Northern Comfort

From Milkweed to Monarch

2012-02-09T09:51:00.004-06:00

These photos show the lifecycle of last summer's mini monarch hatchery. I hope to return to this blog soon and write lengthier captions. There are many life lessons in the unseen miracle that occurs within a chrysalis.

Spiders Everywhere

2009-10-31T07:50:00.003-05:00

Yes. Spider Woman.

Some friends and I decided to dress up for Halloween at work. I wouldn't reveal my costume to my co-workers, but as a "teaser," I draped my office door in webbing and dangling spiders, as well as the front of my desk.

The "seed" for my costume was the hairnet (worn on the face) with spider inside that I talked my little sister into wearing many years ago for Halloween at elementary school.

For my costume, I added several additional adornments: more spiders inside the face net, some dangling on threads below my chin, and two speared on safety pins and inserted in my pierced ears. (I originated the safety pin earrings before the punks thought of it. When I was a waitress at Holiday Inn during the late 1970s, I wanted "new" silver earrings and wore safety pins. They became a conversation piece that generated good tips that night!)

A giant spider nestled lovingly on my left shoulder, draped in spider webs with tendrils wrapped around the fingers of my right hand. I darkened my hair with stiff spikes and also draped it with webbing. It was fun to make up my face in dramatic eyeliner and hollow-shadowed facial features. Even the false eyelashes felt like tiny spiders perching on my eyelids. Black shirt, feather boa, swishy red & black skirts, and tall black boots finished the attire.

The appropriateness of this costume was manifested on Wednesday, two days before I wore it. While I was speaking at lunch during a meeting, the woman seated next to me reached up to brush away a spider that was creepy-crawling its way across my shoulder. The same afternoon, while I was driving down the road in my car, a spider on a thread dropped down near my head and I had to bat it away.

I've never been fond of spiders, but they seem to be drawn to me.

Serendipity

2009-09-09T16:16:00.009-05:00

Serendipity: ". . . finding valuable or agreeable things not sought for" (Webster's Dictionary)

A truly serendipitous event doesn't come along every day.

I've always loved shopping for school supplies. Since I'm now an adult I need to call them "office supplies," but the principle is the same. Even now, back-so-school season infuses me with the nostalgia of new shoes, new notebooks, and finding the perfect box of crayons.

A few days ago, I asked my Facebook friends if anyone remembered the "Nifty" -- a binder with two holes at the top for special Nifty loose-leaf paper and a magnetic-closure compartment to hold a pencil and eraser. It was from the mid-1960s, so that gives you a clue as to my age.

Mine was brown -- boring, serviceable brown. Keep in mind, this was before they began marketing colors and designs that would appeal to children. I don't remember how I learned about the Nifty, but every elementary-aged child who was anybody had to have one.

Last weekend, a few days after posing the Nifty question to my FB friends, I was on my way home from the flea market and randomly stopped at a garage sale. There wasn't much in the sale assortment that appealed to me and I was about to leave, when I skimmed my eyes over the last table. There, atop a pile of assorted office supplies, was a distinctive black binder with the "hinge" at the top. Could it be?

Yes.
It was a Nifty -- fully loaded with the special top-punched paper.

I felt God smiling. Still do.

The Best Yellow Dog in the Whole Wide World

2009-09-07T17:38:00.004-05:00

Our Mellow Yellow is nearing sainthood. Of all our family dogs, she has best mastered coming when she is called, staying on our property, and keeping watch over one and all -- not to mention, loving us unconditionally.

But she has just endured the most trying summer of her life. In June, she had major leg surgery. It was so major that when we had a bill for an x-ray & treatment last month, I was thankful for the "small" amount!

Needless to say, Mellow Yellow was extremely restricted in her movements for 8+ weeks. Once she was able to move around after the surgery, she had to be on a leash at all times so she didn't overdo her activity, she couldn't swim, or run, or *GASP* chase a Frisbee -- her all-time-favorite. Now she is able to be off a leash and can run and swim, but still no jumping, so no Frisbee.

