.

Phil's allergic to this tree so he doesn't particularly like it, and its susceptible to Fire Blight, which Phil tells me is a disease.

I love driving down La Mirada Blvd. on a breezy day when these things are in bloom. It looks like California snow.

The look of this tree gets my imagination going. It's the Paint Brush Tree. No it's the Paint Roller Tree. No it's the Fox's Tail Tree. How about the Pole Tree. It's common name is the Italian Cypress (Cupressus sempervirens), and I usually can remember this one's name when talking to Phil about it. When I can't I've got lots of word pictures to choose from.

This darn tree... I can never remember it's real name (Camphor) and I still haven't come up with a clever name for it. It can grow up to be a beast, but unlike the Broccoli Tree, this tree can be chopped up and burned. We planted one of these at Granada as a Specimen tree. (Cinnamomum camphora)

Uptown Whittier has a slew of these Camphors. This one is oozing over the curb.

Here is a tree whose real name I never forget. The Magnolia Tree (Magnolia grandiflora.) It's an evergreen and one of Phil's favorite fragrances. So every summer I climb it to reach its blossoms and then rub it all over myself.

Just kidding.

I do love it's great big blooms though. They're always out of reach until they fall on the ground.

You'd never notice them on the ground though because their dead petals look a lot like their fallen leaves.

Ah yes! The hall of Puzzle Trees. (Common Name: Chinese Elm. So uncreative. Ulmus parvifolia)

Look at the next picture to see why I call them Puzzle Trees.

This tree can do all sorts of tricks. It can grow up tall and gangly. It can grow parallel to the ground, and it can meld into itself.

This Puzzle Tree's branches hover over the lawn like a bench.

The Ginkgo (Ginkgo Biloba) can go by no other name in my book. I learned it early on from my Grandmother and the name stuck. It's fan shaped leaves are like magic in the fall. So golden. So glorious.

It's common name is Maiden Hair Tree, which I suppose is acceptable.

The Cactus Monstrosity: I can't even call this beast a tree. It's not a tree. It never should have grown into a tree. What were the people who let this thing grow in their front yard thinking. It has a trunk. It looks like an octopus from hell. Phil thinks it's cool. I couldn't photograph it properly because it's tucked back behind two tall trees in some crazy person's front yard.

Neither Phil nor I know what this thing actually is... aside from ugly.

Last of all the Beetle Bush: this thing looks like squashed cockroaches when it's in bloom. It's called Bear's Breech (Acanthus mollis) for who knows what reason.

The End

Christmas 2010

2010-12-31T09:39:00.000-08:00

The first thing Phil did after we got home from our Christmas celebrations was vacuum the studio. Phil’s been asking for a Dyson since we got married and this year all his wildest dreams came true. The old-fashioned Hoover Elite wasn’t good enough for him—something about the canister and bag reminding him of his childhood vacuuming chores.

The first thing I did when I got home was go into a semi-panic about the clutter from the Christmas loot. But after 2-3 days of rearranging, shifting, and throwing out old stuff, the house is back to normal and I’m sad. The traces of Christmas are starting to blend in with the rest of my house. We received such wonderful gifts. Jessica gave us two plants that sit on top shelves and will one day cascade. Terri gave us new bathroom towels, which inspired Phil to go buy towel hangers, a soap dispenser, toilet paper holder, new shower curtain, and a $5 mirror that looks like it’s from a fun house. My tea basket is full to the brim with teas that Jacob, Thorpé, Mommy, and Mom (my new name for Gretchen) got me.

After Phil had nothing left to vacuum, which was pretty quick, he played with his new GPS from Jacob. I lit the apple-scented candles from Thorpé and tried to think of a good place to put all the candy that Phil stuffed in my stocking. Maybe I’ll just leave it in my stocking hanging on the spiral staircase. We’ll purchase year-round rock-climbing passes with the ten-day Rock City passes that Terri gave us, and the cash from Grandpa Stevens and Grandma Taylor.

This year I was particularly proud of several handmade gifts that I gave: off-roading T-shirts for my dad and hand-dipped candles for my grandma. I also fabricated some craftsman style address numbers for Phil. These things are about $40 apiece online, so I made them myself out of wood.We’ll watch 3:10 to Yuma, thanks to Heather and Jeff; pull out Junipers at GHFC with the mega-loppers from Mom and Dad. And then visit the spa in my new workout suit. We are blessed beyond measure.

It was a different Christmas, slower, sweeter. Daddy was alive and that made the day extra special. He wasn’t his usual commanding-self, but he still sat in the captain’s chair and divvied out the gifts. There were tears, mostly from my mom at every other gift she received from an Aunt who believes in her technical savvy and my dad who loves her. And more tears from all of us when Thorpé gave us her good-bye speech and letters with personalized thank you’s. The last gift my dad opened was a pair of pants, the same kind of pants that were cut off him when search and rescue arrived after the ATV accident. So many thoughtful gifts opened in warm-living rooms… but now it’s all over.

“Sigh.” School starts next week.

Scorekeeper

2010-11-26T22:59:00.000-08:00

Around the Taylor living room fire, we counted up the points for the day. Without a doubt Thorpe got the most. She made the turkey, stuffing, cranberry sauce, salad dressing, and sweet potatoes. She swept the kitchen, served mulled cider, and employed Hiromi—when the grad student came out of her room for air. Thorpe also directed the clean up. (But technically all Thorpe’s points belong to me because she is my servant. I like to let her feel like she’s earned a little here and there for herself. But if she ever tries to cash in her points, she’ll discover the truth.)

Grandma Taylor and Teri’s scores closely followed Thorpe’s. They provided the green bean casserole, ham, pickles, rolls, bubbly drinks, breakfast bacon, tea, salad, olives, and pumpkin pie. Grandma Taylor also gets points for directing the after dinner Yoga exercises and for sticking around until 7ish when we ate at 4:30. Phil got a point because he’s my husband, and Papi got a point for leading us in a round of thankful prayer.

The rest of the scores aren’t worth mentioning, except perhaps the two funny points Jacob got for making clean up a comical experience for all who were involved. I only know from hearsay. I was practicing Spanish with Mama Grace and Papi while the kitchen work was taking place.

Thus sits the final scores for Thanksgiving 2010 at the Taylor’s when the patriarch and matriarch were eating Cheereos in a Denver hospital. My Mom’s points probably add up to twice Thorpe’s, considering all that she’s organized in the last week and a half. But we don’t have an actual point-count on that yet. My guess is it’ll be somewhere in the high fifties, what with flights, hotels, paperwork, phone calls, and hospitals.

I hear that Finn Fincher got half a point for being an exceptionally good baby while his parents assisted my mom, but who’s counting half-points? And of course it would be useless to count my Dad’s points because crashing an ATV put him too far in the negative to make up over a period of 12 days.

Now I’d like to add up the Fincher points, but if I ask my Mom, she’ll assign all her points to the Finchers, and if I ask the Finchers, they’ll assign all their points to my Mom. Then it’s nothing but work, work, work all the time.

I tell you… no regard for the scorekeeper.

Wires and Fractions

2010-11-06T20:08:00.000-07:00

Tonight Phil and I watched the airplanes as we constructed a frame for our bathroom mirror. The cumulous had the weatherman telling us it would rain, but we didn’t feel a drop. The planes however were unusually low. They wove in and out of the clouds as we watched. Phil and I felt like we were whale watching in Baja, except we gazed up for a glimpse of a 747’s belly.

The weather was perfect for being outside: sunny and blustery. But we spent the morning indoors trying to figure out how to move a light switch and plug over 5 inches. The original switch/plug location was directly under our off-centered bathroom light, which is next on the list to move. Our plan is to hide the old light hole with our mirror frame. But this meant we had to move the old switch/plug over 5 inches.

We had a pretty good idea how to do this, but when I pulled off the light/plug cover, I found madness. I drew a detailed diagram and called my dad before trying to do anything else. He made sense of it and helped Phil and I perform the transplant. The blank cover over the old switch/plug bulges with all the wires jammed into it.

After the operation we enjoyed the gorgeous weather. With grocery bags in hand we walked Beverly, Alta, Hadley, Greenleaf, and Camilla picking up trash as we went. Phil has wanted to take a trash-walk for a while. Today he remembered to bring a bag. Candy wrappers from Halloween were the top item, closely followed by cups, straws, and little pieces of fabric. We also found shreds of a pink feather boa, a goblin glove, and half a toy motorcycle. We should do that more often.

After the walk we read some Louis L’Amour. Kurt Plubell’s report on L’Amour at book club got Phil and I started. L’Amour’s books are full of sword fights, narrow escapes, and manly-manness. I enjoy a good man book; they give me ideas on how to keep my Junior High boy’s engaged in my Math lessons. My most recent ideas caused one student to exclaim: “Ah! My Math teacher keeps a knife in her desk!”

It was true. For one week I kept a knife and cutting board in my desk for a demonstration on decimals. Last week I brought Phil’s ratchet set, Allen wrenches, and drill bits to explain comparing fractions.

While I hate having to teach fractions and decimals—why didn’t these kids learn this in sixth grade—, these topics are perfect for visual aids. Later we’ll measure objects around the classroom with IKEA measuring tapes. Then we’ll taste test cookies that the students create after dividing the ingredients in half.

After making the frame for our bathroom mirror today, I think I’ll ask our principle if I can bring a Mitre box and saw to school. Building their own frames will be an excellent fraction lesson.

The Pros and Cons of 336

2010-10-19T16:14:00.001-07:00

If fall comes in the form of rain streaks across my window, I’ll welcome it. But if it just brings shorter days, annoying students, and sore throats, never mind! Give me summer or give me death!

Too bad I can’t stop the seasons. We’ve got rain. The ants know it. But I’m willing to put up with them if I can listen to the pattering outside. Phil has put up with the ants marvelously well, but only because he imagines the ants taking our poison to their queen and feeding it to their un-hatched babies.

We keep the raisins and nuts in Ziplocs in our cupboards. The honey and syrup are in the fridge. That’s the problem with living in a converted laundry room. The ants can’t tell that this is a house.

We’ve lived in 336 square feet for a year now, and here are my complaints.

-We’re always tracking dirt into the house.

-If Phil’s watching clips online, I have to too.

-We can’t have more than two people over for dinner.

-I’m afraid that an alley mugger will break into our office/living/dining room window and steal my computer.

-We’ve had yellow rope on our bedroom floor for 365 days—the yellow rope is a temporary trap door opener until we finish it.

-We’ve no carpet to sink my toes into or sit on while doing a project.

-If one countertop is cluttered, the whole house is cluttered.

-The kitchen is really a one-man kitchen.

-If it’s above the second shelf, I have to climb onto the counter, desk, or couch to reach it.

-If I’m cooking, the whole house smells like it.

-If Phil has a friend over or if I have a friend over, the other spouse can’t go into the other room.

-It’s impossible to pass each other on the stairs.

-We can smell the garbage in the alley on trash days.

-I have to crawl over Philip to get out of the bed.

-We can hear our tenants through the bathroom wall and I’m sure they can hear us too.

Okay. Okay. It’s not that bad. But naturally I’ve thought of all the bad things first. So on to the good to balance out all the complaints:

-The kitchen is perfect; I take it out of the fridge, wash it, chop it, and cook it without taking more than two steps.

-We have a huge sink and a dishwasher, so the counters are rarely cluttered with dirty dishes.

-I don’t feel bad about getting rid of ugly decorations, unneeded gadgets, and rarely used clothes; we certainly don’t have extra storage space for them.

-Phil and I are never more than a holler away from each other.

-Our laundry chute is most ingenious.

-The lights alone heat up the whole house.

-It stays pretty cool in the summer, except 113-degree weather.

-I sweep and scour and I’m done cleaning.

-Phil knows where most everything goes.

-My desk faces the window, so I can watch the trees moving in the wind.

-We have multiple blank walls just waiting for the right picture.

-We have space for all we need.

-Every feature of our studio has a story.

-We have three big windows in our bedroom that send in great breezes (except on trash day).

-One tenant or another is always home in case I get attacked.

-We don’t have to pay our mortgage!

Do You Know The Author?

2010-10-13T14:29:00.001-07:00

I think I might be writing about this pre-maturely. If this doesn’t work out, I’ve got to blame myself. If it does, God has demonstrated his faithfulness.

A little over a month ago I wrote the following conversation in my story between two characters: King Austin and Master Downing. Downing has just returned from a potentially life threatening adventure, which has led to the very best of situations.

“How did you know?” Austin started.

“Know what?”

“Know that any of this was going to happen: that you’d make it back safely, that Noom would choose to fight for us? How’d you know?”

Downing shook his head. “I didn’t.”

“You didn’t?” Austin stopped pacing. “You mean you just gave yourself up to the thieves without knowing if they’d kill you or not?”

“Yes.”

This was too much for Austin. It didn’t make any sense. Was Downing just that reckless? “But you could’ve died!”

“Yes.”

Austin threw his hands up. “Master Downing, you don’t make any sense! I saw you giving yourself up to those thieves like you weren’t afraid of what might happen.”

“I’m not.”

“Why? How can you be like this?”

“Austin, after so many years I’ve come to know the author’s tone, and it is a good story. I am not afraid.” He spoke evenly and firmly.

A day shy of a month ago our front house tenant gave us her 30-day notice. Oh God, I thought. Here we go again. Every day the house isn’t rented, we have to pull money out of our savings: money that we’re trying to set aside for property taxes and fixing our rickety foundation.

Nine months ago we had to go through the same situation. That was painful. Both our front house and our back apartment were vacant. I watched our savings draining rapidly for two months before we found tenants. I wasn’t very trusting or pleased with God through those two months, but he stayed with us. Our tax return replenished what we’d lost and twice as much.

So here I was again. Similar scenario. Same characters. Same God. Was it providential that my God had made me write that scene in my story only days before the 30-day notice? Was it God reminding me of what I’ve learned before letting me try again?

I tend to get angry with God in these kinds of circumstances. I wonder why God doesn’t act now! Why doesn’t he calm my nerves? Why can’t I be nonchalant? Why can’t I just let it go and trust?

This time it was different. When the 30-day e-mail popped up, I paused. Oh God. Here we go again. You’ve shown me what you can do. I know you are trustworthy and you make all things good. May I not be afraid.

28 days went by without our receiving a single application. People called. People took applications home, but no one filled them out and said, “Yes, I want it.” Our old renters moved out four days early so the house is empty.

Yesterday, on day 28 I got our first bite: a family on their way to California needed a place ASAP. They were actually calling me from the road. The place they’d planned on living was raising the rents and they liked the look of our house on Craig’s list. Within 10 hours they were in California, Phil showed them the house while I was at choir practice, and they filled out an application.

Today we signed papers. They’re moving in as I write this. I have the first check in my hand. Today is day 29. Tomorrow, day 30, would’ve been the day that we started to lose money.

Need I say more?

I know the author and it is a beautiful story.

Sight to the Blind

2010-07-29T10:51:00.000-07:00

My Irish Breakfast tea tasted like Lawry’s Taco Seasoning the morning we came back from our vacation. The tea and the seasonings were zip locked together during the fumigation. The apple jelly’s top wasn’t on all the way, and it dripped down my loose-leaf Oolong bags and pooled on the bottom of the plastic sacks; and the bottle of picnic-sized balsamic vinegar leaked black dots on my spice jars.

The burning-red Kangaroo Paws that I’d planted below the freshly painted staircase don’t look like they’re going to make it. Their leaves are half crispy; their flowers, all faded. The Boston Ivy is a stubby bush again; all its fingers that had crept over the ugly wall outside our studio door are chopped. The furniture was sprinkled with dust; dust bunnies rolled over the laminate flooring upstairs.

I guess nothing can be good after coming back from a vacation like that. Nothing at all.

