Organization

Kat has picked the subject of organization for Parenting University today. I can tell by her orderly personality she'll have some great advice to offer, but organization is not my strongest suit. However, there are two areas which work for me at this time- homeschool and meal planning.

Homeschooling
Since I have four children in four different grades, I must find a way to keep track of all the books required. Each child has the following books of his or her own: language arts, vocabulary, math, literature, practice test taking, composition, and at least three teacher's guides per child. Every student has at least one novel to read at all times apart from the textbooks. We also have several references for history, science and Bible. In the course of one school day, that comes to about twenty eight books in use.
How in the world do we keep up with so many texts? I consulted with other homeschool mothers and borrowed their ideas. I've come up with a system which works for us. I've color coded each child's materials. Peace is red, because he is melancholy. Pooh Bear is purple, her favorite color. Tater is green being so very full of energy. Wise one is blue because he is serene and peaceful.
According to the person's color, I've bought painter's tape at Wallyworld to match. Each child's text has a strip of colored tape across the top spine and an inch around the sides. I tape two strips of colored tape to the bottom spine and side of teacher's manuals. If I spy a book with green tape on the couch, I know to call Tater to come fetch it. If Peace leaves me something to check, I know to find the blue taped teacher's manual.
Each child has a basket with a colored ribbon attached to catch sundry books and carry them around the house or out and about. It's fairly easy to take work on the road with a prepared basket. We have one assigned shelf where the baskets rest and another for books to placed in colored order when not in use or in the basket. The notebooks of paper I've purchased also match the child's color.
Around 1:00 in the afternoon, children, books and papers are spread all over the house on couches, kitchen table, homeschool table, breakfast counter, living room floor, my bed, my floor. It takes about five minutes to clean up the chaos at the end of the day.

Meal Planning
I don't like to cook or shop. I hate to think of "What's for dinner?". I'm always looking for new ways to make this work for our family. Currently I'm subscribing to a website which masterminds a five day dinner plan, shopping list, and recipes for each meal. Once a week, I shop big for breakfast items, bread, milk, yogurt, fruit, orange juice, snacks, and the website's list, and the deed is done. The recipes are fairly easy, so cooking is not too big of a deal.

There. you have my very best organizational tips. You might not want to ask about other areas of home order, because I have entirely too much stuff. I think if I was a rich woman, a library and office might solve every problem, because books and papers are the things in too great of abundance for our allowed space.

My mother braved the seriously juvenille antics of Alvin and the Chipmunks with my children, so Buck and I could see

There Will Be Blood

in the theater. I wanted to like it, because of the brilliance of Upton Sinclair, hero and reformer of the American industry.

Truth be known, I suppose I like a screenplay to be a really good and terrible tragedy or something somewhat redemptive. Neither was true of this movie.

It's no spoiler to sum the plot up for you, so you don't have to sit through the tedium. Oil companies, like the main character in the film, never had and never will have any kind of heart.

After a splendid weekend with Grandma, I spent the day helping a friend get her new homeschool cooperative off to a good start. I learned applied algebra from an eight year old boy and a game of dice. I admired others playing a real pirate game called "Shut the Box" which formed math equations. We looked at a map of the world to find the true size of Alaska compared to Texas. Watching children learn is a wonder. I'm grateful for the opportunity.

On a Much Lighter Note

I found a lovely list of Family Read alouds here. I have not looked at the rest of the site, but the excellent recommendations are in order by grade level.

Since I have multiple age levels in my home, I choose the family read aloud at the highest grade level and make sure to read appropriate grade level books to individual children.

Open Letter to President Bush

Dear Mr. President,
Arrogant. Rude. Childish. Inappropriate. Each time you flashed that smug trumping smile and even reduced yourself to snickering during your State of the Union addresss, I became infuriated like never before. It was like watching a fourth grade boy taunt, "Na, na, na, nuh, boo, boo. I got YOU!"

Perhaps you isolate yourself with people who won't speak the plain truth to you, so I'll say it myself. Apparently noone has told you over the years that smirking in triumph over your enemies does not build trust in either those who support you or in those you so visibly disdain. If you expect to accomplish the goals you set out last night by working together with opponents, you will be sorely disappointed. Will you have the gall to blame THEM if they do not cooperate? You only succeeded in alienating those you mock further.

I voted for you. I've trusted you. Please make amends, sir, before it is too late.

Sincerely,
Truevyne

This evening I feel that nervous urgency which visits me in the very beginning of my creative process. I have two projects due in one month, and I get the jitters as I'm about to jump into planning. I'm to prepare "lectures" for my training, and a series of prayer stations on the theme of refreshing for a retreat. I also have another side project of making a display for a conference, but I've secured two thoughtful designers to assist me there.

I'm at the point in the shaping process where I read and mull over the requirements. I almost always feel overwhelmed and panicked at the volume of material to be covered. I think, "This may be the time I really won't be able to think one. original. thought." I do not like to learn by lecture nor give lectures. I endeavor to present materials in such a way that the focus is on the work and not me. It takes enormous yet natural effort for me to move from a script toward developing ideas in community through creative means. I weigh that effort against the ticking clock and gulp.

After the initial "creative ball starts rolling", I relax and enjoy the flow of ideas. But beginning for me, is the hardest part. I wonder about the cause of my anxiety. Fear of failure? Deadlines? Worrying my muse won't cooperate? Other busyness? Lack of interest? Insecurity?

The interesting part of it all is that none of this is required of me. I do it for the joy of the work. I don't need consolation- it's simply a matter of getting over shivering and thinking about how cold the water is before I dive into swim.

Do you ever have trouble starting projects? What helps or hinders creativity in you?
Do you fear failure? Do you enjoy the work of your hands and mind?

Faith in Parenting

Kat is hosting the topic of faith in parenting this week for Parenting University blog project. Here's my submission:

Maybe you, like me, have heard and believed the expression

Love the sinner, hate the sin.

Today I came to the conclusion that this is not a biblical statement. How? Through the difficult work of parenting one of my sons.

Last night this son managed to expose my last nerve and jump repeatedly on it. I found myself talking at him, lecturing really, while he shut down and shut me out. Sullen. Arms bound tightly around his knees. Sour expression on a hardened face. Everything about him screamed, "I'm not listening!" except his voice.

This morning he woke up and greeted me with his arms flung wide, a huge delightful grin on his face, and exclaimed "Mommy!" In this magnanimous gesture, he was testing if the storm had passed between us. We embraced in a giant bear hug.

His polar actions got me thinking about the rock wall I'd hit in him last evening. He has a particular weaknesses which I'd like to see gone, and I hammered hard like he was made of some kind of stone. "It's so easy to tell the whole truth! It's not like in this family you are mistreated if you make a mistake. We have grace! So, why, oh why, do you keep this up? The truth is easy. Furthermore, why do you take things so far with your brothers. You stir up trouble and act surprised when discontentment comes flying back at you! Why don't you get it?", I demanded. How ironic that I'd insisted so passionately when I know deep in my heart this boy struggles terribly with impulsivity and self protection. Obviously, I was stomping about on my moral high horse on moral high ground.

Problem is that love doesn't work that way. I asked this child point blank this morning if he believed he could be deeply loved by me, and more so by God, when he lies? He painfully answered, "No. I don't deserve it. I try and try to be good, but I always fail. I don't know what to do." Doesn't that break your heart? He felt helpless. He'd internalized my anger and judgment of his sin as directed to core of his person, because I was picking on his weaknesses. If I couldn't somehow manage to rebuke my son without him feeling attacked, then I certainly wasn't "hating the sin and loving the sinner". I realized that if can't accomplish this statement with my own beloved son, then why did I think I could do so with anyone else on the planet?

I've decided the saying should go like this instead:

Love the sinner. Hate my own sin.

That's much more like the Gospel. My propensity to lecture a child utterly mocks me. In fact, it reveals my own pitiful weakness of controlling behavior and judgment.

Mulling this over has given me new depth to understand Paul's words in Roman 6:15:
"For what I am doing, I do not understand; for I Am not practicing what I would like to do, but I am doing the very thing I hate."

This morning I spoke to my son about Paul's words. The Great Apostle Paul failed again and again. Next,I shared my own entrenched weaknesses. I laid out my choices. I could shut whom I chose out, believing myself to be a good person. Of course, I'd be forced to work diligently to hide or justify my own sin if I made that choice. Or I could take another route entirely in which I'd humbly admit my shortcomings and the hurt which they cause yet know that I am still deeply loved by God.

In this new conversation, I watched my boy come full circle from "I don't deserve love" to "I am incredibly loved by God."

Deeper still, I asked my son if we both could try to embrace the unlovable parts of ourselves and promise to remain open to God's love when we feel like closing the door on others.

As parents, we are the keepers of the faith until the child learns to have faith for himself. Yesterday I failed. Today I've gained astounding faith for myself and my child.

The fire yesterday got me thinking of my attachment to things. Gandhi is said to have only owned the few things in this picture. At the othe end of the spectrum, I'm overcome with all the stuff in my house. There are days I'd like to get rid of it all and live a much simpler life. However, I have things to which I'm attached.
Here's a list I've come up with so far:

a fruit bowl from my grandmother's house
my notebooks from Catechesis of the Good Shepherd
a picture over my computer of a woman in a storm
a metal piece of artwork in my living room of birds in a tree
a few antiques
a quilt from my grandmother
a picture I painted for Buck which hangs in our bathroom
last supper figures my husband and I made together
a creche made for Meredith Lee and my work in the city
of course, old photos
a chest Helen and Clay refinished for my fortieth birthday

How long would it take to replace all my homeschool material collected over seven years? I shudder to think.

