Apples and M&M's

I had the privilege of being in Savannah with my sisters during one of Erin's treatment weeks.  Because she didn't feel well for several days, Bekah and I spent a lot of time with her three precious children:  Lydia, Hudson, and baby Samuel. 

I was geared up to do what I do best:  mom duties.  I'm not a professional yet, but I'm eight years experienced in this department, so I felt more than ready to help with mommy responsibilities in anyway I was able. 

Very quickly, however, I sensed something different - something for which I was not prepared.   For a few hours, I couldn't quite put my finger on it; but then, I had the drastic realization.  The understanding that Erin's kids were.....good. 

There were times during the week when I saw an image:   an angelic presence, calm and quiet, surrounded by small beings with their hands folded asking the hallowed presence for more vegetables.  When I'd shake my head and rub my eyes, I'd look again.  Sure enough.  There sat my sister as calm and collected as any mom I'd seen during the dinner time hour while her three year old daughter asked for more broccoli. 

Our dinner time is just plain different.
 
During our second day in Savannah, Bekah and I geared up for a trip to Walmart with Lydia and Hudson.  We had our list, water cups, coats and shoes.  I knew, though, that we could not leave without the snacks.  The snacks are vital in our household for getting through Walmart trips.  I am forever grateful to the M&M manufacturer as well as the Dum Dum distributors, both of which have made my shopping trips somewhat doable. 

I couldn't find lolypops in my sisters pantry, so I went for the Auntie Anns Honey Bunnies.  They looked sweet enough to keep two toddlers occupied. 

While getting ready to head out, Erin made sure that we had a snack for the kids.  I was about to tell her that I was one step ahead when the word, "apples," came out of her mouth. 

"Just slice up an apple and put them in a zip lock bag," were my sisters instructions.  And that was it. I was waiting for the "and then top it with chocolate or caramel sauce," but no.  Apples were apparently going to keep them occupied at Walmart.  I was more than skeptical, but knew that Walmart offered an array of candies when (not if) they would be necessary.  So, we were out the door, apple slices and all. 

It wasn't long before I once again felt out of my element.  I was not entirely sure about myself when I put Lydia and Hudson in the cart, and they stayed there.

I walked through Walmart with my head held high.  I wanted to sing praises to my niece and nephew!  But then, as we walked through the store, I began to speculate.  Surely they misbehave.  Surely!  Maybe she feeds them something that wires their behavioral mechanisms in a particular way.  Perhaps it was something I just hadn't discovered yet. 

The apples.  It was the apples.  At the first sign of Hudson becoming the least bit restless, I offered the snack:  "Does anyone want....apples?"  I said it like a temptress, luring them down the path of no return.

"Apples, apples!"  They began to chant.  Seriously.  They chanted. 

So, I gave them their prized possession and they ate the slices in the same way that my two year old eats M&M's.  With the passion that my toddler savors her lolly pops and with the attention that she gives to smarties.  They were distracted....by the apples.  They behaved....because of the apples.   

Although I did not admit my sense of inadequacy around her dear children by the end of the week, I made a decision that I was going to try some of my sister's tactics when I returned home.  And it was going to start with apples.  Besides, I convinced myself, my toddler's good too.  Yes, we were going to begin with apples. 

The Monday after I returned home, Lily and I took a trip to Walmart.  I had her water, I had her coat and shoes, and I had...apples. 

I will never bring apples to Walmart again.  They caused tears for both of us, and it was less than twenty minutes before we were in the candy aisle purchasing a pack of M&M's. 

The next morning, I needed some quiet.  Some solace.  It had been a hard week (and it was only Tuesday), so I put Sesame street on for Lily while I made some coffee.  I sat at the table reading my Bible for a few precious moments until lily came in the kitchen, opened the pantry, and said, "napkins will make it all better." 

"Uh-huh.  They will make it better."  I was lost in Daniel's faith as he stood at the thresh hold of the fiery furnace.  It was a delayed reaction, but thankfully I "came to."  I looked up from the Bible to see what exactly the napkins will "make better." 

I don't usually react well when it comes to stressful situations.  We had a fire in the kitchen not too long ago.  I can testify to the fact that screaming does not put out flames.  Thankfully, my husband knew this fact and used water. Thankfully. 

So, true to my nature, when I saw the entire bottle of hot pink nail polish spread out on the living room floor, I did not clamor for someone to bring me wet towels.  I merely stood and stared.  I began thinking about the large dinner party that we had the next night.  And then, as I watched the neon liquid soaking deeper into my white carpet, I began thinking about Lydia and Hudson.  If only Lily would eat apples. 

It was then that I received a call.  A call straight from heaven.  It was my sister, Erin. 

"So, I just spend the morning scrubbing marker off of everything!  My kids colored everywhere but the paper!  I'm putting Lydia and Hudson's markers and crayons away for good." 

I thought about asking her if she fed them their apples.  But instead, I just smiled and looked at my pink puddle. 

Kids are kids....apples or not. 

What Cancer Doesn't Change

My sister, Erin, called me a few weeks ago:

"Hey, Katie, I'm just curious.  How many hits do you have on your blog?"

"I don't know; maybe 300 or so."

"Oh, nice."

My sisters and I have a lot in common.  Amongst our comparable qualities is one very distinct characteristic that we all three share:  competitiveness.

At the age of three, Erin's hair grew longer than mine. I took issue with her golden locks and wasn't about to let her hair grow longer, so I chopped off one pig tail.  Just like that, the golden locks were gone, and my hair once again reigned supremely longer than my younger sisters. At least one side of it.  

I'm not the only one guilty of an intense competitive nature, however.  My younger sister, Bekah, played college ball with Erin.  During one particular practice, Erin and Bek were put on two opposing teams.  Erin took her post position and went up for a great shot, followed by a smooth follow through.  Bekah's nature set in - the same one that caused me to chop my unsuspecting little sister's hair.  Bekah robustly boxed out my sister, ready to re-bound.  Erin fell backward, shattering both elbows.  She had casts for weeks.  On both sides. 

A few weeks ago Erin started a blog about her new found journey- a "live" diary of a young woman and mother with breast cancer.  So, when she called inquiring about my blog a few weeks back, I assumed her pointed question was, perhaps, heading in the direction of:  ""Oh, wise, older sister of mine, please, oh please, tell me how to do this blog thing..." 

I responded to her:  "Why do you want to know about the hits?  How many hits do you have?"

Erin unassumingly answered:  "Oh, I'm not entirely sure.  It's like somewhere around.....6,000."  

I could just feel the deep, wide-spread smile on the other line.

There's no doubt that cancer changes a lot.  It changes a lot for the person fighting this disease.  Amongst the many other changes, the chemo will alter my sister's physical appearance.  It will change her daily routine with her three precious children.  It will change future decisions and plans. 

From the moment my sister uttered the phrase, "Katie, I have it," cancer has changed some things for me.  It has allowed me to see Erin's unabashed and unshakable faith in Jesus like I have never seen before.