She doesn't understand why we've been so "mean" this summer -- arbitrarily denying her the simple pleasures that reward her 6 years of good behavior. We can't explain it to her either. Why did she have to spend time at the vet and come home in more pain than she had ever experienced? Why could she only look at the lake while on vacation, and -- finally -- only be allowed to wade chest deep after 8 weeks of dry dock? Why can't she chase the Frisbee she loves? Why did we put her on a diet?

I've been thinking a lot about her long-suffering. There are times when we, too, go through pain and there appears to be no reason for -- or end to -- the circumstances we endure. Suffice it to say, the One in charge knows, understands, and is there with us through it all.

Tale of Two Leaves

2009-08-26T06:15:00.002-05:00

When I took a walk last weekend, I saw two leaves on the road. They provided food for thought, so I tucked them into my pocket and they survived the trek home.

The leaves led me to ponder: Why would two leaves of the same type have such a variety of hues? I know, a scientifically minded person would inform me about conditions that would affect them, such as moisture, windy weather conditions, even marauding squirrels (I came up with that one on my own . . . can you tell?).

I have decided on a simpler reason. "There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under heaven. A time to be born and a time to die, a time to plant and a time to uproot . . ." (Eccles. 3: 1-2).

A time to cling to the branch and a time to let go.

Earrings & More

2009-08-16T15:19:00.004-05:00

With gnarled fingers, missing a few digits from farm accidents, Lawrence painstakingly fashions a pair of earrings from fishing spinners.

For years, I secretly called Lawrence, "The Man Who Came with the Resort," because he'd lived in the trailer on the property before the current owners took over. He was the maker of cookies and bars that appeared on the resort office table, the one who showed up with tubs of homemade ice cream -- strawberry, raspberry, pineapple, and myriad other tantalizing flavors. He was on the dock the first thing every morning with a smile, a story, and a twinkle in his eyes. He generously doled out the best sweet corn I've ever tasted, fresh from his brother's farm in Iowa and kept cold on ice all the way to the northern Minnesota border lake.

And he made earrings from fishing tackle spinners. I'd seen his handiwork on the ears of the resort family women and I'd always wanted a pair, but I felt uncomfortable asking. I knew he refused to take money for them, and I didn't want to impose on his stock or his time. This year, for some reason, I asked. And Lawrence said of course he'd make earrings for me -- all I had to do was stop by his trailer. So I did. I left with not one pair, but three. He kept making them and dropping them in front of me on the table.

A small portion of his earring-making materials.

One finished pair.

The best part of visiting Lawrence wasn't the earrings, although I'll cherish them as unique souvenirs.

The best part was hearing him tell stories.

Before he got out his plastic trays of spinners and his pointy pliers, Lawrence began spinning tales of early days on Kab. He told of a fishing guide who used a rowboat and charged $10 with a guarantee of catching a limit (before the days of slot sizes). A native of Iowa, Lawrence admitted that he'd told one of his kids that he wouldn't have been born if he had known such beautiful country existed. He would have headed north before meeting his wife and having his family in Iowa.

I could have sat there for hours, listening to his stories. He didn't want to take up "my" time, though and got out his earring materials after half an hour. Then he shooed me out the door to the dock where a tub of homemade pineapple ice cream was waiting.

I would have posted a photo of the ice cream, but it never lasts that long.

Good times, good memories . . . good stories from Lake Kabetogama.

A Drift of Cottonwood Snow

2009-07-23T10:31:00.009-05:00

There was something in the air yesterday. As I crossed the parking lot at work, I felt as if I was walking through a snowglobe in July. Cottonwood seeds drifted and swirled in billowy fluffs, then nestled like eiderdown blankets tucked gently around the flowers by the front door.