Phil and I have been suffering from post-vacation blues. I want to see the mountains again. I want to hear the sea lions barking from the backyard, smell the pines and the salty ocean, and see deer on an afternoon stroll. Dear God come back now!

The alley trash-diggers, our tenants’ riotous laughter at the T.V., and this tiny home with windows that aren’t big enough doesn’t make for a happy homecoming. I’m alone now, but every day of our vacation I spent with family.

We drove over the Tioga Pass, into Yosemite where we stayed for 4 nights with the Coxes, Stevens, and Deharts, then we drove across to Monterey and stayed with Ed and Barb Dickenson (My Grandpa Taylor’s cousins) and Terri for two nights.

We ate home cooked meals almost every evening, breakfasted at the Ahwahnee Lodge, stared into the fire listening to family jokes, tasted the soda springs water, felt the mist of Yosemite falls on our faces, soaked our feet in the chilly glacier melt, biked through Pebble Beach Golf Course, watched a whale breech off the coast, toured the Aquarium 30 minutes before it opened, and drank tea by the Dickenson’s fireplace.

And Half Dome.

I’ve not forgotten Half Dome: that 15-hour leisure stroll up misty rock-stairwells, alongside gushing tributaries, and under the beating sun. My shoulders have just begun to peel and my ankles are still numb from where I deadened the nerves from tightening my boots too tight. Tom Cox was our patient guide who never ran out of topics of conversations, and Kirk Stevens set the pace, taking one step at a time.

I don’t see how I can talk about this hike. I can share the facts: we started at 6 am, took breaks every other switchback, ascended the cables in an hour. I felt queasy holding my camera over the edge for a picture; the Mahogany Smoked Beef Jerky hit the spot; my contacts went blurry until I washed them with saliva; one by one we ran out of water; twilight fell; we biked back in the dark; the Deharts kept dinner hot for us; the line for the women’s shower was ridiculous at 9:30 pm, and Gretchen bought us T-shirts the next day.

But how can I tell you about the goal itself?

You see, before the dome I talked with God. However, the trouble with praying about Half Dome was having prayed for humility several months ago. How could I ask God to give me humility and then in the next breath, give me Half Dome? I was afraid God would honor my request for humility over my request for Half Dome.

I imagined how God would do it: a sprained ankle, altitude sickness, or maybe we’d all have to turn back like Kurt Plubell did when his daughter couldn’t make it. I imagined God toying with his torture devices, wondering which one he might use. Because humiliation gains humility right? That makes sense.

I still don’t understand what happened. We made it. We all clung to the cables together and told jokes and solved riddles as we waited for someone further up the cables to move. Phil and I clung to the outside of the cables to move the line along a little faster.

There were pauses enough to snap some photos. And at the top we celebrated that we all made it together: all four of us! Kirk called Grandpa Stevens. I ate an apple that Phil had carried in his camel pak for me. We rested, but weren’t restful knowing we still had to descend and it was about 2pm.

The trek down was a blur and not just because the sun was setting and we were tired, but because my contacts started to dry out and everything went into a fog. When we were 9/10ths of the way down I tried the old spit trick and I felt like the blind man that Jesus healed. The trees, rocks, and falls had a form. I could see! That sight was more glorious than the view at the top of Half Dome.

I think I’m saying something profound, but my mind is running circles around it. What did you do God? How have you opened my eyes? What was glorious? I think I need to think on it some more.

The Divine Comedy

2010-06-25T08:57:00.000-07:00

Our back alley is often awake with the clinking of glass bottles and the crunching of aluminum cans, the whack of the closing trashcan lid and the squeak of cartwheels. They say the early bird catches the worm, but in Uptown, the 4 am Hispanic finds the most recyclables, especially on trash days.

I have a new respect for garbage now that I’ve written two articles on waste for my children’s literature course: one about where sewer water goes, the other about landfills. Here’s an interesting fact for you: before the recession, Puente Hills packed 13,000 tons of garbage into its landfill a day. Now, it averaged 7,000 tons of garbage a day.

The head of the Green Waste Department said, “People aren’t throwing away their old furniture anymore just to get new ones. They’re keeping the dented things because they don’t have the money to buy new things.” Now isn’t that the picture of wealthy Americans? We buy, not because we lack, but because the old one is dented. It’s more likely that America is going through a reality check than a recession.

We’re like consuming monsters. And no wonder! From day one we’re brainwashed with commercials. We actually believe that we’re saving by spending, that bigger is better, that we deserve that new car or new outfit or new piece of furniture.

My discover card bill came with an ad that asked, “Who deserves an all out shopping spree more than you?” I wrote: “Children in Haiti,” and returned the ad with my paid bill. For some reason the telemarketer can’t understand that I’m perfectly content without a free trip to Hawaii, cable, or a subscription to Food and Wine.

I must ask myself: what is valuable? Do we really need a new fence and gate? It hasn’t fallen apart yet. Do we need to upgrade our windows to double paned? Is it worth it? Couldn’t we use that money for something nobler? Why do we need motors on our garage doors? Most people don’t even have garages!

Phil and I have had many discussions about these things because he’s a designer and I’m more utilitarian. In the goodness, truth, and beauty trinity, Phil’s beauty and I’m truth. He’s grace and I’m clarity. If a job can’t be done to look good, he won’t do it at all. I’d rather not go than be late. Speak so your listeners feel comfortable. Say it like it is. I’m sure God thought putting us two together would be awfully interesting not because we would differ in these areas, but because when we work like a team, the results are marvelous.

His strengths are my weaknesses. And his weaknesses are my strengths. A day of church fellowship groups, meals out with friends, and small talk can reduce me to tears while he positively enjoys it. And stacks of bills and bank statements are his worst nightmare, while my fingers are itching to organize them.

We are alike in creativity, endurance, family values, church doctrine, and collecting—hoarding that is. He collects little trinkets from junkyards, IKEA’s “As-Is” section, plant sales, and websites, while I pack away as much money as I can into our savings accounts. I sometimes think I’m being noble by refusing the nicer conveniences so we can support missionaries or children in Haiti, but really…I just want to save it.

I’ve been doing this since I had a bank account. I rarely spent my money. I just deposited it into savings. In High School my stash grew large enough to loan Jacob money to buy a computer. I have no noble plans to feed the homeless or provide education to girls in Iran. I really just was a big cushion of protection.

Last January when both our units were empty and our savings account was draining, it took every ounce of energy to turn to God each morning and say, “My security is in you, not this account.”

Phil’s form of hoarding is so much more entertaining. He once came home with two green door-panels from a closet set. He said he thought we could do something cool with them in our tiny studio. I don’t remember responding. I probably gave him my blank stare. They sat in our garage for several months and then I insisted we get rid of them. We put them in our back alley, and they were gone that day only to show up again two days later in our neighbor’s garage sale. The scavengers!

What’s comical about our hoarding tendencies is that I relish getting rid of stuff and as Gretchen Stevens said, “Money slips through Phil’s fingers.” Hence, the discussions.

“Why do we need three refrigerators?”

“It’s not that much more to get motors on our garage doors.”

“Are you ever going to use that desk?”

“But look how much cooler these sinks look.”

“Throw it away!”

“Let’s buy it!”

Oh, the divine comedy!

That’s a gift: being able to laugh at these things. I didn’t use to be able to do that. But a little bit of Phil has rubbed off on me in this area. People are so darn funny and I’m one of them.

Craig's List

2010-05-09T15:40:00.000-07:00

The mocking birds were busy all-night and so were we, but I don’t think our neighbors heard us as kindly as they did the chirp-chirp, whoop-whoop, and deedoo-deedoo of the mocking birds. Our noises went more like ratt-tatt-tatt, errrrrrr, bang-bang, twang, vroom!

Our four-car garage is becoming a two-car garage so our renters can have a garage space of their own. This is good for them, but tricky for us. We’ve shifted all our household items, unused furniture, and tools to one side of the garage. How in the world did we accumulate so much stuff? I felt the sudden urge to get rid of things, and Philip was kind enough to let items go for unreasonably low prices.

Craig’s list was the mode: a hanging microwave that came with our stove for the front house ($25), our mini-fridge that we took off Luke Shackelford’s hands when he moved out of Jacob’s ($35), a full-sized fridge that Robin and David gave us after we left Beverly ($40), Dale’s childhood book shelves, desk, and nightstand ($50), and the hottest item: our industrial steel roll-up garage door ($20). This last item was probably worth the most and was without a doubt the most interesting to see go. Our ad read like this:

“Full sized 2-car garage door. Spans an 8 foot tall, 16 foot wide opening. I've had several garage door installers tell me this is an expensive garage door. It's called a Porvene Roll-up. Check out their website at www.porvenedoors.com. It does not have a motor, but it looks like the attachments are there to hook one up. I'm replacing this door with two individual garage doors that look less industrial, so I just want to get rid of it. If you can take it down and haul it away, it's yours for $20.”

The takers were a MacGyver-like character (Ben) and his methodical side-kick (Mike) who contrived and built contraptions to lower the alleged ±900 pound door onto two V-shaped dollies and load it into their truck. They came, took measurements, pictures, paid for the beast, and promised to return before the end of the week to claim their purchase. Phil and I were curious to see what they’d come up with.

Their original plan was to coerce 5-10 friends (or enemies) into lowering the thing to the ground, but after they saw how high it was and how much it might weigh, they put their heads together and came up with a plan for two men and lots of tools.

Winches: two winches secured on two beams angled against the ceiling at X degrees and kept in place by a frame of 2 x 4’s that stretched out the open garage and connected in the middle. (My what a lot of prepositional phrases!) The video perhaps explains the contraptions better than I can.

Phil and I pulled our barstools into the garage. I popped some popcorn, and we watched out film, which began at 9pm. By 11pm the plot had thickened, but the popcorn had run out and the hammered drill was off limits. I hope our neighbors remember that bag of avocadoes I took them last week before they come knocking on our door.

By 12:30 the door was in its cradle and on its way to the truck where our Craig’s list buyers made a disconcerting discovery. One man could pick up one side of the door all on his own. Certainly five guys on ladders could have lowered it from the ceiling. Oh well; what’s done is done. They secured it in their truck (which wouldn’t close all the way because the door was too big) packed up their tools and left Phil and I to board up our garage and finally hit the pillow around 1:45 am. No complaints from the neighbors yet.

Yappy Dogs and Faulty Homes

2010-04-29T17:39:00.000-07:00

My brown curls smelt like smoke today: burnt plumb trees and leftover construction wood. Phil and I had a fire in our brazier last night and it was romantic even with the Whittier helicopter trying to land on the nearby hills, our tenants watching T.V. with the windows open, our neighbors sprinklers going off, the ice cream truck playing Christmas carols, and the sirens of the 911 calls responding to Aunt Betty who choked on her potatoes—or so Phil says. I think the sirens are for domestic violence in the apartment complexes located between Hadley and Broadway. All the local sex offenders live there.

I was thankful that that yappy dog across the alley was quiet. It yaps non-stop from the time I get home until about 5pm: a squeaky yap, like the sound my Junior High students’ desks make when they rock them. I’ve done almost all I can do to shut that little wiener dog up. I’ve called the police twice. Phil’s called once. I’ve left a note. I printed material about how to recognize and stop a pet’s separation anxiety and stuck it in their mailbox. Phil even discretely secured a dog silencer under the eves of the neighbor’s garage; it sends off a high pitch noise every time the dog barks—but that fell off and is now who knows where. My Mom finally contacted animal control stating that she owns property in our neck of the woods and her tenants have been complaining about a dog barking. Sounds like a good story to me! I have the e-mail address and number available to make a follow up call if necessary.

While I eagerly wait to rob some old man of his lifelong canine companion, I’ve been inspired to cook like a professional. Ruth Reichl’s book Garlic and Sapphires is behind the desire to add garnishes and candlelight to my dinners. As New York Times’ food critic she describes Sushi like magic, and I fell for it. With words like those I knew I had to give Sushi a chance. So Phil and I splurged and went to Joy Sushi where we ate every morsel of raw tuna, salmon, shrimp, and halibut dipped in Soy Sauce, ginger, and wasabi. It was delicious. As an added treat we watched the Lakers game against Oklahoma. Raw fish and T.V.: what an unusual combination!

The real cause for celebration was the rental of both our front house and apartment. After 3 months—but what felt like 6—our lot is a little community again: a shared washing machine, visitors climbing the freshly painted exterior stairs, full trashcans, conversation through the walls, and a reversal of the cash flow. I’m a little peeved at God about that. All those weeks of worrying and now everything is fine. It’s not just that we’ve stopped dipping into our savings to pay our mortgage, but that the United States Treasury refunded us double the amount we lost in those 3 months. Oh God, why must you be so sneaky like that?! You’re probably laughing, hu? You think this is funny, don’t you! I can’t help smiling just at the thought of it. That God! He’s so stinking sneaky. He makes the bridges fall into place just before I set foot on them. He must think there’s some great value in that horrible suspense that I’ve got to endure with my foot out, suspended over vacant space right before he throws down the bridge’s first plank. It works out. It always does.

It must work out for others too, right? “The Lord works justice and righteousness for all who are oppressed.” Ps 103. Today I caught four students copying off others at break. I walked up behind them and peered over their shoulder and when my suspicions were confirmed, I reached over and without a word snatched up the papers. One of the guilty students came up to me and began pleading with me.

“Please, Mrs. Stevens. I’m so sorry. I don’t ever do this. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m having a really tough time right now. And my parents are in court. Please don’t give me a detention. I can’t have it. I’ve never had a detention. Please. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I just had so much on my mind with my parents getting a divorce. I always do my homework. This is the first time. I just forgot to do it. If I had a detention, it would be just so hard on me right now.”

She was on the verge of tears as she begged for her and her friend’s papers. I told her that Mrs. Shubin would decide her punishment, not me. But I felt for her, and could see that she was being sincere. Oh God, are you listening to her prayers! Oh God, do her parents know what they’re doing to their daughter? It makes me sober to hear what some of these kids have to go through. Do I forgive them more readily for having leaky pipes and crumbling roofs because their foundations are being shaken?

Take Mr. Q in the choir: he is our deepest baritone. His voice sometimes makes the floor rumble, and his comments often make the choir ripple with discomfort. Any misspoken word, any wrong note, any early cutoff, or silly exercise: Mr. Q points it out. He reminds me of myself when I was in sixth grade, and Mrs. Long made me do push-ups on the hot asphalt. I muttered to my friend, “I wish she would do pushups on the hot ground and then she’d know what it feels like.”

Well, Mrs. Long heard me and made me run an extra lap, but everyone hears Mr. Q and still he persists. I’m not ready to lead a revolt against him or rebuke him or even speak unkindly about him behind his back, because I’m almost certain there’s more going on there than meets the eye. I hear the creak in his framework, but I don’t know what wood was used to make his house. Is it splitting? Are there termites? Dry rot? I’m more inclined to smile and shake my head like Phil sometimes does at funny people. “Oh Mr. Q. You’re a character.” It doesn’t rile him; and it doesn’t rile me.

Phi's Projects & the Battle with Taurus

2010-03-26T20:12:00.000-07:00

Philip and I are project people. And since we have a house with endless tasks, sometimes the projects come and go faster than we can report. Here's an appetizer of all the activities.

1) Phil's been putting together a succulent picture. He made the frame out of scrape wood, scrounged around for some chicken wire—he got some from Ed Morsey and found the rest covering a vent on our house—filled it with soil, and inserted the smallest succulents we have. He shoots the thing with a spray bottle everyday to water it. The final product will hang on the wall and supposedly won't fall apart because of the roots. We'll see about that one. In the meantime we've got to let the thing sit for 6-8 weeks before it's ready for vertical hanging.