Cancer has changed my uninterrupted sleep.  I am up fairly consistently during the early hours of the morning thinking about the changes that are to come for my sister.   Just the other night, I came out of a deep sleep quite alarmed.  I checked on the kids, and once I realized everyone was sleeping peacefully, I began praying for my sister.  The Lord would not let her off my my mind during the next hour.  In the morning she told me she was up much of the night terribly uncomfortable with hives.  

I've also been reminded of something else that cancer can change.  It can change our perspective.  It can remind us that God alone is in control, lest we forget due to the whispers of the world around us claiming desperately and hopefully that we have some say in what tomorrow will bring.  If we don't have control over our own physical bodies, then we certainly can't claim control of anything else around us.  Cancer changes our earthly perspective. 

But, cancer doesn't change everything.  God is in control, cancer doesn't change that.  My sister is a child of the King.  Cancer most definitely can't change that.  My sister's and I are very close.  Cancer doesn't change that.  I am a worrying, older sister.  Cancer, unfortunately, doesn't change that.  And, honestly, my sisters and I have a competitive nature.  Cancer doesn't even change that.

 This is Erin and I competing during vacation to see who can get the best picture of the other one taking a picture.  I won. 

                                  You can visit my sister's blog at www.erinfray.blogspot.com

Joy in the Mourning

We're studying the book of James in our Woman's Bible Study.  I always say that you learn more teaching than you do listening.   When forced to dig into Scripture and learn a passage in order to clearly communicate it to others, the Scripture comes alive in miraculous ways.  This is what happened for me when studying James 1:2-18; and in particular I found a new meaning to the familiar verse that James writes at the beginning of his letter:  "Consider it all joy, my brothers, when you meet trials of various kinds, for you know that the testing of your faith produces steadfastness...." 

Notice first that James says, "Consider."  He knows that what he's asking this group of believers to do is something unnatural for us.  Consider, fellow believers, facing the trials that are in your life differently than you might have considered in the past.  Consider, my beloved, facing those trials with joy.

Joy.  What this doesn't mean is having to face trials with a smile on our face.  It doesn't mean acting like everything is OK when it is not.  And it doesn't mean that the all too familiar kids song, "I've got the Joy, Joy, Joy down in my heart," need be sung in a major tune.  Joy can be found in the minor melody's.  Joy can be found in sadness.  Joy can be seen in the deepest of uncertainties.

Joy is not an emotion.  Rather, it is a deep and unwavering trust in our faithful and merciful Savior, Jesus Christ.  And what is beautiful about this trust is that it is God who gives us the ability to trust and rest in Him.  He does not ask from us what He will not in turn give for us.  God is good....all the time. 

My sister, Erin, thirty years old, called on Friday with news that sent shock waves through our family.  She has breast cancer.  This was found only three days after giving birth to her third, a little boy named Samuel David Fray.  The Lord clearly gave her an abundance of peace and strength as she called and portrayed the news. 

Cancer is not unfamiliar in our family.  In fact, it is all too familiar.  However, the words "during treatment," and "meeting with the oncologist and surgeon," were nothing short of foreign coming from my sister's mouth.  All this while holding her sleeping newborn baby in her arms.

God is faithful.  And the image of her precious baby is most certainly one of God's unending faithfulness to us.  He holds us in his arms whether we're calm and at peace, or whether we're kicking and screaming, He holds us, loves us, and comforts us unconditionally.  Like a newborn who doesn't understand the life around him, we too struggle at times to make sense of the difficulties that we face during our journey Home.  And yet, like a parent, God teaches us. He molds us, and sometimes gives us glimpses of His plan at work within us.  We're called to trust. We're called to rest peacefully in the arms of our Savior knowing that He will carry us on the path that He has already laid out before us.  

God is faithful.  And while we mourn the struggles of this life, we look forward to the day when they're will be no sadness, their will be no pain, and we will see our Savior face to face.  Because of this, we have JOY in the midst of mourning.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cTLfQ05Otk0&feature=related

Quick and Simple

Our afternoons and evenings are quite busy.  Like most parents with school-aged kids, this time of the day is packed with all sorts of activities – sports, piano, errands, and the occasional trip to the church office for one thing or another.  Recently, when pulling up to my husband’s office, our little two-year old yelled, “We’re home!”  Poor, little confused pastor’s kid. 

But on this particular day, we had the freedom to go right home after school – except for quick and simple detour to the doctor’s office for flu shots. 

I planned for this quick and simple diversion, but if my blog is familiar at all, there is a consistent pattern in my life:  my simple plans are never simple.  In fact, I think I jinx my plans with bold attempts to be quick and simple.  And really, honestly, the words “quick” and “three children” should simply not be understood together, but for some reason, I continue to think I can defy the forces of nature.   

I have met several young families through the years that have a certain grace about them – a poise that I have never understood.  We just don’t do things simply. And, quite frankly, grace, folks, is not the Polski’s forte.

Just the other day, for example, we were at a luncheon with our three children.  The luncheon went “smoothly,” aside from my son falling in a fountain. 

And so it goes.  It’s probably time I accept my reality – in this season of life, most activities just won’t go as smoothly as planned….including trips to the doctor’s office. 

We were only five minutes late for our appointment.  For me, this is usually a foreshadowing of nothing but good things to come.  I was assuming we’d be in and out for the vaccines, which would be a good thing because of my intense dislike of the doctor’s office. 

My hatred is not due to the typical waiting and usual inconvenience that typically comes with doctor’s offices.  No, it’s low on my list of places because it is, in my humble opinion, a “germ fest.”   It’s a, “come on in and breathe in every little kid’s illness in one small room,” kind of a place.  Kids are crying, snotting, coughing, and sneezing.  It’s my personal hell. 

So, I was anxious to get out of the germ infested waiting room so we could get back to the germ infested patient room, breathe in our virus, so as to not get the virus, and get out of there -   quick and simple. 

While in the waiting room, I told Ella and Jrod to sit in a chair and not move.  Next, I directed lily:  “Lily, don’t touch the fish tank in the middle of the room.  It’s gross.  Just stand here by momma.”   The receptionist handed me three papers to fill out – one for each child.  When I sat down to look at the papers, Jrod laughed and said, “Mom, look!  Lily’s kissing the tank.” 

 If you know me, it’s of no surprise that I literally gagged.  The tank was covered in little hand prints and smears from children who, like my own daughter, have showed love to the fish in their own unique way. 

So, I picked her up and decided to hold her for the remainder of our time in the waiting room.  And just like that, my child was transformed before my eyes.  It was the alter ego of my youngest that I’ve grown accustomed to.  The one that comes from the darkest places....  

I could no longer contain my toddler, who at the time could pass for a rabid monkey. 