I'm sure there are more items I'd miss. I know I'd be impatient and irritable working to replenish my home. I don't like that about myself.

I thought of how my neighbors might be ever so grateful to have everyone make it out safe from the fire. However, I considered the grief they'd experience as they remember something sentimental lost in the flames. How the grief would keep coming in waves over the entire year as they reached for something they used for a particular holiday, and it would have been destroyed.

What would you hate to lose? How would you handle such great loss?

Sirens approached. More than one. Blue and red lights flashed. Tater yelled through the bathroom door as I relaxed in a hot bath, "Mom, the house at the end of driveway is on fire!" Buck and the boys ran the quarter of a mile down the road for a closer look. Our neighbors stood shivering in the freezing cold helplessly watching the blaze.
"It's bad, honey," Buck reported to me, "I'm taking them some blankets."
Pooh Bear looked down the distance from the porch, "Everything's burning!" Tears filled her eyes.
I thanked God when Buck assured us that all people and animals were completely safe. Not being an expert on such things, I wonder if any amount of repair would undo the massive damage. The roof caves in at the middle in the morning light. Whisper a prayer for these folks. I can't imagine what it's like to lose everything.

Vyne Family Grace and Courtesy

Kat and Jessica asked if I might share about the development of our family discipline system. It's a long story, so feel free to skip this post if the topic sounds uninteresting.

Keep in mind that I felt I had come to a crisis, and that our family needed deep healing. My family mostly seemed just fine from an outsider's perspective, but on the inside I saw incredible disrespect for one another. Sometimes disrespect spilled outside my family as well. My children would bicker, disregard, and tear one another down. While some parents turn a blind eye and say, "Kids will be kids", I couldn't stomach it. Nor could I control it.

The first month of our parenting revolution moving from punishment to respect, I decided it would make a difference in our family if I put on some additional discipline myself. I tried in every way I could think of to take external consequences off the table and seek ways to motivate my children internally. Ultimately, it was a complete disaster. I found myself constantly annoyed and frustrated with my children for not making good choices. Things would fall further into disaster when I leave for dinner out with friends or book club, because no one had a vision for the plan except me.

The next month, I realized I'd come to the end of myself and began to seek God's help. I did not like what I was hearing from Him. I felt God leading me to cancel all my own plans and listen carefully and quietly on behalf of my husband and children. That month I had been asked to be a leader at a retreat. I'd organized a girlfriend getaway. I was part of a book club. I was planning a teaching project. God asked me to cancel everything until further notice for at least three to six months and then carefully weigh with Him every moment away from my family afterwards. I even gave up long conversations with people on the phone. Five minutes of phone chat was my limit. I gave up meeting friends for coffee or dinner. It seemed downright reclusive.

Although I didn't understands it initially, letting go of my agenda was key to the success of our parenting revolution. It gave me the gift of the most precious commodity. TIME. When I wasn't working with God on the plan or homeschooling, I spent the rest of my time tying heart strings individually with my children. I spent at least an hour of one on one time with each of the four children every. single. day.

I concentrated on deeply listening without outside interuptions to the problems in my house. And God was faithful to speak in a time loneliness for me. Everyday, I'd wake up and ask the day's plans.

The first assignment was to discuss with all the children, "What is a good family?" and "What is a bad family?". We spent two hours thinking and writing our down every one's thoughts. I returned to the topic later in the day again to go deeper. I wanted to keep it positive, so I stopped the discussion as needed when I saw the children becoming restless. We called our big list "family agreements".

The next day we talked about the "why's" behind all the agreements we'd written the day before.

Examples: "People in families should ask before they go in someones room." Why? "It makes me mad." What else? "It's MY room, and it makes me feel like I'm not important if I people burst in and touch my things." "People might damage something I care about."

"People in families should speak nicely. We should use calm voices and gentle faces." Why? "I feel scared when people yell at each other. It's like hurting with words, not hits."

"People in families should not hit one another." Why? "No one likes to be hurt."


Again, so as not to exasperate the children, I watched for signs of disinterest and stopped. Other times we'd pick it back up again. After all, I had the gift of time.

The next assignment was to figure out what in the world we could do to love one another in times of disrespect. This was by far the hardest assignment, and precisely what took three months to negotiate. I was firm in that I did not want punishment but relationship. Some sweet soul came up with, "We could serve one another when we've done one another a disservice." How? We batted around ideas I can't quite remember that day. Apologies didn't offer the incentive to stop a repeat of the disrespectful action again. One suggestion was to do the other person's chores, but that seemed so complicated as we explored implementation. Someone stumbled upon time away from each other- time away from everyone thinking over the "why" behind the disrespect. Everyone liked that idea. I randomly picked a family agreement from the days before of "People should wait turns to speak." If this agreement was broken, did it require same amount of thinking time away from people as hitting? Certainly not. We gauged each agreement together and assigned thinking time. This took days, because every single person had to agree completely. Someone would say, "That's too long." especially if it was something in his personal area of weakness. Another would say, "That's too short", because the disrespectful thing had happened so often to him.


We spent the following months working out the fine details which came up along the way:

Where would a person serve thinking time?

After much struggle we came to the conclusion of outside, since we live on a farm in the middle of nowhere. And yes, Buck and I have served thinking time outside for sundry infractions of the agreements ourselves. Mostly I've served for being impatient or harsh.

What if two people needed to serve thinking time at once? Front yard. Back yard.

What if it got too cold outside? The garage was an option, and thinkers were welcome to take blankets, sleeping bags, whatever seemed necessary.

What about Pooh Bear outside by herself? She goes outside for very short thinking times, but she also has a thinking chair inside she may use. I didn't like the idea of someone so young being alone outside for more than a few minutes even if we do live a long way from others.

Could the person play and think outside at the same time? We decided, yes. It's not punishment. Bikes, trampoline, skateboards, petting a variety farm animals would connect us back to good ways to burn energy. We just couldn't be around other people.

What happens if the person didn't agree with thinking time? We'd hammer it out till every party agrees.

What if people wouldn't take responsibility for his or her actions? We'd work on it as positively as possible until everyone came to harmony.

What if a person came in saying, "He deserved me to yell at him, and I'll do it again."? Back outside for more thinking.

What if someone woke up grumpy and said, "These agreement are ALL stupid!" They'd stay entirely away from the family until they agreed to keep them again, even if it was for a whole day which actually happened. To break the cycle, we asked the grumpy son to call ANYONE he wanted to talk about any injustice in our family and hold Buck and I accountable. We suggested names of friends, pastors, teachers, and told him we'd make any change the person asked, because we simply couldn't be a family without our son. Ultimately, he did not want to make that call, because he knew he was being unreasonable. His heart melted, and he joined back in the family agreements.

What if someone stomps, slams doors, and yells on his way out to think? Adding time for each broken agreement didn't help. It took a few months for me to think this easy solution up-I modeled zipping mouth, walking slowly and carefully with hands on thighs, carefully opening and closing the door, running quite a bit away from the house, then stomping, and yelling, "It's not fair! I hate this! This is stupid! Why do I always have to go outside? My family stinks!" It got laughs from the kids, but my son who struggled with his angry exit, changed his approach.

Who would be the judge of hearts? Me.

What if I made a terrible mistake in judging? God showed us the example His Son on the cross forgiving for what they did not know they had done. Plus one child chimed in, "It's just time to think and play outside. Nothing like dying on a cross!"

Where was Buck during all these many discussions? Mostly working, but he'd come home, look over what we'd decided, and put his stamp of approval on every detail.

Are we a perfect family? Not by any stretch of the imagination. All the Vynes exhibit selfishness, pride, anger, and other unhappy behaviors at times. Figuring this system out has been messy, but there has been a huge difference in the way we treat one another inside the Vyne household. In the beginning, the boys spent lots of time exchanging tit for tat serving of thinking time. A year later, we find less need for the entire system. Grace and courtesy developed within each person has become the rule rather than the exception.

When I see that commercial for a minivan in which "family time" is portrayed as three children with headphones on doing separate things and barely tolerating one another in some horrid conversation, I know we're markedly different. With God's help, we've built a way together to work through conflict with dignity and without power struggles.

Internal Discipline

Kat is featuring something new on Thursdays called Parent University. Today's topic is discipline. Here's my contribution.

Every parenting expert says it- discipline comes from within. However, parenting
experts seem to spend an exorbitant amount of time tauting external forces parents might use. Time out. Taking away privileges. Consequences. Spanking. Positive reinforcement. Negative reinforcement. Rewards. Punishment. None of these things come from within the child. They're something adults can impose on a small person.

So how to work towards internalization of discipline? Great question. It's all about letting the children feel the weight of the problem themselves. Little people won't ever catch on to what is important if everything is handled for them by us.

