Signs We Wish We'd Made (& A Great Way to Go Deeper this Year)

Sandy summer shoes scuffed behind me. A hallway-away a locker clanged shut and echoed across tiled floors. On the right a faculty bathroom was available and I slipped in, closing the door behind me. I stared at the signs and then laughed, thankful for its warnings.

And isn't that the truth? In addition to wanting to successfully secure some privacy in a bustling public hallway, can you relate to this warning in other areas of your life? "This doesn't work." "Use this."

Those tape scrawls have stuck in my head since, making me laugh and shake my head. Because I can think of so many times when I wish I had had those messages taped into my life too. "This doesn't work, Jen." This will cause you heartache, or unnecessary stress. "This doesn't work, Jen. Use this instead."

We are counting summer's days and trying to savor every moment. You too? Recently my husband, son and I drove to an outdoor concert in St. Paul, Minnesota. In the days leading up to that night, I had raved to my eleven-year old son how much fun we would have and what a treat it would be to unzip our red picnic backpack and lay out a feast on a blanket. Hours before leaving, however, we couldn't find the special backpack anywhere. Daniel and I upended closets and emptied every shelf we could think of. I had vague memories of loaning it out to someone, but couldn't remember who, and suddenly my blonde-haired Daniel wasn't the only disappointed one. When I couldn't find the green blanket either, I started to unravel.

And while I know this says volumes about my closet-organizing skills, it also says more about my heart. Why was I letting minor details of a backpack and blanket upend the joy of this special family evening? God grinned and whispered calm and gentle grace to my heart.

I stepped over the piles of overturned blankets and sleeping bags (those became the next day's challenge and victory!) and stepped into peace. Joy isn't bound by possessions, but by being God's.

We carried our picnic in plastic and cloth bags, and it tasted just as good. Folding chairs and a fuzzy brown blanket completed our supplies and we hopped in the car, headed to the city skyline and a night away together.

In a few weeks, I start my third year of teaching Village School of the Bible's Cover to Cover Bible survey class. Registration is happening now. If you'd like to jump into studying the Bible with me this year, I'd love to have you join us. We'll read the whole Bible in a year, have great group discussions, and build a close community of people who are being transformed by God's word day by day. (Feel free to watch Steve's story of his encounters in this class.)

If you, like me, need reminders some days of "This doesn't work. Use this," you are safe and welcome here. For those reading from emails or blogs, I'd love to have you comment here and tell me what God has been teaching you lately.

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God Speaks Russian

We stood, seven people in a circle, holding hands at the top of our stairs. Chic bobbed hair Svetlana, gentle-eyed Sergei, blue-eyed Marco, and I, with our kids interspersed beside us: soft-spoken family clown Daniel with his deep compassionate heart, and sweet blonde Nadia and Julia, with their big smiles and husky Russian accents. We prayed in English and they prayed in Russian, for loved ones we had been thinking about, for our families, and for ministries and our interactions with people. Russian words tumbled and lilted melodiously from their lips and we listened in quiet wonder. At amen, we broke up and took turns giving strong hugs good bye to this family that Mark had met twenty years earlier, but that Daniel and I had just met ten days ago.

In a week over daily coffee and in between their schedules away, our families opened up our lives. Pointing to the world map on our table, we exchanged stories, spoke of kids and histories, and discovered how much our beliefs pointed us to a common home in Jesus. Compatriots in Jesus, and co-wanderers on this earth, we soon felt like brothers and sisters.

Sveta stirred and bubbled up healthy brown kasha cereal several mornings. Mark flipped cheesy omelets and broiled savory gouda cheeseburgers outside on the grill. And in between the strawberry kale salads and the frequent French Press coffee, our families opened up our hearts.

"I'm going to miss them, Mom," Daniel said tearfully as he crawled into his lofted bed.

"Me too." I kissed his forehead. "Wasn't it cool to hear them praying? God speaks Russian."

Daniel grinned, eyes wide as he considered that, and his world widened.

At swim lessons at the YMCA this week, I slid onto a bench near Daniel's swim lane. Two women in long dresses and head veils smiled at me, eyes glancing shyly away.

"As salaam alaikum," I greeted them. Peace to you.

In a loud humid pool room, we leaned heads closer and smiled, pointing to which kids were ours. With hands, words, and facial expressions, we shared how many kids we had and their ages. Our eyes flashed warmth and we agreed that kids were a treasure, a gift from God. In a bustling room, our kids came and went, small bodies dripping with chlorine water. Droplets beaded and glistened on wet curls and glowing faces.

And just like that, it was time to go. Nodding heads in honoring kindness, we walked away.

I love that our God speaks Arabic too.

As we strive to love God and to love others, our lives become fluent in speaking welcome in any language. I want that for me, and I want that for you too, my friend. And I firmly believe this: a pulled-wide life, a pulled-wide heart, is the best way to see Jesus and his joy-filled life.


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A Joy and Peace That Bubbles Up and Pours Over

In relaxing melody, water tumbles in endless waterfalls in the fountain below me. A green and orange recycling truck rumbles buhBUM buh,  buhBUM buh as it stops by our house. Glass knocks against glass. He drives a house or two away. BuhBUM buh, buhBUM buh and then silence with a hum as he exits our neighborhood.

My Bible pages flicker in a momentary breeze and a cardinal whirs Bree? Bree? chur-chur-chur. Bree? Bree? chur-chur-chur, ending with a trilled tl tl tl tl tl tl. Sunlight wavers torn paper bookmark across the Psalms and chapter sixty-six starts my day with wisdom from the ancients and the Creator of the world.

"Shout with joy to God, all the earth!
Sing the glory of his name; 
make known his praise glorious! 

