God's Penguins

It’s amazing how, in the span of a few hours, I can go from sheer joy to flat-out blinding rage.

My son has been in Africa for a month now.  Skype has been amazingly uncooperative.  Either we’d have an audio connection but no video connection, or we’d have a static-filled audio connection and a frozen video connection, or we’d get disconnected after a few seconds.  If there was a simultaneous video and audio connection, there would be such a lag it was like watching a badly dubbed 1970’s era Japanese Godzilla movie.  The majority of conversations I’ve had with my son have been over  Facebook Chat, and that was based on the integrity of his internet strength, which is questionable at times.  This morning, my phone buzzed to let me know I had a Skype call.  I was expecting a blank screen and a static “Hi Mom” but to my great joy, I saw his face (and oh!  What a face!  I love that face!) and heard his voice … in sync with the picture … and we were able to Skype for almost an hour.  It was amazing!!  We laughed, we talked, we had a wonderful conversation.  It left me in a great mood – better than great – and on that high note, I left the house to run errands.  My first stop was the bank. 

Near the first of the year, this was all over Facebook:

 

The gist of it is simple:  Week 1 you put $1.00 in a jar.  Week 2, it’s $2.  By Week 52, you’ll have $1,378.00 saved.  We both thought that was a great idea for Christmas.  We happened to have a glass pickle jar that I had soaked the label off of, and had washed it out and was saving it for some unknown purpose (but couldn’t throw it away as it was a perfectly good pickle jar!) so that became our savings jar.  We were quite diligent about putting money in each Friday but then, being us, we got lazy.  It started when I needed to pay the yard guys and I couldn’t find my checkbook, and I already owed them one week so I didn’t want to ask them to wait AGAIN,  so I *borrowed* $50 out of the pickle jar.  Then that next Friday (Week 20) we forgot.  The next Friday (Week 21), he asked me, “Did we put last week’s money in there?” and I said, “No, and we never put back in the $50 I borrowed”, so now we were up to $91 ($50 + $20 + $21).  We intended to go to the bank, truly we did … but forgot.  Today is Week 22 ($113) so this morning I went to the ATM to get out $120.  Once the transaction was complete, it gave me my receipt and told me to lift the plastic cover and take my money out of the window.  Except that no money ever was spit into the window and the cover never opened.  I waited, I wiggled the plastic cover, I banged on the machine … nothing.  No money.  I immediately went into the branch and told them, and their response was a very cavalier and nonchalant, “Well, we’ll see if at the end of the day our ATM is $120 over.  If it is, we’ll refund you the money.”  I said, “But what if the dude behind me was getting $10 and instead, he got HIS $10 and my $120?  Then your machine will balance, he’ll have scored an extra $120 and I’m out of luck”.   The manager told me that they could open an investigation, but it would be 3-5 business days before they had to resolve it.  I didn’t get the impression they were all that worried, but why should they be?  They’re not out any money.  I am.  So the poor pickle jar sits, still waiting for me to put in $113 (and at this rate, I’ll owe another $23 before I get the $113 in there!) and I am working myself up into a state.  I just don’t trust Corporate America to do the right thing and as it’ll be awfully hard for me to prove I didn’t get my money, I’m afraid it’ll be my word against theirs.  I didn’t even finish running my errands, I was SO upset at the bank that I couldn’t think straight.

All this, before noon.

I left the house on an amazing high and came home so mad that I could spit nails.

I’ve already accepted the fact that the bank is probably going to screw me out of $120 – the bank who owns the ATM isn’t my “home” bank, I’m not a customer of theirs, so they have no incentive to keep me happy.  I hope I’m wrong, but I’m old enough and cynical enough to know how this piece of bread is gonna be buttered.

Why is it that a good feeling can wear off so quickly, but a bad feeling can stick with us all day?  I suppose there is some deep Spiritual insight that I could (should) get out of this, but I’m not gonna lie.  I’m mad and I want my $120 and I don’t want to learn a Life Lesson from this.  I don’t want to grow, or become more spiritually mature or anything else.  I just want my stinkin’ money. 

And I want my son home from Africa.

And if he can’t come home, I want a RELIABLE Skype / internet experience so that I can at least maintain a reliable connection to him.

And I want the four boxes I sent him to arrive.

And I want to know that we are going to be able to afford the next three years of college for my daughter.