I have been trying to notice small blessings lately, and my eyes are drawn to Lake Country's natural beauty (thanks, Andrea!). This time, however, while I wanted to capture the scene in words, I was frustrated by my ineptitude as a photographer (top two photos are mine). I couldn't fully capture the ethereal suspension of the flowers in the downy drifts.

Then a coworker with a "real" camera showed up. I coaxed Brad Raymond into taking a few shots of the flowers and he turned one into a floral Waterpainting (see his photo below).

Same setting -- different equipment and skills.

We have all been given the ability by our Creator to see things with unique vision -- we're all perfectly equipped to pursue our passions, no matter where they take us.

[p.s. Thanks, Brad!]

Summer Jobs: Babysitting

2009-07-06T19:48:00.003-05:00

(Beneath that mild-mannered exterior is: The Babysitter!)

Think back to your summer jobs as a young teenager. How many of you babysat? Without even thinking very hard, I recalled a few of my babysitting horror stories:

1) The 2 year old who screamed at the top of his lungs the entire time his parents golfed. I was sitting for them every morning, all week long, at a resort. The parents paid well, but on Friday I had to walk home because no one from the resort could take me. It was mid-summer, hot, buggy, and a long dirt road measured in miles, not blocks!

2) The parents who came home at 2 a.m. (they were supposed to be home at midnight) and reeked of alcohol. My parents weren't very happy -- dad picked me up and drove me home. They tried to hire me again, but I was always conveniently unavailable.

3) The time a blizzard knocked out the electricity and I was sitting in a very large house with 4 kids and no power. And I couldn't find the flashlights. I sat next to the phone and called information every few minutes to get the time. I was given a ride home on the snowmobile 'cause the car couldn't make it up the driveway.

4) The same family in the summer -- add a few extra kids, due to a blended family situation. Six kids under the age of 12 and me. Two boys who knew how to make rubber band guns. I didn't bust the rubberband perps till just before the parents arrived. I was so frustrated by that time, I snapped the homemade weapon into several pieces.

Why did I go back? They paid quite well.

What are your babysitting tales?

(Next installment: Catching Frogs)

Unplug & Recharge

2009-06-10T06:27:00.003-05:00

I've been feeling the need to unplug, get away, take a few deep breaths, and recharge the batteries. We all have our "happy places" and mine is near the border. When I live in God's Country, why is the draw always farther north? Perhaps because work, daily stresses, and ongoing challenges are ever-present in my daily commute, stacks of work that await, and even in my closest circle of loved ones.

Getting away to new vistas, laughter with friends, and unplugging from my online life is just what I need.

But before I go, here's a photo from my northern Happy Place. I'll be back . . . later.

Bethel University Graduation Reflection Speech

2009-05-31T06:04:00.005-05:00

I passed this plaque almost weekly for four years -- every time I arrived for class at Bethel University. A beam of sunshine illuminated it perfectly on the afternoon I arrived to pick up my cap and gown for graduation.
After two years to earn my B.A. in Communication, followed immediately by two more years in graduate school, I'm now a Master of Arts in Communication! I was extremely blessed to be asked to present the graduate school student reflection at the Bethel University graduation on May 23, 2009. Sitting on the Great Hall platform with the faculty and university presidents (past and present), and speaking to the assemblage of graduates and guests was humbling. "This is the way, walk in it" (Is 30:21) resounded in my mind.
To God be the glory!
(Many friends and family members have asked about the speech, so here is the full text.)

Bethel University Graduation Reflection Speech: The Stories of Seven
(Copyright 2009, Jodi Schwen)

Seven isn’t a very big number. Seven cents won’t buy a piece of gum, and seven steps won’t take you very far on a journey. But seven words can have a tremendous impact. I’d like to share how three, seven-word sentences affected my life.