Say to God, 'How awesome are your deeds. 
So great is your power that your enemies cringe before you.
All the earth bows down to you;
they sing praise to you, they sing praise to your name.'"

The cardinal sings non-stop in my neighbor's tree. Bree? Bree? Chur-chur-chur. Bree? Bree? Chur-chur-chur ... tchee-tchee-tchee-tchee.

Blue skies, lazy white clouds, my waterfall pouring incessant beauty, and two recycle trucks hum and rattle, beeping in distant rounds.

And I feel it from bare toes curled on weathered deck planks to my relaxed shoulders in the shade, how this pausing to see and say wholeheartedly, "God, you are good! I announce it, proclaim it, stop to truly see and say it: You are good. How awesome are your deeds." -- how it floods me in quiet peace, contentment, beauty, the joy soaking in. Breathing in deep and slow; my muscles are relaxed.

Life and light radiate, pulsing in green and yellow beauty. Water trickles, the cardinal says it again and again. Bree? Bree? chur-chur-chur, tl, tl, tl, tl, and I announce it in kind.

"Say to you, God, how awesome are your deeds! Sing with joy to you, God, all the earth. Sing the glory of his name."

How wise of our Creator to know that in this stopping of the frenetic pace of life to see him and his artistry, to savor it, receive it, bask in it, and then proclaim it in grateful thanks -- that this way of life leads to the greatest joys and a contented peace of mind.

Scientists agree, calling it a grateful way of life, citing it here and here, but our God initiated it simply: "Say to God, How awesome are your deeds. Shout with joy to God!"


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How Flashes Deep Within the Atom Reflect the Life We're Hungry For

I've been mulling it over -- this line I saw recently and can't remember where. 

Mulling it over while dragging sprinkler hoses across hot grass lawns, while driving kids to appointments and swim lessons, and every time I curl up beside family and friends while stretching summer long. Iced coffee cubes crash against condensed glass, dripping summer's heat across bare legs. 

"How we spend our days is how we spend our lives." 

And the audacity of it lingers in my brain this week. In moments and days that crash by, dripping lost to the ground, this claim that we can choose, can order, can decide to step fully into each moment and to control how we live our lives is brash, bold. 

Photo credit: Flickr user Robert Couse-Baker, Creative Commons cc license

I love it, and the science of atoms flashes to my mind. In a textbook years ago, I read about the wild, intricate behaviors of protons, neutrons, and electrons within an atom. 

Inside the nucleus is a flurry of activity where protons and neutrons exchange tiny particles called pions in a frenzy of energy. Electromagnetically, like charges repel each other. Protons, as positively-charged aspects of the atom, should repel each other, like same-sided magnets do. Yet, mysteriously, they don't. 

Bewildered scientists wondered for years why the protons' positive charges didn't repel each other and explode. They knew there must be a strong force holding everything together, but didn't know what. Experiments and observations hinted at the existence of this strong force, but not much was known until the 1930s and 40s, when scientists confirmed the existence and nature of this strong force, the strongest force in creation. 

Do you know what thrills me about this force? 

This strongest force in creation, this strong force that overrules normal magnetism and is stronger than gravity... this strong force in science reminds me of the Three-in-One God. Protons and neutrons are huddled so closely in the nucleus of the atom because they are giving of themselves. 

Taking part of themselves to manufacture pion particles, they give sacrificially to each other. Over and over they break off part of themselves and give to the other. In what reminds me of sacrificial love, there is a frenzy of breaking and making and giving and receiving, and breaking and making and receiving. Pions flash as gifts that last for a brief instant, then are gone. 

Giving of themselves to each other, they are wrapped intricately close. This -- the strongest force in the world-- is woven so tightly that all other natural laws of magnetism, poles, and gravity are broken, and in the center of the atom, unseen by the world, protons and neutrons give of themselves and hand off themselves as endlessly-given gifts to each other. And it's the strongest force in science. 

Want to live the life you're hungry for? This strong force, this endless breaking and making and giving... 

Who knew it was modeled in pions deep within atoms? 

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(Adapted from an archived post of mine.) 

What Cowlicks and Warriors Would Tell You about Living Well

The fir tree has a cowlick. Spouting out from conical symmetry is a two-foot-long branch, and I want to snip it each time I see it, but it's twenty feet up and in my neighbor's yard. The branch points north to my neighbor's front yard where at night Orion the Warrior is tangled in a tree.

Photo Credit: Flickr user Erica Franck, Creative Commons cc license

One month into my Dad's stage IV terminal cancer diagnosis, and I find myself scrolling websites, scrawling notes at doctors' appointments, and counting calendar months. Chest tight some mornings, I pull my Bible closer while Daniel sits beside me untangling addition problems, and I wonder about subtractions.

Yesterday we took a break from math and phonics to refill bird feeders. Charcoal-colored sunflower seeds spilled dusty from the bag, whooshing against my fingers on cold metal frame. I sliced old juicy oranges into halves for the orioles. Crushed citrus a fragrance on my skin. Daniel and I placed vivid orange slices between lines of drizzled seeds on the deck railing, then slipped back inside to watch the birds come. Black-capped chickadees soared tremulously close, skittish but hopeful.

And I remember it, recounting the ways that God has tenderly laid bread crumb trails of hope and wonder for me this spring, long before I even knew I would need them. I line them up in my mind, and shake my head in gentle wonder. He is so good. In January, I stepped out and chose my very first Word of the Year --Brave --thinking I meant it to be moving more boldly into my writing and speaking ministries. God knew of Dad's impending cancer, though, and kindly tucked the word inside me. Earlier, in November Mark and I co-taught a sermon at our church, stating that joyful thanks-giving is always possible, even in the darkest nights. We mentioned our daughter's young cancer scare when she was five years old, and other crises over the years. Meanwhile my Dad's cancer grew in silence. The breadcrumbs continue in my mind, and I see it clearly, God's loving trail for me.