Let's take the typical scenario of one child tugging the toy from another. Let's says they are old enough to speak well (3 or up). I can put the child who tugged in time out or send her to her room. I can take the toy back and give it to the victim of the crime. I can give stickers to my children if they haven't taken toys from one another all day. I could even spank the child who stole the toy. Parenting experts might agree that these are all perfectly fine interventions. I disagree, because all of this involved the extrinsic resource of the parent.

Why not request the children to hand the toy in dispute to the adult? The adult could say, "Whoa! Both of you want this toy right now. What can we do that is fair for everybody?" Let the children determine with one another what works. If one has a hard time finding adequate or appropriate words, then help. I promise three to ninety year olds can figure it out.

May sound simple, but I hadn't quite caught onto how to expand the idea more to family life. After all, I had been indoctrinated with behavior management in college courses for my special education degree. So, I found I had to go cold turkey with external force parenting.

Why? A friend gave me this great counsel concerning my future as a mother. Teenagers only give as much control as they want give to anyone. External force simply does not work on teenagers. Grounding. Taking away cell phones. Taking away driving privileges. All external forces. I'd be dire trouble if these were the only things I have to "control" my sixteen year old. Teens can walk away from control without relationship, and I've seen many simply jump the family ship. I don't want to use power with my children; I want relationship. Relationship is respect, and no one has ever demanded respect. It's earned.

A year ago, we decided as a family to stop punishment altogether. Can you believe it? We all still wanted some way for each to be held accountable for disrespecting one another, and so everyone came up with a system together in which we could live well.

What has been the result? Pandemonium? Bedlam? Nope. Quite the opposite. My children have developed more self discipline this year than any year before.
It took weeks, maybe even months, and many hours of family meetings to hammer it out, but we have arrived at a relatively peaceful household containing six strongly opinionated individuals.

So what's your advice on discipline? Post it and submit it to Kat, too.

Interesting Cross Cultural Adoption Post

Great post here on a common experience I've had over many years of being the adoptive mother of a biracial child.

Six Words

Here are some words at present I could live without in the English language. My middle son has worn them out with his constant use.

Awesome
Stupid
Sweet
Spaz
Dude
Awkward

As in: "SWEET! That band is AWESOME! You're a SPAZ,DUDE, if you don't like them. It's so STUPID and AWKWARD that they aren't touring in Knoxville."

Am I raising a surfer or something? What's come over that child?

Fashion

Why,oh why, does my daughter believe that the following actually matches?

plain gray long sleeved Gap shirt
red windbreaker pants with cute snaps at the ankle
bright pink socks
ruby red slippers
plaid Christmas purse
light blue hair clip

When I asked her to change, she emerged with:

a red summer top with spaghetti straps over the same gray shirt
white socks
same read pants and slippers

She doesn't look any better by any stretch of the imagination. I just hope the seven year old version of "What Not to Wear" isn't filming in town today.

Birthday

I truly did not appreciate my own mother until I looked into the bright eyes of my first born son for the first time. I knew right then and there, that if my mother loved me a fraction as much as I loved the itsy bitsy baby in my arms, then that was quite enough for me. My mother loves me. She doesn't want to change me, make me something better. She loves who I am. What an incredible gift to give a daughter. I only hope I can do the same for my daughter.

Having my own children has helped me understand the judgement I held against parents in general. Negative things in particular which I'd harbored against my mom evaporated on the spot as I cradled my wriggling infant son. His birth brought healing to my dissonant heart.

As I continue to grow as a mother, I continue to increase in admiration for my mother. Today is her birthday, and I want to honor her with words, but I fall short. So I'll simply say-

Thank you, mom. Thank you for all that you've done for me, and the friendship we have today.

The two women working on my hair today had me in stitches. Yes, I did mean two ladies. I do have lots of hair.

Somehow the common hairdressing topics shifted to hot flashes and menopause which I have yet to experience.
So I asked, "Is it really that bad? I think I'd like to get hot for once since I'm cold natured."

Deena grinned and spoke in a humorously sarcastic tone, "Oh, no. It's not that bad. You just wish you were DEAD."

Beatrice chimed in, "Honey, it's sleeping that is worst of all. You wake up burning hot all over, so you kick off all the covers in a hurry. Ten minutes later you jolt awake freezing to death. Repeat this cycle through the whole night, and you begin to understand the horror of it."

Together they pronounced, "There nothing like it."

I can't wait.

Next the conversation skipped onto Jane, the other hairdresser who was supposed to be come to the shop. Deena answered the phone, said a very few words, came back and shared with Beatrice, "That woman must take the whole morning thinking of a new excuse, never been used before. Right now, she's apparently sitting in her car on the side of the road throwing up all over the place. She can't even drive into work. Who knows what she'll say tomorrow."

Beatrice answered, "Jane did make $100 yesterday, so she probably doesn't need anymore money for a day or two. I wish I lived like that. I get off work here and go right straight home to work in my own beauty shop."

I told them about my precious aunt who owns a shop in Georgia who takes care of every elderly woman's hair in town for free. Apparently, Beatrice gets up before dawn, picks up customers who can't drive any longer, does their hair, and drives them home just like my aunt. Of course, it was Deena who told me so.

I could see the friendship between the women. I liked the way they talked to the other customers while I was there. I don't go to the salon often at all, and it was pleasant to be with these two fine ladies this afternoon.

My children scattered to the wind throughout the weekend. Pooh Bear went to birthday beauty parlor party/sleepover in which I was given the privilege of manicuring nine year old nails, already bedazzled with sparkles and updos. To make things a little complicated, many girls asked for completely different colors on e.v.e.ry. s.i.n.g.l.e n.a.i.l.

On the fly, my youngest son, Wise One was invited to spend the night as well.

When I picked them up on Saturday morning, both were grumpy with one another until I performed mommy magic. I let them buy doughnuts. Wise One decided to use his own money to buy one for Pooh Bear, because they's argued all the way to the store. What about? She wanted to sing, and he wanted absolute quiet.

Peace, not one to enjoy a leadership role, was asked by his Scout leader to come to a leadership training. I asked Peace to seriously think about it, and he finally agreed. The young man came back walking on clouds. He told me stories about nature, leadership movies which contained cheezy elements, pranks, talks. Two other boys shared a cabin with him, and he especially liked talking in a vampire voice to the one who'd been reading a scary book before bedtime. His leader talked to Peace about staying the course to The Order of the Arrow- an honor in the Scout world. I've heard that the award has lost its meaning in certain troops by giving it to every scout, but ours troop doesn't look at it that way. It is earned. We'll see if Peace merits such a thing.

Tater is very concerned that some of his best friends, Owen and Tory, are leaving for L.A. this week. They called last night and invited Tater to sleep over one last time. The kids will probably only be gone four months, but you'd think it was forever. He's been moping around for two weeks. Kudos to a family who actually let their children try for their dreams in such a real way, and we hope they break a leg. Both will audition for television and movie productions.

Early weekend recovery bedtimes for all to be rested for school tomorrow are required. This means I may be able to sneak some personal reading time after teaching this evening.

It occured to me that we have an odd family. How many people have teenagers who still like read alouds? As a lover of literature, I am so grateful for it.

I started the Hawk and the Dove trilogy today with my children as a read aloud. I tried to stop after one hour, but Peace and Wise One protested loudly! Obviously, it's going to be a family hit.

On a homeschool note, my children are older. This book seems to be just right for my fourteen year old. My seven year old girl doesn't mind listening, but I hope to read it to her again when she turns fifteen, just like the girl in the story.

Sound of Music

The Sound of Music has always been my favorite all time movie. My seven year old Pooh Bear watched it for the first time. Her response? After a few unsolicted inquiries to me about the vocation of a nun she stated,

"Just so you know, Mommy. When I grow up I do not want to become a nun. I want to get married and be a mom."

Had to wipe my brow on that one, right?

I'm now savoring The Hawk and the Dove trilogy by Penelope Wilcock. The book was recommended by Miriam about ten times, and I tried to get into the story for an entire year unsuccessfully. I just was not drawn in within the first chapters. "Keep reading," Miriam chided, and I did. Now I can hardly put it down, so I've devised a way to relish each story in the book. I only allow myself one chapter a day, so that I might treasure each character and memorize the lesson within. Yes, it's that good. Father Peregrine, a proud yet broken Abbot charged with overseeing a humble Benedictine monastery, lights a fire deep in my soul. His character displays a uniquely relational perspective on intentional love in community.

In order to keep myself on this Hawk and Dove diet, I'm also allowing myself to read as much of The Pillars of the Earth by Ken Follet as I like. I had no idea when I picked up this book, that it contained the story about a monk as well. It's much lighter reading, and I'm enjoying it so far. Don't be fooled, this current best seller doesn't hold a candle to Wilcock's depth and insight.

Nerdy or no, my son Peace is handy with model kits. When Pooh Bear's soccer trophy fell to the floor via our clumsy cat Janet and the plastic girl broke off at the foot kicking the ball, I knew the fix it man. Peace got right to work but lost hope when he realized the kicker was top heavy and model glue wasn't doing the trick. I knew he was up to something questionable when he took the project into his room and emerged with a silly grin on his face fifteen minutes later. "Don't mess with the pony tail, Pooh Bear," he requested trying hard to suppress giggles. Peace handed Pooh Bear an entirely different trophy. "That's not mine. Does it say my name?" she inquired. Surprisingly, it did. She couldn't resist touching the hair of the soccer player and it drooped. Buck, Peace and I exploded with laughter. He'd taken one of his old trophies, changed the name plate, and stuck the pony tail on his boy kicker to make it a girl. Peace had discovered the trophy maker's top secret. The only difference in the mold is a flying ponytail.