2) Our little laundry shack needs attention, so I took on replacing a rotting roofing board. I learned: that roofing has fiberglass in it so wear gloves, that each sheet of roofing is nailed in below and above the next overlapping shingle, ship-lap is different than tongue and groove, and Phil's battery operated saw isn't as difficult to use as it looks.

3) Phil constructed a wafer-thin drawer that fits beneath our drawers in the kitchen. He thought it, drew it, and built it out of scrape wood. I fit my cookie sheets and griddle in it.

4) Phil also sliced a hole into the side of our microwave cabinet because the convection oven feature was making the laminate peel. Home Depot already replaced our cabinet doors for free, but they started to peel again, so Phil made a heat guard and cut a vent. (See video) He bought this metal nick-knack from the "as is" section of Ikea and used it to cover up the ugly hole he made, because it was as hideous as Gollum.

So what am I doing, if Phil's working full time and doing cool projects? The biggest project has been sanding and painting the exterior stairs. Along the way I found dry rot and termite droppings in countless places, and I made phone call after phone call to the termite company who ensured the place was free of these problems. They dutifully came out to fix their errors, claiming that they didn't search the place with a fine tooth comb.

After one of their many visits, they had to come back again and repair a section of previously repaired wood that just crumbled apart when I stuck a screw driver into it. Alright, I'll excuse one error, but it didn't stop there.

When a deck-em guy was inspecting our stairs to give us a quote, he pointed out that the real landing was hidden underneath a veneer. The veneer hid large quantities of dry rot. My blood started to boil especially when the termite people admitted that they'd covered it up per the previous owner's request. So... you have no backbone is what you're saying. You just do what you're told even if it's dishonest. But I let this one slide again.

While poking around yet again, my screwdriver sunk handle deep into the back of a stairwell's post: a place that the termite guys had already repaired. That was the last straw. I called them up and politely said I'd found more dry rot.

"Shall I have my guys come out to fix it? I don't feel I need to look it over cause we've been there so many times," he said.

"No. There's a couple other things I'd like to show you," I said nicely, but I was working together the speech in my head.

Face to face with Mr. Taurus Termites I gave him a false sense of security. I pointed out several more spots of termite droppings and a mild repair of dry wrought. Then... I lay down the law. It went something like this:

"You know, you guys have had to come out here to fix your errors twice now. First there was that beam in the front of the house, which just crumpled to pieces and ants were making a nest in there. And then I uncovered that dry rot on the first landing where you guys just covered up all the damage. Now you're having to come out again cause your guys did a bad job. So I'm wondering: are you just dishonest or do you do crappy work?"

I was mad.

Mr. Taurus Termites said nothing, so I went on.

"When your guys were out here fixing this post I reaching in and felt it before he filled it with bondo, and it was wet. You can't fill a hole until it's dry, but your guys did it anyway. I'm a 26 year old woman. I'm a new home owner. And I now know more about fixing dry rot than your people do who do this for a living! What's wrong with this?!"

If I wasn't a Christian, I would've pulled out my pepper spray next and shouted, "To hell with your company!"

Their slogan is: "No bull. Just good service." But I've got some better slogans for them. I don't think they're interested.

You're Old And This is A Gas Station!!!

2010-03-02T18:13:00.000-08:00

With a collection of poison pimples on my chin and one smack in the middle of my forehead, today wasn’t a day to feel beautiful. Nevertheless a contractor in his mid-thirties kept staring at me while he pumped gas into big white truck. Eventually he came over to me and said:

“Hello, my name is Joe Smoe. I’m a contractor with such and such, and I noticed you over here, and I wanted to tell you that you’re really beautiful.”

“Well thank you, but you know I had no say in the matter.”

“I don’t see very many people around as beautiful as you.”

“Thank you, but you know real beauty is on the inside.”

“Ya, but how can you know unless you get to know a person. Maybe I can take you to lunch sometime.”

“Um, I’m married.”

“Oh.”

“Yep. I’ve been happily married for awhile now.”

“That’s great.”

“Do you know what the secret to a great marriage is?”

“Communication. You got to communicate.”

“Are you married?”

“Divorced.”

“Why didn’t it work out?”

“We didn’t have good communication. I married this younger girl, and after we were married for awhile, she starts looking around, and now we’re divorced.”

“Well, I wish you the best of luck on learning to communicate.”

“What do you think the key to marriage is?”

I looked him straight in the eye and said, “My relationship with Jesus Christ.”

“Ya. Christ has helped me on a number of occasions too.”

“There’s no other way I could make it each day without him.”

“Alright, well you take care.”

“Later.”

He drifted back over to his truck while I put the cap on my gas tank, forgot to take my receipt or push the button that says: “No I don’t want a car wash”. As I put on my seat belt, the lady across the center column caught my eye. I shook my head, and she smiled.

“That guy was trying to pick up on you.”

“Seriously,” I replied. I hoped she’d heard what was said because those weren’t my words.

This isn’t the first time this has happened, but this is the first time I was able to say exactly what I wanted. Usually I only manage to turn red, stumble over my words, and desperately search for an exit. I was still red, but this time God put the pieces together. If the way I look brings inquiries, I want to redirect them right back to Christ. He’s the one who made me who I am in the first place.

Painted Canyon, Mecca California

2009-12-31T20:35:00.000-08:00

The rocks in the dry riverbed sand were clear. They pointed to the left. Phil and I simply didn't think it was referring to the direction we were supposed to take. We didn't think much about the arrow at all. Our conversation went something like this: "Oh look! An arrow!" "Give me the camera. I'll take a picture of it."

We continued up the riverbed of

Painted Canyon and didn't think twice about all the people we passed going the opposite direction until we spotted a ladder scaling up a stripe of white rocks on the side of the canyon walls. We decided to ask for directions from the next group that passed us. The couple seemed confused about how we'd gotten there. "We just walked up the dry riverbed," we explained.

"You didn't climb up the ladders?" they asked us. "You didn't come up Ladder Canyon? Did you see that big arrow in the sand?"

For some reason they couldn't understand that neither Philip nor I had made an executive directional decision not follow the arrow. They assumed it must be someone's fault. No big deal. We were only hiking the trail in reverse, which meant we would climb down Ladder Canyon instead of climb up it.

At the top of the riverbed we hiked down the spine of several ridges before heading down a gully that turned into a chute that became a twisting curving canyon, shaped by the flash floods that have scraped away at the sedimentary walls. And around a dozen curves we finally came across the ladders that gave the canyon its name. These metal ladders finally took us back down to the big arrow that we'd photographed two and a half hours earlier.

The Dude in Front of Trader Joe's

2009-11-04T16:17:00.000-08:00

If and when I have kids I want to teach them to give money to the people who stand on the outside of grocery stores: the girl scouts selling cookies, the Santa Claus bell ringer, the homeless shelter volunteer. I want my kids to have a heart for people and not money.

I’ve heard that the things you practice yourself are the things your kids will most likely learn from you, so I decided it was time to start practicing. On the way into Trader Joe’s today, I remembered to grab a fistful of change and shove it in my pocket. It was probably only 80 cents, and I saw two opportunities as I approached the sidewalk: a woman with a homeless shelter money box and man with a sign that read, “Trying to get home. Please help. God bless.”

Without making up my mind about anything I made eye contact with the sign man and asked him what the deal was. He told me a very colorful story about how he was from West Virginia and had come out to California to find his lost father, and now he was trying to get back home. He said he had $30, and a ticket was $120. Believing not a word of it, I told him I didn’t have any cash, but that I’d get some juice for him from Trader Joe’s.

I really didn’t want to give him anything. But I reminded myself that I wanted to teach my kids that it’s not our place to judge. I even thought through a little speech to my imaginary youngsters about our actions versus God’s justice.

While I was trying to find shallots, a Trader Joe’s associate approached me. “Hey, I saw you talking to that man outside, and I was wondering, what’s his story?”

I explained, not without adding my own prefaces, “So he says,” and “Who knows what the real story is?” Several shoppers nearby added their two cents to the conversation too.

“I just never carry cash so I can’t give them anything.”

“That guy’s been sitting out there all week.”

I shrugged. “Who knows?” and dismissed myself to another part of the store after finding out that green onions are just as good as shallots. What is a shallot anyway?

In search for bulgur wheat, which I couldn’t pronounce and kept having to show the word on my shopping list to associates, I asked another store worker about the man.

“If you want my honest opinion,” he said. “And this isn’t trader Joe’s opinion or anything, but I think he’s a scam artist. That guy’s been sitting out there for a long time. He’s always clean-shaven. He always has a new shirt on. I’ve seen him come in here and pull out a wad of cash to buy things in here. He says he’s from Ontario, but I’ve seen his family come up here and ask him to come home: his mom and a little boy. But we can’t do anything about it, cause we don’t own the property. I mean the customers complain, I just say don’t give them anything.”

Great. So now what do I do? I picked up a bottle of juice and headed for the cash register rehearsing what I might say to the dude on the way out. So he’s a liar and he’s been taking advantage of people’s generosity. Sometimes I wish I were Jesus. He’d know exactly what to say. He could look that liar in the eyes and say, “Benjamin, go home to your mom, Bertha, and your brother Timmy and stop living the life of a crook.” Jesus would know what to do.

But I’m a little in the dark. So I take my grocery bag and juice, bypass the lady with the homeless coin collection box saying, “I don’t have any cash on me,” walk out to the guy, hand him the juice, and say, “Stop lying,” and walk away.

And after that the liar saw the light. He repented and stopped living in sin, and the shoppers at Trader Joe’s were forever free of his loitering!

Actually after I told him to stop lying, he looked at me and asked, “What kind of juice is it?” And because I had so rehearsed walking away after I pronounced those two words, I did, not even stopping to make sure he heard what I said.

And from all this, my imaginary kids learned how to keep their change in their pockets. A lesson well taught.

Jacob and Me

2009-05-18T17:39:00.000-07:00

Jacob and I were beyond hopscotch, hide-and-seek, rubber-band gun wars, and Tiddly Winks. At ages 9 and 7 we knew that the best games were the ones we invented, and that was how Computer Battles evolved: a game of plotting and clever talk.

In the protection of our separate rooms, which doubled as bases, we made plans to destroy each other with the help of our imaginary multi-functional computers. The action proceeded as follows.

Jacob: “My computer made some bombs, and I’m hiding them outside your base."

Me: “Then my computer built a video camera that sees you."

Jacob: “But I saw you, so now I’m going to blast your cameras.”

Me: “Well, my cameras have shields around them.”

Jacob: “But my gun has special blasters that can destroy your shields.”

Me: “But my shields are rubber so your blasters bounce off them.”

Jacob: “Your computer can’t build that kind of shield; you have to go to the store to get those.”

Since my brother was my senior and capable of outtalking me, I’d have to go to the store—a lengthy journey up and down the stairs twenty times under the mocking eye of Jacob. The journey usually wore down our excitement for the game or provoked our dad into telling us to take our activities outside because we were wearing down the carpet.

Aside from cunning talk, the game required a great deal of pretending as well. On several occasions when I realized that I was defenseless against Jacob’s ingenious plans, I’d have to walk out of my base and let his bombs blow me up. Nothing was fatal though, and even if it was, and I dramatically admitted, “BLEAH! I’m dead,” Jacob would quickly come to my aid by saying, “But your computer found you and brought you back to life!”

Jacob wasn’t about to let his nemesis die. After all, the game was about sibling sparing not sibling annihilation.

A Live Coal in the Sea

2009-04-06T19:42:00.000-07:00

William Langland: “But all the wickedness in the world which man may do or think is no more to the mercy of God than a live coal dropped in the sea.”

Does a day come for everyone when they realize that their parents are just people or do some never find out and keep expecting their parents to be super human?

I suppose for some—those whose mothers drink, whose fathers sexually abuse, whose parents have affairs and divorce—I suppose the children of these parents find out the truth all too soon. They learn from the beginning that dad doesn’t keep his promises; that mom only cares about herself; that their parents don’t provide or protect. Shall I call these children the poor in spirit because they understand from a young age that mom and dad aren’t the source of love, peace, and safety? Shall I even go so far as to call them blessed? Them? With their distrust of men and homosexual inclinations and insatiable craving for human affection?

Shall I call the abused blessed? True, some spring back with resilience; some rise up on wings like baby birds that have fought to break through their eggshells. They make a way for themselves in this cruel world, and they shine with Christ’s own face. Yet others wallow and point fingers and vomit their turmoil to psychiatrists. ‘Injustice!’ they scream and they are right. The world is unjust, but they forget that they themselves are in the world.

I’m speaking like I have studied the dysfunctional and abused, when in truth I’m more knowledgeable about Pre-algebra and Greek. I will ask the poor in spirit if they claim God’s blessings.

In the meantime I must consider children of another sort. These children have parents who don’t abuse substances, who keep their vows, who take occasional family vacations, who eat together, who protect and provide, who train up their children in the way they should go, and yet when their young are old, some still depart. Why so many bad seeds from good soil and good seeds from bad soil? Has God made more good out of bad than he has out of good? Then blessed are the poor in spirit indeed!

I cannot leave it at that because the good that I’m talking about is not good at all. There is the good that God makes out of bad, which is certainly good, and there is the good by which I mean the functional family, which in comparison to the perfection that God demands, isn’t functional at all, nor is it good. By good here, I simply mean not as bad as it could be. These good parents are only thought to be good when standing next to the bad parents, but when placed next to God, when put in the light of the Almighty, we see the badness quite clearly in all mothers and fathers. It’s a badness that’s not only in parents, but all humans alike. Being a father or mother doesn’t make a person any more bad, nor does being a child make a person any more innocent. Haven’t we all crooked souls? And the sooner we see this, especially in ourselves, the sooner we will stop blaming and start giving grace.

But to realize that our parents have crocked souls is no simple process for the abused or the contented child. It feels like being betrayed. There we were, thinking our parents had everything under control, that they wouldn’t let us get hurt, that they were always fair and always selfless. And then we find out that they play favorites, that they’re unwise with money, that they argue, that they have prejudices and are judgmental. It’s a betrayal of an allusion. We had thought they were or at least were trying to be perfect parents—and chances are, they were—but they aren’t. They’re far from it.

Why had we demanded perfection from them to begin with? Why does it shock us to find out that those adults, those huge figures, those instrumental gods in our lives are nothing but silly little people like ourselves? Is this what it means to grow up? To stop being a child? “We start to become adults when we realize our parents aren’t perfect, and we become adults when we forgive them for it.”

How can I demand something from them that I could never do myself, and then forgive them for not meeting my unrealistic expectations. Aren’t I the one in the wrong? Aren’t I the one who’d expected my parents to be like God, when in fact my parents, though they may or may not have meant to, were pointing me towards God saying, “Don’t look at me for perfection, look at Him”.

What offense do I have to forgive, when mercy was shown to me during the months of infancy? What accusation will I make, when my sins put Him on the cross as well? How much longer will I demand fairness when Christ let himself suffer for nothing evil that he’d done? Mercy. Let it end with mercy?

“Mercy. It didn’t mean that everything was okay, could or should be condoned. But we can’t move out of ourselves and our own self-justifications until we look in the mirror and know, yes, I, too, could have done this.”

February Finds

2009-02-23T22:01:00.000-08:00

The Camilia bushes have been shedding their blossoms like my parent’s plum tree in August, and the blossoms are no less messy than the fallen overripe plums, which congeal with the gravel on hot summer days.