Pulling my Bible nearer, I pause to answer Daniel's math question before sinking deeper into God's words. "I have put my words in your mouth and covered you with the shadow of my hand," his book tells me, and I lean into that.

"Mom, I listened to Grandpa's song a lot yesterday," my tall twenty-one year old said quietly to me. Jeremy Camp's song "Reckless" has become my dad's mantra these months. He air drums away to it, nodding his head.

"Can we play it again?" my Dad says softly. "I'm not afraid to die. I know where I'm going," he smiles. Jeremy Camp sings about wanting to love and live recklessly, boldly, because of Jesus's love for us.

"I want to die well," my Dad says, thinking of a Henri Nouwen quote. He and Mom have been sharing their stories of God's rescues and passionate love all the more boldly now to the people they meet.

Outside my window, I can see it, the fir tree with a cowlick. Beyond the Warrior Orion hangs the Big Dipper constellation.

"If you're ever lost and need to find north," my Dad had taught me, "follow the mouth of the Big Dipper. It will pour out into the North Star."

And now it changes how I see the cowlick. It's directing me to a poured out life that always points me home.

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What Marbles and Ice Slip Significant into our Lives Tonight

"Every year I take one out," he says.

He describes a glass jar of marbles that hulks on a corner of his desk. He is professional, efficient, an accomplished businessman, and his words have stuck in my brain ever since.

"I set up the jar, estimated how many years an average person lives, and now every January, I take one marble out."

Photo credit: Flickr user Sally, Creative Commons, cc license

Marbles catch the light and diminish slowly in the jar on his desk, and his meaning sinks in.

"I wanted to remember how fast life flies by and to make sure to live fully."

His exact words are fuzzy to me now, but the image still reverberates.

Weeks, months, years trickle through our fingers and leave only memories. Our children's heads race closer to our foreheads and then flash by. Ankles flash pink skin cold in winter growth spurts, and I peek into my garage for the purple plastic bin of Daniel's next size clothes. Morgan brings home a brand new college identity card, grinning cheeky at her row of color-coordinated gel pens and bulging pack of binders.

We carve calendar dates for two graduations this spring, and both John and Morgan step into their last semesters. They each organize their rooms and start packing. Morgan dreams of college dorm-room decor and spies out small sets of kitchenware. John boxes up childhood mementos, making room for another carton of wedding supplies, and brainstorms apartments for the summer.

And your children too, are stretching taller by the week, their shoes and jeans shrinking by the month, and how do you slow down time?

Our marbles diminish so subtly, so silently, that I look and am surprised to do the math and see where I am today. You too?

Our words matter. Our minutes are priceless. As cells stretch, divide, and stretch again, the loved ones in our life grow taller, older, and seasons flash by. 

Snow melts here in Minnesota today. Last week's arctic chill now slips grated snow through my black metal patio table, shredding ice into stalactites below.

I crunch out to my compost bin this afternoon before supper, scowling at the rabbit tracks, and trying to halt their entry into my yard. I'm comfortable without a winter jacket and the snow crunches and melts underfoot.

The cold had seemed so impenetrable and now snow shrinks by the hour. Tomorrow and Thursday are supposed to be warm as well.

And the snow disappears from my deck.

"Mom, will you play a game with me?" Daniel asks, his tousled hair still standing up in the back despite each day's water.

"Sure, bud. Let's play."

Throughout the night, I sneak down to hug my two oldest kids who are cramming homework.

"I love you so much." The words fall naturally as I reach up to hug them, leaning my head against their chins.

Take a marble with me, my friends. The snow has melted even more since supper and I don't want to miss a moment.

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When Alarms Sound and You Want to Be Brave

Under a torn moon in a black sky, I push my cart. Groceries rattle against rustling paper bags.

I've been wondering this for several days now. How do we live bravely? That's my word for the year: Brave. While I don't think of myself as a fearful person, I'm realizing how often stories of great courage and realized-dreams involve pressing in and pressing further. In book after book I've read, inventions, breakthroughs, deep wilderness survival, and big accomplishments all have this choice: the decision to persevere, to keep going, to step out in trembling boldness. This belief that bold perseverance and dogged hard work can bring incredible results is exciting, transformative.

So I scribbled pen across lined paper, choosing my very first Word of the Year: Brave. I am challenging myself to step up, to take courageous steps, and to choose self-discipline bravely in the moments when I'd rather settle for easy. 

Photo Credit: Flickr user Tambako the Jaguar, Creative Commons cc license

Walking under a torn moon in a black sky, I muse quiet and push my cart, assembling words in my brain.

Wood-smoke from chimneys and charbroiled burgers scent the zero degree night. Fumbling with my fragmented car key fob, I'm hoping it'll work after I dissected it in the supermarket to figure out which round battery it uses. Dark headlights stay unlit and the car remains locked, no matter how many times I press the unlock button on the small black fob. Holding breath nervously, I use my key to unlock the door, knowing the car alarm may sound.   It does.

Loud shrills accompany my flashing headlights now, rebellious and brash. Sliding into the car, I shuffle papers in the glovebox and pull out the vehicle's owner manual. In slippery black and white striped mittens, I'm paging madly through the booklet, searching the index for words like "alarm," "disarm," and "security." The owner's manual slips and slides in my mittened hands until I sigh and whip off my right glove, still balancing the manual on my frosty car.