I felt a sense of freedom as I set her flailing body down.  Unfortunately, this did not help.  She began rolling around on the floor crying out.  The older two sat in the chair cracking up – they find Lily’s tantrums more entertaining than Tom and Jerry.  I’m glad someone does, because to everyone else in the room, I was once again “that” mom.  I was the one whose child was out of control. I was the one who caused the semi-quiet waiting room to become, in an instant, a place of panic and stress. 

She finally found a permanent position and began merely whimpering with her face planted into the middle of waiting room floor. 

I gagged again. 

I really didn’t think I could handle one more minute, so I went to the receptionist desk and with my “phone voice” (as my kids call it) I said very peacefully, “Is it almost our turn?” 

The receptionist looked at her list and explained that she was waiting on my paper work.  Paper work.  I was supposed to fill out the paper work.  How is it that all these other mom’s finished their paper work, for goodness sake?  And why, for that matter, was no one else’s daughter lying face first in the middle of the waiting room? 

Once the paper work was filled it out, I handed it back, mustered up all the self control left in me, and I sat.  I waited as patiently as possible while watching my daughter suck up the fumes on the waiting room floor.  She was no longer crying, so I decided to leave the human lump where it was.  Ella offered to get her, and for once, I denied Ella the right to be a better parent than me. 

Finally, we were called back.  I picked up lily and told all three of them this would be really quick…and simple.    

Once back in the room, the nurse asked which child would go first.  My brave Ella offered and sniffed up the mist as quick as could be. 

Jrod was next.  After seeing how easy it was for Ella, he was brave as well.  He sat in the chair, sniffed up, and….sneezed.  Good grief.  She tilted his head back and finished him up – only a slight complication, nothing to get worked up about. 

It was Lily’s turn.  As soon as the nurse picked her up, she looked concerned, and surprisingly, it wasn’t because of Lily’s alter ego.  My daughter was being suspiciously calm. 

“Does she have a fever?” 

I wasn’t trying to act confused – I literally was.  I didn’t think she had a fever.  I’m a mom, for heaven’s sake.  I can feel a fever.  No, Lily did not have a fever. 

The nurse didn’t believe me.  Out came the thermometer which read 102. 

I decided it was totally inappropriate to say, “I knew that,” so I relented to the hard truth – I had no idea my daughter had a fever. 

The nurse continued on with a series of questions: 

“How long has she had the fever?”  I didn’t know. 

“Has she been eating well?”  I wasn’t sure how to answer this question.  My youngest refuses everything, and I mean everything, good for her.  If it has color, it goes on the floor.  So I relented to my nervous humor:  “Well, if Mac and cheese and ice cream means eating well, she’s doing fine!”  I’m pretty sure she wasn’t amused. 

“Has she had any cold symptoms?”  None that I had noticed.  But then I began second guessing myself – did she have a runny nose?  Did she seem stuffed up?  Had I heard her coughing?  I quickly changed my answer and told the nurse that maybe she did have a little cold, but then I thought again and couldn’t recall anything.  I went back to my original answer.  The nurse just looked at me. 

“Has she been acting more irritable than normal?”  I laughed. 

For fear that the nurse would think my daughter was not in capable hands, I explained that perhaps we’d seen her alter ego a little more than normal, but I hadn’t noticed any other abnormal symptoms.  I was immediately amused, and somewhat disturbed, at the fact that I did not consider it “abnormal” that only moments before my daughter lay in a heap with her face planted down on the waiting room floor. 

Lily could not get the vaccine, due to the fever, but at the urging of the nurse, we went back to re-check in so that she could be looked over. 

And there we were, one hour later, back in the waiting room…waiting. 

It was then that I began bribing – anyone who sat still and did not complain would get a lollypop.  This worked for like five minutes. 

Finally, we were back in the patient’s room, again.  All four of us sat down in the small room, and very quickly, all four of us began going crazy. 

I told the kids we’d play twenty questions.  Jrod began.  “How do babies come out of mom’s tummies?”  Not that kind of twenty questions, son. 

I changed the game to I spy – all in an attempt to not cry.  Jrod and Ella eventually came up with their own game of that they entitled “swap the stickers.”  Somehow my children swiped a grand total of twelve stickers after their flu vaccine.  I decided this was not the best time to chastise them for their greed.   We’d do that in the car on the way home…if we ever made it home. 

Finally, another nurse graced us with her presence.  She asked me the same questions as the previous nurse, and I had the same answers.  The nurse then suggested that the two older kids go and sit in the empty room next door while she examined Lily. 

Once thoroughly examined, Lily and I were finally released.  I wanted to shower with Lysol, but instead I went to gather the other two.  As soon as I opened the door, I knew something was wrong.  They were sitting in the chairs and quietly giggling.  I decided not to ask, so I walked over and grabbed Jrod’s hand.  It was then that I learned what the giggling was about.  “Mom, don’t step there!  Jrod peed his pants!” 

Wow.  I mean, it was truly unbelievable, especially since the bathroom was right next door.  I have to give him credit, though, I told him not to move – and move he did not. 

I finally handed Lily over to Ella and began grabbing several paper towels, hoping that no one would come in the room.  As I wiped up, I kept envisioning Lily’s face on the waiting room floor.  Gross.  I couldn’t help but gag. 

We finally made it to the car.  I sat in the front seat and stared at the clock on the dashboard.  Our quick detour lasted an hour and forty-five minutes and left me with three cranky children, a very tired and grossed out mom, a pair of soiled pants, and a fever. 

Next time we have an empty afternoon, I do believe we will “simply” go home. 

Something New....

First's can be hard.  No matter what the circumstance, no matter what the age, "first's" are typically accompanied by much thought and a few nerves. 

It's the anticipation of something new that lends itself to the bucket full of emotions.  Once embarking on a new adventure, emotions tend to become a little more steady.  For most, that is.  

We've entered into a new school year in the Polski household.  It's been very interesting watching my two oldest as they anticipate the first day of school.  Like most kids, there is particular interest in all the new friends they'll meet.  And so, it's been fascinating to see their different personalities emerge as they eagerly await the meeting of these potential new friends. 

I will never forget my first day of kindergarten.  I had it all planned out the night before and knew exactly how I was going to make friends.  I had mentally tucked away three stories that I was ready to pull out at a moments notice.  I didn't know whether or not they would be necessary, but just in case, I had a plan.

My first story had to do with a candy necklace.  Remember those?  I had a candy necklace that had one little circle of candy left hanging lonely in the middle of the elastic.  I figured I'd "hook" an innocent bystander by simply wearing the necklace.  Asking me about the candy would be the logical next step, and the story behind the candy  necklace would no doubt draw them right in.  I would have the opportunity to explain that I ate the whole necklace by myself.  And, if they would be my friend, I would let them have the last piece of candy.   And just like that...I'd have a friend. 