Outspoken on Culture

It's all in fun, right? On New Year's Eve I learned Soulja Boy Crank Dat Superman dance. Knowing it's rap, I came home and googled the lyrics. Oops! I was mistaken that "Hooooo" wasn't a "Hey, Ho" songy thing, it was a Hoe thing. My bad. Also I wasn't impressed with the few obligatory "bitch" mentions. Then I took a few lyric phrases to urbandictionary.com.

Let me spare you the pain.

Superman
Robocop
Supersoak

are phrases with urban meanings so defiling to women that I wouldn't dream of staying in the same room the next time I hear dat Soulja Boy crank. If a person is inclined to dismiss these images as part of rap, then consider any of these actions happening to any woman or girl you know and love. Don't get me wrong. Rap has important raw stories to tell. However, the stories should not be at the expense of women.

Who was I kidding? My children heard about the song from their friends at church. Laugh if you like, but I assumed it was a Christian group at first. I learned the dance from a bunch of eleven year old girls at a New Year's Eve party, for heaven's sake.

I believed if children were listening and dancing to this music, their parents certainly had checked it out though I hadn't. Shame on me.

As far as I'm concerned, any person who participates in that song in any way sets back women, and yes, humanity thousands of years. Aint' no way any person considering her or himself a feminist or humanitarian could bear to stay silent. So I speak.

Homeschool Pet Peeves

This week contains all my homeschool pet peeves.

1. I've a cold- the kind where I cannot breathe at night and wake up a hundreds times snorting through a mouth as dry as the Sahara. It's also accompanied by a nice dull head ache and a dire need for a large amount of tissue. I hate getting out of bed in the morning, because I haven't slept well in the first place, but I'm not ill enough to call it quits entirely.

I have the only homeschooling children in the world who are average and not incredible self starters, so I am forced to crack the whip with little to no energy behind it. So, surprisingly I come across as somewhat lazy and grumpy to my less than eager students.

I do not like to homeschool on days I don't feel well.

2. We pay big bucks for an online school which had trouble loading for several hours yesterday. I called for tech support and worked on my computer with a young man on the phone for an hour. He recommended I call my server and work with them also. I did so for another hour. It took 3 hours to get school up and running. I don't understand how one day things work fine, and the next, it takes hours to load a dang website. Someone obviously changed something which dumbfounded my computer, but no one can take responsibility. Computer problems of the same nature happened last year at this same time.

I do not like technical problems which stop the school day.

3. My children lose their school books. I can't tell you how frustrating this predicament is for me. Each child of mine has colored coded books with a particular colored painter's tape on the spine of each book. Each child has color coded baskets of the same color and specific spots on the shelf for books, so disorganization cannot be blamed on me as the cause. Over Christmas holiday my daughter's math book grew legs, and Wise One's composition book may never have been delivered. Sometimes I spend an excruciating hour in he middle of the day grudgingly searching high and low for some one's missing reader.

I abhor lost homeschool books.



Anything bother you in particular about schooling- home or not?

Peace turns 14 today. How is that possible?

Today is a quiet day at the Vynes. After a few overnights with fun friends, we're tying up loose holiday ends. Buck dug a hole, lined it with natural fertilzers from our goats and chickens, and planted our Christmas tree. On the spur of the moment at the garden nursery, he decided we'd start a new tradition this year- planting Christmas trees along our driveway. One pine down, fifty more Christmases to go.

I haunted a few stores today to catch a few beautiful ornaments on clearance to give as teacher gifts next year. I stumbled upon a pattern for my handmade gifts to make with the children for next year which makes me very happy. I also spent one of my gift certificates at Borders on a delicious new book. I'll let you know about it when I find time to steal away, snuggle up and read.

Pooh Bear lost a tooth while I shopped.

Buck recruited the boys to work on smoothing the terribly bumpy gravel driveway. He says it's been much like Tom Sawyer, because all of them wanted a turn to shovel and drag the 350 pound roller up the hill.

Those of you who know me might be very surprised that Buck and I gave our children a Wii (and tv) for Christmas. We didn't have any type of game system until now, because I felt it distracted from the great outdoors and fresh air. However, I understand the Wii will be something a bit physical to engage in with company on cold and rainy days and for parties. All the children's bikes have been assessed and properly repaired to balance the appeal for outside. It's as hard to keep up with the right sizes of bikes for four children as it is keeping them clothed properly in coats, jeans, and shoes.

Off to put the ornaments away and prepare for the rootin' tootin' Deerlodge New Year's Eve Extravaganza.

The World is Watching

May God's justice come in the sacrifice of your life, Bhutto.

Here's what I'm seeing outside my window. Pooh Bear's wearing a pink sparkly cape of fabric, white apron, purple shirt, lime green pants and socks, and clashing ruby red slippers (of course). Her outfit reminds me of the Asian students in my college exercise class. Pooh's hair is tossled in it's usual mess, pulled back into a long ponytail, and covered with a brand spanking new hot pink bicycle helmet. The helmet still contains the instructions packaged on the bill. She's just fallen off her newly gifted requisite purple and pink bike and is collecting the contents of the gold basket which she has hanging from the handle bars. The basket contains a stuffed black dog, a Hawaiin lei, and a can of hair mousse. I'm not exactly sure what her plans are. I may never know.

Sundry Thoughts On Christmas Day

Family visited. Christmas story read. Presents opened. Husband and children playing merrily. Turkey stuffed in the oven. Listening to The Bravery while I clean up the spoils of plastic, twist ties, wrapping paper and scrape up breakfast cinnamon roll mess. The drummer in that band reminds me of Mike Budd. The sound makes me think of The Cure. I wonder if they grow old gracefully.

Today I have all the time in the world. I'm thoughtful about how I'll do things differently next year, so it doesn't seem such a whirlwind. I am a little disappointed in myself that we didn't do handmade gifts in Santa's Workshop this year. Instead we finished the school semester well and traveled to visit family. In the past I let the academic schedule go to fit it all in, but my brood can't afford the distraction if we are to stay on track.





Last night, I stayed up late watching Charlie Rose. He interviewed Rev. Peter Gomes.
I confess I don't know much about him, but to me, his words were profound. He encouraged us to remember the opposite of fear is compassion. He spoke of how so many people are ruled by fear. They order their day by fear. It crossed my mind that over these holidays I dreaded something in particular and how thoughts of it overshadowed and invaded a good many of wonderful experiences. I let my fear get in the way. Gomes suggested something revolutionary- that facing our fears, even gaining understanding of the people or circumstances would build compassion.

Don't get me wrong. I am not a fearful person. I often do and say things which take guts. However, anger is much more my weakness. I've come to know that if I dig deep enough, generally fear is behind the anger. If I'm outwardly mad because something of mine is wrecked, then deeper still is that feeling of "Doesn't anyone respect or care for me the way I need them to?" If I don't get my way, I may pitch an ugly fit, but inside silently cry, "Love me enough to give me what I want!" In the calm of most days of this abundant life, I see clearly that both these demands for respect and love exceed human capacity. Only the One who made me can wholly offer me these gifts of love and respect perfectly, and I've only to receive with open hands and heart. This concept requires resolve to comprehend in the heat of a difficult moment. If I can stop demanding perfection unable to be given, then I can move into compassion for the other person involved at the end of my disappointment.
I can let go of my fear, my need and contemplate the true need of the other person. Gomes nailed it for me.

Note to Self

I just finished reading a story to my children, The Bat Poet. It was a lovely read with parallel stories about the intruiging habits of wildlife and the creative writing process. I decided to make a note to myself here. I feel inspired to write when I read excellent work. When I look over my own writing pieces, it's those I've written while when under the influence of beloved authors to which I return. Not rocket science, but I want to remember.

This simple observation may cause me to scour the shelves for rich literature to devour, so that I might plunge myself into another writing project. It's been awhile since I've been lost in a world of books. However, it would be difficult to justify the self absorbtion. I may have no choice but return to my busy and attentive life otherwise. Balance of both may be the key, but I haven't mastered the equipoise yet.





Yesterday, Peace and I had a showdown of sorts concerning a writing assignment. His text outlined the assignment expectations quite clearly, yet he allowed his will to get in the way of understanding. His "I don't want to do this" stood wide-legged and shoulders squared in the doorway of his made-up mind. So, for a long while he feigned incompetance and sent jabs and barbs my way. When he asked for help, he became sarcastic. Peace dug in his heels deeper and deeper until it was time to take his sister to her Keepers of the Home (something like Girlscouts) closing ceremony. Peace wanted to stay in the car and pout, but I asked him to come in and watch as his sister got pins on her sash for accomplishment. He sulked but acquiesed. Buck came in and took the ruffled Peace under his daddy wing. By the time of our Christmas party following, Peace humbling came to me and asked to begin again. Apparantly, Buck had pierced the hard shell of his heart. One thing I like about my family, is that we can always ask for a fresh start, day or night. It's a monastic principle we learned years ago and put into practice in our home.