Forty-five minutes later, after phone calls home, random conversations with strangers in cold twilight, and warming up in Mark's rumbling gold Saturn beside me, we figured it out and arrived home. Carrying fragile frozen paper bags upstairs, we put groceries away, and marveled at the fierce cold that had set in against green pepper produce, chilled milk, and deep into our skin.

Thank you, God, for cars that run; for Mark being able to repair the key fob under warm grocery store lights; for heated vehicles; for groceries to put away; for supper on a cold night; and for steaming hot baths that erase a sunk-in cold.

Where was the brave? I'm not sure. Persevering in negative two degrees, talking to strangers, and choosing to find thanks, maybe? May I start right here with you tonight? Laugh with me about my key fob dissections and pealing car alarms. I'll open further and tell you that yesterday, I set off the smoke alarms at home while making pancakes. The worst part? This happens every time I make pancakes! I know.

And maybe Courage is to sit up and share our stories, whatever they may be today. I created a simple black and white chart for myself for the year. In each small box I am jotting a word or two to remember ways I chose brave self-discipline when I'd rather have settled for easy. I am happy to share this simple chart with you too. Feel free to download and share this chart with others.

What about you? Do you choose Words of the Year, or New Year's Resolutions? Have any special January traditions? 

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Grab Your Ugly Socks!

With a clatter and a crash, the phone slipped off the treadmill dashboard, careened off the moving belt, and skidded to a stop in the carpet behind me.

I glanced left and right. Lithe joggers ran in precise form, their arms knowing how to cycle in smooth arcs, not flailing wildly like mine.

Photo Credit: Flickr user, E'Lisa Campbell, Creative Commons cc license

Grinning and red-faced, I jumped my feet up to straddle both sides of the still-moving treadmill, scooted backwards and retrieved my music player/husband's old cell phone. From a stair-stepping machine a row back, Mark arched an eyebrow at me and smirked.

Plugging headphones back in, I straddled the swiftly-moving treadmill belt again, gathered my courage, caught the gait, and jumped back into the jog. Staring at a smudge on the wall ahead of me, I breathed in four-four time, bouncing legs in rhythm to Superchick's rocky Beauty from Pain album.

I'm five weeks into jogging again and I'm loving the satisfaction and joy of meeting a goal. I've learned that I need a plan, and I need to make it as easy as I can to choose well. A black cloth bag hangs on a hook behind our bedroom door with an easy-to-grab work out t-shirt and comfy black shorts to run in. Crumpled green and red ankle socks wait in teal and coral tennis shoes on a handy shelf, and my headphones lay on our dresser. Mark and I have chosen days we work out, and we're trying to stick to them.

Panting and huffing, I watched the odometer click to a number I was waiting for. Hitting the cool-down button, I slowed my pace, heart racing, sweat dripping. Grabbing a sanitary towelette to wipe down the YMCA machine afterwards, I was stopped by an older gentleman.

"You're getting an early start. Are those Christmas socks?" he asked, smiling at my green and red socks.

I laughed and blushed. "Um, yes, Christmas bears, but they're comfortable ankle socks," I grinned back.

It helps to have a plan, I'm learning. So whether you're working towards fitness goals, writing word counts, business dreams, or end of summer plans, make it easy for yourself to say yes, and to feel joy in that moment. For me that looks like carving out mornings to write, setting aside afternoons to study for upcoming speaking sessions, and choosing times to grab my ugly socks and run!

What goals are you chipping away at? What helps you feel good about victories along the way? (Those reading this in email, can click here to join the conversation.)

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Of Parties, Time Capsules, and Choosing Your Trajectory

The party was tonight. It was the Dougan Leap Year Doughnut Party.

Peering into the doughnut case this afternoon, we nabbed two glazed ones, two white frosted sprinkled ones, and one filled with raspberry jelly. On the way home, Morgan and I laughed and talked, with me purposefully reigning in my own expectations.

Photo: Christine Rondeau, Creative Commons, cc license

Upstairs around the dining room table, the five of us clambered into chairs. Two plastic cases of strawberries and blueberries sprawled open invitingly, and the five doughnuts gleamed beneath a translucent panel in the cardboard box.

Cracking jokes and tossing berries into our mouths, we stopped to pray, and then we began. Two slim paper envelopes held our attention, and I slid my finger under the seals, drawing out multiple sheets of paper.

"Morgan, here's yours from 2008. John, yours."

"Look at how small our writing was then!"

"I only wrote three lines!" another exclaimed. "Here's a drawing I did," she pointed, laughing.

"Who wants to read theirs first?" I asked.

One by one, we took turns reading our handwriting from eight years ago. In childish print, we heard echos of their younger voices pour off the page.

"Here are your 2012 letters," I said, handing across folded handwritten sheets of paper. "For Morgan only" one of them read in green ink pen. They reached out eagerly, unfolding longer notes written from themselves just four years earlier, and silence dropped in the dining room. Daniel shuffled uneasily.

"Where's mine?" he asked.

"You were only three years old then, but here is a photo of you from then," I replied, unwrapping the accompanying photos, creased from four years in an envelope.

I confess I've been looking forward to this day for years and months! Unwrapping paper, we got to unwrap our lives from eight and four years ago. In time capsule format, we peeked back into who we were four years ago, seeing how we've changed and how we've stayed the same. 

Taking turns, my kids read their letters aloud, their younger selves asking their older selves questions about what life is like now, casting imaginative questions from the past. "Do you have your own car? Are you living in your own house?" a twelve year old John asked his twenty year old self, and we laughed at what a third year college student's life really looks like.

And then my favorite part began: a reflective silence fell as everybody grabbed pens and sheets of paper. Writing from 2016, they talked to their 2020 self, presenting life from this angle and wondering about life four years in the future.