Spring fever is spreading through the seventh and eighth graders, and the teachers know this is equivalent to a rainy or blustery day in the classroom. The boys are now competing for the title of class clown. They compete with uncalled for comments most of the time, but sometimes the competition includes bent paperclips, the automatic pencil sharpener, a re-shaped coat-hanger (where did the little brute get that one, certainly not from the teacher’s supply room), a foot-long pen, paper mache finger extensions, rubber bands, the occasional cell phone, and dissected pens rebuilt as rocket launchers. I must not be giving the little animals enough activities to occupy their time. I don’t hesitate to take away their gadgets and put them up for sale—the price is a few bonus tally stickers. So far no one has bought back the foot-long pen.

Philip and I have continued running in the dark before work. We set the alarm at 5:25 am and force ourselves to get up and throw on our running shoes. Another part of the world is awake at that hour. An old robed figure—I can’t describe him much more than that because it’s too dark—smokes a cigarette on his back porch. Several over weight ladies walked consistently for a week, and then their New Year’s resolution lost its motivation. A man in his mid-twenties stands at the curb waiting for his ride on Hadley. He chuckled at us the first time I zoomed by on my bike, hollering to Phil to hurry up or else we’d miss the light. My knee has started to bother me, so I ride my bike now. It’s hardly the workout I got before, but I’m still panting and puffing at the top of Orange.

Robin and David Cox—our landlords, neighbors, and relatives—inspired Phil and I to get bikes. We had such a surreal ride through Yosemite after the rain cleared out the tourists on our summer vacation. The deer were out in the misty meadows chomping on grass and the grisly bear was waddling through the wet woods. Until Christmas we couldn’t justify spending over $300 for a beach cruiser that we’d probably have to store in our living room. But our grandparents on both sides gave us some Christmas booty that we set aside waiting for a find. I reclaimed my rusty mountain bike from my parent’s garage, and before long we found an ad in a Big 5 catalogue for a 7-speed beach cruiser for $119. A little assembly, a little brake adjusting, and there you go. We’ve taken the Whittier Greenway trail twice now. Once we took it over the bridge at 5 points, which has been decorated with artsy metal wind mobiles. I was tempted to ride it here to Starbucks today, but we don’t have a bike lock yet.

The characters in uptown could be several chapters in a novel all by themselves. Oh my! A man in bright yellow Sunkist pajama bottoms is walking his albino pit-bull across Philadephia with a white snake around his neck. An old man in sweats and a sports jacket is pushing his own wheelchair down the sidewalk. A group of men are taking ownership of Starbucks with their confident loud voices. One of them dressed in a striped blue dress shirt hands a scroll of blueprints to a contractor. They’re pointing to the walls and scribbling notes onto a pad of yellow paper. The chalky announcement board on the wall tells me that this Starbucks will be closed for a week during a brief remodeling. These are the men who still have jobs. These are the men whose confidence relies on the momentary work at hand, but what will tomorrow bring?

Phil’s work —Land Concern—has felt the lack of business. The company laid off almost all of Phil’s co-workers, the receptionist, the cleaning lady, and the office plant maintainers. They work four days a week now and have signed up for the various cleaning jobs around the office. Phil vacuums. He’s found private side jobs to keep him drawing at home on his Friday’s off, and I’ve been asked to do more work myself. Three families have asked me to tutor their kids in the last month. I’m annoyed at the demands of my time, but I can’t deny that someone’s looking out for our financial state. Must everything be cushioned for us? I was ready for hard times, just so long as I get my English Breakfast tea in the mornings and my Saturday mornings for writing. A heater would be nice too and maybe some gingersnaps from Trader Joes.

At home depot last Sunday Phil and I were gaping at the price tag on a circular Tiffany’s ceiling lamp. The cheapest lamps that size that we’d found online were no less than $100. This lamp said $19. “They must have forgotten a zero somewhere,” we said to one another. We called in the worker who perched atop a ladder showing us his underbelly as he pulled down the lamp for us. I peeled back four layers of price adjustment stickers. The lamp had started at $136. Then it dropped to $129, $95, and $57. Now it was $19. The woman at the cash register said we could sell it for hundreds on ebay. We could, but we’re going to have H.K Maynard install it above our dining room table instead. It’s now part of our February finds collection.

The last item is not currently in our possession, and I highly doubt it will ever be. We call it the barn, and its located on California and Mar Vista. It’s way out of our price range, but fits right into our dreams: two rentals on site, a two-story three car garage, plenty of nooks for planting, an office… and $800,000. Maybe it will be March’s find.

"7 In a Boat"

2009-01-07T18:36:00.000-08:00

PART 1: The Upper Room at Nightfall

INTRO/ED: The following events happened, and while we have no way of knowing whether or not they happened in this way, human nature hasn’t change in 2000 years, and so… they might have happened like this.

(PETER, JAMES, and JOHN are waiting to meet with the disciples. PETER is rapidly pacing the length of the room, looking out the window, looking at his watch, impatiently. JOHN is staring whimsically at nothing with a pad of paper and a pencil in his hands. JAMES is fixing a fishing net.)

PETER: I said just before dusk, didn’t I? Then how come no one’s here yet? Last time I checked, dusk was right after the sun set, not when it’s pitch dark.

JAMES: (Not phased) They’ll get here.

PETER: Oh yes. Andrew will be on time. I’m surprised he isn’t here already. (Looks around) Nate will get here and Philip too; he’s a fast walker, but the others don’t understand time. They think dusk is midnight. This isn’t Egyptian time; this isn’t even Roman time. This is Jewish time! No, this is the restoration of Israel time!

JAMES: Don’t sweat it. They’ll get here. I don’t think anyone wants to miss this, especially if the risen Lord shows up again.

PETER: (Animated) You think he will!?

JAMES: Who can tell? He comes and goes as he pleases these days. (Whisper, pointing to JOHN) But Johnny’s got that long lost look in his eyes again. He must sense it. (They both stare at JOHN until JOHN notices them and becomes self-conscious, clears his throat, and goes back to scribbling on his notepad.)

PETER: I hope the Rabbi does show up, cause this time I know just what I’m going to say. No more babbling stupid things. This time I’m going to say, “Rabbi, (Falling on his knees and acting it out) You are the messiah! You are my lord and king! Please, forgive me for…(Suddenly realizing he doesn’t want everyone to know what he’s done.) uhh…forgive me for.... for...”

JOHN: (Not spitefully) For denying you three times?

PETER: How did you know that?

JOHN: (He speaks to his notepad.) The Rabbi told us, remember, on the night before he died.

JAMES: I remember that. (Ashamed) He said we’d all desert him.

PETER: Ya, but that’s not as bad as what I did.

JAMES: That’s probably true. You did pretend not to know the Rabbi three times, and that was after you chopped off that servant’s ear.

PETER: Look, this doesn’t leave the room okay?

JAMES: Fine by me. I’m just as guilty.

PETER: John?

(JOHN is looking off into the distance, mouthing words.)

PETER: Johnny?

JOHN: Doesn’t leave this room. Got it. (Suddenly starts writing furiously)

(PETER continues pacing, looking at his watch, and glancing down the aisles.)

JAMES: Hey Johnny, what are you working on now? Another novel that’ll never get published?

JOHN: (Bashfully) Oh, nothing, nothing really. Nothing big that is. Just something small, v-very simple.

JAMES: Let me see.

JOHN: No. It’s not finished yet. I’m still working through it. I’ve just started really.

JAMES: Come on. I won’t laugh. Would I laugh at something my brother made? Let me see.

JOHN: Well….

JAMES: Come on. (Snatches the pad out of his hands)

JOHN: It’s just the opening lines to a poem I’ve been working on. (Starry-eyed, looks off into the distance)

JAMES: (Reading) “Sing to me of the man, Muse, the man of time and truths; not bound by flesh, once he had burst forth from the hallowed grave of death.” (JAMES conceals a laugh; JOHN grabs the notebook back.) No, I think it’s good. It sounds…uh…Greek.

JOHN: I knew you’d say that.

PETER: Look! Here comes Phil and Nate. (Pointing towards the audience)

(ANDREW emerges seemingly from nowhere on stage.)

JAMES: Andrew! Where’d you come from?

ANDREW: I’ve been here the whole time. You didn’t think I wanted to miss the opening statements of this meeting, did you? Especially if it involves you guys! I mean you three were the cream of the crop! The chosen ones! You saw it all. It was like you had front seats to the game! You’ve got VIP passes to all the top miracles. I want in with you guys. You’re like…the three amigos…’cept you’re Jewish!

(PHILIP and NATHANIEL enter from the back of the sanctuary and make their way down to the front.)

PETER: Woah! Settle down there, little bro. Take a load off. (Sits him down, but ANDREW springs up and follows PETER as he continues to pace, mimicking his every move.) Just how much of our conversation did you hear as you were sitting there the whole time?

ANDREW: Every word… well I was trying to catch every word, but I do admit my ADD was kicking in a bit…so I really didn’t hear much at all… nope, not a bit.

PETER: Good.

ANDREW: I did hear something about you denying the Lord three times. Is it true?

(By this time NATHANIEL and PHILIP have reached the door. NATE knocks.)

PETER: Look Andrew, this doesn’t leave the room okay?

ANDREW: Anything you say bro; you’re the greatest! (ANDREW follows PETER as he goes to answer the door.)

PETER: “He is the Vine”?

NATE & PHILIP: “We are the branches.”

ANDREW: You come up with the greatest passwords, man.

(Password confirmed. PETER opens the door. JOHN shakes his head in the background.)

PETER: Philip! Nate! Shalom! Come in! Glad you could make it!

(PETER exchanges embraces with PHILIP and NATE. ANDREW does the exact same thing. JAMES merely waves from across the room. As NATE, JAMES, and PETER carry the conversation center stage, PHILIP crosses to JOHN, the men embrace and mimic animated, excited talk.)

NATE: All praise goes to our risen Lord, Jesus the Christ!

PETER, ANDREW, JAMES: Amen!

NATE: What a week, hu Peter? Who would of believed that we would see our Savior again after they nailed him up like a criminal? Who would have believed it?

JAMES: Thomas certainly wouldn’t, unless he’d seen it himself.

NATE: You’re right about that, but it’s true. It’s all true. The Savior’s alive! And he’s appeared to us, twice now! I can hardly believe myself now. All our foolish doubts are gone. (To PETER) We were stupid to have been so afraid after his death, and stupid to have hid from the Jewish priests while the Rabbi was in the grave.

PETER: I know exactly how you feel.

ANDREW: Me too!

NATE: After all, I knew our Rabbi was the Messiah. From the day he said he saw me praying beneath the fig tree, I knew he was the Son of God. I knew he was the King of Israel.

JAMES: What I want to know is how he’s going to set up his kingdom.

PETER: I wonder what he’ll do to the Romans.

ANDREW: He’ll probably chop off all their ears at once!

(PETER fake laughs as he slaps ANDREW on the back of the head.)

NATE: Then they really won’t have ears to hear.

PETER: I wish some of us didn’t have ears.

(They pretend to continue the conversation—PETER scolding ANDREW and NATE acting as peacemaker—as they drift off to the side. Attention is now on PHILIP and JOHN.)

PHILIP: How goes the poem, Johnny?

JOHN: Oh, you know. I get these inspirations. They’re turning like a… like a twisted vine in my mind, but when it comes to this stubborn pen and paper, they just won’t cooperate. I’m afraid the muse is gone.

PHILIP: Let me see what you’ve got.

JOHN: Oh, it’s not finished. I’d hate to have anyone look at my unfinished work.

PHILIP: (Genuine) I won’t laugh. You write good stuff, Johnny.

JOHN: Well… okay, but I just wrote it, so it might have some mistakes.

PHILIP: (Reading) “It was the best of times, after it was the worst of times, it was the age of His wisdom, while it was the age of our foolishness.”

JAMES: (Sarcastically) That’s original.

PHILIP: Don’t listen to him, Johnney.

(As this has been taking place. MATTHEW and THOMAS walk down an aisle towards the stage. MATTHEW is carrying a stack of bibles.)

JOHN: (Dejected, bows his head and takes back his notepad.) I was trying to show different contrasts, you know? But I guess I failed, hu?

PHILIP: (Genuinely) No. It’s great! I like it. It’s like that Psalm about all our sorrows turning to joy. And let’s face it; we were fools to have been afraid. And his wisdom is beyond our understanding. I mean he conquered the grave!

PETER: (Overhearing) And he’s going to do way more than that. I just know it! That’s what this meeting’s for and we’d begin if certain someone’s would hurry up and get here…

NATE: Don’t worry Peter. They’re coming. We all want to know how the Lord’s going to set up his eternal kingdom.

JAMES: And make those half-bred Samaritans know what’s what.

ANDREW: And if they don’t figure out what’s what… (ANDREW makes a thunder sound effect.) Lighting from heaven! BAMO! Right Peter?

PETER: I don’t know little bro, but whatever’s gonna happen, it’s gonna be big.

ANDREW: Ya!

(THOMAS knocks on the door. PETER goes to answer it, ANDREW following closely. PETER is annoyed with ANDREW, steps aside to let ANDREW give the password.)

ANDREW: “He is the vine?”

THOMAS: Umm…. Let’s see… (To MATTHEW) What’s the password again?

MATTHEW: I haven’t the foggiest idea. Peter keeps changing it.

THOMAS: We are the…grapes?

ANDREW: Nope!

THOMAS: We are the… harvesters?

ANDREW: Nope!

PETER: (Impatiently) Just let them in Andrew! There’s really no need for passwords anymore.

NATE: That’s right! What are the chief priests gonna do now? He’s alive!

(ANDREW opens the door.)

ANDREW, & NATE: Matthew! Thomas! Shalom! Welcome.

(NATE helps MATTHEW with his stack of bibles. JOHN, PHILIP, & JAMES greet the new comers from their seats)

PETER: It’s about time.

NATE: What are all these, Matthew?

MATTHEW: Our assets my fellow apostle, the scriptures: you mentioned that we would be discussing the national ramifications of our Rabbi’s resurrection, yes, indeed our Savior’s glorification, yes, indeed his reconciliation of all scripture. This is indeed pivotal. (Passing out the bibles) So for our study I’ve brought the King James Version for your name’s sake, James, son of Zebedee. The New Living Translation for your sincerity, Nathaniel also known as Bartholomew. The New International Version for you, Philip of Bethsaida, in case you decide to travel internationally. Here’s the Message for your passions, Simon Peter. And In keeping with familial ties, here’s a message for you too, Andrew, brother of Peter—that’s a liability. I’m keeping the infallible, revised New American Standard Version for Thomas and myself. And I couldn’t for the life of me decide a version that would fit your creative channels, John son of Zebedee, so you will just have to settle for the New English Tanslation/Good News Bible.

THOMAS: I doubt he’ll use it.

PETER: Excellent! Now we just have to wait for the other people who think dusk means darkness to get here.

MATTHEW: Ahem, I believe the Oxford English Dictionary describes dusk as “the darker stage of twilight,” which, if you looked out the window, is precisely at this moment.

(PETER rolls his eyes)

MATTHEW: And I regret to inform you that Simon is at an anti-tax meeting with his zealot friends.

THOMAS: And Thaddeus and James II are clocking in extra hours at their jobs.

PETER: What?! I can’t believe they’d miss this. Do they know what they’re missing?

THOMAS: I doubt it.

JAMES: Peter, you’ve called a meeting every night for the last two weeks. We can’t come all the time.

ANDREW: (Rallying to PETER’s cause) Well, they need to get their priorities straight.

PETER: Thanks little bro. (Sits him down) I guess we’ll just do without them. (Clears his throat.) This meeting is officially in session.

(Disciple’s sit down from left to right: ANDREW, THOMAS, MATTHEW, NATE, PHILIP, JOHN, JAMES.)

PETER: Now I’m sure you’re wondering—

NATE: Wait! I think it would be a good idea if we prayed first.

(Disciples nod their heads in agreement)

PETER: Of course. You’re right. Nate, will you lead us in a Teffilah?

