A Story to Tell

The tree stump lay on its side
exposed
roots in the air
still clinging to the soil
which had supplied its nutrients.
Two feet of stump
all that remained
of the giant that towered
hundreds of feet
above the ground.
Rings telling of
300 years
of history.
Three inches of bark
protecting against
how many forest fires?
Fifteen generations
having passed by.

What story can it tell?

Of  watching Native Americans
hunting prey
Of wild mustangs
galloping by
Of neighbors
becoming canoes
Of lightning storms
and searing pain
Of scouts exploring
this new land called America
Of settlers trudging by
their wagons reaching the end of their journey
Of neighbors
becoming cabins
Of children climbing up and up
and being used for a lookout
Of swings
hanging from branches
Of buildings going up
all around
Of trails
being worn
Of roads
smoothed away
Of boardwalks
being hammered down
Of the West
being tamed
Of tracks
being laid
Of telegrams
sent
Of carriages
making way for cars
Of wars
and cultural revolutions
Of asphalt
being poured
Of highways
being cleared
Of cookie cutter developments
appearing overnight
Of neighbors
becoming forest management

Of death, and dying and destruction
Of life, and birth and regeneration
Of miracles, and creation and God
Of locals and tourists
Of hikers and bikers
Of fishers and swimmers and waders
Of the daring, the reckless, the brave, the courageous
Of lovers and friends and heartbreak

Roughly 300 rings
just off the path
waiting for someone to read.

Greater Than

Following the Leader

There is nothing quite as exciting as opening my blinds in the morning to a present of pristine snow.  It’s like a glittery gift God sent just for us girls who like sparkly things.  Snow has the ability to transform the weeds in my flower bed into the most incredible winter arrangement.  It blankets the pasture with a tempting perfectness that a part of me wants to keep forever and the other part of me wants to run through.

As I’m writing this it is about 20 degrees outside.  While that is freezing to most people, it is even more so to me.  You see, I grew up in San Diego, which is why the snow is still so fascinating to me.  I have lived in Central Oregon for about five years now, which translated into temperature language means that I no longer break out my heavy coat, scarf, gloves and hat when it’s 50 out.  Twenty degrees is COLD though, and while I enjoy beauty the snow creates outside, I still don’t like driving in it. 

That was my thought as I maneuvered my way down the street to the church this morning.  Snow definitely encourages everyone to slow down.  As I was staying on the path marked by the cars that had gone before me, I was reminded of how easy it would be to slide off that path and create my own.  Sure, there was a path laid out for me, but wouldn’t it be more fun to make my own tracks, and leave my own mark?  How much like my everyday life was the drive into work.  How easy it is to slide off the path God has laid out for me, either because of my own desire to take a different path,  or because I choose to follow the temptations that ultimately would lead me stranded in the ditch on the side of the road. 

God has promised that He knows the plans He has for each of us (Jeremiah 29:11).  He will guide us down the path He has laid out if we choose to follow Him (Proverbs 3:5-6).  However, it may not always be the way we want to go.  It definitely won’t be the way most of the people around us choose (Matthew 7:13-14).  Like the snow, it may come to you with mixed feelings.  It may be something that you’re okay looking at, but don’t think you want to actually participate in.  It will be good though (James 1:17).  I encourage you to follow His path.  In doing so, you will definitely leave a mark where you and God have been—which, it turns out, is some of the most fun you will ever have.

Sex Sells

They say sex sells,
but what does it sell?
Can it really sell
hamburgers,
     cars,
          perfume?

And yet people
spend at least
three times longer
looking at a beautiful
woman
than a man
women critique
her every flaw
men devour
her every
body part

What does it sell?
disease
     unplanned pregnancy
          broken relationship
               adultery
                    betrayal
                         wrecked homes
the idea
that what is
beautiful
committed
sacred
is no more
than the
mundane,
everyday,
advertising tool

Ocean Wanderings

lost in a world
of dreamlike exsistence
wispy tendrils of fog
giding by in a swirl
clinging to my memories
like a seahorse's tail
curling an anchor
to trap me
in the past

One-sided Conversation

It's 5:40.
Where are you?
I'm at Starbucks.
Did I mention it's p.m.?
People come in and out.
Are they planning on a late Friday night?
They order their drinks.
Would you like anything to eat with that?
Scones and muffins are not exactly dinner fare.
So what am I doing here?
Sipping a birthday coffee,
          drying my pedicure,
                    watching people,
                              writing,
                                        killing time.
Why would I kill time?
It's too precious to violently put to death--never resurrected.
But where else would I go?