Scribbling messy black words across blue lined paper, I wrote my own letter, summing up the last four years, and speculating about the next four. And it couldn't fail to hit me. My choices now affect who I am then, and my mood turned more introspective as I continued to write. 

Who are you now? Who do you want to be in 2020? And those answers start your trajectories... 


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Shoved and Elbowed by God

Photo: Raul Lierberwirth, Creative Commons, cc license

Drying my hands on my pants, I stepped around the corner. Sitting outside the church sanctuary on hallway benches, a young couple leaned close. Smiling and bending down to hug them, I talked briefly, already hearing the first song playing.

Photo: Theen Moy, Creative Commons, cc license

My friend's eyes were tired, her answers perfunctory although warm, and I saw her young husband stroke her arm. I touched their shoulders again in love, raved about how cute their round-faced baby was, and strode away.

Seven-year old Daniel skipped beside me, gripping his Sunday School papers, while we shook the ushers' hands and stepped into the dimly-lit worship center. It was crowded but we found three seats, knowing Mark would join us shortly. Pushing my hair back, I stood and joined the singing.

"Go back," I felt God say.

"Now? I just got here. Leave worship?"

"Go back. Go now," God shoved me mentally.

"Daniel, I'll be right back. Stay here, okay?" I could see my friend Daisy just two chairs away and knew Mark would be there any minute.

"Okay, Mom," Daniel said, his forty-nine inches so short in the dark room.

In the hallway, her husband was alone as I approached.

"Is she in the bathroom?" I guessed, heading that way.

"No, she went out to the car."

I spun around and bounced downstairs. He called out the car make and model but Honda-something was unfamiliar to me anyway. I walked the parking aisles, looking for a head in a car.

"Lord, help," I asked.

Three passes later, I found her and knocked on the car window, crawling inside. Her eyes were red and she swiped a sweatshirt hand across her cute freckled cheeks.

"Hi, God loves you so much, do you know that? He told me to come back. He knew," I said softly.

We talked and opened up our lives together. Worship in the parking lot looked like praying, raw talks, and reminding ourselves of God's heart.

Thanks, God, that you are perceptive and tender, and that you are good at nudging me hard some days.
 

A Dukes of Hazard Morning

 I wasn't expecting the Dukes of Hazard.

Photo: DatarkNZ, Creative Commons, cc license

On a misty, balmy Minnesota morning, we walked up and down a concrete forest of balsam and fraiser firs, inhaling the giddy pine fragrance.

"This one," Mark declared, pointing to a chubby fraisier fir in the second row of leaning trees.

Daniel and I peered closer to see if we agreed. Despite its branches still frozen high in the air, we could see a full-girthed beauty and shape to the Christmas tree he had chosen. We cheered and agreed. Mark ran into the hardware store to pay, while Daniel and I stomped around the lot, bounced dewdrops off the rows of trees, and sucked in fresh rain-wet air.

Slicing three inches off the bottom of the tree, the store clerk helped us tie the Christmas tree to the top of our small car. Suddenly, we noticed it. Due to unusual twine-wrapping skills this year, Daniel and I were locked inside the car, doors tied shut in twine. Mark was trapped outside the car.

I laughed. "You'll have to jump through the windows like the Dukes of Hazard," I said, flashing my eyebrows at him.

Without hesitating for a second, my handsome man broke into a husky first line of the song, and slid feet first into the car! I cried out with pleasant surprise, impressed and delighted at his quick wit.

"You should sing some more," I flared my eyes at him, smiling slow into his eyes. "I like your deep voice."

He grinned and put the car in gear, backing around the corner and pulling onto the road. I stopped him, leaning in for a kiss, and we joked the rest of the way home.

There's something about choosing the way we see our husbands, huh? On a weekday morning during a short break to decorate the Christmas tree before the eldest dashed off for finals week, and my daughter's high school geometry and biology coursework piled up, we get to choose. With dishes stacking high, laundry unfinished, and a workweek just minutes away, we always get to choose.

We choose how we see our men, how we respond to our kids, how we frame our days.

I wasn't expecting Dukes of Hazard, but I loved that glimpse of my man, and chose to see him that way all week. It wasn't about a television show or any actors from the eighties. It was the sudden glimpse of a quick-witted man, singing to me in a husky voice, and jumping feet-first into the car.

We get to choose what we remember and focus on.

Burying Our Inner Critic and Censor

"The footprint of the house looks small for all the living we did here," I remarked to John, staring down into an excavated basement cavern.

Photo Credit: Terinea IT Support, Creative Commons, cc license

"I was thinking the same thing," he said, kicking a clod of dirt careening below. Mounds of soil flecked with green shingle bits slumped nearby. My mint patch grew hale and green, unchecked by the demolition.

Daniel stomped around the perimeter, stopping to smash occasional dirt chunks or peer cautiously into the hole. Just a few days ago, when first seeing the destroyed house, he gaped in surprise with all of us. Speeding by it after the intersection light flickered green, my daughter had snapped grainy cell phone photos, and we had all craned our heads to follow the pile of house as it passed through each window. Cars lined up behind us in the turn lane so we could only stare through the twilight as the pile slipped out of sight.

"I'm too sad to cry," Daniel pronounced solemnly as we turned up Fraizier Street and away from the scene of our former home.

Having only left there three months ago, we still smiled nostalgically each time we drove past it. Quipping, "There's our old house," we'd let our eyes trace possessively the hills, four pine trees, drying sunflowers in the garden, and familiar yellow and green siding and trim.

Sunday afternoon, Daniel, John, and I were there in daylight to study the scene and say goodbye.