(NATE nods, opens his bible, and searching for the right prayer.)

PHILIP: (After a prolonged silence) Try Psalms.

NATE: (Nate continues to flip through the bible. After awhile, he gets frustrated, shuts it, and raises his hands heavenward.) Our Father, which art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. (As he goes on, one by one the other disciples join him until they are all saying the prayer out loud, together.) Thy kingdom come; thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread. And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive them that trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation; but deliver us from evil. For thine is the kingdom, the power, and the glory, for ever and ever. Amen

PETER: Thanks Nate. Now, I bet you’re all wondering why I’ve scheduled yet another meeting. Well, after last night’s discussion—

JAMES: (As an aside) argument is more like it.

PETER: —I think the only logical thing for us to do now is to search the scriptures and discover what exactly Yeshua, the Messiah, has come to do…you know…so we’re ready.

MATTHEW: (Astutely) This does not call for a meeting. We already know that the Messiah was to unite his kingdom. (He opens his bible, clears his throat). Isaiah 11:10 and 12: “Then in that day the nations will resort to the root of Jesse, who will stand as a signal for the peoples; and His resting place will be glorious. And He will lift up a standard for the nations, and assemble the banished ones of Israel, and will gather the dispersed of Judah from the four corners of the earth.”

JAMES: (Holds up his bible) Anybody want the King James version of that, just to make things more complicated?

(General consensus: “no”)

MATTHEW: So you see: the prophet Isaiah foretold that the Messiah would consolidate all the scattered Israelites.

NATE: You’re right. We’ve been taught this from the crib, but how will this come about?

MATTHEW: My dear Nathaniel, if the Rabbi could silence tempests and disperse demons, I do not doubt the distance his voice might travel to summon all Israelites to himself.

NATE: Too true, Matt. Oh sorry: Matthew.

JAMES: Ya, but how’s that gonna work with all these arguing groups of Israelites?

PETER: What do you mean, James?

JAMES: Do you really think the Pharisees, Sadducees, Essenes, and Zealots can agree on anything other than the price of fish?

PETER: No, no, there won’t be a bunch of bickering groups of people. They’ll all be united under the Messiah. (Fumbles through his bible) Where is that verse? It says something about how he’ll set everything right.

(The disciples thumb through their bibles.)

JOHN: (Out of the blue) How about this one, guys? Genesis 1:1-2 Good News Translations? “In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth. The earth was without form and void, and darkness was over the face of the deep. And the Spirit of God was hovering over the face of the waters.”

JAMES: Ummm…. And what does that have to do with the new Israel?

JOHN: (Stammering) Don’t you see? He- He was in the beginning and- and- the spirit of God…and…

PHILIP: (Scowling at JOHN) I follow you, Johnny. Yeshua was from the beginning, just like Micah said in Micah 5:2 “But you, Bethlehem Ephrathah, though you are small among the clans of Judah, out of you will come for me one who will be ruler over Israel, whose origins are from of old, from ancient times.”

MATTHEW: “Days of eternity” is what the New American Standard reads, if anyone wants a credible source.

NATE: Wait. Our Rabbi was from Nazareth not Bethlehem.

JOHN: No. He was born in Bethlehem.

JAMES: How do you know, Johnny?

JOHN: Yeshua’s mother, Mary, told me. They had gone there for the Roman Census.

JAMES: Anyways… back to the original question. I think I got the verse you were looking for Peter. Jeremiah 33:15 “In those days, and at that time, will I cause the Branch of righteousness to grow up unto David; and he shall execute judgment and righteousness in the land.”

ANDREW: He’s going to execute people?

NATE: That just means he’s going to bring about judgment and righteousness.

ANDREW: Oh.

PETER: That’s perfect. The Rabbi will unite all the tribes of Israel because of his just and righteous rule. People won’t argue anymore about angels and demons and life after death. We’ll all know the answers to these questions.

ANDREW: Ya! We’ll be super geniuses.

JAMES: And what about the Romans and the Samaritans? What’s going to happen to them?

(Silence as the disciples flip through their bibles)

NATE: I don’t know if this has to do with anything, but I think it’s about the Messiah.

PETER: Let’s hear it.

NATE: It’s in Isaiah 9:6-7: “For a child is born to us, a son is given to us. The government will rest on his shoulders. And he will be called: Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace. His government and its peace will never end. He will rule with fairness and justice from the throne of his ancestor David for all eternity. The passionate commitment of the Lord of Heaven’s Armies will make this happen!”

PETER: Aha! Heaven’s armies. Did you catch that James?

JAMES: Ya. It’s not very detailed though. You’d think that Isaiah would have a little more to say about Rome getting smashed if he spends half his book predicting Babylon’s destruction.

PETER: There’s a little more later in Isaiah 11:1-4: “A green Shoot will sprout from Jesse's stump, from his roots a budding Branch. The life-giving Spirit of God will hover over him, the Spirit that brings wisdom and understanding, the Spirit that gives direction and builds strength, the Spirit that instills knowledge and Fear-of-God. Fear-of-God will be all his joy and delight. He won't judge by appearances, won't decide on the basis of hearsay. He'll judge the needy by what is right; render decisions on earth’s poor with justice.”

MATTHEW: (Scoffing) Would anyone like to hear the proper translation of that passage?

(General consensus: “no”)

PETER: Justice, justice, justice: I keep hearing that the chosen one, the shoot of Jesse will bring about justice. But where’s the justice? The Romans keep taxing us heavily, and all the tax collectors they hire are corrupt—no offense Matthew.

MATTHEW: None taken. You’re assessment is accurate.

PETER: The Pharisees and Sadducees keep making up new stipulations to our already strict Levitical laws. The poor are still poor, and the corrupt rich are still rich. Do you guys see any justice in this, cause I don’t?

ANDREW: Nope, no justice at all.

JOHN: Peter, surely you don’t want justice?

PETER: Of course I do.

JOHN: Justice for yourself? For your sins?

ANDREW: All three of them.

JAMES: (To JOHN) Hey, lay off! Just cause your Mr. Perfect doesn’t mean you have to point out everyone else’s faults.

PHILIP: Don’t listen to him, Johnny; he’s just jealous cause he can’t write.

PETER: Would you guys shut up?

THOMAS: Who died and made you our leader?

MATTHEW: Indeed! I can’t recall a single instance when you’ve been accurate about anything.

PETER: That’s not true. Well, I was right about one thing.

THOMAS: What’s that?

PETER: James and John are not going to sit at Jesus’ right and left hand.

ANDREW: Ya! Jesus said the youngest would be the greatest in the kingdom of heaven, and that means me!

(The whole room erupts into argument. Each disciple argues consistent with his own character, except NATE who merely adds to the noise with pointless shouting.)

JOHN: BROTHERS! I don’t think the Rabbi would want us fighting like this. I think he would want us to… love one another.

(Awkward prolonged silence)

JAMES: (Holding up his fishing net) Finished. (Looks off into the distance with a sparkle in his eye) Well, this meeting is getting nowhere. Fishing anyone?

PETER: (After a moment’s thought) Let’s do it.

(Everyone jointly agrees to do just this. They begin getting up.)

MATTHEW: Gentlemen, I leave you to your blue-collar pursuits.

Part II: In the Boat at Night

(Lights dim. All except MATTHEW form a single file line down the front steps. PETER is in the front. JOHN is in the back, still scribbling away at his pad of paper. From back to front PHILIP, THOMAS, JAMES, NATE, and ANDREW pantomime paddling alternately like a canoe. PETER, takes off his jacket and throws it at his feet and then stands at the front of the line like George Washington crossing the Potomac River. He suddenly becomes aware of something strange. He turns around.)

PETER: What is this? A Canoe?

(The disciples look at one another, spread out, and make their formation more like a fishing boat. JAMES handles the net. When he tosses it into the sea, the men stop paddling.)

NATE: Wow, it’s dark out here.

JAMES: That’s because the moon’s almost set. See. (Pointing to the horizon) It’s almost early morning, perfect time for fishing.

PHILIP: Look at that water, Johnny. It’s so still, like glass.

JOHN: It’s always like this this early. I used to love coming out here to fish. It’s so peaceful.

JAMES: Except I was always the one doing the fishing, you were scribbling in that notepad of yours.

JOHN: How could I let such beauty, such tranquility go unpublished?

(JAMES rolls his eyes.)

PETER: Maybe we’ll see the Rabbi coming to us on the water again.

(Everyone pauses and looks out to where PETER is looking to see if it’s true)

THOMAS: (Shaking his head) I doubt it. Great men never enter a scene the same way twice. And you know what they say, “If you want to walk on water, you have to get out of the boat.”

PHILIP: Made any progress on that poem, Johnny?

JOHN: Ya. I’ve rewritten it again.

PHILIP: Why? I thought it was good.

JOHNNY: No. It didn’t do the Rabbi justice, so I changed it.

PHILIP: How’s it read now?

JOHN: (Reading) “Midway this way of life we’re bound upon, we woke to find ourselves in a dark night, before the Messiah was wholly raised upon that dawn.”

JAMES: Mmmmm Latin?

(JOHN scowls, but he’s starting to not let JAMES’ comments affect him.)

PETER: I just don’t get it. If Yeshua came to establish his kingdom here on earth, why didn’t he tell us how we should prepare for it? You’d think he would have told us something, especially when he sent us out to preach about the Kingdom of Heaven. Remember that?

JAMES: That was more than a year ago.

NATE: I remember that. He sent us out to proclaim that the Kingdom of God was at hand. We were even given the power to heal the sick and cast out demons in His name. Wasn’t that amazing! We told people they needed to repent for the Kingdom of Heaven was near.

ANDREW: Hey, that sounds just like what John the Baptist said when I was following him.

PETER: Ya, but I bet John the Baptist knew what he was talking about. I don’t think we had a clue. I know I didn’t have a clue. I was proclaiming a kingdom I knew nothing about. I even had a little cousin of mine in Capernaum ask me if I was the king’s personal bodyguard, and for a moment I thought I might be. I was all ready to sell the clothes off my back to buy a sword. I would of gotten one of those short blades: a real jabber.

NATE: You’re no guiltier than the rest of us, Peter. When I was in Cana a woman asked me if the new king of Israel had a wife yet, and I told her the new king probably wouldn’t marry until after he’d pushed the Romans out of Israel.

JAMES: Doesn’t look like that’s going to happen anytime soon.

THOMAS: And I doubt the Rabbi will ever get married.

NATE: Maybe that’s where the Rabbi is now.

ANDREW: Getting married?

NATE: No, traveling to all the regions, gathering his armies.

PETER: Think guys. Do any of you remember him mentioning an army? Do you remember anything he said about his kingdom?

(Pause)

ANDREW: I remember that he said his kingdom was like a mustard seed.

NATE: (Remembering) Yes, and he also said it was like yeast.

JAMES: (So-what-attitude) And like buried treasure.

THOMAS: And like a landowner who hired workers throughout the day.

JOHN: And a prodigal son, returning to his father.

PHILIP: And ten talents, given to different servants.

ANDREW: What’s a talent?

PETER: It’s a coin.

JAMES: He also said the Kingdom of Heaven was like a net cast into the ocean, (He casts out his net.) except that net caught fish.

ANDREW: Ha you’re only catching reeds. (Childishly laughing)

JAMES: Well if everyone wasn’t talking so loudly, I would of caught something by now.

(Prolonged silence. JESUS, as covertly as possible, comes out and sits in a chair on stage right. He prods a fake fire with a stick.)

PHILIP: The sky’s turning gray.

JOHN: The sun should be rising in an hour or two. Hey Philip, how does this sound: “Twelve households, all alike in dignity in fair Galilee, where we lay our scene, from ancient prophesies break to new perceptivity, where Savior’s blood makes uncivil hands clean.”

JAMES: Was that English?

PHILIP: Once again Johnny, you’ve hit it right on the head, but the question is, do you like it?

JOHN: It’s okay, I guess. I think I could do better though.

NATE: Hey Johnny, you should ask the Rabbi how to start your poem. I’m sure he could give you an infallible opening sentence.

THOMAS: I don’t doubt that.

PETER: While we’re submitting questions to the Rabbi, I think I’d like to ask why he didn’t leave us with any further instructions about his kingdom?

JOHN: Peter, the teacher told us lots of things to do. They just had nothing to do with setting up a kingdom.

PETER: Really like what?

(Lights begin to get brighter. Morning is coming)

JOHN: Well… like…(He flips back in his notepad to see what he wrote earlier.) He told us to remain in him, and he would remain in us.

PHILIP: Ya, and he told us to love one another and our enemies.

JAMES: He told us to wash one another’s feet, and give away our possessions.

THOMAS: He told us not to judge and to turn the other cheek.

ANDREW: He said watch out so we wouldn’t be deceived.

NATE: He told us to trust in him and not to be afraid of those who kill the body.

PETER: Yes, yes and he said we must deny ourselves, take up our crosses, and follow him.

JAMES: And he said he’d make us fishers of men, (Holding up his net and examining the contents) not reeds, rocks, and… what is this? A snicker’s wrapper?

JESUS: (Calling from the shore) Friends! Haven’t you caught any fish?

PETER & JAMES: No!

ANDREW: Only reeds.

JESUS: Throw your net on the right side of the boat, and you will find some.

(Everyone looks at one another doubtfully.)

JAMES: (Quietly and sarcastically to those in the boat) Ooooh, is that where all the fish are hiding? They’re on the other side of boat. I thought they were on the left side. What the heck?

NATE: Here, give me the net.

(JAMES tosses it over. NATE awkwardly spreads the net into the ocean.)

JAMES: No, you’re doing it wrong. You’re not going to catch anything like that. You have to spread it out. Here. Move over. Let a fisherman do the job.

(As JAMES crosses to the other side of the boat, all the men jerk to one side as the weight of their catch tips their boat to that side. The following 6 lines are delivered overlapping one another.)

THOMAS: I don’t believe it!

PHILIP: Look at all the fish!

NATE: Help me.

JAMES: Grab that end.

ANDREW: We’ve caught all the fish in the lake! (Doing a victory dance) Woohoo!

PETER: Move over! You’re going to tip the boat.

JOHN: Peter! (Pointing to JESUS) It’s the Lord!

Part III: On the Shore Early in the Morning

(PETER takes one look, grabs his jacket, and jumps out of the boat. PETER pantomimes wadding though deep water. The other disciples pantomime fast rowing as they change their formation so it’s going left to right on the stage.)

ANDREW: Hurry up! We’re going to miss something big!

JAMES: Settle down Andrew. Nothing big is gonna happen without John being there.

NATE: Someone grab that far corner of the net. It’s sinking.

PHILIP: I got it.

(When PETER gets to JESUS, he falls at his feet.)

PETER: (Looking up at JESUS. This is his moment. He giggles.) Hi.

JESUS: (Laughs and brings PETER to his feet.) Peter, go help your brothers bring some of the fish you’ve just caught; we’ll all have breakfast together. I’ve already cooked some bread.

PETER: Yes Lord! (Runs back to where the disciples have pantomimed getting out of their boat and are now dragging the net towards JESUS.) Don’t strain yourselves, guys! I’m coming! The Lord wants to have breakfast with us. Here, give me that! (He grabs the front end of the net and leads them to the fire. One by one the disciples stop helping him until he’s the only one dragging the net. The disciples go ahead of him to embrace JESUS one by one. They mouth excited chatter.) Don’t worry about it. I can handle this by myself. No problem. Almost there. Just a bit further. There. (Panting, he collapses in front of the fire.) Wow that’s a lot of fish.

JESUS: Looks like 153 fish. Don’t you think John?

JOHN: Yes lord. (He scribbles this sum down on his notepad.)

JAMES: Wow! And they didn’t even rip my net. It’s a good thing; (To JESUS) I spent half the night fixing it.