Just in case this wouldn't work, I had another plan.  I stuck my favorite T-shirt in my backpack (a dress was necessary for this first day, of course).  The T-shirt had a hot pink palm tree on the front, covered with florescent lights and bedazzles. Underneath the Palm tree was the word "Florida" strewn across in an ostentatious way.  It was awesome.  If I needed to pull it out, someone would surely ask me where I got it (not everyone entering kindergarten was ready to be there).  This was an easy hook.  I would then draw them in by explaining that I got to go to Florida that summer and my grandparents live right by Disney World.  I would then tell them that if they wanted to be my friend, I would take them with me sometime.  And just like that.... I'd have a friend.  

Believe it or not, I used the previous two stories on the first day of school.  I gave myself no chance to make a friend with the all too common "Hello, my name is Katie.  Do you want to play?"  and instead went right to the stories.  I don't remember if the kids were impressed or not.  I do, however, remember a young girl chomping down on the last piece of candy as it hung around my neck.
  
I kept the last story hidden away for almost the entire year.  In fact, my kindergarten graduation was one week after I decided to pull it out.  There was no doubt in my five year old mind that my use of the story was necessary at the time.  You see, no one was playing with me at recess.  All my friends went off in their little circles and I was left by myself on the playground.  This would not do. 

I had to answer questions about this story.  When I told them I could fly, I thought it would be a cut and dry issue, but it was apparent that everyone standing in the circle doubted me.  I remember questions like, "How did you learn?"  and "How high can you go?"   I then responded with one of the stupidest three word phrases that I had used in my entire five years:  "I'll show you."

I walked with confidence over to the bouncy bridge on the playground.  Five girls stood below me while the sixth climbed the stairs that at the time seemed miles high.

I told my friend to stand behind me and when I told her to push, she should push as hard as she could.  I also told her that she would have the best view of the flight.  I asked everyone if they were ready, and then I didn't disappoint and yelled, "push!"  I, apparently, was amongst those who entered Kindergarten but wasn't ready to be there.  

It really was terribly wrong that my friend's mother made her bring me a present and some ice cream after finding out my foot was broken in three places.  Her mother didn't believer her when she explained the situation.  Looking back, I'm not entirely sure I would have believed her either.  Poor girl.  I sat there with a heavy cast on my scrawny leg eating Baskin Robbins and looking through brand new Clifford books.  What a friend.

I suppose I had them in kindergarten.  Friends, that is.

I can't help but reminisce when I watch my kids go through the same anticipation.  They ask the same kinds of questions that I used to ask:  What will the other people be like?  Will they like me?  Who will be my friends?  

Yesterday, I watched quietly as my daughter acquainted herself with her new third grade classroom.   And I noticed something very interesting and really quite refreshing about her.  She was quiet.  She said very little, unless spoken to.  And, remarkably, she had met two new kids in our short fifteen minute visit to her new classroom. Two kids that upon leaving she referred to as "her new friends."   How does she do that? 

And then there is my son.  When putting him to bed the other night, he told us he had a "plan" (oddly and somewhat scarily familiar) for how he was going to make his friends.  When my husband asked him about his plan, he explained the fine details very confidently:  "I'll bring money to school and pay them all to be my friend.  A quarter each." 

Really?  His plan is to buy some friends?

But then, really, is that any stranger than making friends with candy necklaces, Las Vegas style T-shirts, and stories about flying?  I think not. Admittedly, these kinds of "plans" may not be all his own fault. 

I went home from my first day of kindergarten with a saliva ridden elastic band around my neck.  Here's to hoping my son's future friends don't go home with a pocket full of change. 

It takes a Community

I’d like to rephrase the common saying:  “It takes a village…,” to, “It takes a (church) community.” 

Not as smooth, I know, but true, non-the-less. 

Growing up in a pastor’s home, I know this to be the case.  My parents were often busy on Sunday mornings with various responsibilities, so sometimes we were left to fend for ourselves.  That was the idea, but the reality was that the church came along side my parents and took to heart the vow that each member takes when a child is baptized promising to “assist the parents in the nurture and admonition of this child.”

There was a couple in our church who faithfully sat with us each Sunday while Dad preached and Mom sang in the choir.   They helped practically.  And then there were Sunday school teachers, children’s church leaders, and others who helped in nurturing us spiritually.  

It was my younger sister, though, who experienced the sweet necessity of this community in a truly unique way. 

Shortly after returning home from a long morning at church, there was a knock at the door.  A church member stood on our front step, looking curiously at my dad.  “Rodney, did you forget anything at church today?” 

I will never forget his response:  “Did I forget my Bible?”

“No,” she was totally trying not to laugh.  “You forgot your daughter.”  And in walked the poor soul of my younger sister – forever scarred by being forgotten and all Erin and I could do was laugh…. 

I’m telling you, it takes a community. 

I will never forget the chills of emotion that ran through my body upon each of my own children’s baptism’s as the congregation faced us raising their hands promising to help us in the nurture of our own children. 

If only each group knew what they were really getting into coming alongside the Polski clan. 

My oldest two kids were young when we moved to St. Simons Island, Ga., where Chris took his first job as a Sr. Pastor.  I embraced the fact that there were many young mothers in the church when we began there, but I was also drawn to the particularly refined nature of those who lived on the Island; even the children seemed consistently polished. 

I tried to learn the fine art of refinement, but somehow I never seemed to quite get it.  What I remember about my daughter’s first day of preschool, for example, is a picture of six girls with big bows, smock dresses and curls and then my daughter, right in the middle, sticking out like a sore thumb, with her shorts and t-shirt.

On one Sunday, still fairly new to our church community, I pulled a fellow mother aside and asked her if I could get some advice.  She seemed very willing.    

I got right to the point:  I needed to know how to potty train a boy.  Coming from a family with three girls and potty training one little girl, I didn’t have a clue what to do with a boy.  Do they sit, stand?   I had even heard about floating toys that could be purchased at Walmart that help boys “aim” in the right direction. 

Clearly taken back by my question, she pulled me in and said simply and quietly, “You just do the same thing you did with your daughter.” 

Yes, of course.   I felt like combating my previous bit with, “Yea, I knew that.  I just wanted to make sure.” But, especially after seeking out her knowledge on the potty floating toys from Walmart, nothing seemed more appropriate than, “Thanks for the advice.” 

The next Sunday, immediately following the service, my husband and I stood in the foyer greeting and meeting various people from the congregation.  While talking to one of the new -comers about our move to the Island, I saw something out of the corner of my eye that will remain embedded in my memory forever. 

My son was running naked through the hallway toward the foyer of people.  He was fully unclothed except for his dress shoes and socks.  Before I could will my body to move, my son stood there, naked, clinging to my leg, acting, of course, as if this was a normal occurrence for our family.  The brief moment wasn’t doing much for me in the refining department.    

The scene was like one from the movies.  The chatting stopped and the attention was given to me….and my naked child.  I actually welcomed the few chuckles and tried to joke my way out of the situation by saying, “well, at least he has on his Loafers!” 