"Hey, I recognize that rock," John grinned as I stooped to retrieve a blue boulder from where it used to prop up the ribbed gutter behind the garage.

"I'm getting it. It's ours," I declared.

After greeting our neighbors briefly, my boys headed to the car. Darting from the vehicle suddenly, I raced to my patch of mint, still growing strong. "I need to harvest some before the snow comes tomorrow."

John shook his head and ducked his tall frame into the car.

Sweet crisp spearmint crushed in my hands as I tore it off bushes I had planted two years ago. Tall gangly stalks bounced and bobbed in the movement and the autumn wind. Yellow dust scattered.

Climbing into the car, laughing sheepishly yet oddly defiant, I dumped the mint leaves onto notebook paper in the front seat and fastened my seat belt. John put the car into reverse as he backed out of the driveway. "That's right. I had forgotten how hard this driveway was," he said, looking both ways at fast-incoming traffic. We paused.

"Look at all the gopher mounds," he laughed, shaking his head, remembering my battles.

I quietly said goodbye as we drove west on Ball Road: goodbye to the invisible yellow house, to the two yellow maples out front, the four pine trees standing guard in the west, and the dried sunflowers hanging drooped heads low in the back.

"It doesn't feel like our house anymore," six year old Daniel said. "It feels like death."

And we pulled onto Lexington Avenue and drove south. Leaning in to smell my mint, I blew unconsciously at the dust coating the leaves. Scattering instantly across the car, making John cough, dust from our house floated in the air.

My six year old's words held power and strength this week. In freedom, he sieved through his emotions, naming them as they bubbled up, and releasing them aloud. Knowing that goodbyes to people, places, and seasons is vital --and dangerous when squashed-- I am listening as he speaks and affirming his feelings. Nodding my head, I let him know that it is okay to hold both grief and joy, both nostalgia and excitement, gratitude and goodbyes. Resisting the urge to censor, educate, or reframe his feelings or expressions, I free him to put words to his emotions.

Dancing in the sunlight, yellow dust particles swirled near the car vents, with the sweet smell of mint mixing in.

The Weighted Moments That May Be Passing You (& Me) By

"Will you cut my mouth?" he asks, holding out a butter knife towards his pumpkin.

We're gathered around the kitchen table, five pumpkins and five people. Slimy seeds with dangling orange pumpkins strings are being slung into a glass bowl for later, and we pass the stencil blades and tiny plastic saws around between us.

My six year old son and I brainstorm the expression he wants his pumpkin face to have, and I slice and cut features for him. Swingy jazz music plays in the background, dirty dishes stack high on one of the counters, and everything has stopped for an hour or so as we slip into family time.

"This year for Christmas, can we decorate lots of cookies?" my daughter asks, staring intently at her pumpkin face as she carves.

"Sure." We talk more of customs, and it intrigues me to know more about which holiday traditions and times together have been meaningful for them. John stretches out across the couch by now, all of us done with our pumpkins except Morgan who is painstakingly following an idea she found online.  After some thought, John brings up simple moments from his childhood, walks in preschool years, times alone with special loved ones, and it hits me.

Most of our special family moments aren't the huge scripted ones. They are the small cumulative times that build each year: an hour here dicing out pumpkin faces; a squeezed in afternoon there spreading red frosting onto chunky gingerbread men; but mostly, it's the happy moments around the dinner table before someone has to leave, or the ordinary evenings at home with a family game or movie.

I can see it now, how often my nineteen year old likes to linger in the kitchen as I wash dishes or cook supper, pulling his long legs up onto the counter or into my small desk chair, while we talk about the day before he rushes off to work. Those moments hold weighted value now tonight as I see them for what they are: precious, and building a foundation of family memories.

"Mom, is it time to light the candles now?" Daniel asks, all six years of him brimming in excitement.

(And it's not about Halloween, because we're careful about those themes, yet are thankful for times to connect with and meet our neighbors.) It's about the excitement of doing something as a family, building a memory each time we gather together. Today, it was with pumpkins, and faces, and autumn leaves. And the memories captured here are precious.

What are some things you enjoy doing with your family or friends?

Slowing Summer Down & Speeding Up What Matters

Photo: Ron Doke, Creative Commons, cc license

Photo: Dennis Larsen, Creative Commons, cc license

Throaty Bryan Adams'-style singing drifts over from the church nearby. Flashy classic, sport, and muscle cars line up in rows, hoods propped open, motors gleaming at an annual summer car show. Live music streams past the aroma of grilled hot dogs, steaming metal in the sun, and aerosol spray cans.

"Soo, I sorta did my hair," my nineteen year old son texts me in droll nonchalance. I grin and ask for photos, already picturing red, green and blue dye on a temporary spiked hairdo from last year's car show.

My husband straps on sandals and holds the door open for our six year old. The door blows shut behind them as they walk to church too.

I'm grabbing my green water bottle and jumping into time with you, friends. The counter behind me is lined with half-done dishes, crimson watermelon slices in a bag, and last night's coffee press.

Can you smell the campfire? Wood smoke still emanates from my skin, hair, and clothing. Pony tails hang down my shoulders to rest on my chest, and can you feel it here with me? This slipping away of summer?

Thirty of us teens and adults piled up bikes in a friend's driveway and dropped sleeping bags in the yard for yesterday's Bike and Camp youth event. Bike riding, backyard volleyball, and cooking over a fire brings people together. Tin foil-wrapped packets of potatoes, carrots, and onions smoldered beside ground hamburger, and night fell before we pulled out the marshmallows and chocolate.

"Lord, give me a great love for these teens and for these people in my life," I asked him at one point, slipping quiet under a variegated green maple.