A Heart of Thanksgiving

In First Thessalonians 5:16-18, the Bible tells us to “Be joyful always; pray continually; give thanks in all circumstances, for this is God’s will for you in Christ Jesus.”  When the kids learn it for Thanksgiving, they memorize, “...in everything give thanks…” 1 Thessalonians 5:18 (and I must add that hearing a 4-year-old say Thessalonians is one of the cutest things ever).  Then we practice giving thanks.  And for children who are naturally self-centered, it does take practice.  If we were honest, most of us as adults are still practicing. 

In class we think of all the things in our lives that we can thank God for, and then we do it throughout the day.  We look for things we can thank other people for, and then we do it throughout the day.  I challenge families to see how many times they can meaningfully say “thank you” in one day.

This is not part of a manners curriculum that all preschoolers need to learn.  It is part of the spiritual development that all Christians need to learn.  I have often heard people say that they are searching for God’s will for their lives.  That is wonderful as He does have a specific plan and purpose for each one of us.  However, these verses already tell us a very specific part of God’s will for our lives: spread joy, keep an open conversation with God going throughout the day, find something to be thankful for no matter what is happening around you.  We may not be able to open the Bible and find a roadmap for the next ten years of our lives, but if we put into practice what we do read in there, I have a feeling we would be amazed at the results.

I’ll keep you updated as to how our little hearts of thanksgiving are coming along.  I would encourage you to start practicing thanksgiving now if you haven’t already—and keep it up long after the season is over.

Shortcut to Normal

I laugh everytime I see that desktop icon.  As if there is a shortcut.  Most of us spend our lives just trying to be "normal"--to just fit in.

But what is normal?  We know those who are not normal--the people we label weird for not blending.  We know those who have surpassed normalcy and have been given permission to no longer maintain the status quo.  But what about the rest of us--those of us who are just, well, normal?

Maybe each person is their own baseline against which we measure degrees of normalness.  I mean, we are pretty normal, aren't we?  It reminds me of the Max Lucado book You Are Special where the Wemmicks put dots and stars on each other.  So maybe it's us that hands out the weirdness cards to some, the above average cards to others, and ultimately hands out the cards that are the shortcut to normal.

Preschool Blessings

It seems that the end of each September leaves me astounded by the fact that we have already been in school four weeks.  We have been blessed with nine students this year.  And they really are a blessing (see Psalm 127:3-5).  We spent the first week of school getting to know each other.  The second week we learned how to be good friends by learning about our special friend, Jesus.  These past two weeks we have been studying apples with all of our senses.

Somewhere between the end of week three, when I started wondering if the boys and girls in the class were ever going to figure out what preschool was all about, and the beginning of week four, when everything clicked and it was like they had been in school their whole lives, I was reminded again of how blessed I am to have such an amazing job. 

There are only a few professions where you are greeted each morning by a joyful smile and a body rushing towards you for a hug even before skipping off to the toys.  Even the ministries I’ve worked for were not filled with exuberant laughter the way our classroom is—the kind of giggles that make you fall over and roll on the ground.  The compliments come one after the other and circle the table from the color of my nail polish, to my jewelry, my hair (even when I think it’s a bad hair day), to the fact that we’re wearing the same color shirt.  It’s great to work with people who are thankful for almost everything, where “sorrys” come easily and “I love yous” even more so.  Where when people talk behind your back it’s because they are doing “Crisscross Applesauce” while tickling you.  I get to work in a place where they can’t call each other “weenie” because it’s not nice, but they want to make sure they can still say “hotdog” without getting “the look.”

Of course classroom life is not always rosy.  (Remember the end of week three?)  September is also the time where teachers have to let go of the remembrances of the past year’s class and all of their achievements and the big kids they sent on to the next grade.  I could remember the kindergarteners I had sent across the street, but I was getting little ones who had never been in school before.  We had to work (and some days we are still working) on becoming preschoolers and I had to remind myself that preschoolers are my blessings—not kinders.

But even on our toughest days, when tears are more plentiful than giggles, when whiney voices replace our real ones, and when our hands are used instead of our words, there’s no doubt in my mind that this is where I am supposed to be.