I’m not sure what I was thinking by pointing to his Penny Loafers as the silver lining in a deeply embarrassing situation. 

I took him back down the hallway and tried to figure out, with all the calmness I could muster, why in the world he had no clothes on.  His explanation was as simple and direct as I should have expected it to be:  he had to go to potty. 

I wasn’t sure if taking off his clothes happened before or after going potty, but what I was sure about was the sweet look of pity from my potty-training advice friend as she followed me down the hallway, not with the purpose of chastising me, but instead admitting with me that perhaps we will need to go about the potty training thing differently than I did with Ella.   Her use of “we” was quite purposeful.

It takes a community, no matter how different we are from one another. 

The beautiful thing is that a church community can really become an extended family.  Extended fathers, mothers, brothers and sisters – just as God intended it to be. 

This morning at church, when I sat down in my familiar spot getting ready for the sermon, there were two pointed movements that happened simultaneously.  The woman sitting to my right routinely held her Bible in such a way that I could read along.  It seems as though I can remember everything for church from music to cheerios to water cups to nursery tools, but I tend to forget my Bible, and my friend knew this.    

At the same moment, the woman sitting in front of me held behind her a pen and piece of paper, knowing that I would have neither with me, but understanding that I love to take notes while the sermon is preached. 

And then I considered something.  It takes a community.  It takes a community both practically and spiritually…..for all of us. 

Get Your Head in the Game

There isn't a day that goes by that I am not inspired to try something new.  My ideas rarely become a reality, but at times I become so passionate about them, I can feel my new found plan right at my finger tips.  My husband has learned to listen to my ideas and dreams, knowing (and at times, hoping) that they will probably remain ideas and dreams. 

During the course of our marriage, I have suggested to my husband that I  pursue the following:  The FBI, accounting, the medical field, broadcasting, and journalism.  These are only a few of my engaging suggestions, and while he would support my pursuit in any such area, the problem has been consistency.  If I wanted to be a personal trainer one day, the next day I had the fabulous idea of becoming an in home nanny.  The nanny idea, incidentally, lasted about three minutes. 

Admittedly, part of my issue is contentment.  But then there's also the fear factor.  Trying something new just isn't easy.

A few weeks ago, however, I followed through and decided to try something new.

I joined a basketball league.

When the opportunity presented itself, I almost passed it by for many reasons.  First, the games take place on a night of the week that is just plain inconvenient.  Second, and perhaps most significantly, I haven't played basketball in a while.  Oh, in ten years.  But there was something in me that really wanted to go for it.  So, I did.

This week, we had our first game.  I'll admit, I did not walk into the gym with my head held high.  There was no sign in me of a confident, fearless athlete.  Instead, I walked into an unfamiliar facility with my knees shaking.  But, as I browsed around watching a few athletes do their thing, I talked myself into the fact that I could hold my own.  I could play and they wouldn't know, not for a second, that I was rusty at the game. 

And then I got a glance at the rest of the team.  It was then that I was forced to face an undeniable fact: I was not prepared for my new found adventure.

The other players carried gym bags filled with basketball- type equipment.  I carried in my diaper bag that I conveniently identify as my "purse."  While they pulled out special socks and shoes, I pulled out my kid's diaper and a barbie.  There weren't many laughs that ensued.  I guess I wasn't helping in getting our "heads in the game." 

The other players wore basketball shoes (I suppose this should not have taken me by surprise).  I, on the other hand, wore my glaringly white Wimbledon Tennis shoes.

And then, of course, there were the long basketball shorts.  I didn't have those either.

So, I shook off my nerves, and unfolded the shorts that I had folded over like I do at the pool, and introduced myself to the team.  Right away I made clear to the girls that I was excited to play but that it had been a while since I was competitive on the court.  Immediately, another team member chimed in:

"Oh, I totally understand.  It's been like six months for me."  I decided to not even attempt a joke about the TEN years it had been for me.

Once we were formerly introduced, we began shooting around.  My Wimbledon Tennis Shoes did me alright.  I was making basket after basket and, quite frankly, feeling pretty good about my game.

Then the whistle blew.  As soon as the ball was in the air, I panicked.  I couldn't recall which basket was ours.  So I just began running.  Thankfully, the whistle blew - almost immediately.  I felt a great amount of relief that I would have a second to gather my barrings. 

But then I realized....the referee was speaking to me.  "Take off your ring!  You could poke an eye out!"  After a failed attempt to be sarcastic about the true size of my diamond in the middle of a competitive game, it occurred to me that perhaps I was out of my league....on so many different levels.

None-the-less, I ran back with a renewed sense of competitive spirit - and fouled twice within the first five minutes.  I decided that while the competitive spirit was good, it would not be in my best interest to foul out in the first half of the game.

Because I run long distances, I wasn't sure why, only ten minutes into the game, there weren't other players wheezing like I was.  So I called out a sub.

While sitting on the bench, I did three things simultaneously:  I watched the Post players so I could remember what in the world I was supposed to do; I reviewed for myself the essence of the game:  sprint, rebound, shoot;  and then I listened to a "fan" strongly urge our players to consider various plays to run.  And then I began to laugh.

What in the world was I doing?  I asked myself the question out of humor, not disappointment.  It was humorous to me that I joined a group of young athletes whose weakest player had gone a whole six months without playing basketball and still scored within the first several minutes .  It was laughable to me that I was wearing the same shorts I wore to the pool earlier in the day, and it was even more funny that I thought I would join in and show everyone else how it was done.  Really, what in the world?

But I laughed out of humor, not disappointment.  I had more fun in that hour than I had in a long time, even though I did come home with a stiff neck.  And while I disappointed my son who thought I would be on T.V., I was proud of myself for trying something new.  I even scored six points.  I will admit, however, that even with that small boost of confidence, I still bought new shorts.

Creativity

I’m not creative, nor ever claimed to be. 

There were simply other gifts that were saved for me. 

My daughter, however, is quite inventive.

She makes things from nothing, with no real Incentive.  

On one occasion she needed a cast. 

An idea came to her unbelievably fast.

A long sleeved shirt became sleeveless in minutes.

I gave credit where due, but that reached my limits. 

On another day she threw a big bash. 

With no real decorations, she made her own stash.

So she cut and she tied and created a sight! 

But it was momma picking up till’ well past midnight. 

And then just recent, she took a long “trip.” 

She packed clothes and toys and a suit for a dip. 

They were off to the Beach, with nothing to lack…

It only took me three days to unpack. 

Then one day, trying to get my shopping done,  

The kids acted up, so I thought I’d have fun. 

I changed my voice and called myself Daisy.  

My kids laughed, though others thought I was crazy. 

It occurred to me, then, in the middle of the store:

I’m OK with the messes; there will no doubt be more. 

My daughter’s an example of a great way to live.   