He does, and we all show love in different ways. Whether extrovert or introvert, no matter our personality styles, we slide into familiar ways of relating to the people around us. Some friends love the people around them by scraping eggs on a heavy skillet over smoking fires. Others shake dice in a cup game for hours, bluffing with a smirk; or start up dozens of conversations.

On top of blue trampolines while bouncing and ducking, or on wooden picnic benches beside the blueberry crumble bars, these one on one times with others are what God uses most often to grow deeper love within me for people. I love those chances to see into people's eyes, to hear their stories, and to get beyond the noise and busyness into greater depth.

Sunshine filters through fern-like branches outside now, and my husband and youngest son have returned. Noise commences. Highway hums whine into the distance, dissipating quickly, and a cardinal trills nearby.

Summer slips by, and our moments with the people in our lives flit by too. Grab today with me?

Dance Parties in the Sunset & Life's Questions at the End of Day

Photo Credit: Sarah MacMillan, Creative Commons, cc license

A bird chirrups in long unfamiliar calls outside and we clamber to discover what it is. Kneeling on the couch, we peer out the living room window, searching for a cardinal or robin, and struggling to remember which bird sounds like this. Our ornithology science class seems further away than just a few years.

Orange twilight laps pink rose onto treetops, and a horizon of tree trunks glows red. A spring breeze blows evergreens into naked lilac bushes, and tiny buds tremor in the wind. In moments, brick twilight stains the treetops, and evening's cool slips in through the open deck door. Darkness follows.

My oldest bikes south with the wind at his back, miles spinning past, and I'm relieved when he texts me later to say he has safely arrived. Meanwhile daughter and friend chalk sunset art on the black driveway, and dance bare feet on the images in an attempt to smudge and shade the colors. Youngest sleeps, husband relaxes, and my brother calls. Wrapping up in a purple afghan, I curl up on wood deck planks outside, and carry the phone with me as we talk. He shares about his back pain, and we wonder about physical therapy, before talk turns to grilling and supper recipes. Soon his chicken is done, and we say goodbye, and I remind myself to pray for his upcoming appointment this week.

A friend drops by this evening, and we update each other on our families, our wonders, our worries. Her sweatshirt is still on, and her foot stays lifted mid-step on the stairs. The conversation is short, but our eyes meet, and we share an encouraging hug. She heads home, a whiff of sunscreen still in her hair.

The evening passes quickly, and after laughter and hugs, my fifteen year old sneaks up behind me.

"Mom, will you pray for me?" She has an end-of-year oral presentation tomorrow.

 I pull my tall fifteen year old onto my lap, and lean into her cheek as we pray.

And this life? It is normal and ordinary. Brown matted grass wrapped in crimson twilight that fades to black. And this? This is community. Whether with our kids, or neighbors, siblings, or friends, we can unfold our lives, peel back the colors to share and pray, worry quiet in the soft sunset together, then dance laughing on the picture, adding dimension to what is there.


(Learning to see and count God's gifts each day, I link tonight with Ann at A Holy Experience.) 

Making Spring Break Work for Every Family, on Every Budget

Photo courtesy of Hasitha Tudagalle, Creative Commons, cc license

From downstairs come the happy hum of voices and the tinkle of Legos being fingered and raked through. My college-age son is home on spring break and my younger two children are thrilled to see him. In between frequent outings with friends, he is nonetheless being intentional about time with his siblings. John and five year old Daniel build Lego castles, line up archery figurine battles, and talk long over red, blue, and yellow plastic bricks.

My high school daughter plans homework sessions around her big brother's work schedule, choosing to take her spring break this week too while he is home. They go on an ice cream date, talk for hours downstairs, and shriek with laughter far into the night.

Today we lingered in the kitchen and dining room, my man-son hopping up to sit on the counter, sprawling huge across my cupboards as I sipped coffee and turned pages in my Bible. At the table, my lanky daughter spread out her art pads and pencils, holding up a white eraser to show her little brother. Daniel pulled out his watercolor paints and some scratch paper, while I rounded up water in a plastic bowl. I clicked on Vivaldi's Summer, and we stopped to stare out the deck window at the melting snow, the blue sky, and a swooping black bird that perched on a pine across the yard. Time slowed, and we breathed in deeply. Rest and calm sank into us, and our shoulders dropped comfortably. Chairs scraped, and violins crescendo-ed as conversation resumed.

My husband and I are enjoying this day off work today too, and are savoring this time as a family. In between various side tasks, we stop to cuddle, closing our eyes, and leaning in for a long hug. Later on this week, there are plans for family games, some computer network gaming, and other casual pursuits. And for my husband and I, life resumes its normal work and carpool schedule tomorrow.

But in between, our family is planning to savor each moment together. Whether it is just curling up on the couch to watch a mystery together, or learning how to cook a new Asian noodle dinner, or playing eight rounds of Uno, we plan to slow the clock, to breathe in deeply, and let that rest and calm sink in.

Spring breaks don't need to be expensive or long. While summery beaches are always appealing to me, some years a break from school and normal life can be crafted just as simply by choosing to intentionally slow down one's pace. What speaks calm to you? What brings family togetherness? Choosing to sleep in late, to linger over coffee, and to lean into family moments can bring long-term renewal and peace on any budget. Plus they can be savored much more than just one week a year!

What does a relaxing day at home look like for you? (I love hearing from you. Those in email can click here to join the conversation.)

What Sports Cars and Physics Can Teach Our Families

Photo credit: Maciek, Creative Commons, cc

Sizzling Latino music rumbas through a sunny south-facing living room. Creamy light bounces dazzlingly off white sculpted snow drifts outside to dribble across red pillows and dented couch cushions inside. Wind-carved ledges hang off the roof, drape the deck, and swoop grandly through our yard. Swing-set chains disappear unexpectedly into snow drifts, the seats hidden below.