Before I Can Write

why does it take
pain and heartache
before I can write

why does it take
elation and ecstasy
before I can write

why does it take
tears and sobbing
before I can write

why does it take
frustration and anxiety
before I can write

why does it take
uncertainty and chaos
before I can write

why does it take
joy and exuberance
before I can write

why does it take
sorrow and death
before I can write

why does it take
loving and soaring
before I can write

why does it take
excitement and happiness
before I can write

Why does it take
emotion
before I can write?

Because I write what I am.

The Writing Process--Giving Myself

I have always written.  Some of you would argue that it's not possible that I have literally always written, and I would have to concede that point.  But I have always been read to, which is the basis of writing.  It was my introduction to language.  My mom started teaching me to read before kindergarten which instilled a love of reading that I have carried with me my entire life.  It was the language of The Pokey Little Puppy and countless Dr. Seuss books, then the Chronicles of Narnia series and Little House on the Prairie that increased my vocabulary and introduced me to the syntax of the English language.  It's why today I can still use a word correctly in writing, give an approximate definition, and not be able to pronounce it to save my life.

So reading led to writing.  I can remember being in elementary school and writing a love story about Patrick Swayze and Melanie Griffith (my favorite actor and actress of the time largely because of "Dirty Dancing" and actually I can't remember why she was my favorite).  I learned I could write, and I learned to write for an audience, because when you write there is always an audience.  In school it was my teachers--so I wrote what my teachers wanted me to write.

In school the writing process starts with a mind map, then moves into a rough draft which is edited and then rewritten into a final draft. That's how I teach the writing process, because it is a good foundation for students who are learning to write, but it's never been how I have written. In high school and college when an outline was required, I usually wrote the paper first and then went back and created the outline.

In 7th grade I had an amazing, young, pretty, English teacher named Mrs. Hartford.  I don't know how long she had been teaching, but there are some teachers that just stand out in your mind forever.  Mrs. Hartford is one of them.  I wrote her a paper--a good paper--about something I have long since forgotten.  I kept the paper though and I am sure it is in one of my files somewhere.  I kept this particular paper because she gave me a "B".  I couldn't believe it!  A "B."  I hadn't gotten less than an "A" on anything in years.  I was devastated.  I went to see her after class to find out why I had achieved less than perfect.  She told me that if anyone else had written that paper they would have received an "A," but from me she expected more.  She knew I could give more.  She also told me to keep everything I wrote (which I have done, much to the chagrin of my family).  I never got a "B" from her again.  I never wrote her another "B" worthy paper.  I gave everything into my writing.

I was a short story, creative essay writer until my sophomore year of high school.  I was taking Honors English and felt like I was drowning.  How many times had I read the first chapter of A Tale of Two Cities, and I still had no idea what was happening?  My mom had to check-out the black and white movie from the library for me so I could even understand the story line.  And then we had to write a poem.  I couldn't do it.  I went in at lunch to explain that it just was not possible for me to write a poem.  I had read poetry.  I had tried to write it.  It was impossible.  Ms. Patterson told me to sit down and just start writing.  Just a descriptive paragraph with no rhyming.  Break the lines up where it seems like it makes sense.  My first poem was written. I was addicted.

From Mrs. Hartford I learned that my first audience when writing had to be myself.  I had to like what I had written. If it didn't move me, it probably wasn't good. If I couldn't reread it and have some feeling evoked, it wasn't worth having someone else read. I wish I could say my writing has been like that since--evoking moving sentiments in my readers, but I know that isn't the truth. There were papers I wrote that were scribbled out in an hour or so to be turned in the next day. There were professors that didn't care about the craft of writing and just wanted boring fact after boring fact with documentation breaking up the flow of creativity. I gave them what they wanted, but it didn't fulfill my intense desire to write.

More often than not when I sit down to write nowadays a poem is what comes out, thanks to Ms. Patterson, sometimes all at once, sometimes a few lines at a time.  Sometimes I have to work for just the right line or search for just the right word.  There are times poems sit partially written for months, some for years, and some are never completed.  Sometimes the poem is written in my head and it gone by the time I get paper and pen ready.  Poems have to be written on paper.  I have never sat in front of a computer and created one.  Probably because the computer is too much like work and not enough like freedom.  Writing poetry requires freedom.

No matter what I write the result always ends up being something that I have felt. Something that I have created.  Something that I have given.