Perhaps she's teaching me… how to be creative…

Two Ears and ONE Mouth

Sometimes I talk too much.  I often remind my kids that God gave us two ears and one mouth for a reason.  But, I don't always follow my own advice.  More often than not, folks just need a listening ear, but instead of following this logic, I too often try to encourage people with my words, rather than listening to theirs.  

My husband is good at talking to people.  It's an important part of his job.  What my husband does, that I often fail to do, is listen carefully, getting the full story.  Then he speaks.  He waits and makes sure that he understands the big picture of a person's situation. 

Not long ago, I found myself engaged in a conversation with someone who I knew had surgery fairly recently.  What I didn't know at the time, however, was the kind of surgery this friend endured.  When it was too late, I discovered, thanks to my knowledgeable husband, that it was bladder surgery.  My half informed conversation with this person went something like this: 

"How have you been since the surgery?" 

"Fairly good.  In fact, I had a good week, but then had an accident this weekend, kind of setting me back a bit." 

Again, being uninformed, I assumed this meant a car accident.

"Oh, I'm so sorry," and then tried to think of comforting words just for her and her situation.  "You know, I've had a lot of those and although it's been a while, just remember that it happens to us all."  And then I hugged her as if my words of encouragement would soar through her anxious spirit. 

At the time, I was glad to be able to give her cheer with my words. 

Only now, I wish I would have listened....

It's a Curious Thing

It's a curious thing to me.  My daughter decides to play "school" with her younger brother, and curiously he does every single thing she tells him to do.

When Ella deems it time, Jrod opens his workbook and does every page she puts out; no matter how long it takes him.  When it's recess time, he goes out in the 100 degree heat and runs laps until Ella tells him to stop.  And then, when it's time for music class, Jrod sits at the piano and works even harder when Ella raises her voice and exclaims: "that note is staccato not legato!"  She even asks him to do finger strengthening exercises (whatever that is) and....he does it. Curiously. 

It's interesting to me because my simple requests, such as putting dirty clothes in the hamper, get regularly ignored.  But Ella asks him to do finger exercises (telling him to "ignore the pain") and subtraction problems, and Jrod's working before she can finish her directions. 

Their "game" entertains them for an entire day, so I don't disrupt them until it's time to eat.  And these "school" lunch times are also curious.  It's the only time Jrod actually eats.  Ella comes upstairs, introduces me as lunch lady Louise, and explains that whatever gets placed in front of them is what they will eat.  Done and done.  Jrod will eat everything that lunch lady Louise places in front of him, a rare occurrence.  Maybe I need to change my name to Louise for dinner time. 

There are times when I find myself experimenting with Ella's little tricks.  Could it be that she's figured out the nuances of parenting at the age of eight?  I'm thirty-one and can't accomplish with Jrod nearly as much as Ella seems to be able to during their "school" time.  Maybe I could try growling (I heard Ella do this at one point during the morning). 

But then I considered something this morning.  My sisters "curiously" did the same thing as Jrod.  They used to do everything that I told them to do.

There were times that I'd be lying around watching cartoons and out of pure and utter laziness would ask one of my sisters to get me a cup of water.  The initial response was not only reasonable but completely deserved:  "No."

But then I would come back at them:  "I'll time you.  And if you get a really good time, I'll throw a carnival for you."

Before I could share with them the "fine print" on my offer, one of my sisters would be racing up the stairs gathering me a cold drink of ice-water.  When my sister would return, she'd fine a piece of paper taped to my door:  "Due to unforeseen circumstances, the carnival is canceled for the day."  They were never mad at me - only at the unforeseen circumstances.  Curiously, this kind of occurrence would happen over and over again.   

When we were younger, my sisters and I would have our own "school" days.  And, like Ella, I was always the teacher.  And, like Jrod, neither of my sisters would ever question my role.   Only we had the school at our fingertips.....literally.  My sisters and I would cross the street with my dad on Saturday mornings, and while he studied upstairs, we entered the world of make believe downstairs.  My game, though, was all too real.

There were times when my younger sister would actually cry when I didn't give her a good marking for the day.   She would be dismayed when my other sister would receive two stars on her "work" and she would only get one.  Bekah, my younger sister, was like Jrod.  Whatever I said, she did. 

This was an unfortunate reality for Bekah.  Once I realized she would not question me (Erin would always give me a little lip), there was no going back.  It was even better when I realized that Bekah had a fear of being sent to the Principal's Office.  So on one particular day, as her teacher, I decided she didn't listen well enough and off to the Principal's office she went. 

And, of course, I was the principal as well as the teacher.  As we walked down the quiet hallway, I explained to Bekah what she did wrong and why she was going to the dreaded "office."  She was very apologetic, but I told her there was nothing she could do at this point.  With that, she began crying.

Once we reached the office, I quickly switched roles and put on my Principal face.  Sitting Bekah in a chair in front of me (picture Jack Bauer and his prey awaiting the torture that was inevitable), I simply pointed to a door in the back of the room:

"Rebekah," I used my Principal voice," do you know what happens to kids who get sent to the Principal's office?"

"No," she was totally shaking in her boots.  "I've never been sent here before."

"Well, Rebekah, when you get sent to the Principal's office, you go into that back room.  And in that back room, Rebekah, there is an electric chair.  They electrocute you when you get sent to the office."

"No, no, no....!"

I realized at this point that my sister truly did not know where the line between real and make believe existed, so I told her that she would not have to enter the closet room as long as she "behaved the rest of the day. "

She thanked me profusely and once I was her teacher again, I took her hand and led her back to the classroom where I gave her five minutes to complete the math problems I had written on the chalkboard.  And she did them.  Curiously.

Later that week, during real life school, my sister Bekah was practicing for a musical with her class.  One of the boys was being disrespectful, so the teacher sent him to the Principal's office. 

There was silence as the "real" teacher reprimanded the student.  Silence, except for my sister.  No one in the room could explain or understand her wailing and subsequent yelling, "No, please!  Don't electrocute him!"

I believe this experience had a profound impact on Bekah's view of me as her valiant, older sister.  She never did play my games quite like she did before the Principal's office experience.  In fact, she would come at me at times and say, "You're not my boss," something Erin learned earlier on.  Without a doubt, I thoroughly enjoyed the many years that passed before my younger sister actually figured out that indeed, I was not her boss.

So, enjoy it, Ella.  Enjoy the curious fact that Jrod will do whatever you tell him to do.  One day, however, he will have the same eye opening moment as your Aunt Bekah.  And when that comes....well....Lily, you better watch out.  

Teaching Tact

Most children are not socially graceful.  "Tact" is not something they come by naturally.    It's one of those areas that most parents don't think to provide instruction for until the opportunity presents itself.  And, unfortunately, when confronted with the urgency of teaching children how to say something in a graceful way, an uncomfortable situation has usually already occurred.  

My children do not merely lack social grace, they are, at times, just plain socially awkward.