After graduating from high school, I attended a state university, but I dropped out after two years. Countless times I told family and friends, “Someday I’ll go back and finish my degree.”
Four years ago, I finally sent the e-mail that led to enrolling in Bethel’s Bachelor’s in Communication in the College of Adult and Professional Studies.
When I started the B.A. in 2005, I never dreamed I would continue on for two more years to earn a master’s degree.

I must have really enjoyed doing homework.

When I began looking into going back to college, “at my age,” one of my sons said, “Mom’s cutting her hair short, she started kayaking, she’s going back to college, and she’s getting a new little car. -- If the car is red, it must be a mid-life crisis.”

The car was not red, it’s gray, but it gets 32 mpg, so who cares about the color? Like the postman faithfully delivering the mail, the little gray car safely carried me to class through rain, hail, sleet, and snow – and since this IS Minnesota, sometimes those weather conditions all happened on one trip!

**

I am a magazine editor in my hometown of Brainerd, I’ve been married for 32 years and have an active family. I live in a peaceful community in the heart of God’s country. Why put myself, and my family through this 4-year upheaval?

Because I knew that it was the way I was meant to go.

It was walking by faith and not by sight -- trusting that God has reasons for this new journey.

Perhaps, like many of you, I had to answer countless questions from well-meaning people.

“Why drive all the way to Bethel? – you could just go to a state university that’s closer to home.”
“Is the faith part of the education really that important?”
“Why do you need a degree when you already have a job?”
“Why communication?”
“Why now?”

Why? Because -- I felt God leading me to disregard the 7 restricting words that often held me back – maybe these seven words have held you back, too –
“ I’ve never done it this way before.”
It was true -- I’ve NEVER done it this way before, but it was time I did. Don't let the 7 little words, "I've never done it this way before," choke off your dreams and keep you from following the path God has provided for you.

** *

Some days it was easy to explain the impact of my Communications classes. Some days, 7 other words loomed large in my mind – "I can’t, I have to do homework." My family heard these words countless times over four years. As fellow students and family members in this audience, you know what I mean.

I can’t go to the ball game, I have homework.
I’ll have to miss the trip, I have to do homework.
I won’t be at the concert, I have to do homework.
[_______________ fill in the blank with the ones you’ve used with your families!]

As adult students, sometimes the main difficulty was simply juggling our personal lives, academics, and holding down full time jobs while trying to maintain a semblance of sanity in the midst of never-ending homework.
Of course, sanity often went out the window – usually when scrambling to finish one class, as the professor puts up the syllabus for the next class!

But along the way, we began connecting the dots among our various courses – seeing how communication fits into different areas of our world like a puzzle we learned how to decipher.
I’ve always been a lifelong learner and my degrees in Communications have encouraged and expanded what I already do – only now I have a greater set of tools and resources.

Yes, the coursework was challenging – but here we are. I think we can all finally say the homework was worth it.

The first two sentences -- “I’ve never done it this way before” and “I can’t, I have to do homework” -- were the realities of accepting the personal challenge of returning to college.

Now looking ahead, the last sentence is -- “What do I do with my much?”

This comes from the verse in Luke 12:48 that says: “From everyone who has been given much, much will be demanded and from the one who has been entrusted with much, much more will be asked.”

When I began thinking about this verse several years ago, I felt unsettled. I had been given “much” – I live safely in a beautiful Midwestern community, I have food, a home, family, a fulfilling career, health, and an inquisitive mind. I was truly blessed, so “What do I do with my ‘much’?”

At the same time, I pondered Ephesians 2:10 – “For we are God’s workmanship created in Christ Jesus to do good works, which God prepared in advance for us to do.”

This verse is very freeing. The God of the universe has things He has already prepared for me to do. Since He’s God, I decided that He was perfectly capable of showing me what those good works are.

So I prayed – first about attending Bethel for my B.A. and then later about whether I should pursue a master’s degree. I didn’t wait for a thunderbolt to come out of the sky, but I continued with the next logical steps – filling out paperwork, sending for transcripts, and taking tests. One by one, the steps were completed, and I found myself at Bethel.