This morning I pleasantly started from the top with Peace on the unfinished work from yesterday. The Bat Poet reading mentioned above stemmed from his halted writing assignment. He chose the topic about creativity's role in the story, but got nowhere during our showdown. Offering to read the story aloud to everyone became a gift from me to Peace, letting him know I was on his side again. I stopped once early in the reading and announced, "This quote might be useful in a paper on creativity." and he ran over to me with a pencil to mark it. He picked up on my hint quickly and trumpeted me to stop to mark a passage he noticed next. Time and kindness always win which is another note to self.

Buck and True's White Elephant Gifts

The last several days I've heard and carefully have been mulling over these Advent words from Isaiah 9:6. You'll recognize the first from Handel's Messiah.

For a child will be born to us,
a son will be given to us;
and the government will rest on His shoulders;
And His name will be called Wonderful Counselor,
Mighty God, Eternal Father, Prince of Peace.

Some versions add a comma between the two words Wonderful and Counselor. Some versions do not. Is it wonderful counselor? Or Wonderful. Counselor?

In the original Hebrew language Wonderful is a noun which suggests a comma should be present. Full of wonder. The meaning is closer to "a thing of wonder". A God of wonder. Even these explanations fall short in a way, because we are talking about the person of God incarnated into Christ sent to dwell among us who is full of wonder. I get goose bumps thinking this over.

I think about the fullness of time as well from Galatians 4:4
But when the fullness of the time came, God sent forth His Son, born of a woman, born under the law.

Time, not in moment of God's whimsy, "It's seems like a good day to do the Jesus thing."

But...

Time briming over like when a small child is learning to fill a glass of water for herself. Full like a mother's heart watching her first grade son perform the lead role in the school play. Stuffed like someone who has eaten the most delicious meal. Overflowing like gulps of water pouring out the sides of a mouth after a long run outside on a hot summer summer day. Crowded like a public swimming pool in 101 degree heat. Loaded like a convertable T-bird in the Christmas parade of beauty queens from the county fair. Energy bursting like the starting line up of nervous horses at the gates for the Kentucky Derby.

I feel something of that fullness of wonder and time just now, and it is a thing of beauty.

A few days ago Peace yelled crossly from the kitchen, "Mom! Come in here now! And I mean it!" I flew like the blustery wind into the kitchen to find Peace grabbing towels from the bathroom and shoving them around the flooding dishwasher. Of course, Buck had left for work 15 minutes before, so it was completely up to me to figure out what to do next. And I am not a handygirl.

I opened the diswasher door and water still kept pouring in buckets onto the floor. My husband installed new flooring in the summer, and I grimaced at the prospect of it being forever ruined. I reached under my sink to turn off the water. By this time, all four children stood watching stunned that I had managed to stop the problem. Tater proclaimed, "Mom, you fixed it. I didn't know you could do that."

"It not fixed, bud. we won't be able to use the water in the sink," I snipped back at him. I have been far too impatient for some days now.

I called Buck on the cell, and the children followed me to the garage. "True, just find the dishwasher breaker and turn it off. Then you can use the sink."
"I would if I could open the breaker box!" I grumped at Buck while I stood on the goat stand fiddling with the impossible latch. Tater shoved his way up to help me undo the black button to the grey cabinet. He found the word "dishwasher" typed next to number 14 and flipped the switch. We plodded back into the kitchen and I turned the water back on safely. Fortunately, I couldn't bite off anyone else's head, because the breaker trick worked. Next, I threw the sink rug outside on the sidewalk and a boatload of sopping wet towels into the washer.

My kitchen isn't set up to hold six people's dirty dishes except for inside the dishwasher, so I've been breaking glasses right and left as they plummet from the tiny drying rack. I feel irked waking up to countertops covered with dishes drying from the night before. Eating out or eating junky doesn't work for me either. The situation demonstrates to me my poor character, because something so mundane as not having a dishwasher puts me even more on edge. Friday, when the servicemen come to install my new appliance, this particular test will end with poor marks for me.

It's Advent for goodness sake, and I'm moody. Certainly not penitent and mostly not preparing my heart to recieve the Newborn King of Kings. How short I fall. I look for the day when I am not bent out of shape by ordinary disappointments of leaks.

It's long past time to begin homeschooling this morning, but I had sense enough to grant my children the freedeom to fly kites instead in the unusual and gray sky. I seek to center myself a little for this new fragile day of washing dishes by hand with thoughts of Advent calling me to something higher and more difficult- becoming the person I want to be. The unseasonably warm temperatures war with the North Wind to blow back in frost and wintery weather to our home on a country hill. The battle reflects my insides. Perfect for flying kites.

Mabye You're Planning for Christmas but not me...

Rainbow Pinata
Ruby Slipper Paper Napkins
Dorothy Paper Cups
Cowardly Lion, Tin Man, Scarecrow Paper Plates
Green Emerald City Castle Cake
Yellow (Brick Road) Tablecloth
Rainbow Punch
Full on Dorothy Costume
Red Jello Tin Man Heart-shaped Tins
Felt Squares for the Yellow Brick Road

See a trend yet?

Sculpy Lollipop (Guild)to be made into ornaments
Slipper to be painted with sparkly red paint
Horse to paint in many colors
Tin Man Heart Sugar cookies to decorate
Glinda Magic Wands
Paper plates to make into lion faces
Coloring Sheets of Flying Monkeys

Catching on?

Toto Baskets lined with light blue gingham to catch crafts
Glinda Bubbles
Themed Stickers

Coming to you yet?

A certain movie and music

Yes, Saturday is Pooh Bear's Wizard of Oz birthday. She turns 7, and Pooh Bear is about to bust with sundry party favors strewn all over my house.

Nothing like a ginourmous angry red pimple on the chin to utterly rob a woman of her self confidence.

Yesterday my family attended the funeral visitation of a dear friend's mother. Since we attend a rather informal church, finding suitable dress clothes in the closets of my children proved to be harder than a snapping turtle shell. "Why can't I wear my long sleeved superhero shirt? It's clean." "But I don't have any black dresses which match my ruby red slippers." "How about this orange t-shirt, Mom?" Seriously.

On the trip, Buck and I inquired of the children if they ever remembered seeing a dead person. "I know I have, but I don't really remember.", Peace answered. I asked if anyone was afraid to which Pooh Bear replied, "In an Odyssey story on tape, one of the character's grandma dies and says she just looks like she's sleeping. So, I'm not scared at all."

When we arrived at the funeral home, Buck gave the solemn behavior speech. And it worked. My children behaved like gems. They sat and charmingly chatted with all kinds of people inside and ran around like crazy men outside entertaining my friend's active seven year old son, Joseph.

Joseph asked anyone who would give him the time of day to explain just exactly what his grandma was doing in heaven at that very moment. When it was my turn, I mentioned I knew about lions and lambs lying down there together and the horses in Revelation. I told Joseph, "Do you suppose she's riding a white horse or petting the furry mane of real lion?" Pooh Bear told him she thought his grandma was having a fun time walking on streets of gold. His mother suggested Grandma might be swimming with all kinds of shining fishes which excited Joseph to exclaim, "And I bet she doesn't even have to come up for air."

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Pooh Bear approach the coffin alone, and she softly spoke. She stroked the grandmother's fingers. Pooh Bear explained later, "I was wishing her to have a good time in heaven and smelling the wonderful flowers."

Birth and death feel so very sacred. This particular sacred life ended with a daughter holding her mother's hand in her palm and the other gripping an oxygen mask hovering over her mother's face as the elastic had become unbearable. The mother gently whispered, "Let me go." to which the daughter nodded simple consent.

Away in an awesome manger

The Nativity story is a cornerstone of the Christian faith but can be a big hurdle for a bunch of skeptical New York teenagers.

By Garrison Keillor

Dec. 05, 2007 | I got to teach Episcopal Sunday school last week, a rare privilege, and it was in a New York church so the kids had plenty to say. Teenagers, and if you expect them to sit in rapt silence as you tick off points of theology, you're in the wrong place. They made plenty of noise, and not much of it about religion. Some of them seemed to be on a faith journey that was heading away from the Nicene Creed toward something cooler and jokier, some form of animism perhaps, the worship of cougars and badgers.

I like teenage noise. (It's the quiet brooders like me you have to worry about, right?) They let me say my piece -- God prefers honest doubt to false piety -- and then they said their pieces, and what shone through was a sensible anxiety about the future and the fact that they care a lot about each other. You could imagine a confirmed agnostic hanging out here just for the warmth and conversation.

We sat in a sort of triangle, two couches at a right angle, a line of chairs, a window looking out at the snow on Amsterdam Avenue, and talked about the rather improbable notion that God sent Himself to Earth in human form, impregnating a virgin who, along with her confused fiancé, journeyed to Bethlehem where no rooms were available at the inn (it was the holidays, after all), and so God was born in a stable, wrapped in cloths and laid in a feed trough and worshipped by shepherds summoned by angels and by Eastern dignitaries who had followed a star.

This magical story is a cornerstone of the Christian faith and I am sorry if it's a big hurdle for the skeptical young. It is to the Church what his Kryptonian heritage was to Clark Kent -- it enables us to stop speeding locomotives and leap tall buildings at a single bound, and also to love our neighbors as ourselves. Without the Nativity, we become a sort of lecture series and coffee club, with not very good coffee and sort of aimless lectures.