Photo credit: Carl Wycoff, Creative Commons, cc

My teen age daughter swipes long side bangs off her face, clipping them back, as we calculate physics at the table. Acceleration is calculated by subtracting the initial velocity from the final velocity, divided by time. We lean closer to read the problem about a sports car that speeds from zero to 60 miles an hour in 3 seconds, and I notice how tall she is, my lanky daughter. Fifteen years old looks good on her. We groan despondently at the subject, but grudgingly fill in the equation. Velocity flies by going east for the sports car, and into the future for this woman beside me.

How do you nurture and build memories with your kids on a daily basis? In between dishes, laundry, and physics problems, we sculpt our days at blinding speeds. Dentist trips, part-time jobs, and family activities carve swaths through our weeks, and I don't want it to erode away.

We laughed as we punched numbers in the calculator about initial and final velocity, my daughter and I. It wasn't the math-filled science. We found humor in odd places, and giggled together. Stopping to hug between subjects, we grabbed her notebooks and sprawled across my bed to read her math lecture together. All too soon, the talk of fully simplifying algebraic fractions trailed off, and she disappeared downstairs.

Walking back into the main rooms, a To-Do list spirals long in my mind, toys scatter my floor, and dirty dishes lean hazardously on my counter.

"Mom, play Uno with me?" my petite five year old asks softly. Shiny red Spiderman decals curl off his shirt. Tiny shoulders wait expectantly.

Snow spirals glitteringly away out the window behind him, as the wind swipes more of it. An afternoon sun slants shadows long across my carpet, climbing further up the red pillows.

He waits still, eyeing the black cards on the floor.

"Sure, bud, let's play some Uno."

And the snow drifts high on my deck, resisting the wind.

Martians Home for Dinner

Photo courtesy of NASA

Vivaldi traipses scales in violins and lutes tonight while a deep white frost encases the glass on our front door.

Record-breaking arctic windchills blast the Midwest, and Minnesotans everywhere huddle indoors today, after jump-starting frozen autos and avoiding the wind. Car dashboards blink temperatures in the negative, and tv news anchors compare our weather to the conditions on Mars.

Bursting through the doors earlier with bulging grocery bags, my husband and I dodged hungry kids, and handed them fruit and vegetable starters, in between fierce hugs. "I missed you!" I exclaimed. They grabbed vibrant red strawberries, a croissant, and some pearly mushrooms.

Rinsing red lettuce leaves, I drained them in a colander, while slicing open buttery croissants. Turkey slices there made a sandwich, and I tossed tomatoes, sliced mushrooms, and shredded carrots onto the torn lettuce for a salad.

After having been gone for much of the day at work and then the grocery store, I see that the dirty dishes still stack high, so we are creative with finding clean plates. Conversation flows easily, quickly, as we catch up on the day.

"How was your school today?" I asked my daughter, kissing her head. We laughed and talked, while my sons disappeared to play games together downstairs.

Some days pass too quickly, and time with our kids is fleeting, huh? Today is one of those days, so excuse me, please? I'm going to pour myself another glass of mango-carrot juice and spend some time with my children. First, my eldest and I are going to search for discount used college books online, and then my two eldest kids and I are going to curl up on the couch to watch a show together.

How do you like to slow down your day and enjoy loved ones? What do you think you'll do tonight? I love hearing from you, friends. 

Quick! Right Now Before the New Year...

This is it.

Turn on the Rocky theme song, pump up the hip-shaking Latin music, and crank it loud.

This is it.

Grab your coffee beans off the shelf, a filter, and grind up a strong pot. This is it, this is your day.

Who needs to wait until January 1st to start seizing each day fully? Each day is fresh, full, pregnant with potential, and this is it.

Twelve hours of daylight await you, and time is slipping away.

Take a quick shower, grab those jeans you love, and pour a smooth cup of hot coffee.

Forget about whatever failures you feel loom high from the year, the To-Do list with so many familiar items trailing along to each new page.

Today is fresh, new; the snow is untouched, and waiting for you. Grab today, pump the music high, and dig in.

What's one thing you want to tackle today while it is still 2013? What's one thing you want to jump full into today? 

This is it. Bring your coffee, turn the music loud, and dive in.

(I'd love to cheer you on, friend. What are you jumping in today with me? I have some writing and speaking projects I'm working on. Those in email can join the conversation here.)

Photo: Artist John Bramley, Rocky Balboa at The Washington Post.

Camp David and a Danish

In an espresso-steaming coffee shop, all the tables are crowded. There are no vacancies except at the tall table in the corner. Three of us stagger ourselves respectfully amidst five close-proximity chairs, wielding our bags and books into puzzle-like-precision placements.

A cheese danish tantalizes me from a wrapped paper bag, while Komodo Dragon coffee and cream scald my throat deliciously. Warmth steals through my hand and body. The danish waits, however, while I resolve a relationship issue.

Tapping thumbs into a red and black cell phone, I text, "Hi, love, sorry. I did it right today when I worked at not criticizing. I messed up when... Will you forgive me?"

He responds gently and we start anew. With a click, the screen is cleared, and I proceed to my danish and books, feeling peaceful and relaxed.

Resentments in relationships can accumulate too easily, building up walls, brick by brick. In this new season of relationship, we're striving to stay soft-hearted, to be quick to apologize, and quick to forgive.

Do you have someone you need to talk to today? Leave the coffee, the danish, and grab a phone or a pen.

Linking with Duane at Scribing the Journey and Emily of Imperfect Prose.