And I want my dog to live forever and not get old and sick and eventually go to Rainbow Bridge.

And I want my knee to stop hurting.  Surgery was in February.  This is almost June.  Enough already.

I want a whole day where I don't worry about money, or my children's safety or the health and well-being of my loved ones.  I want a whole day where I can have something good and wonderful happen and that feeling lasts.

Just yesterday, I told a friend of mine this story:

I heard Luci Swindoll speak at a WOF conference once and she shared about her adventure to Antarctica. She is a photographer and had asked God to send a whale her way so she could photograph it. And she just knew she would see one. Toward the end of her trip, she was on the boat and wondering why she hadn't seen a whale. She was so sad because she wanted to see this beautiful, epic creature of God. About that time she noticed a couple penguins on a glacier. Then more and more. She said there were hundreds of them, playing and performing. It's as if they had been waiting for her to come and were posing for her. How fun and amazing that must have been!! What a sight to see!!

God told her she was so busy looking for the whale, that she almost missed the penguins He sent.

Today, you saw some of God's penguins.

Deep down, when all is said and done, that's what I want.  I want to see God's penguins.

I just don't want it to cost me $120 to see them.

 

 

 

 

An Accidental Memorial Day EOFO Outing

When you have a loved one who is deployed, or who is serving in our military, they are never far from your thoughts.  Not a day goes by that I don’t think of my son and say a prayer for him, and for the others I know who are serving.  On days like Memorial Day, my thoughts are a bit different.  I am humbled and frequently brought to tears by the remembrances of those who have paid the Ultimate Sacrifice, and my mother’s heart breaks for those Gold Star mothers who bear a burden and a grief that I fervently pray I never, ever will know.

My husband, who knows me better than anyone ought to know any other person, does his darndest to keep me from wallowing in self-pity and to stop me from fixating on things I can’t change.  (Philippians 4:8 comes to mind:  Finally, brothers and sisters, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable – if anything is excellent or praiseworthy – think about such things.)  Since this weekend was an EOFO weekend, we took an EOFO trip, but on Saturday.  Hey, it counts.  We ended up in Schulenburg, Texas where we toured several Painted Churches.  The area was settled in the 1850’s by Czech farmers, and there is still a strong Czech / German influence today.  It was a wonderful trip and the churches were breathtaking.  One of the churches was in the town of Praha, Texas.  Praha has a current population of less than 25, but at its peak in the 1880s, Praha boasted 700 residents.  The population dropped dramatically during the 20^th century, and never got above 100.  During the Second World War Praha had the unfortunate distinction of being the U.S. town with largest ratio of war deaths to residents. The largest number of deaths occurred in 1944, when 9 soldiers from Praha were killed. Three small identical chapels were built in memory of the dead. 

Nine Soldiers.  Nine families.  Nine mother’s hearts broken.  All out of a town of less than 100.    

Mind you, we didn’t know of this aspect of Praha when we headed out – we were just going on an EOFO outing. 

This being Memorial Day weekend, I have been thinking of those families.  Not just the Praha Nine, although they are in my thoughts, but all the families today who are remembering a loved one who gave the Ultimate Sacrifice.

Being an amateur genealogist, I know quite a bit of our family history.  My mother traced my side of the family several decades ago so I have been focusing mainly on my husband’s side of the family.  Between both lines, we have ancestors who I can document have fought in every battle from the Revolutionary War forward.  My children come from a long, long line of Americans who have answered the call of their country when asked.  My grandfather fought in World War I, my husband’s grandfather fought in World War II, we both have numerous ancestors who fought in the Civil War, we have at least one on each side who fought in the War of 1812, and we both have several ties to the Revolutionary War.  When doing research on either side, it is a safe bet that any male ancestor who was between the ages of 15 and 40 during the early 1860’s will have a Civil War record.  It humbles me to realize I am but one woman in a long line of women who have watched a loved one go off to war.  So many brave young men, so many brave families left behind, so many hopes and dreams and prayers and tears and kisses … it really puts things in perspective.

As I stood at the memorial in Praha and wept for those nine Soldiers and their families, I thought “This was a stupid EOFO outing; the last thing I need is to be reminded of the fact that, sometimes, Soldiers don’t come home” but in hindsight, I think God’s hand was in that trip and He wanted me to go there, that day, this weekend, at this time.  He wanted to remind me that I am but one of a long line of civilians who love and miss and pray for and remember and long for their Soldier.  He wanted to remind me that what my son is doing is honorable and right and respected.  He wanted me to feel a part of something bigger than myself, bigger than my own understanding, my own reality.