On Christmas Eve, the snow on the ground, the stars in the sky, the spruce tree glittering with beloved ornaments, we stand in the dimness and sing about the silent holy night and tears come to our eyes and the vast invisible forces of Christmas stir in the world. Skeptics, stand back. Hush. Hark. There is much in this world that doubt cannot explain.

(I might have told the kids that when you use the word "awesome" to describe everything above mediocre, you're missing a word for Christmas Eve, but I'm not their editor either.)

New York is very gaudy at Christmas, and the Santa Clauses on Fifth Avenue swing their bells with style, and the store windows glimmer and the city at dusk is ever magical, but all New Yorkers know that loneliness is a part of life and can't be extinguished, not by entertainment or pharmaceuticals.

I walked around the city that Sunday night -- two homeless people were camped on the steps of a Lutheran church on 65th, in the midst of grand old apartment buildings, and the opera crowd was wending toward Picholine and the Café des Artistes for the lobster bisque, and on the uptown subway we all sat and did not stare at the crazy old man boogeying in his sleeveless T-shirt and singing incoherently and watching his own reflection in the glass -- and how 17-year-old kids should mesh New York with the Nativity, I was not able to tell them. God prefers admitted incompetence to fake authority.

But explaining the universe to them was not my job, only to love them, which I do, utterly. They are brave and loyal and funny, heading out into a world that is not forgiving of mistakes, that will try to pummel them into submission, that is capable of awesome cruelty and deceit, but here they are. Emily Dickinson said, "To live is so startling it leaves little time for anything else," and if she, who spent most of her adult life in her bedroom, could feel that way, then think how it must be for the rest of us.

A day in New York can show you such startling sights, including a band of doubting teenagers clustered in church on a snowy morning, that the birth of the child in the hay seems not so impossible after all, even appropriate, even necessary.

(Garrison Keillor's "A Prairie Home Companion" can be heard Saturday nights on public radio stations across the country.)
© 2007 by Garrison Keillor. All rights reserved. Distributed by Tribune Media Services, Inc.


-- By Garrison Keillor

Hat tip to Almost

more parenting thoughts

A year ago, I became more aware of troubling issues in my home. It seemed there was never a moment of peace with my children, and I could not get anything done. I began to evaluate the situation, and it broke my heart enough to finally make a change. As much as I'd like to consider it something else, I was living selfishly. As awful as it sounds, I believed my children were in my way instead of part of my way. I examined my agenda, my goals,and yes, my dreams. One by one, I found a way to streamline what is most important to me, and though it was incredibly painful, I let go of the rest for the sake of my family. I was simply doing to much. For example, I cut down on exercise time. I stopped calling and hanging out with dear friends. I seriously limited attendance to interesting support groups, conferences and workshops. My standard answer to "Will you lead or be part of this project?" even though I'm the perfect one for the job is "No, ask me next year." It is next year, and the answer is still mostly "No", because my children would suffer. They need focused attention and time being enjoyed by their mother, not the lie of quality time. I've noticed my husband also cutting back and being with the children in a child centered way as well though his work keeps him more than busy.

I wonder how much people think, "What a shame, True. You'll lose yourself if you don't take care of you first. What will be left of you when your children leave?" But the truth is, I haven't lost any of myself. The more I press into intentionality with my children and husband, the more I become the person I've always wanted to be. Less grumpy and irritable, though there are certainly days I'm horrid. Less stressed. Less judgemental. Less of a task master. If I'm not always in a rush to get somewhere for myself, there's no cause for being short tempered with my family. I hear folks proclaim, "I don't have time to relax." Honestly, too much "me time" did not create relaxation. It created more stress on everyone.As for the question, "What will be left of me when my children leave our home?" I believe I'll be a person I can love without so very many relational regrets.

The bottom line is that I still do the things I love but with greater purpose- I write, train, garden,read, create, hike, dance, and teach- though with less frequency.

Here's a quote I read this morning which sums up my thoughts.

We need to be humble enough to admit that we tend to be "problem allergic" because we tend to live selfishly rather than redemptively. We want regularity, peace, comfort, and ease. We want to be predictable and unencumbered. the problems that our teenagers (I'd say any children) bring home are an intrusion on our desires and plans for our lives. We tend to get angry, not because they are messing up their own lives, but because they are messing up ours. We get captivated by our own plan, and we tend to lose sight of God's. We begin to think of our children as agents for our happiness, rather than remembering that we are called to be God's agents of growth in godliness for them. So in times of trouble, we angrily fight for our dream instead of happily doing God's work. If we are ever consistently going to see problems as opportunities, we need to begin with humble confession of our selfishness to the Lord.

Age of Opportunity by Paul David Tripp

I didn't want to believe it when I first heard that he was sick. I thought to myself, "He'll rally. He's a strong man. You should see the way he wrastles them goats."

Dr. Butler, an extraordinary vet and human being, passed away yesterday. I've blogged about him before. He treated anyone's animal who needed help regardless of the owner's ability to pay. It's been said that Dr. Butler's books showed half a million dollars in the red, but that never deterred his fair practice. His waiting room displayed social services for every walk of person and animal. His office has long been a clasdestine drop off and subsequent residence for strays of all sorts.

Upon my first visit, I mused over the ducks, dogs, and cats snoozing on the ratty chairs in the lobby as we waited our turn. I think back to the time he made every effort to save my son's dying gerbil. I consider the visit I forgot money and his nurses tried to give me the medicine for my goats for free. I think of how he straddled my skiddish Great Pyraneese to draw blood for testing. I grin at his laughter produced by him in response to my questions regarding castration for my goat.

Dr. Butler,
I'll miss your looming stature, your gentle way with the very small to gigantic creatures, and your compassion to all. Knoxville has been a better place for having you in it.

Last night, after home school and Buck was away at work, I snuck away to my room to study for my course this coming weekend. I believed the children were enthralled in a rip roarin' game of Monopoly, so I dove head long into my books knowing they were occupied. I slipped into deep thought about the topic "Liturgy as Memorial". My mind flipped to a meaningful memorial service for a dear friend years ago. His short life had impacted our entire city. I considered the work of God's people as memorial of Christ. What,who,why are we remembering? What is the impact today of Christ's short life?

I researched Jewish traditions observed at the Last Supper meal, and I'm still in awe of the connections I miss by not understanding Judaism. Did you know the tradition of a man offering a woman a cup of wine as a proposal of marriage? If she drank from the cup, she committed herself to the man for life. Consider Christ offering the disciples the wine at the Last Supper and the significance of His followers, who fully comprehended this Jewish tradition, accepting the drink. It's amazing imagery.

I contemplated Christ's command at the Last Supper to "Do this in remembrance of me." We have many Christian symbols to remind us of our faith. I was struck that the cross, while powerful, was not the way in which Christ commanded us to think of His death and resurrection. Instead he offered us a simple meal with Himself, of Himself. No gore, no pain, just beautiful bread and wine. How gentle.

These thoughts and others of people I love lead me to prayer. I sang softly and welled up in tears. Monopoly must have come to a screeching halt, because my children burst into my room at the precise moment I cried. Tater, of course, noticed my red eyes and spoke, "Mom, what's wrong?" I explained that it was all too much to talk about. He announced, "I came in here to ask for dinner, but now I'm cooking. Do not come out of your room." He rounded up Pooh Bear to set the table and got busy. He grilled chicken, cooked corn, and baked crescent rolls for an all yellow dinner. Tater even mixed milkshakes for everyone for dessert. I'm so blessed. As much as I worry about him, his compassion is unmistakably in place.

I wished I'd have blogged my feelings about American health care before I watched Michael Moore's Sicko. That way I would remembered all the reasons I've believed America's health care system, though flawed, worked best. Afterall, I have good medical coverage. As much as I hate to admit it, this movie changed my views somewhat.

Some of Michael Moore's belittling style bugs me, and I certainly do not buy into his political agenda. I found the 20 minutes I watched of his Fahrenheit 911 to be much too long. However, Sicko brought home to me price we pay against humanity in our own country.

Why would Canadians need to purchase medical insurance before entering the U.S.?
Why would Americans need to fake Canadian residence to get medical care?

How could insurance company employees who deny life saving procedures sleep at night?

How is it that we provide better health care for terrorist inmates imprisoned at Guantanamo Bay than 911 heroes?
Why would Cuba medically treat those same 911 heroes for free?
How can a $120 medicine be dispensed for 5 cents in Cuba?

What happens to an American homeless person when she has nowhere to go to recover from wounds or illness?

How can American mothers with full health coverage lose children due to refusal to treat because the family rushed to the "wrong" hospital in their city?

A few thoughts I had during the movie
A hospital is not a family and cannot pretend to be one for homeless people. What should happen when someone has been treated and needs to be released into some one's care? Hospitals dumping them out on the street is not right, but what is?

Michael did not bring up the care for the elderly or homeless in Europe. Does one need an address to be treated? He didn't show examples of working class Europeans struggling. Why are the English so infamous for bad teeth if dental is free?

Michael failed to mention Cuba's human rights violations- which may be an unwelcome trade off for free medical.

Some things the movie did not explore enough which I'd like to know more about
Doesn't most cutting edge medical technology come from the U.S.? And don't countries with socialized medicine benefit greatly from our costly technology? Wouldn't socialized medicine in the U.S. gut new advances gained by a capitalistic approach to medicine? Seriously.