Today, while jumping around at Monkey Joe's, Jrod made a friend who he thoroughly enjoyed playing with.  After a while, he lost his little buddy, so he asked if I would help find him.  I didn't know who in the world I was looking for, so I told him to spend a few more minutes looking.

He returned discouraged and told me that he "looked in every possible place there ever is or was."  So I told him that his buddy probably went home.  Jrod then pointed to a family sitting a few feet from us: 

"That's his mom and dad."

"Then ask them where your friend is." 

So Jrod meandered over to the couple and stood right in front of them.  "Excuse me.  I'm looking for your boy.  The one in the orange shirt, with brown hair, yellowish teeth, shorter than me, and he is of colored skin.  But he's not of the black kind, he's of the white kind."

It was one of those moments in life that you wish you could just pause and rewind.  I saw a commercial recently that portrays people in awkward situations.  They don't know what to say or do, so time freezes, they have a bite of a particular candy bar and, BAM!  The light bulb comes on and the situation is resolved in a smooth and satisfactory way. 

If only candy bar freezes were real in life.  But they are not.  So there I was starring at my boy confronting the adults, and I was desperate to think of a good way to explain my son's interpretation of their flesh and blood. 

I thought of three things I could do or say, knowing none of them were truly satisfactory.  My first option was to tell them that my son was definitely talking about another boy in an orange shirt.  Secondly, I thought I could just laugh and say, "Oh kids."  Pathetic; there's no doubt. 

I watched my son turn and skip away when he received no response from the adults.  So I went with my third option:  I pretended that I didn't know my child.  I walked in the opposite direction beckoning Lily to come and "jump over here" as if she was the only blood connection to me in the entire facility. 

Who would have thought that I would have to teach my son to not describe another child as having "yellowish teeth."  And when would I have ever considered to instruct him that it's not necessary to refer to races using the phrase "of the kind."  We're human beings, for heaven's sake, not aliens. 

None-the-less, the opportunity awkwardly presented itself this morning, so I did some instructing on the way home. 

Directionally Challenged

For me, simple is never simple.  An “easy” recipe turns into hours of nightmare and clean up, and there’s usually never much to show for it.  As I wrote earlier, the birthday cake, made especially for my two year old, was ruined in a massive way.  After careful review, I discovered that I left out the sugar and did not bake it for the appropriate amount of time.  The result was a doughy, bland, something or other.

I have an instruction- following problem.  My husband has suggested that I might benefit from some sort of a group therapy:  “Hello.  My name is Katie and I can’t follow directions.” 

This fact, however, has been my reality before a husband and children. And for each failed attempt through the years, there has been what I might have considered a good and descent explanation. 

As a child, I did not follow directions well in school. There wasn't a report card sent home that did not criticize my choice of social hour.   I tried to defend my behavior to my parents by explaining to them that God made me talkative.  I needed to be the person He wanted me to be.  That pretty much went nowhere.    

 I went through purgatory in a ninth grade classroom during my first year teaching.  There is no doubt that I was purposefully given the chattiest children in the entire school.  Each day I would publicly apologize to my teachers through the years while simultaneously giving my “if you talk again when I’m talking” speech, trying my hardest to put the same fear into them that the teachers tried to put in me.  I was about as successful that first year as my former teachers were with me. 

When I was ten, we visited my grandmother during a holiday vacation.  She instructed me to “trim the tree” on one particular day while she was gone shopping.  I heard that part of the directions, but missed the part when she told me where to find the ornaments.   I did just what I thought she asked. I followed my own version of her directions and turned her nicely framed artificial tree into something quite different using the shears I found in the garage.  I argued with my parents telling them that I heard MOST of the directions. 

During the end of my sophomore year of college, I stayed up all night cramming for an exam for which I was not prepared.  While shoving information into my brain minutes before the exam was passed out, I missed the all-too important announcement that anyone with an “A” was exempt from the exam.  I didn’t listen carefully and spent an unnecessary three hours on a written exam. 

When my professor asked me why I stayed, I just looked at him bewildered.  He then went on to tell me what I missed three hours before.  I told him I didn’t hear his instructions because I was trying to learn as much as possible.  He told me that I didn’t hear his instructions because I had procrastinated.  He was right. 

And then it wasn’t long ago that I purchased two bookshelves for my daughter’s room.  I wasn’t picky, so I chose the ones that seemed the easiest to put together.  Instead of taking the much needed time to follow the instructions, I threw them away and went with my constructional “gut.”    

What my husband would have put together in less than an hour, I completed in three hours.  And when presenting my accomplishment to the family, there was no hiding the large hole in the back of the first bookshelf and the chipped wood on the second.  These happened only after I put the first shelf together backward. 

The end result of this project was nothing short of ridiculous.   I tried to explain to my husband that the instructions were more difficult than they needed to be, and for that reason, I had decided I would be better off without them.  He said nothing.   All he had to do was point to the hole. 

A few days ago, I discovered a cultural phenomenon with directions that even a person like me can follow.  It’s called Red Box.  Stick your bucks in, walk away with some movies for a night, and stick them back in any Red Box the next day.

When it was time to return my DVD's, I went to a convenient location, walked up, pressed “return,” and let the machine suck in my first movie.  It was taken without a problem.  The second DVD was taken in the same way but almost immediately a warning came up on the screen:  “This box cannot read this DVD.  Please remove from below.” 

I blamed the machine for being insufficient and stuffed the second DVD back into the machine.  The same message came back up.  I literally began hitting the machine when I noticed something.  The machine was blue.  Red Box boxes were….red.  I backed up and saw the title, “Movie Cube,” strewn across the top. 

I declared Movie Cube unsatisfactory for stealing my first DVD.

Impatiently I got in the car and slammed the door.  Ella asked me what was wrong, so explained the whole situation and how ridiculous it was that Movie Cube would take my movie and not return it.  I was willing and ready to keep going on my rampage, but Ella interrupted me:  “Mom?  Aren’t YOU the one who put the wrong DVD in the wrong box?” 

And there you have it.  I was brought back to reality through my eight year old daughter.  No excuse here, folks.  Simple things are only simple… if you follow the directions. 

Expectations Vs. Reality

My expectations and my realities do not always match up.  I have found this particularly true when it comes to cooking.  

Like many engaged women, I had high expectations for myself as a housewife.  I knew that I would be teaching when we were married, but somehow my job never hindered the visions that I had of my husband coming home to a happy wife, a clean house, and hot, delicious dinner.  

Ten years ago, on the eve of saying my “I do’s,” I panicked.  I don’t know why it had not occurred to me until that moment, but I suddenly realized I didn’t know how to cook.  I had never cooked a meal in my life.  And when I say never….I mean never.  I tried making a cake in college (using a boxed mix) and failed miserably.  How does one mess up a recipe that calls for merely eggs and water?  

So, in a state of desperation, I ran up the stairs into my parent’s bedroom.  I told my parents to wake up – it was urgent.  They quickly sat up.  As soon as my father realized I wasn’t in their room wanting to call of the wedding, he went back to sleep.  My mom assured me, half asleep, that I would figure it out.  