I am one of those women who cry easily … so the fact that I stood in Praha and wept isn’t surprising.  Another church we visited was founded in 1877.  There is a large cast iron bell that predates the church; it was purchased in 1876.  When I was reading the informational card to my husband (who was trying to navigate unmarked country roads in the pouring rain), I read the part where the bell has rung at weddings and funerals and Sunday mornings for over 13 decades.  Then I got to the part that said, “More recently, while the cities still smoked, the mournful clang of the bell marked the September 11, 2001 terrorist attacks on New York City and Washington DC.”  I actually had to stop reading because I choked up.  Yes, I cry easily.  I cry often.  I cry over things that most other people wouldn’t.  It used to bother me, and it used to embarrass me, but I have come to accept it as a part of who I am.

I will continue to cry when standing at a memorial to nine young men who gave the Ultimate Sacrifice.  I will pray for them and for their families.  I won’t be ashamed or embarrassed when the National Anthem makes me teary.  I can’t help it, it’s how God made me and how I am. 

Today, as every day, I will pray for my son and for the other sons and daughters who are standing for freedom and for America.  I will remember the Praha Nine, and had it not been for my husband and his insistence on EOFO outings, I’d have never even known of those nine Sons of Praha.  I do believe God led us to that place, at that time, for His purpose.  For that, I am grateful.  For my husband, who won’t let me become someone I don’t need to become, I am appreciative (if not at the exact moment he’s forcing me to get in the car, then later) … and for our nation’s sons and daughters, our husbands and wives, our brothers and sisters who are carrying forth a tradition of service and honor that has been laid out by generations before, I am humbled and proud.

Thank you.

You are not forgotten.

I *AM* a Brave Little Toaster!!

Bravery is one of those words that are hard to define.  I think most of us would agree that certain people are brave:  Soldiers, firemen, police officers, Junior High teachers … bravery is a commonly accepted description of certain people or situations.

For other people, the term “bravery” is more fluid.  I have a relative who has never liked driving.  As she has gotten older, her fear of driving has escalated to the point where a trip to WalMart, just a few miles down the road, is anxiety-producing.  She’d rather not go rather than have to drive.  She goes shopping on the weekends or the evenings when her husband can drive her.  So for her, driving on the freeway would be a definition of bravery.  We all have our own definition of bravery that we apply to society in general as well as to ourselves.

When my children were little, they loved a movie called “The Brave Little Toaster”.  We still use that phrase in this house, when describing something that we’ve done that is brave *to us* even though the rest of the world may not agree.  I don’t think that anyone, using any yardstick, would describe me as brave, but certain things bring out an almost irrational fear in me.  I don’t like bugs.  I know most people don’t, but I REALLY REALLY don’t like bugs.  We have a Guard Gecko we’ve named Spike who hangs out by our front door.  One day, Spike got a case of the stupids and came inside my house.  I knew Spike was harmless and I didn’t want to hurt him, so I made my son catch Spike and take him outside.  I, of course, being the Brave Little Toaster I am, stood in the other room, hand to my mouth, and made terrified gasping noises.  I’m sure that my son appreciated my help.  When insects are outside, and I’m inside, we have an uneasy peace, but if one of them dares to enter my home, they will find themselves drowning in a pool of Raid.  Then I toss a paper towel over the lifeless body and I wait for my poor, long-suffering husband to come home.  I will call or text him and say, “I was a Brave Little Toaster.  It’s underneath the curio cabinet.”  He knows what that means.

Just recently, I came home to find that a little, tiny field mouse (which has become a “huge as a cat” wharf rat as I retell this story) had chewed thru the window screen and was trapped between the window screen and the pane of glass.  He was outside, of course, but I could SEE him from inside the house.  He wasn’t smart enough to exit from the same hole thru which he had entered, so there he sat, trapped.  Again, I channeled my inner Brave Little Toaster and called my poor, long-suffering husband (who was at work, 40 miles away in downtown Houston) and I think I screamed, “A mouse!  It’s a mouse!” and then I burst into hysterical tears.  He had to come home and take the screen off the window before Mickey could scurry away.  I stood in the other room, hand to my mouth, and made terrified gasping noises.