Any responses to these question from you? Comments welcome.

Why blog when I'm madly pulling together an impromtu trip to Florida to visit with my mother, her husband and his brother for Thanksgiving? I suppose I want to get some thoughts down.

This week I connected with two other adoptive parents. I'm convinced we could all use a "shot in the arm" to encourage us. I'm earnestly seeking a particular author/speaker, but I cannot find any way to get in touch. I think I'll try his publisher. I have some very specific topics I'd like to explore in a workshop.

Don't get me wrong. Things have been steady and relatively good with my Tater for some time now, but I want more. I want more connection. More bonding. Greater understanding between the both of us. I can tell in his words and actions that he also wants more and doesn't know how to get it. Since he's twelve, I don't have much longer to go deeper. These last few years need to really count.

Can you tell I've been reading teen age parenting books? I gulp thinking about the other side of the window of opportunity closing in fast. The power is shifting as teenagers only give parents the amount of control they choose. In the blink of an eye, a teen can decide they've had enough of my mess. What they don't get at home, they find elsewhere. So, Buck and I are working hard to establish friendship with our older children and offer a redemptive home. Hard every day work for sure.

Buck, Peace, and I have nearly decided to send Peace to a private high school next year. Another huge gulp! Can you believe I have a son going into high school? Where did that time go? It's costly and will kick his academic tail, but we're sure it's a good fit. In many ways, I'll miss him in our homeschool mix. Afterall, he's my science and history teacher this year.

Off to pack and plan. Catch ya later.

Soapbox

I don't know how it happened. I have some good guesses below which will not change the tragic results. We Protestant Evangelicals have created a chasm between ourselves and our children in worship. Someone, I don't know who, invented children's church, and that's the last we've seen of our children during Sunday morning services- Poof!, and the wonder in the eyes of a child was stripped from the worship experience altogether.

Is it because children are no longer capable of comprehending the Gospel? Do children of this new generation require things particularly tailored to them?

Or is it because parents no longer know how to parent in the church setting?

Have churches become distracted and annoyed by young ones during the "real" action of the service?

All I know for sure is that I miss little voices singing in sincerity and the conviction of youth when I attend church.

And I want them back.

I've had folks who believe the same way ask, "There are plenty of churches who do welcome children into liturgy. Why not find one and stop whining?" The answer is simple- I am called at this time to the Protestant Evangelical Church, with all its beauty and weakness. If it's not heresy to quote Ghandi for Christian purposes, I intend "to be the change I wish to see."

Last night, our church hosted an uncommon event. We worshipped intentionally as a families. One gifted family made up the music team- two beautiful daughters and a mom on vocals, dad leading, son on guitar. That entire family whole-heartedly sang, but the confident and cute-as-a-button six year old at the microphone melted me.'

My entire family danced something I choreographed to a Mercy Me song. I simply asked my household to consider the dance as an offering to an audience of One though we were to dance in front of quite a crowd. Tater, a self conscious tween, refused at first. I wasn't about to require a gift of worship from any family member. However, he came to me after careful consideration and prayer and said, "Though I might feel embarrassed, it's something I feel I am supposed to do." That was a moment with Tater I wouldn't trade for the world, my friends.''

The service provided built in silent contemplative listening time complete with journals, crayons and pencils. We considered scripture together in small groups, and ended with active, flag waving worship at the end. You might find this irreverent, but I didn't- Wise One and a buddy threw down some guitar hero moves as they enjoyed God and the music.

Afterwards, I thought aloud, "That is church!" My congregation plans to do this another time in the next year. Perhaps it's the start to the change I hope to be.

The English philosopher John Stuart Mill expressed the same sentiment in the nineteenth century:
War is an ugly thing, but not the ugliest of things. The decayed and degraded
state of moral and patriotic feeling which thinks that nothing is worth war is
much worse. The person who has nothing for which he is willing to fight, nothing
which is more important than his own personal safety, is a miserable creature and
has no chance of being free unless made and kept so by the exertions of better
men than himself.8

Dave Kopel


Active pacifism always resounds in my heart, but the practice seems to hinge on others protection in order for a person to hold the view. What of this paradox?

Hat tip to John for the article.

To borrow a phrase from Scott, The Vyne family has a used-but-new-to-us "phat minivan". Oh yeah, it is a sweet ride. Of course, that is compared to our dented, paint peeling, ripping upholstered, goat and dog hairy, bare steering columned, sour milk smelling 1991 Previa van.

I don't bring up our new purchase, because I want to provoke jealousy. It is just a 2002, but it might be the first vehicle we've ever owned within the same decade it was made.

And I also wanted to give you the contrast of the old van to enable you to appreciate our middle son's new obsession- keeping the "new" car's bling. Tater chides his siblings when they leave so much as a straw wrapper on the seat or floor. He meticulously vacuums the van several times a week. In fact, he's already swept out the carpet more times in the last month than our Previa received in it's entire six years of service to us.


Tater had something of a hissy fit on Halloween when we decided to decorate the Previa, not the new Odyssey, in a farm motif for "Trunk or Treat" at our church. Sissy- our goat, bales of hay, a rooster, and Buck in overalls added the finishing touch to the theme. Tater protested out of style embarrassment saying, "Please let's take the new van. I promise I'll clean it out! You know I will." I simply couldn't trust that he'd find the right disinfecting solutions for goat and chicken poo.


So what gives with this child? Are tweens supposed to pay this much attention to car detailing? Is he relieved he doesn't have to be caught dead in a junker any longer?

By the way, that junker still runs like a dream. We just aren't sure what might fall off next.

Though we live at the foot of the Smoky Mountains, we don't get there as often as one might think. So Friday, I made a last minute proposal to Buck that our family head to Pigeon Forge for an overnight, and hike in the morning.
We hit our favorite restaurant first, The Apple Barn, where the apple is king. The wait was an hour and a half as usual, so Buck took the children to the enormous barn gift shop while I listened to my book on CD. Forty minutes into the wait, Peace bounced up to the van and anounnced, "Come and eat." Apparently, the cute factor in Pooh Bear landed us an early table abandoned by a party of five. Confectioner's sugar coated apple fritters, apple butter, apple julips, country cooking, and desserts galore awaited.
We found a cheap hotel with an indoor pool in which to swim. In the morning, there was a free carbohydrate festival in the hotel breakfast room. I kid you not, there was nothing but cereals and breads. Buck commented that the bagels must have been valu-time (our grocery's poor quality generic food label) rejects. I wouldn't have believed I could meet a bagel with cream cheese I didn't like, but I spit my first bite out into my napkin and went with off-brand fruit loops instead. After, my boys carb-loaded on cereal, toast, nasty sweet rolls, and oatmeal, we got on the road to find our hiking trail.
We chose an easy path for Pooh Bear called Laurel Falls. The drought left the fall foliage lacking a touch the usual richness and variety of color. However, the majesty of the mountains didn't disappoint. With the crisp autumn air surrounding, the hovering rocks, fallen tree giants, laurels lining our walk, we took in the fresh orange and yellow morning.
Along the trail, were several signs stating the danger of falling deaths which made my boys a little too curious about the edges of the cliffs for my comfort. They'd drag me to the side of the footway to stare down at a 100 foot sheer cliff and ask, "Mom, do you think someone died here?" My answer, "Yes, and I'd like it very much if we weren't the next fatality."
It was quite a strange experience once we arrived at Laurel Falls. Yes, there was a water fall, but not with the normal rushing water one must shout above to speak. The drought had crippled her too, limiting her flow to more less a pouring stream rather than the forceful pounding beauty I'd remembered from the past. A wonder crossed my mind, "Is this how a desert begins when the world changes climate?"
After the hike, we ate lunch with Buck and packed him off to work overtime. Three children begged for haircuts, and afterwards we headed home. All four helped with two chores and played the rest of the afternoon while I cleaned some more. I love a clean house for our Sabbath. Tater kept slipping in his socks on the tidy floors. Twice he fell within a few minutes, so I joked, "Tater, honey, I suppose your feet usually stick to the nasty floors around here. Perhaps it would be best if we never cleaned again, because washed floors do you in."

Notes from the Homeschool Front

Tater, the boy who spent the summer in France meeting children from twelve nations, wrote the following in an English assignment. Apparently, his multi-cultural experience didn't neccessarily translate.

Turn these Proper nouns into adjectives.
1. The (Cuba) Cubic people are famous for making cigars.
2. The (Italy) Italish sausage tasted flavorful.

Don't worry, grandparents. We are raising true scholars.

I'm listening to a fiction book on CD which I am enjoying- Between, Georgia. There are a number of things I like about it, but I'm taken with the complex relationships and the delicate navigation of the characters through those ties. Also, I like southern settings, because it reminds me of my own Georgia roots.
And the author reads her own work.
I'd rate it R for language, and A for a good book journey.

My life as a mother just returned to something more breathable as the soccer season ended yesterday. Three teams. Four players. Six practices per week. And Saturday games here, there, and yonder. All finished. Sports screeched to a grinding halt with one simple exception- once a week swim practice for all at the same time beginning Thursday. Maybe, just maybe, we'll take time to serve at the animal shelter again and cook meals which take longer than 15 minutes for a change. What else did I hope to put more time into when soccer was finished? I can't remember just now. I'm too exhausted to think.