I went back downstairs with a renewed energy.  Yes, I could do it, I told myself.  How hard can it be to cook a meal?  My husband had been a bachelor for ten years before we were married, so I knew that was in my favor.  My cooking would be compared to Raman noodles and cold cereal.  So, I fell asleep convincing myself that there was no need to lower my expectations.  

Shortly after the honeymoon, however, reality hit.  And somehow, reality and my cooking expectations were so far off that I didn’t just have to lower my expectations….I had to bury them.  

The first night in our house as husband and wife, I called my grandmother.  She was a good cook, and I figured she could tell me how to make a meal.  After doing some long distance investigation, she realized that the ingredients I was working with were very limited.  So, she patiently walked through the only recipe she could think of using the ingredients that I had.  Dinner for our first night together was going to be stuffed baked potato.  

I don’t blame my grandmother for my failure.  Looking back, how could she have known that I didn’t know how long to cook a potato?  

I baked the potato for fifteen minutes in the oven (which was preheating for ten of those fifteen minutes).  Once they were “done,” I put them to the side and began making a white sauce that would eventually top my baked potatoes.  The sauce only had three ingredients: milk, butter, and flour. 

Instead of adding two cups of milk to two tablespoons of flour, I added two cups of flour to two tablespoons of milk (if you haven’t done this before, this is a great way to make paste).   

We sat down at the table.  I “plated” the meal for my husband and put the following in front of him:  a baked potato, hard as a rock, topped with thick, white paste. 

Because we were newly married, there was absolutely no honesty when it came to my cooking.  “It’s good, honey, but I had a late lunch.  Can I save mine until tomorrow?” 

I wouldn’t admit the failure, even to myself, as I stuffed every last bite of the pasty, raw potato into my mouth.  And then I got sick.  

My expectations were to blow him away with amazing meals night after night.  Reality, however, was that my husband got Raman Noodles.  And so that he wouldn’t become sick of the noodles, I added in the occasional frozen TV dinner.  

When I married Chris, I knew I was marrying a pastor. He was already involved in youth ministry and by the time we were married, he was moving into an associate pastor role in the church we were attending.  So, I knew that unless the Lord directed him otherwise, a pastor’s wife I would be.  

Growing up in a pastor’s family, I saw my mom take meals to Sunday lunches, bring meals to people who were sick, and hosted and fed big groups of people.  So, I knew that in many ways, cooking coincided with church business.  It was just a fact.  

I had high expectations in this area: instead of bringing Jell-O to the Sunday lunches, I would bring the casserole that everyone would rave about.

Within the first month of our marriage, I worked up the courage to have a friend over for dinner.  Since it was my first time hosting dinner in our house, I wanted to make something incredible.  The problem was that my repertoire was very small.  It basically included microwaving frozen meals and boiling noodles.  

I remember very clearly walking nervously through the grocery aisles trying to decide what to fix.  Then I found something that seemed remarkable at the time – a bag of bean soup mix.  It read on the front “just like home-made.”   

For me, it was perfect.  I thought through the possible ways that I could mess it up and could come up with none.  So, I purchased the soup mix.  And that was it.  I hadn’t considered sides, desserts, or drinks.  No, all I went home with was the bean soup mix.  At the time I thought my plan was brilliant.  

That night, after welcoming in our company and seating them at our table, I began pouring the soup into individual bowls.  It didn’t occur to me until that moment that I had nothing else to serve with it.  I didn’t let this bother me, however, because the soup looked good and it smelled delicious.  Unfortunately, I had not tasted my bean soup.  

For the last ten years, the mistakes I’ve made while preparing food have varied, but there is one that stays consistent – I do not taste my food while making it.  My husband is baffled by this fact.  To me, it’s clear as can be:  if I taste my food, and it doesn’t taste good, what then?  What would I do?  I wouldn’t know what to add or subtract.  Instead, I allow my victims the first bite.  If they fall dead, well then, we’ll order pizza.  

When all the bowls were served, Chris prayed, and we dug in.  I waited for everyone else to try it first.  I waited so that I could smile without food in my mouth when I was praised for the meal that sat before them.  I looked at Chris as he blew and ate.  I could literally hear the crunch.  Almost simultaneously, then, I heard crunching all around me.  

Considering that perhaps I was just hearing things, I took a bite myself.  Sure enough, the beans were not beans, but nuts.  I had not soaked the beans for the bean soup (which I later found clearly stated on the back of the mix), and so we sat around the table crunching through our “nut” soup.  

My husband, who was just dying to make fun of my “nut soup,” sat as politely as possible.  I was horrified.  I thought about inviting our company to go get Chinese, but, just like the baked potato incident, my pride got in the way.  My husband decided, for the sake of his future existence, to say nothing as I sat and crunched away as if all was right in the world.  

But, of course, he couldn’t completely hold back.  Chris brought me his half eaten bowl and whispered in my ear, “Can I have more…..of the broth?”  

My expectation was that I would be “that” cook.  I would be the cook that all the church ladies talked about; the one that gets seventeen slots in the church cookbook.  Yes, that was my expectation.  Realty, however, was making reservations at restaurants for friends we were getting to know.  

My youngest turned two, two weeks ago.  So, I made a cake.  I’ve done this before, and it’s turned out quite well.  Feeling adventurous (and not having any major food problems in the recent future), I decided to try a new recipe.  

The cake looked lovely.  When I set it in front of my two year old, she said very simply, “yuck.”  I took it from her, chastising her ingratitude at the time that mommy put into making her a cake.  

And then my oldest daughter chimed in, “Mom, this is totally gross.”  I still didn’t believe that my cake had failed.  I watched my son take a bite.  He stopped, took one more lick of the icing, and then threw it in the trash.  My mother, the only one who couldn’t tell me the plain, hard truth, took a bite and said, “Oh, it’s so good.  I’m just going to leave it on the counter because I’m so full from dinner.”  

After ten years of marriage, there is no more dishonesty when it comes to cooking.  Granted, my husband will, at times, soften the comments if needed, but on this occasion it was not necessary.  He told me the way it was:  “It’s bad, honey.  You definitely left out something.”  I looked at the cake and considered for just a moment that it wasn’t as bad as they all made it out to be.  I took a big bite.  There was no holding onto my pride this time.  For the sake of my children's health, the whole cake went in the trash.  

My husband will admit, quite freely, that my cooking has improved remarkably over the years.  I’ve even pleasantly surprised some folks with some down-right good cooking.  But what I’ve had to do is adjust my expectations.  When newly married, I expected that my family would eat (and love) every meal.   But now that I’ve adjusted those expectations, I have embraced reality.  And reality is that not every meal I make is going to get eaten.  In fact, not every meal I make is edible.  Yes, I can say with certainty that I cook most days, my family eats it some days, and usually no one gets sick.