Store Bought Confessions

Most of you know that I am more comfortable using ingredients to make something than a box.  I won't keep recipes that call for just opening a few cans or boxes and mixing them together.  However, a can of something can play a minor role in a recipe (like a can of pineapple in a pineapple upside down cake) and I'm fine with it.

When I put something on Facebook the other day about the refrigerated dough case being weird, I realized my comment was going to need a little more explanation.  Contrary to popular belief, I have visited this particular section of the store.  I just never realized it had a name like "refrigerated dough case".  I just always assumed it was lumped in with the dairy section.  Never in my life have I told a shopping buddy, "I'll meet you in the refrigerated dough case aisle."  "I'll meet you the produce section," yes.  "I'll meet you in the cereal aisle," yes.  "I'll meet you by Starbucks"--well, that's usually what I say.  But never, "I'll meet you in the refrigerated dough case."

I have a confession to make though...I do shop there occasionally.  That's where we buy Pillsbury Crescents for Thanksgiving and Christmas.  It's where we buy Pillsbury Cinnamon Rolls (the kind with the orange frosting and the kind with the white frosting so everyone is happy) for our holiday breakfasts.  It's where I almost got a roll of Sugar Cookie dough for less than 50¢ because it was on sale and I had a coupon.  My mom talked me out of it, and within hours (actually as I was getting ready to bake something) I wished that she hadn't.

Here's another confession, since I'm fessing up.  I like Kraft Macaroni and Cheese--you know, the kind that comes in the little blue box--better than the homemade stuff.  There's just something about neon orange powdered cheese clumping together on elbow macaroni as you're stirring it into juicy sauce that can't be replaced by the real stuff.

So while I may burn most refrigerated cookie dough, and my Bisquick pancakes are disgusting, there are some pre-packaged, almost-all-the-way-prepared-for-you foods that definitely hold a place in my heart--and the refrigerated dough section of my fridge.

Farm Girl

I discovered something this weekend--I am a farm girl.  That is probably obvious to all of you already, but it means that I am not a farm boy.  Again another obvious statement I am sure, but its meaning is what came across to me this weekend.

Many of you remember me as the girlie girl who didn't touch dirt, had a brother to deal with anything gross, had long fingernails and even longer hair, and wore skirts and heels on a regular basis.  While I still like to have my nails done and get dressed up, I've traded daily business attire for holey jeans and old t-shirts, and I get dirty on a regular basis.

I started the day out today by doing a load of laundry, baking a batch of cookies and getting ready to work outside.  I ended the day by putting laundry away, making dinner, baking another batch of cookies (there weren't enough left from the first batch for my meeting), and having a preschool parents' meeting.  In between there I did farm work.

First I milked the goats.  We have four does milking and they usually do a pretty good job at hopping up on the stanchion and standing still while you milk.  Marigold doesn't like the new grain however, so she decided to head for the weeds that she does like.  I had to literally drag her back to the stanchion by her horns and practically lift her up to lock her in.  Then, because she doesn't like the grain, she doesn't want to hold still.  The end result was that my arms were covered in sticky goat milk that was supposed to go into the calf bottles.  After getting the rest of the goats milked and our milk strained and in the fridge, my mom and I walked Lilly, Pansy and Magnolia out to a large patch of weeds for them to eat down throughout the day.  I picked zucchini, amaranth and strawberries.  I pulled two wagon loads of weeds and fed them to the pigs.

While feeding the last wagon load to the pigs we got a call that one of the steers was out and heading down the road.  I was already out that way so I turned off the hot wire and my mom came to pick me up in the truck.  Stew was on the wrong side of the street and headed for the neighbor's apple trees.  I hopped out, grabbed the bucket of grain and tried to entice him over.  Usually the steers just come right away when they are called and shown the grain bucket.  Stew decided he was a rodeo bull and went bucking across the neighbor's front yard.  By now my mom had parked the truck and we were working him back to our side of the road and towards his pasture.  He crisscrossed the road several times (luckily never when there were any cars), ran for a piece, wandered over to visit another neighbor's cow, and then decided he was ready to go back home, at which point I lowered the hot wire and he stepped over.  We never did find where he got out at.