I have come to realize, however, that even scarier than bugs and unwelcome critters in my house is dead things.  We had a bird once fly into our window.  He hit the glass so hard the window rattled, and then he slid, lifeless, down the glass and laid like a rock on the ground.  I almost wet myself.  It was ghastly.  I knew I needed to dispose of the body, but the thought of actually DOING that almost made me have a panic attack.  I closed the blinds, cried, and waited for my poor, long-suffering husband to come home.  Much to my delight, apparently Bird was only dazed because when my poor, long-suffering husband came home, Bird was sitting up.  As he walked over to it, Bird shook his feathers and flew off.  However, over the course of the past 27+ years of marriage, poor, long-suffering husband has had more than his share of backyard surprises to deal with.  The paper-towel-covered-Raid-soaked bug is bad enough, but when Shadow catches one of God’s Woodland Critters, that’s not nice.  We also had a raccoon apparently just die on our back porch.  No idea why, but I opened the door and there he was.  Ugh. 

The absolutely most terrifying critter-related incident happened about 15 years ago.  At that time, we still had Kitty, who was the BEST CAT IN THE WORLD.  I loved that cat, and when, after 17 years, she went to Rainbow Bridge, I grieved more than I thought possible.  Kitty was my heart and soul and I still cry a little when I think of her (I’m a bit teary now, just typing this.  I really loved that cat.)  Anyway, Kitty, in her sole-moment as Great Hunter, decided to catch and present to me a gift.  I walked into the living room early one morning and there, in the center of the floor, was a dead mouse.  It had two puncture marks in the neck and it was quite, quite dead.  Kitty was sitting next to it, looking quite proud of herself.  My poor, long-suffering husband had already left for work and I knew the kids (who were toddler aged) would be awake soon.  I couldn’t let them see this, and I couldn’t throw a towel over him and wait for my poor, long-suffering husband to get home, so (oh, I’m almost having a panic attack just remembering this) I disposed of him.  *shudder* Truly, I earned my Brave Little Toaster Badge that day.

Yesterday, I was up at church.  In the Children’s Wing, there is a huge fish tank.  It’s gorgeous and is quite popular with the kids, who often run over to look at the fish.  As I was walking through the Children’s Wing, I noticed something laying on the floor right in front of the tank.  As I got closer, I realized it was fish-shaped.  I guess one of them jumped out of the tank, because he was laying on the floor right in front of the tank.  Flashing back to the horror of the Mouse Gift from 15 years ago, and knowing I had to get Mousie out of the house before my kids woke up, I realized I had to get this fish off the floor before the kids showed up.  I could feel myself start to panic.  This wasn’t a ‘throw a paper towel over it and call my husband’ type thing.  I looked around, praying that someone … ANYONE … would come down the hallway, but no one was there.  It was just me, and the dead fish.  I knew I had to pick him up, I did not want one of our children to see that, but it was a DEAD THING.  And dead things totally freak me out.  I actually cried a little … I was terrified.  I got a paper towel and snuck up on the poor dead fishie.  I was going to scoop him up and throw him away and try not to hyperventilate and pass out first.  As I bent down to pick him up, I realized it was a fish-shaped leaf.  It was a LEAF!  Not a dead fish!  A leaf!  Oh, happy dance, oh, joy! 

When I got home, I told my poor, long-suffering husband the story.  I knew he would appreciate the Brave Little Toaster aspect of it.  And he agreed with me that, even tho it wasn’t actually a fish, and I didn’t actually have to dispose of a dead thing, I still get Brave Little Toaster points for the fact that I was GOING to do it.  That counts.   

We all have differing definitions of bravery.  And what may be a huge Brave Little Toaster moment in our lives might not even be a blip in someone else's life.  I'm sure that most people would have scooped up the dead fish (and we're still calling it a fish because that's better than "Sandra almost peed her pants upon seeing a leaf") and not given it a second thought, but to me, it was a HUGE thing.  So I'm taking credit for being a Brave Little Toaster and I hope I remember to give myself credit for those Brave Little Toaster moments and I don't discount them just because it was a leaf.