JESUS: I know. I saw you.

(JAMES laughs nervously.)

JESUS: I saw all of you.

(Everyone is silent. They hang their heads, clear their throats, scuff their feet, knowing that JESUS has heard their arguing too.)

JESUS: But come. Bring that Perch, Peter. Let’s eat.

(The disciples pantomime taking the fish, putting them on the skewers, and holding them over the fire. They assemble on the floor around the fire in the same places that they were during their meeting: starting from Jesus’ right: JOHN, PHILIP, NATE, THOMAS, ANDREW, PETER, & JAMES. They small talk: ex: ANDREW: wow, look at the size of this one. THOMAS: Someone hand me a skewer. JAMES: Where’s the salt. While JESUS joins them, they keep a parent-like distance from him, showing him things occasionally like a child would his father. In the commotion, PETER crosses behind JESUS to get a skewer.)

JESUS: (As an aside to PETER only.) Simon Peter, son of John?

PETER: (Looks like a deer caught in the headlights) L-lord…I-I-I…I’m- (Starts to get weepy)

JESUS: Do you really love me as much as you said you did on the night of the Passover? When you said if all others desert me, you would not?

PETER: (Weakly) Lord. You know that I have a great affection for you.

JESUS: Then feed my lambs. (Motions towards the other disciples)

PETER: (Glances at the stick in his hands and the disciples) Yes, lord! (Returns to the fire) Make way. The cook is here. I’m going to roast you boys some fine fish this morning. Who hasn’t got one yet? Nate? James?

JAMES: We’re all hooked up, Peter.

ANDREW: Ha I get it. All hooked up.

JESUS: (Stands) Once again what I say is the truth. (Starts slow. The disciples are attentive.) The Kingdom of Heaven is like a merchant looking for fine pearls. When he finds one of great value, he goes away, sells everything he has, and buys it. Do you still not understand?

(The disciples look at one another)

NATE: Lord, we understand that you’re the Son of God and the King of Israel.

(Disciples nod in agreement.)

ANDREW: And that you’re the Lamb of God who takes away the sins of the world just like John the Baptist said.

JAMES: And that you’ve come to unite Israel…(Scratches his head)…somehow.

JESUS: There’s still much for you to understand, things that you would think are foolishness without the Spirit. For my wisdom is not man’s wisdom. That is why I have spoken in parables, and I have uttered things hidden, but a time is coming when the Spirit of God will open your eyes and you will understand. (Sits)

ANDREW: Lord, we want to know now.

JESUS: The knowledge of Heaven’s kingdom has already been given to you because you have remained with me from the beginning. You have seen what was written about long ago: that the Messiah would suffer, die, and rise from the dead on the third day. For the Messiah didn’t come into the world to judge the world, but to save it from its sins.

(The disciples have an awed look, though they don’t really get it.)

PETER: But Lord, when—

JESUS: (Stern) Simon Peter, son of John, do you truly love me?

PETER: (Caught off guard) Y-yes Lord, I love you in as much as I am able.

JESUS: Then take care of my sheep.

(PETER sinks down into his seat, hurt: looking at the other disciples and trying to understand what JESUS means.)

ANDREW: (Whispering to PETER) I didn’t know the Rabbi had a flock of sheep. Where are they?

PETER: Shhhh…

JESUS: This knowledge is too great for mere human understanding. Because now a righteousness from God, apart from the law, is being proclaimed for all those who have fallen short of God’s perfection. God has done this by sending an atoning sacrifice for your sins. The price has been paid. And you are witnesses of all these things. You will tell it to the nations, saying: ‘There is forgiveness of sins for all who repent, and believe in the one God sent’…for those who believe in me. (Stands to go)

THOMAS: Lord, you aren’t leaving us again, are you?

JESUS: It’s best that I leave, because unless I go, the Spirit won’t come to you. And unless the Spirit comes to you, how will the world be convicted of God’s righteousness, and of the coming judgment, and of the world’s sin: the sin of refusing to believe in me? Don’t be troubled or afraid. I have overcome so that you may overcome as well. Remain in me and I will remain in you. Surely I will be with you always to the very end of time.

(JESUS walks down the front steps and starts to go down the center aisle. The disciples look at one another, baffled.)

PETER: (Running after him) But Lord we don’t understand. Your kingdom? The army? Your teachings.

JESUS: (Stern) Simon Peter, son of John, do you love me?

PETER: (Very Distressed and tired of being only asked this one question, he falls on his knees in front of Jesus.) Lord! You know me inside and out! You know the shallowness of my heart. I cannot claim to love you any more than I do.

JESUS: Then feed my sheep. (JESUS motions towards the audience.) Peter, listen to me, when you were younger you dressed yourself and went where you wanted; but when you are old you will stretch out your hands, and someone else will dress you and lead you where you don’t want to go. (JESUS puts both his hands on PETER’S shoulders) But until that day comes, Peter, follow me.

(JESUS begins to walk down the aisle. JOHN gets up to follow JESUS.)

PETER: (Looking back to the apostles) Was that a prophesy? Is that’s what’s going to happen to me? Man, that sounds grim. (To JESUS) Wait! Lord, tell me more. Is that what’s going to happen to everyone else? What about… uh… John? What about Johnny?

JESUS: (JESUS pauses and looks back) If I want him to remain alive until I return, what’s that got to do with you? You, Peter, must follow me. (JESUS continues to walk down the aisle.)

PETER: Yes Lord.

(PETER follows JESUS down the center aisle. The other disciples get up to follow. JOHN waits at the bottom of the steps.)

ANDREW: (To NATE) What did the Rabbi say?

NATE: He said John was gonna to live forever.

ANDREW: Wow! Cool! I want to live forever.

THOMAS: (To JAMES) Hey James, where are we going?

JAMES: Who knows, but we’re following the Lord. (Before leaving, JAMES gives JOHN a big and unexpected hug.) You write good, Johnny.

(All the disciples file out until JOHN is the only one left at the front. He stares off into space. Suddenly, he snatches the pencil off his ear and scribbles onto his notepad.)

JOHN: “In the beginning was the Word…” (He nods his head and follows the other disciples out.)

(Before the lights go out a lone character walks on stage: SAUL. His arms are crossed and he’s looking after JESUS skeptically. For a moment he looks like he’s going to forget his skepticism and follow, but then he catches himself and exits stage right. Lights out.)

THE END

Mary's Lullaby

2008-12-11T17:41:00.000-08:00

I have no affinity for sappy extra-biblical Christmas songs that portray baby Jesus in pastels through soft camera lenses. I put those songs in the same category as 99 Cents Stores, teacher’s pins, Christmas lawn inflations, Macdonald’s hamburgers, Hallmark’s religious cards, pink stucco, and baby shower games. I can hardly sing a line of some such songs without whispering some snide remark as a tag-line to the person next to me.

“The Night is dark, with snow descending,

Bells gaily chime a festal song!”

You must mean cowbells.

And what the heck is a festal?

“His Mother bending over him smiles

Upon his face sublime.”

Until it was burping time

and then he spit up quite a bit,

and it wasn’t sublime

“No warm, white covering in the manger

To keep the Babe from bitter cold;”

What is this? Siberia?

They didn’t have a cloak?!

What about the swaddling clothes?

Heresy!

“Only cobwebs for the stranger

From rafter high they hang gray and old.”

Oh, I see.

They wrapped the baby in cobwebs.

Good thinking.

“He on the fragrant hay is sleeping,

Warmed by the breath of friendly cows;”

AH! Putrid!

“The oxen gentle watch are keeping

Around the little Child divine.”

And fourteen year old Mary is cool with these two-ton beasts crowded around her son,

who’s lying where they normally eat lunch!

A Frenchman wrote that song. It’s called “Noel.” I think it should be called “Murder in Bethlehem Stable.” Oh dear. I get myself into quite a bit of trouble on Wednesday nights during choir rehearsals. Kathy Little tries to keep Kristy Cowell and me in check, but we’re as obedient as fourteen-year-olds. At least we know not to let cows near babies.

We doodle and whisper and giggle, then put on our straight faces for the next riveting song! Oh my! What will happen to poor baby Jesus next? I leave you to your own commentary.

"Amid the roses Mary sits and rocks her Jesus child,

While amid the treetops sighs the breeze so warm and mild.

And soft sweetly sings a bird upon the bough;

Ah baby, dear one, slumber now.

Happy is Thy laughter;

Holy is Thy silent rest,

Lay Thy head in slumber fondly on Thy Mother’s breast.

Ah baby, dear one, slumber now."

Aside from the dizzy feeling I get when I read these words, the melody is very soothing. It makes me think of uncharted waters like a construction worker considering biochemistry. There is a field of study in which I’m not well versed, nor am I accustomed to think it valuable, but I am wrong here. The carpenter shouldn’t think less of the biochemists because some biochemists choose their jobs and others are thrown into the mess without knowing the difference between an ectoplasm and a mitochondria. Nor should the carpenter think less of his biochemist friend because the carpenter can readily point at the fruits of his labor while the biochemist only hopes that his efforts will benefit the world someday. I am speaking of motherhood.

I know nothing of cradling a newborn, but the whole ordeal looks as delicate as catching soap bubbles on the tip of your finger. I’m reminded of how my little sister and her friend killed my brother’s hamster by squeezing it too tight. Oh dear.

Their honeydew melon skin is transparent, their sleeping eyes look like brush strokes from a Japanese brush, their little mouths make their cheeks ripple like drops in a bucket of water. Such tiny things: one moment their inside, the next moment their out. There you go. Here’s your baby. Sustain it in this world of genocide, porno conventions, ego-trips, materialism, and broken hearts. Fear, hate, pain, and uncertainty: they will know all these soon. But until then…

Before then…

Ah baby, dear one, slumber now.

Pennies Thus Far

2008-12-09T16:49:00.000-08:00

"The world is fairly studded and strewn with pennies cast broadside from a generous hand. But—and this is the point—who gets excited by a mere penny? If you follow one arrow, if you crouch motionless on a bank to watch a tremulous ripple thrill on the water and are rewarded by the sight of a muskrat kit paddling from its den, will you count that sight a chip of copper only, and go your rueful way? It is a dire poverty indeed when a man is so malnourished and fatigued that he won't stoop to pick up a penny. But if you cultivate a healthy poverty and simplicity, so that finding a penny will literally make your day, then, since the world is in fact planted in pennies, you have with your poverty bought a lifetime of pays. It is that simple. What you see is what you get." -Annie Dillard

My homeroom class of thirty-one has begun bringing pennies to class to help me support my World Vision sponsor child, Rocio, from Ecuador. I projected her picture on my LCD screen and told my students that I didn't want dollars, quarters, dimes, or nickels. I wanted pennies. Heights already collects enough money from the students for various reasons: needy families, the eighth grade D.C. trip, the homeless, a school in an Indian Reservation, technology updates... I didn't want to burden my kids with more incentives, so I made it simple. Bring in pennies. Help Rocio in Ecuador. What you don't bring in, I'll pay.

In the first week one boy brought two gallon-sized Ziplock bags full of pennies. I ripped the bags on the way home and spent all afternoon stacking them in their paper sleeves. The next week, if I'd forgotten to pass around the old salsa jar with Rocio's picture taped on the top, the students reminded me. When I forgot, they came up after class with their baggies full of pennies. I don't imagine that the pennies cost much for the students to give, but they support the livelihood of a six-year old child in Ecuador.

I'm finding pennies of my own as well: the golden fringe on the Crape Myrtle's leaves when the setting sun catches their color, the knock-knock of my neighbor's trash cans every Tuesday as the local trash-diggers search them for recyclables, the anticipated vibration in my coat pocket as my phone announces Phil's noon call, the juvenile layer of winter grass that grows beneath the hollow mustard in the Whittier Hills, the 7:55 bell that makes my heart quicken as if I'm about to give a performance, the ignored T-shirt lying at the foot of the bed every morning without fail, the fourteenth successfully completed Sudoku, and the suppressed giggles held back by lips that strain like the mouth of a balloon—I still cannot understand why Math is so funny to those second period girls, but if they can find humor in changing percentages to decimals, they'll find many more joys in life.

Hints Thus Far

2008-10-13T14:06:00.000-07:00

The following are several things that I've started doing that have helped keep my life simple and sweet.

Hint 1: Keep green onions in a jar of water by the window rather than in a plastic bag at the bottom of your refrigerator. They will last weeks this way. Change water every several days.

Hint 2: If you have citrus trees, make lime and lemon cubes when the fruit drops from the trees faster than you can eat them.

Hint 3: Never chop up just one onion. Chop up several and keep them in the freezer. Be sure to label the onion sizes on the outside of the ziplock bags.

Hint 4: Schedule your dinners for a month. Make a list of all the ingredients you need, and make one major shopping trip each month. Meals are flexible; move them as your plans change.

Hint 5: Decorations need not cost a cent. Collect seed pods, rocks, colorful leaves, berries, and branches to arrange and liven up your home.

Hint 6: Remember the Sabbath day and keep it holy.

Hint 7: If you aren't going to remember something, write it down. I keep a little red book with me where ever I go. My mom keeps her palm pilot. Phil keeps his phone. If I remember something (instructions for my students, groceries I need to buy, an errand to run, a bill to pay, a gift idea) I put it into the notebook to prevent the idea from escaping into oblivion.

Hint 8: Read children's books and never forget what it was like to be a child.

Hint 9: Unless you want to find little white worms crawling across your ceiling, throw all raw meat items into the outside trash can.

Hint 10: Use baking soda and vinegar to clean. It's cheaper, non-toxic, and work just as well.

Hint 11: Maintain a wardrobe of colors that never go out of style: kaki, black, white, and gray. If you hate being a plain jane, accessorize with color and style.

Hint 12: Memorize scripture. Make God's thoughts your thoughts. I keep a laminated chapter in my pocket and I pull it out whenever I start worrying about something.

Hint 13: When criticism start bubbling in your mind, and your mouth is about to pop, say a compliment instead and see what happens.

Hint 14: Keep old herb jars for quick salad dressing bottles. My favorite mix contains: one lemon cube from the freezer, twice as much olive oil, a pinch of salt, and garlic salt. I put the top on the jar and shake! Mmmm

Hint 15: Save empty peanut butter, pickle, and jam jars. Wash them well, then use them to tote soup to work—you won't have to worry about any toxins when you heat it up in the micro. I also use my jars to give people cookies or candy.

Hint 16: Put an empty pail under the shower head while you're waiting for the water to heat up. Use the water after your shower to water plants.

Hint 17: Plant a lemon tree and name him Lehman. Here's Phil transplanting Lehman from his jar into a pot outside.

The Hummingbirds

2008-09-01T10:27:00.001-07:00

The seedpods on the Purple Orchid tree have roasted in the summer sun, split, curled back like ribbon, and fallen onto the asphalt for the cars on Beverly Boulevard to crunch. Philip says a perfect crunch consists of four crackles, which is only possible with a seedpod twisted twice at both ends. Philip derives great satisfaction through crunching these pods: something new I learned about him a year ago when we moved into our new home. The seedpods sprinkled Beverly at that time too; the crape myrtles were blooming; the Whittier hills were brown with dry mustard. Not long after we moved into our house we found a tiny nest in the bushes outside our front door. It looked like a hummingbird’s nest, but I had no way of knowing.

Now, a year latter, I know. Another hummingbird or perhaps the same one has built her nest again in the swaying branches of our crape myrtle. Over our dinners Phil and I have watched her tend her young in between her snacks from the Agapanthus just below her nest. Now two needle-like beaks poke out of the top of her nest, and I imagine soon the unused nest will fall into the bushes again.