After driving back home I went into the greenhouse to transplant basil and spinach into larger pots.  The dirt was too dry so I added some water.  It was while mixing the soil that I thought back to all the times I had made mud pies as a kid.  There was a time from about 4-7 years old when mud pies were my specialty.  How funny to be playing in the mud again more than 20 years later.  While planting I found a worm.  I tossed it back into the worm bed.  I found a frog friend.  I moved him and the plant cups onto the shelf (he was pretending he was a bunch of dirt inside a little plastic plant 6-pack).  I got a little dirt on my shirt so I went to brush it off.  The only thing was that I had forgotten my gloves were covered with dirt, so I only succeeded in smearing dirt all over the front of my shirt instead of just in one little spot. 

I got dirty, hot and sweaty.  All the same things farm boys do.  (You thought I had forgotten about connecting the points huh?)  But I didn't work like a boy, I worked like a girl.  Here's what happened this past weekend that made me think about all of this in the first place--I climbed a fence.  Now, at my farm climbing a fence is rarely necessary and when it is, it's really a panel that's being climbed over.  But this was at a friends farm.  At his farm you have to stand on a couple of wires that are strung at an angle and while your foot is sliding you step with your other foot onto the wood at the top of the fence and jump off the other side.  At least that's how he did it.  I tried.  I put one foot on the slippery wires and started sliding of course.  And then my clothes just didn't have the same give that his did, plus my legs are shorter, so I couldn't get my foot on top of the fence.  I could however, put my knee on there, swing my other leg around, sit on the fence and then hop off.  That's what I did (after he had removed the spider and web, after all, there are some things that never change).  Then it was while working today that I realized it's okay that I don't climb a fence like a farm boy...I can climb it like a farm girl.

Heels and dirt

Please Deposit 25¢

Where am I?
Did we move again?
Drug induced haze
just regaining consciousness
fresh bruises
overlapping
yellowed healing skin
from who?
from what?
locked in a room
ready to work
given a bed
the tool of her trade
as the sun fades
her horror begins
the beauty of a sunset
sends terror up her skin
the first client in
unsure what to do
mumbles something about
never doing this kind of thing before
a package deal
he's already paid
he receives what he came for
walks out in disgrace
man number two
comes in with a belt
ready to whip her
says he likes it rough
number three is a blur
then a quickie or two
number six she remembers
had his kids' names tattooed
seven and eight
lived out some kind of fantasy
all in a night's work
in bed with monstrosities
no further ahead
no money is seen
pay the man at the door
to reserve your time
lights on or off
enjoy the ride
on a mechanical
WalMart horse
five minute breaks
seems everyone
wants to think he's the first
as her
nightmare
repeats
night after night
a captive
enslaved
by a country
that doesn't believe
her problem
exists

He Moved

"Then he [Jesus] said to the paralytic, 'Get up, take your mat and go home.'"  Matthew 9:6b

This required a response from the man.  He had to do something he had either never done before, hadn't done in a long time, or didn't think he could do.  He had to do something no one else thought he could do either.  It was probably scary.  It could be painful, and he didn't know exactly what would happen--how it would all turn out.  But he knew what he had heard.  And he did what he was told.  He obeyed.  But more than obeying, at some point before that he had to have believed.  He had to have trusted.  Otherwise he wouldn't have moved.  But he did.  He got up.  He went home.  Can you imagine the look on his families' faces when he walked in the door?

Jesus spoke and he moved.

The Beginning of a Blog

Normally I don't believe in birth"days" but rather embrace the idea of the birth"week".  This past birthday though I would have preferred nobody knowing.  I spent the day driving to the coast with some friends (which of course meant everyone knew it was my birthday).  Everything, except getting carsick and a headache, was delightful--from having breakfast with my mom and sister; playing with an adorable toddler before his parents were ready to leave him; lunch at Chipotle which I didn't even know exsisted in Oregon; arriving at the beach house and just relaxing; and Tom Yum Kai for dinner reminiscent of a past birthday spent in Thailand.  It was a trip of introspection however as, like I said, I was not happy about it being my birthday--for the first time in my life.

And then I got my present.  A beautiful glass pitcher with glasses to match wrapped in bright tissue paper and nestled in a white basket, all specially chosen by my friends knowing that I love having people over.  The real gift came in the card though.  A friend wrote that she hopes I have a year worth writing a book about.  (Actually two friends wrote that which ended up making everyone laugh when we found out one friend copied!)  She has reiterated numerous times since then that I should start a blog.  Which, of course, I have now done.

So, here's to the beginning of a year worthy of writing a book about.