Back from Ashville. It was just as we expected- great food, laughter, art, shopping, and birthday cake for breakfast to celebrate Helen's fortieth.
When I arrived home, my home was clean, children happy, and Buck left quiche for dinner for us before he went off to work. It was a blessing.

Packing my bag for Helen's splendid birthday trip this morning. We'll hit Ashville, N.C. with another friend, Candy. I expect a weekend of laughter, art, great food, and girly mayhem. If you see me, I'll have a wild grin on my face that says, "I'm a forty-one year old homeschooling, pretend farming mother of four who doesn't get this opportunity very often."
If you see Buck, it'll be on the fly. He's selling Boyscout popcorn with the boys and soccer game chauffeuring.

A Crass Conversation

Me: So, what do you think of our Nobel Peace Prize Winner this year, Al Gore?
Buck: Interesting choice.
Scott: Wonder who will be nominated next year?
Buck: Maybe George Clooney.
Me: Leonardo DiCaprio.
Buck: Sheryl Crow.
Scott: Brittany Spears.
Buck: Oh no, Scott, not Brittany Spears. It's the Nobel Peace prize, and Peace is spelled P-E-A-C-E, silly.

If you do not believe in spiritual battles this video isn't for you. If you do, be warned, it's intense and not for children.

Outside my bedroom window this morning stands a lovely sight. Past the faltering zinna garden, over the freshly graveled driveway, and into the dewed neighbor's field, three black calves are silhouetted by the bright morning sun streaming through the trees. Vapor clouds blow from their little noses as they glance dociley my way. I take in the sublime nature of the cows and look forward to a quiet day.

Adoption Thoughts Again

I've figured something new this week regarding my adopted son, Tater. Again, it's not rocket science, but it's something as plain as the nose on my face, except that I couldn't see it. Until now.

I blogged a few times recently about the struggles over homeschooling I've had with my oldest son, Peace. My relationship with Peace was strained, ubearable even, from the end of July, when we began school, until three weeks or so ago. Finally, I can breathe again with Peace in a place of peace which remains. I am so grateful. Background noise to all that struggle with Peace came in the form escalated relational problems with Tater. Tater's heart seemed to be shutting down.

This week I thought to myself, "Now that things are great with Peace, I can make a concerted effort to truly focus on what is up with Tater."

Here's the magic. I didn't have to. The tension between Peace and I correlated directly with Tater's dissent into anger. With the resolution between Peace and I, I realized Tater had already opened his heart back up to us naturally.

Not rocket science like I said, but Tater responds negatively to difficult situations which don't directly apply to him. I don't think he has fully developed his own person or identity yet, so he's vulnerable to take on others' problems as his own.

Next time something erupts in my family, I can be sure:
1. Tater will probably escalate in anger.
2. When the eruption is resolved, it won't be nearly as difficult to resolve his anger.

A little hope goes a long way for me. Realizations like these carve a hole just large enough to let a little light inside for me to carry to overcome the next obstacle.

What should I give my dear friend Helen for her forteith birthday?

If I were Melinda Gates, I'd open a philanthropic resource center for the arts named after and run by Helen. Or perhaps I'd buy her a Renoir to hang over the buffet in the dining room.

Since I'm not Melinda, I'll have to be more essential.

When I was young, another dear friend's dad got an interesting present. The congregants where he was pastor came and fertilized his front yard with a gigantic 40 which grew green and lush all summer compared to the rest of his pale lawn. This wouldn't exactly work for Helen as she lives in the middle of nowhere and the effect would be completely lost. The only comparable joke I could play would be to scratch the number 40 on the hood of her Lexus, but she might not want to be my friend anymore if I do that.

If you are thinking, "Just buy her a really great book."; that wouldn't work either. Her husband already keeps an amazing library like nobodies business. Clay hands Helen and I fantastic books right and left.

If I buy her any type of gift card, she'll find someone else to spend it on. That's out of the question.

As you might have guessed, she's an artsy girl with great taste. I'm not asking to be silly. I'm perplexed. Any fabulous gift ideas out there in blogland?

Columbus Day Greeting

Happy European Imperialistic Invaders Day!

Adoption Issues Continued

More Remedy
What has truly worked to answer these two questions of adopted children?
1. Do you still love me if...?
2. Who's got the power?

Last January, February, and March, I cancelled every single activity for myself and for my children and focused on healing. I gave up three of my favorite things, including a get-away with four of the most fabulous women on the planet. With God's help, together my family and I created a complex system to guide us. It helped tremendously, and I discovered the most valuable tool of all in answering the adoption questions- understanding.

When I took the time to figure out the source of every irk or anger episode in my adopted son, he flourished. Together we kept answering the question, "What am I so mad about?". It was not easy, and still is not easy, to get to the bottom of his pain.

The intense focus had to end sometime, and I think he's suffering a bit from my lack of focus. For me, those months amounted to submersion under water and away from many things I love, and I needed air and refreshing at some point. As a result, I am very conscious about the fact that everything I do outside the home- dance group, homeschool support groups, book studies, evenings out with friends, projects, writing, teaching, come with a steep price tag for my son more than anyone else. I do not stop and help him examine his feelings like we did in those months, because I have other things on the forefront of my mind. I seem to always have an agenda which too often gets in the way of guiding him through relationship.

Blogging about it makes me want to become more aware of seeking understanding with Tater again. I have learned to spot the two questions by a quick observation- Tater looks angry or frustrated by a common circumstance. When I'm busy in any other way, I become impatient with his impatience. When I'm focused, I think, "Hey! Another learning moment for the boy!"

Just today, Buck helped Tater through a selfish moment by working for a solution in which everyone would be content. It took some time. Buck was careful and kind with his words even though Tater was not. Buck and I allowed silence to let the boy feel the weight of his self-centered choice, but eventually Tater came up with something satisfying for all concerned.

I think I'll stop here for today, and write continue another time.

Adoption Issues

Is your home a place of redemption? Does it need to be? Has anyone suffered great loss in daily relationships?

I'd say my home requires me to create a space to heal the broken hearted. Have I? Not well enough. Here's my gauge- the level of peace and unity in my family.

I believe every household has a thermometer- the one who may not look like it on the outside, but is the most sensitive and vulnerable inside. The exterior may read "I don't care", but the actions scream "Someone do something!" My adopted son, Tater, lets us all know when family matters become askew. The second he senses a chasm between my husband and I, he runs to the crack and jumps until Buck and I get on the same page again. Sometimes it takes Buck and I months to work together, and the result of not working together is chaos.

I've come to realize adopted children have two questions they ask over and over again.
1. Will you still love me if...?
2. Whose got the power?

Observations
Apparently, I haven't answered those questions correctly yet for my adopted son, because he still continues to ask in so many manipulative ways.

While my birth children exhibit considerable character flaws, they do not have these same questions. They know in their heart of hearts they can trust me to have their best interest in mind.

I notice a lesser emotional connection with Tater. He doesn't take me at my word like the other children. His wounded heart cannot trust me, so most everyday, I'm tested and judged as wanting by him.

So how to build trust? That's where a home of redemption kicks in. Redemption is gentle. Redemption is kind. Redemption doesn't seek revenge, only healing. Redemption is confident. Redemption believes, even if a strategy is not working, one will be revealed which will meet the need. Redemption does not lose hope. Redemption is never angry and does not seek it's own way. Redemption does not struggle for power; it is power.

A Remedy
The area I have completely conquered this year is not ever getting physical. I believe aggression only breeds more aggression. If my son defiantly picks up the very object I've asked him not to touch, I don't make any movement to retrieve the object. In the heat of a difficult moment, if I ask him not to go outside, and he heads straight for the doorknob, I do not block his way. If he refuses to stop banging a ruler on the table, I do not make any effort to physically remove the ruler. Spanking is absolutely out of the question.

Abandoning any type of physical control has made a boatload of difference in Tater. A year ago, someone in our family would be "accidentally" hurt by him nearly every day. He'd run into a room like a whirling dervish, knock over his little sister, and wonder what just happened. Over the course of this year, that carelessness has been nearly extinguished. Just considering it now, it's miraculous, but it doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out how the change occured.

Deeper Remedy
Here's the part of redemption I have not yet completely conquered- remaining peaceful in difficult situations. I haven't mastered a neutral or kind tone in conflict. I've made progress, but when push comes to shove, sometimes I don't keep it together. My goal is to lay down my natural responses of anger and even irritation, and respond in an even keeled way. Sound impossible? It is eye opening to think of the times I'm in a snit with my husband or children, and how quickly I am able to answer the phone pleasantly. Why not keep it together with my family, those I love the most, in the best way possible?

Mostly because I'm human. Imperfect. Redemption has a plan for that as well, though it is tricky- forgiveness. When I'm short with someone, I need to ask forgiveness. If the person is not ready to give it, then I wait. Patiently. Redemption always hopes and believes it will work in the end. I'm not always on the side of redemption, because forgiveness requires something I'm not always willing to give- self examination and humility. Buzzing around town taking care of others or making sure I have plenty of "me" time only complicates things. It leaves no room for necessary deep listening for ways to grow in kindness and forgiveness in my home.

Instead of wrapping things up neatly here, I'll stop and post more another time. School is underway and this teacher needs to get back to work.