Rich and ripe summer has come to uptown Whittier, but this time, I welcome it with familiarity. I have seen these sights, smelt these smells before. The pregnant branches of our neighbor’s lime tree have spanned David Coxes backyard and dipped into our yard again. It’s heavy with limes that are waiting for the autumn sun to ripen them. Last year, to keep busy during a family progressive dinner, my grandpa, Papi, gathered all the fallen limes into a neat pyramid-like pile on the edge of our yard.

The Queen Palm in our pink-housed-neighbor’s yard has shot new fronds into the air like the Trans-America Building in San Francisco. The beige seed capsules at the palm’s side have peeled back, revealing the golden lace of pollen, which hangs out of the capsule like tinsel. The bees and Japanese beetles congregate around the golden seeds as if it were a buffet for kings.

The heat has shrunken our house doors back into their normal sizes so we can close them without lifting or slamming. Come October our neighbors will start littering their front yards with fake spider webs and gaudy Halloween decorations. I have seen them before.

The earth has spun a full circle and what has been gained? Who am I now? What has become of all the time? A year ago I roomed with my cat, visited the garden for my daily servings of vegetables, didn’t know the difference between a frying pan and a sauté pan, and was determined not to be the cutesy 50’s wife who sewed curtains and made chocolate chip cookies.

I know I’ve failed in keeping up appearances. When Mike Hamilton and his friend came by the house to drop off some spare dishes, his friend informed Mike that he felt like he’d just stepped out of an old fashion house. I suppose I don’t care so much about appearances. What I thought I ought to be is irrelevant. And what I’ve become is far more interesting. Who knows what we’ll be in the future?

Psalms 36

2008-04-05T19:54:00.000-07:00

Of Abby

1 Contend, O LORD, with those contending third period students;
be obnoxious to the kids who are so obnoxious to me.
2 Take up detention slips and referrals;
arise and come when the bell rings.
3 Brandish answers
against those who ask stupid questions.
Say to my soul,
"I am the teacher."
4 May those who speak without raising their hands
be disgraced and put to shame;
may those mouths that comment incessantly
be duct taped shut.
5 May they be like accelerated reader books,
driven to the lost and found by the day care teachers;
6 May their dilly dally walking,
drive them straight to the principle’s office.
7 Since they persist to talk without cause
and without cause drown out my own voice,
8 may mass quantities of homework overtake them by surprise—
may their parents give them extra chores,
may they lose their lunch money, to their ruin.
9 Then my soul will rejoice in the LORD
and delight in his salvation.
10 My whole being will exclaim,
"Who is like you, O LORD ?
You rescue the teachers from those dirty little Junior Highers,
the learned and exhausted from those who outtalk them."
11 Ruthless naggers come forward;
they question me on why they must have homework.
12 They repay me with laziness for all my efforts
and leave me working harder than they do to do their work.
13 Yet when they didn’t understand, I came to their desks
and humbled myself with answering questions.
When my answers returned to me with a, “I don’t get it,”
14 I went about mourning
as though for my friend or lost teaching career.
I bowed my head in grief
and wished I was back in bed.
15 But when I said 16 times 4 was 54, they gathered in glee;
attackers gathered against me when I was unaware.
They slandered me without ceasing.
16 Like the ungodly they maliciously mocked;
they whispered and scoffed at me.
17 O Lord, how long will you look on?
Rescue my life from their adolescence,
my precious life from these lion cubs.
18 Then I will give you thanks in the teachers lounge;
among the faculty and staff I will praise you.
19 Let not those 13-year-old’s gloat over me
who are my pupils against their will;
let not those who squeak their erasers
fling rubber bands across my classroom.
20 They do not speak coherently,
but devise unnecessary disturbances
to pester those who sit around them.
21 They gape at me and say, "Teacher! Teacher!
When does this class get out?"
22 O LORD, you have seen this; be not silent.
Do not be only in Bible class, O Lord.
23 Awake, and rise to my defense!
Teach for me, my God and Lord.
24 Give me many vacation days because of your righteousness
do not let them succeed over me, O Lord my God.
25 Do not let them think, "Aha, just what we wanted!"
or say, "She cannot make us do work."
26 May all who gloat over my frustrations
be put to shame and academic confusion;
may all who exalt their vocality over mine
be clothed with shame and disgrace.
27 May those who sympathize with my strife
rejoice in my vindication,
may they always say, "The LORD be exalted,
who delights in the well-being of his math teachers."
28 My tongue will speak of your righteousness
and of your praises all day long at Heights Christian Junior High.

Glorifying Sickness

2008-03-01T20:00:00.000-08:00

“She’s back!”

“Hey, we missed you!”

“Feeling better?”

I hadn’t expected to be bombarded by so many warm welcomes from the Granada Heights Friends Church choir after being absent for three weeks due to that terrible, fever, sore throat, vomiting, runny nose flu that’s been frequenting the masses. The choir’s welcomes made my return twice as sweet. I’d missed seeing Micah Cowell, whom Kristy brings every Wednesday practice to coo and gurgle and giggle. I’d missed Brian Trevor’s tangent stories. I missed trying to decipher between meso fortes and meso pianos. And I had missed the sound of our voices working together.

Upon my return I learned that I haven’t been the only one out sick. During our prayer request time I learned that Jack Schwartz permeated a disk in his back. Dotty Stark has officially retired from the choir because of her knees. Gary Myers mother died recently. Gail’s Neil, and the others had been out sick.

Before we bowed our heads to pray I leaned over to Kathy Little and said, “How do you do this? How do you cope with seeing your family and friends declining in health?” I asked. “How do you keep from being depressed?”

She pressed her lips together and nodded, confessing that she struggles with the same questions. “Funny you should ask, Abby, because Don and I were just talking about this. Don says that its just a part of life: getting older.”

“How depressing,” I said. “Is that all I have to look forward to?”

Kathy waited before answering and her pause made me think, Oh my! I thought. If I was so angry with God for giving me that terrible fever, sore throat, vomiting, runny nose flu, I’m going to make a very angry old person.

We sang another song: “As Long as I Have Breath,” by Sue Farrar. At the end of the song Wayne Day said that this piece particularly resonated with him, especially the line that said: “In times of sore distress; in times of loneliness; as long as I have breath, I will praise You, Lord.”

Kathy Little then tilted her head towards me. “I like to look at Wayne Day,” she said, and I began to think.

Wayne Day’s wife died a year or two ago, but he still faithfully sings with joy. Here is an example that I would love to learn to follow. I want to praise God when my body fails because it is a reminder that a better body awaits me. I want to thank God when injuries slow me down because in my weakness, He is made strong. I want to thank God when I am bedridden because only then do I remember what people need most when they’re ill. And I want to continue singing when my family and friends die because God has ordained that I glorify him here for what will seem like a little longer.

I must admit my attitude was not like this when I have that terrible fever, sore throat, vomiting, runny nose flu. But maybe God will give me another opportunity by blessing me with another sickness so that I may say in my suffering:

As long as I have breath, I will praise You, Lord.
As long as I have life, let my soul rejoice.
In times of sore distress; in times of loneliness;
As long as I have breath, I will praise You, Lord.

As long as I have breath, I will bless You, Lord
As long as life is mine, I will sing your song.
Your joy brings forth my praise;
Your peace fills all my days’
As long as I have breath, I will praise You, Lord

Let me know Your loving kindness everyday,
As you walk beside me pointing out the way.
As long as I have being, I will trust in You;
You are my God;
I lift my soul to you, to You!

As long as I have breath, I will serve You, Lord.
As long as life is mine, I’ll exalt Your word.
And when this life shall pass, and I’m as home at last;
Thru all eternity, I will praise You, Lord.

“As Long As I Have Breath” by Sue Farrar Beckenhorst Press, Inc. Copyright: 1987

Rubber Bands in the Dryer

2008-01-30T20:10:00.000-08:00

I have taken to eating one chocolate ball every day after I come home from an exhausting day of work. The balls are wrapped in golden and red aluminum foil, and they sit in a clear jar next to where Philip and I keep our keys. I haven’t liked chocolate since I was six, and I’m not sure I like it now.

There’s a one-legged man who walks down Lambert every morning at 7 am. I see him on my way to work. He has a billowy white beard and looks ever so much like a sailor. He uses crutches.

Rubber bands are invading. I find them on our front porch. I find them beside our trash cans. I find them on the bedroom floor, and I find them in the dryer. They are always in the dryer.

One of the math teachers at Heights Christian Junior High has taken a temporary leave of absences, and the remaining math teachers have taken up his classes while he’s gone. We are all over our heads. Perhaps this is why I’ve taken to eating chocolate balls.

My birthday this year was the best I think I’ve ever had. It was certainly better than those silly sixth grade slumber parties when my parents scolded me for being too loud at 12 am. One of the highlights was when one of my students presented me with a Costco-sized chocolate birthday cake with nondairy frosting. I ate several licks of the frosting. Students, teacher, and family wished me well. My brother Jacob sent me an edible bouquet of fruit. Gretchen, my mother-in-law gave me a balloon and card. My family all pitched in to get me a laptop computer. This is shocking when considering my family’s usual disregard for birthdays.

There’s a rubber band around my wrist as I write.

I have started shopping at Gigante’s. Salespersons try to solicit me in the parking lot for pimple products and oranges. The cashiers attempt to carry on conversations with me in Spanish. The Jicama is never put in the same place of the produce section. One week they have poptarts; the next week they don’t. One whole aisle is devoted to beans, and half a row to tortillas. No feta cheese, but cojita, yes. They sell bananas in 3 sizes: tiny, normal, and gigantic. The lines are often held up with people trying to get cashier checks or using food stamps. But I believe it’s better than the Super Bueno Market on Lambert.

Typewriters are the devil. I don’t know why Parkville Insurance still uses one. I don’t know why I don’t just figure out how to do 1099’s on the computer instead of the typewriter. The machine goes bonkers every time I return and when I push caps-lock I have to push shift to uncaps-lock. I dream of throwing that contraption over a balcony.

My students have been unusually cooperative lately. They listen when I talk. They pass in their papers when I ask. They tell each other to shut up. They compete to do better. They understand my rules, and don’t take it personally when I tell them to go out of the room and come in again quietly.

I have made a keen connection. More than once Philip has told me how he and his coworkers shoot rubber bands at one another for momentary office stress relief. He has even taught me the proper way to shoot a rubber band. He is particularly impressed with the three-inch wide rubber bands. I haven’t found any of those in the dryer yet.

Two Worlds

2007-12-01T20:22:00.000-08:00

On clear mornings I watch the sunrise over Mt. Wilson on my way to work. Sometimes the sight is a moment of glorious beauty, a last breath before I enter my classroom where Jesse Fuller draws stars on his warm-ups all period long, Paul Reese must ask me to repeat every set of instructions I give, Leo Doehring never has a pencil, and Jonathan Parenty thinks the squeak in his chair is a musical instrument. I love my students dearly. I love them even though they "drive me batty" as Becca Schoff says.

"No, you can't have a piece of candy for putting your name on your paper."

"Stop tapping your pencils."

"Look up here."

"I need your attention."

"Stop talking."

"Why are you over there? Your seat is over here."

"Give Alex his book back."

"Turn around."

"This IS a test!"

Except for the occasional Harley on Beverly, home is a stark contrast to my work in the classroom. On a good day I get home about 2 p.m., and I have the quiet afternoon to myself until 6:45ish when Philip get home. Cups of English Breakfast tea, Enya, a little dusting, a little snacking, a little reading and writing, a nap perhaps. I've learned how to grout and make a delicious tortilla soup, and I finally discovered how I can use my chicken bouillon. (I grabbed a jar of chicken bouillon off the Albertson's shelves the first time I went grocery shopping, thinking, "I've seen some of this in my mom's pantry. I think I need it.") It's been over a month since I cut my fingers on a kitchen knife or my head on a ceiling fan. Philip still calls me on my lunch breaks regardless of whether I pick it up, or I forget I have a cell phone on silent at the bottom of my purse.

I think Phil and I were cut from the same cloth. In our preparations for Christmas we've both given each other gifts early because we couldn't wait. Last night was no exception. He carried in a ripped bag from REI filled with rock climbing hand holds. Aside from the month surrounding our wedding we've visited the rock climbing gym weekly. So now he's bought some grips to put up on the wall, which separates my grandma's house from my parent's house. (I hope my grandma doesn't mind.) In our excitement, we strew the pieces across the living room floor and planned out a route using our black and kaki rug as our hypothetical wall.

I once did something similarly as a child. I drew a picture of a rock climbing pyramid and brought the idea to my dad, hoping he could help me build it in the backyard. That idea fizzled out, as have many others. I've decided to let my dulcimer go. I loved playing it. I still do, but in order to make room for the new activities in my life, I've resolved to say goodbye to the old ones.

It Wasn't So Bad

2007-09-27T09:14:00.000-07:00

The first rain in a very long time washed away the summer humidity and blew in crisp autumn air. The summer that seemed to last forever is over and now I look back on those days in nostalgia.

The stars were aligned on August eighteenth.

Several years ago my parents transplanted two grapevines on either size of a trellis in our backyard in hopes that they would grow up the bars and produce fruit over the brick walkway. For years the vines were fruitless, and my dad even talked about taking them out. Every summer they grew further, stretching their vibrant green leaves along the trellises, the white picket fence, and the brick pilasters, but no fruit. And then in early June of this year, clusters of green grapes appeared all along both vines. They would grow bigger and brighter until August eighteenth. One vine produced green grapes; the other, red.

The unsightly tubers of the Naked Lady flowers outside the kitchen bay window shed layers of brown skin all spring. "If that plant doesn't start blooming, I'm taking it out because it's so ugly," my mom said. The Naked Ladies were along the pathway that the wedding guests would take into the backyard. She peeled off the brown layers and chopped off a tuber or two, but left the final decision until a week prior to the wedding when the slender green stems stretched high, and the buds of soft pink flowers bloomed like a chorus of trumpets.

My mom and I planted the sunflowers in the garden according to their specified heights. We put the tallest ones (6 feet) in the back rows and the shortest ones (4 feet) in the front or in pots. We were doubtful whether the flowers would work out when my mom mixed up the seed packages. And the potted sunflowers looked awfully dwarfish and unhealthy. By mid July the garden-planted flowers—all of them—were well over seven feet tall and still growing. They gobbled up the water that my mom so often overfed them. They grew taller and taller as if in competition. And then in the beginning of August I climbed onto the jungle-gym, which sits beside the garden for snow peas to grow on, and spotted the first burgundy bloom right in the center of the garden. Day by day more and more colors appeared: golden, orange, brown, and red. They reached their peak the day before the wedding when my mom, Becca, and Gretchen cut them to make bouquets to line the center aisle. They gathered clusters of the flowers and still had dozens left to speckle the garden with color: a joyous backdrop to our ceremony.

The hottest week of summer, when the Whittier temperatures reached 106, came two weeks after the wedding. The vivid bridesmaid bouquets were a perfect contrast against the bridesmaid's black dresses and the groomsmen's khaki suits. The ceremony finished on time. The sorbets were a smashing success in the GHFC sun. The opportunity to donate towards missions brought in over four thousand dollars. We missed the hurricane in Hawaii by a week.

It was ideal. I have no regrets. I have no complaints. Martha Stewart would have been proud.

I'm not saying it was perfect. It wasn't perfect. My stomach was threatening to expel all the meals I hadn't eaten in the last 48 hours. No, it wasn't perfect, but if it had been, there would be no longing for heaven.

Who's Opinion?

2007-07-17T09:16:00.000-07:00

I've never had so many people have an opinion about my life.

People were quietly interested when I was attending Biola, when I got my pilot's license, and when I was reading Plato. But now that I've entered a part of life that they're familiar with, they must have their say.