 

 

Obligatory Mother's Day Post

I remember my first Mother’s Day as a mom.  Mother’s Day 1991, I was pregnant.  I knew that would be my last year as a non-mom and I was really looking forward to Mother’s Day 1992.  I wanted those hand-print flower pots and the macaroni-glued-to-cardboard picture frames.  I wanted to put baby footprints on the refrigerator and I wanted the glue-stick-and-pipe-cleaner cards.  I have been so blessed over the past two decades to get more than my share of those adorable toddler/preschool Mother’s Day gifts.  I have most of them still and cherish them more today than the day I got them.  I am grateful to have children (and a husband) who honor me throughout the year but I do really look forward to Mother’s Day because I like the whole “fuss over mom” aspect of it.  I like having my children close by me and I like having them tell me how much they love me, and I like having the chance to tell them  how much I love them.

This year is going to be my first Mother’s Day since 1992 that I haven’t had my children with me.  I understood this day would come, but it doesn’t make it easier.  Transitions usually aren’t easy, and this one is hitting me hard.  I know I’ll get to see my daughter just two days later, and I hope and pray that I get a Skype from Africa so that I can see my son, but a Skype conversation and a 2-day delayed hug isn’t the same. 

This year, tho, probably because I’m trying not to focus on my childless state this Mother’s Day, I’ve been thinking about my own mother.  My mother and I had a contentious relationship for most of my childhood and as those childhood years moved into the even more tumultuous teen years, our relationship suffered even more.  Eventually things came to an ugly head and then before we could make our peace, we lost that opportunity.  The way things were when I was in my teens is the way things are forever frozen.  I regret that.  I regret that she never had the opportunity to know me as an adult, to know my husband and my children.  I regret that she never got to know how I turned out and that she never got to see me as anything other than a headstrong, moody, rebellious teenager.  I also regret that I never got to know her as a person.  I never knew her as anything other than who she was when I was younger and I never saw her except through the eyes of a headstrong, moody, rebellious teenager.  I wonder if she and I were to meet today, not as angry mother/daughter, but as two adult women, if we’d get along.  Would we realize how much we have in common?  How similar we are?  Would there be a bond, a connection? 

Unfortunately, that is something that I will never know.  I carry that burden with me, and I wonder and play “what if” in my mind.  I think that we’d have ended up being friends, had we been able to work past those angry, confrontational years, but sadly, those angry, confrontational years were the ending point of our relationship.

When I look at my own children, grown and adults and making their way in this world, I feel sadness that my mother never got to see me that way.  She never saw me as a married woman, as a mother, as an independent person.  She never knew that I grew out of that rebellious teenage phase and that I ended up giving my heart to the Lord and dedicating my life to Him. 

I also have tried to learn from the mistakes she and I made in our mother/child relationship and I swore that I’d not make those same mistakes with my own children.  I can safely say that I didn’t.  I made different mistakes, other mistakes, bigger mistakes … but not THOSE mistakes. 

While I’d give anything to, once again, receive a handprint flower print for Mother’s Day, or a macaroni and pipe cleaner picture frame, or a “cereal made with orange juice” breakfast in bed, this year I also find myself looking back further than the past 20 years and I find myself wishing I had the opportunity to give my own mother a macaroni and pipe cleaner picture frame.  I don’t know that she’d appreciate it (she certainly didn’t, when I was 8) but I’d like to think that time would have mellowed her, and me, and that we’d have a mother/daughter relationship that would bring us mutual joy and laughter and not heartache and tears.

When, on Tuesday, I get to hug my daughter, I am going to hug her a little tighter for a little while longer.  I am going to cherish the Skype call I get from my son and I am going to hold his voice in my heart until I can hold him in my arms.  I am going to savor every moment I have with my own children and I am going to enjoy being the mom of grown children.  I am going to do these things because I can; and because I want to instill memories in my children that are good ones, pleasant ones, beneficial ones. 

When I see grown women with their moms, I am a bit jealous.  But then I realize that while I’ll never be the “daughter” in the “mother/daughter go shopping or get their nails done or whatever” scenario, I can and WILL be the “mother” in that scenario, and I’m looking forward to that!!

So this Mother’s Day, I’m going to be busy.  I’m going to be missing my son and my daughter, I’m going to be grateful for the relationship I do have with them,  I’m going to be nostalgic and sad for the relationship I didn’t have with my own mother and I’m going to be anticipating the relationship I am going to have with my children as time goes on.  Wow.  That’s a lot of stuff for one day!