"Black dresses won't go with Kakhi suits."
"You look pasty with foundation on."
"When you want your husband to think you've been busy making dinner, sauté onions."
"I read this book before my honeymoon and it made sex much better."
"It's going to be too hot."
"You have to invite her to the wedding. She'll be so offended if you don't."
"Those vows exclude gender roles."
"People aren't going to want to donate towards missions. They want to give you a gift."

I've never considered myself someone who was ruled by other's opinions, but perhaps, just this once, I want to leave all the decisions to my hard working mother so she can receive the brunt of people's contrary opinions.

What's really interesting is when I have a rebuttal to their opinion: "No, I think I like having simple white plates at the reception," I say.

"Well, it's your wedding," they reply. "You can do it however you want." As if to say, "If you want to ruin your wedding, if you want to look like a dork and embarrass yourself by having ugly white plates, then it's your wedding. Your the one who will have to live with the consequences, not me, so do whatever you want."

That's helpful, especially because no, this isn't my wedding and no, I can't do whatever I want. If it were entirely my wedding, I would be eloping to Hawaii, but I have another half now who has more decency than I and who would like to celebrate our marriage with family and friends. And so we've come to this compromise: backyard wedding, church reception, Hawaii honeymoon.

Most things are a compromise now. And after Philip and I have come to a decision, a compromised decision that required plenty of talk and maybe some discouragement on both sides, the last thing we need is for Joe Smoe to tell us how we should further change things. AH! We just reached our decision and now we're to change it again. AH!

In twenty years I don't want to remember these days as a continuous wrestling with other people's opinions. I want to remember the joys and laughs. I want to remember watching the sunflowers growing in the backyard. I want to remember rock climbing with Philip. I want to remember the weekly dinners, wedding gifts, and cups of tea from Grandma Taylor on Tuesday evenings. I want to remember the alterations lady at David's Bridal leaving me half-naked in the hallway as she answered a 15 minute phone call. I want to remember encountering 6 skunks on the Friendly Hills Golf course when Philip and I took a stroll there after hours. I want to remember putting panthers, Indian necklaces, blue jays, and Russian teapot stamps onto our wedding invitations because the post office was out of heart stamps. I want to remember the seamstresses asking me if my wedding dress was for my quinceanera. I want to remember my and Steve Burns' (our photographer) shocked expressions as my gentle mother beat our dog Max after he ran across the street after another dog. I want to remember my dad and Philip trying to shoot squirrels in our backyard with the BB gun. I want to remember the overweight lady I helped after she fell at the entrance of the Whitwood Town Center, and who apologized for not wearing a good bra as she hopped on one leg to her car. I want to remember my father easing the pain of my departure by telling people, "I don't think of it as losing a daughter, but gaining a parking space."

These are the humorous and memorable things I want to fill my mind.

So what do I do with people's opinions? Beats me. I think I'll go... pray some more.

Happy Father's Day

2007-06-17T09:17:00.000-07:00

Fred Taylor doesn't believe in Father's Day. He believes that children ought to live with a grateful attitude towards their father's everyday of the year. In his perspective, setting aside a day for children to be uncharacteristically appreciative of their fathers is bogus.

And so today, instead of showing special attention to our dad, our family went to Macaroni Grill to celebrate the 2 years Becca Schoff has lived with our family. Her teaching time at Whittier Christian Elementary School is coming to an end, and she will be leaving our home for Virginia this coming Thursday. In honor of her time with us, my dad, mom, brother (Jacob), sister (Jess), and myself braved the secular world in the dangerous company of ourselves.

Things were relatively normal, as normal as any conservative, argumentative, audacious family might be. My mom made a meal of an appetizer, and Jessica ordered nothing but blackberry ice tea as she spread her multicolored vocabulary flashcards across the table. Occassionally my dad or Jacob paused in their meals to help her memorize her words for her test tomorrow.

Our family ate peacefully, observing our foreign surroundings until we became comfortable enough to retreat back to our familiar methods of interaction. Jacob and I began doodling on the white craft paper drapped across our table. The restaurant provided the crayons. Everything he drew oddly enough resembled women's figures. When I grew tired of turning his figures into lamps and elephants and funny looking faces, Becca and I began to list Jacob's future wives. Wife #1 was the elephant woman, wife #2 was an oyster child, wife #3 was a mermaid, wife #4 was a horrific face, and wife #5 was a giant tadpole with lipstip, which in the end revolted against the stick figure-Jacob and ate him.

The crayons were perhaps the biggest hit, especially when my father's dinner was too cold for his liking. His request for a hotter meal evolved into several discussions with the waiter and a quick chat with the manager who had come to our table to apologize and ensure that my dad's "special day" hadn't been ruined by his room temperature meal. I picked up my crayon and drew a tornado as Becca finished drawing Jacob's sixth wife.

I cringe as I remember that we openly prayed before our meal. We ended up doggie-bagging over half of what we ordered. I can't imagine that our bill was very large—despite Jacob's calculation that each of his five lobster raviollis cost $3 each—nor that my dad's tip was ample generosity for a family of believers.

But as I like to say, at least it wasn't as bad as a concentration camp. No, in fact it could have been much worse. I once ate with a family who ordered five times as much and returned every third plate with a complaint about the quality. In the meantime the children found it commical to make more work for the poor waitress. One underage son flippantly asked, "When are you going to bring me my margarita?" The margarita came and the parents footed the bill.

Yes I have much to be thankful for: my dad most especially because he can't and won't complain when I give him his father's day card late.

The Dinner Table 101

2007-05-11T09:18:00.000-07:00

Last night the Taylor family had an exciting episode at the dinner table. Tensions rose; personalities clashed. Through my eyes the events ensued as follows:

Dear and hard working mother manages the BBQ in the stylish blue dress she put on to be presentable for her husband. Her children: Jacob (25), myself (23), and Jessica (18) trickle into the kitchen and one by one sit down.

My dad walks in last, blesses the food, and begins to serve up the buttery rice and brocolli dish as my mom continues to tend the BBQ outside. My dad's mind is elsewhere. It's evident because he continues serving me brocolli after I ask him twice if I could have more rice. I give up trying to voice myself and instead offer my plethora of brocolli to my brother. Jessica offers her plate up next, but in the serving process my dad's arm hits his tall glass of pink lemonade and spills the juice across the kitchen floor, which my sister recently mopped.

I rush to grab the dish towels and sponges while Jacob and Jessica sit at the table eating. My dad helps mop up the mess as Jess continues to hold up her plate, waiting to be served. Eventually she gives up and says with a surrendering sigh, "I think God's trying to teach me patience."

In the meantime my mom comes in and helps mop up the mess with my dad and I. "Can we get a different spoon to serve this rice," my dad says with a hint of exasperation in his voice. "See," he says as he pushes the spatula back and forth in the rice to show how easily the utensil slips in the rice pan. "That's what made me spill."

I believe my brother was making sly comments through this, but I don't remember what they were. My dad's mood was off set, and Jessica had given up trying to have a cheery attitude. Her shoulder's slumped and she stared at her empty plate.

The sticky mess was temporary fixed, but the kitchen would have to be mopped again—something my mother would do, not Jessica. We all attempted to eat again. After Jessica refused to accept a serving of rice and brocolli from my dad, he thrust the spatula into the pan and said, "Fine, get it yourself."

My mother presses her lips together and attempts to keep the peace. "Let's start this meal over again," she says in an almost annoyingly-happy voice. She speaks a short prayer, asking God that we will all have what she calls "get-along-ability."

The dinner was fairly normal after that. Jessica sulked through the rest of her meal as she made ridiculous comments about how fat she is. After she refused a slice of cornbread because "it's fattening," she turns to me and admires the yellow shirt I have on. My grandmother had bought her the same one in a shade of pink. "What size is that?" she asks.

"Jessica, comparing is a downward spiral," I said as I made a visual demonstration with my finger.

My brother took the opportunity to be very brother-like. With his knife, he stabbed my perfect cube of cornbread, smashing it into crumbling pieces on my plate. "Jacob!" I said, but I was thankful for the comic relief. As I push him away I wipe my nose feeling the poison pimple that had been forming there. "Ouch," I said.

Jessica seizes the opportunity for an overused stab of her own. "See, you touch your pimples. If you just left them alone, they'd go away."

My blood begins to boil. My sister can't get under my skin in very many subjects, but she can here.

"I bet my pimple here will go away before yours," she says as she points to a minuet speck by her eyebrows on her perfectly smooth face, "because I don't pick at mine."

"Jessica, don't compare; it's a downward spiral," I repeated to cool myself down before I tried saying anything really potent.

"I'm just saying that that's why you have so many pimples," she says.

"Good for you," I said. "I hope you're able to get through the next five years of your life without picking your pimples and so you can be my age and have a perfect skin." I can't say my intentions were pure. I kept thinking about that verse that talks about heaping hot coals on your neighbors head.

She fell silent.

Jacob tried to make another pass at my cornbread, and the conversation abandoned any more talk about pimples. Thank God.

I suppose this was just a mild meal.

The Main Character

2007-03-01T09:12:00.000-08:00

I want to be what God wants me to be. But before that, I must shuffle through a dozen romantic and heroic versions of myself and see God in my stead.

I must let another slay the dragon, another state the intelligent answers, another speak before hundreds, another wear the red dress, and another come in first place. I must be content to let these dreams go.

I must be content to live in the story where God is the hero.

Life's Not Like That

2006-10-26T09:19:00.000-07:00

Since my return from Cairo, I've begun to see things a little differently. Life's not as black and white as I thought. Yes, the character of God is absolutely good, but how that reflects onto our idea of what right and wrong is, is not as simple as a couple of do's and don'ts.

In Cairo I met several ladies from Eritrea who had fled their country to avoid the draft. In Eritrea, the government takes both men and women at the age of 17 and puts them in the army for 7 years. During that time the officers often ask for sexual favors from the women. If the women refuse their officers put them into the most dangerous areas of warfare. The ladies that I spoke to in Cairo had hid and lied to their government in order to get out of their country. They have come to the conclusion that the government's laws may be broken. Now that these ladies live peacefully in Cairo they are looking for unlawful ways of escaping Cairo and going to England or the states.

Can I tell these ladies that disobeying the government is evil? It's not that simple.

While I was in Cairo my mother and I spoke for a Sudanese women's conference. The Sudanese are taking refuge there because of the Muslim conflicts in Darfur. These ladies have learned the evils of survival. They have learned that if they don't take as much as they can for themselves, they won't live. Even when we gave them gifts and took them out for dinner, they complained about the quality and argued with each other to get the best.

Can I condone their behavior so quickly, when in Darfur selfishness is the only way to survive?

I recently learned that a friend of mine is pregnant out of wedlock. At first I blamed her parent's divorce and her tendency to think more with her emotions than with her mind. I looked down my nose at her and wondered if I ought to be the one to tell her how stupid she'd been.

What was I thinking?

At a closer look I discovered that she's still attending church and is quickly planning a wedding. She knows what she did wasn't good. She doesn't need anyone to tell her that, especially not me. She doesn't need to hear the statistics of how many relationships fail when couples sleeps together before marriage. She doesn't need fundamentalist bible-bashers to show her verses. She's looking forward not back, and with God's guidance, trying to put her next step in the right place.

Sometimes, we think we know the way things ought to be, but God usually has something else in mind.

The Way He Stands

2006-01-18T09:21:00.000-08:00

I was eating lentils at my grandparents house the other day. My grandma was searching through her health books for a new cure for her bronchitis and my grandpa was sorting vitamins into his weekly vitamin box.

At a pause in my grandma's searching she turned to my grandpa and asked him something in Spanish. My grandpa, setting down his pills, rested one hand on the kitchen counter, the other he put in the pocket of his army-green cargo pants. He crossed one leg and answered my grandma in a matter-of-fact tone.

I don't know what they said, but I'm certain that my grandpa was knowledgeable about whatever question he was answering. I could tell by the way he stood. Normally he wobbles around the house, stooped, eyes on the next place his foot will land. The kitchen is my grandma's domain, and he is the humble servant. But everything changed at that moment. I saw the traces of a once strong, certain, and capable man. He is that same man still.

Why Aren't the Girls Picked

2006-01-16T09:22:00.000-08:00

I've noticed many single Christian girls ask themselves, "Why aren't I picked?" "Why don't I have a boyfriend?" "Is there something wrong with me?" "Am I not dating material?" So I've thought about their questions and come up with some possible answers.

I went to Russia last summer on a missions trip and noticed something peculiar. At every city and house church there were far more women than there were men. Everyone who attends Biola knows the guys to girl ratio is definitely to the guys' advantage. Can this be true everywhere? Are there just more Christian girls than there are guys? I think its safe to say there are more women in the physical church than there are men, unless you attend a trucker and construction worker church.

With these assumptions, a Christian woman's prospects within the church are limited. So the fact that she is not dating may have nothing to do with her likability, but the mere numbers. There just aren't enough men to go around — to be perfectly blunt.

However, it's still easy for a Christian woman to wonder, "Well why don't they pick me? What do the other girls have that I don't."

Let's say there are four women in a church and two men. (These numbers do not represent actual ratios.) I'll give them names to make this easier: Anna, Betty, Carrie, and Diana. Each of the girls are at different levels in their spiritual walks. Some are really following after the Lord, others are not so much. On a scale of 1-5, 5 being a really committed Christian, here are their levels: Anna 5, Betty 3, Carrie 2, Diana 1. For the sake of argument let's also rate them according to worldy beauty. The media has defined beauty in a particular way. Those women who conform most to that image are considered more beautiful. Again I'll use a scale of 1-5, 5 being gorgeous. Anna 5:4, Betty 3:2, Carrie 2:3, Diana 1:4. The first number represents their level of spirituality, the second number represents their worldly beauty.

Now let's look at the two guys: Eric 2:4 and Frank 4:2. Again the first numbers represent spirituality and the second represent beauty.

If we accept the traditional way of dating the guys are the ones who are chosing their mates. Ideally the guys ought to pick the girls whose numbers best match their own, but because guys have more to choose from they may decide to pick someone better than themselves. Eric is not very devoted to God, but he's pretty cute. Thus he may think he deserves a cute girl. Anna and Dianna are both pretty good looking. Dianna is hotter, but maybe he thinks Anna is funner to be around, so he chooses Anna. Now Anna has a choice to make. She knows Eric is not very devoted to God, but she also knows she may not get picked by someone else. Anna will either decide to marry someone who will bring her down spiritually or not marry Eric at all. If Anna decides not to marry Eric she may not marry at all. There aren't very many guys around who match her numbers. It's very difficult for women to live alone. Many would rather marry someone who's not so good than not marry at all. So let's say that Anna accepts Eric.

Now it's Frank's turn to choose. He's pretty devoted to God and not so hot. He has Betty, Carrie, and Dianna to choose from. Because he's devoted to God he recognizes that Dianna is not a strong Christian even though she's hot. Betty is more devoted to God than Carrie, but Carrie's cuter. Let's say that Carrie likes the same sports he does so he decides to go with Carrie. She has never met a nicer guy in her life and even though she thinks he not hot, she learns to think he's cute because he's nice.

Wedding bells are ringing and Dianna and Betty are wondering what is wrong with them. They were not chosen. Why? It's not because they weren't good looking or not devoted Christians. Dianna was the hottest one out there. Betty is a good Christian. So why weren't they picked? Because there were only two guys and the numbers didn't match up. There wasn't another 1:4 for Dianna or a 3:2 for Betty. Dianna's level of Christianity is weak so she'll probably marry an unbeliever. Dianna may think she's too ugly to get a husband so she'll become a missionary in Africa. But there was nothing wrong with these girls.

P.S. There are many hypothetical assumptions that I've made in the above example. This is a general theory and doesn't necessarily apply to everyone.