My first class in the B.A. was academic writing. During a class break, I was walking and talking with another adult student, a pastor who was also continuing his education. Our class met in the lower level of the Robertson Center and we were all walking down the carpeted hall toward the snack machines. I was still feeling a little uncertain about my decision, even though the steps seemed to point in this direction. I told the pastor that sometimes I wished my path was more clearly marked, so all I had to do was follow.

At that moment, we came around the hall onto the red-tiled corridor leading to the locker rooms. A set of wet footprints was neatly placed on the tiles ahead of us, leading the way down the hall. I felt a shiver of goosebumps, and the pastor said, “Sometimes He does visibly show the way.”

Wherever your path may lead, take time to ponder, “What do I do with my much?” But then be ready for God to answer with the good works He has prepared for you to do.

I’d like to leave you with words of wisdom from two diverse people.
One is the great “theologian,” Erma Bombeck, who said, “When I get to heaven I want to be able to tell God, I don’t have any talent left – I used up everything You gave me.”

And from a different era, Robert Browning said: “Get thy tools ready and God will provide the work.”

As graduates, we have our tools – now let’s get to work.

Black-&-White Reflections

2009-05-12T19:33:00.005-05:00

I've enjoyed digging into some old family photos lately. Perhaps it's because my family lives so far away or just knowing that my sister, Sara, put together a Snapfish photo book for Mother's Day. It made me nostalgic for the old black-and-whites that Sara scanned from our parents' albums the last time I went to visit.

I love the candidness of most of our photos. Mom never made us say "cheese!"

Dad played basketball for Brainerd High School (they apparently wore knee protection then!).

This is my "baby sister," Sara. We grew up on Pike Bay on Gull Lake -- in the days before sky-high lakeshore prices. It was a childhood from a Norman Rockwell painting. Sledding and skating in the winter, swimming and biking all summer. Jumping into leaf piles, chasing our dogs and each other. Our growth wasn't measured against the doorjamb, but by being allowed to advance one more dock section deeper in the summer.

Mom grew up on the same lakeshore where we lived years later. I don't know who the little kids were, but this is my mom as a teenager, posed with attitude, with her mother. I love the stance -- so proud and fun.

This is my sister, Laura (now in heaven). She was looking out our front window down toward the lake. I've always wondered what she was looking at so intently that led someone to grab the camera and shoot her photo.

This is probably one of my favorite photos. What goofy, fun kids! We always had to wear hats when we were out in the sun. I'm the shy-looking short one. Don't let the demure appearance fool you . . .

Mom on her honeymoon at the Gulf of Mexico. What a doll, beachcombing in pants and pearls.

So many stories . . . so little time. Some day, some day . . .

Sports Talk

2009-05-05T08:20:00.003-05:00

For years, I've perfected the cheering lingo of the various sports our sons have played. Each one has its own unique language.

Baseball: Nice cut -- Good hit -- Right to the glove -- Just play catch -- Good hit.

Basketball: Tough D! -- Arms up -- Look for the ball -- Nice shot.

Track: Keep it going -- Stay strong -- Go, go, go!

And now it's tennis.
And I'm silenced.

My son quickly pointed out that shouting for your kid on the tennis court is poor etiquette. I am required to stand mutely behind the fence, just smiling when my son sneaks a glance my way before a serve. It's hard to do. I have been cheering for my sons for so many years, it's not easy to watch silently.

Being silenced has also given me a new appreciation for the requirements of the sport. I pay closer attention to the forms and styles of the players, watch the boundary lines, and when my husband is at the match (a former tennis champion) I always, ALWAYS, have to ask him about the scoring.

There are lessons in silence. I think it makes me more attentive to the nuances of the sport, as well as the nuances of my son.

But in my head, I'm still cheering like crazy.

Avian Ponderings

2009-04-26T07:05:00.006-05:00

We drove to Fergus Falls yesterday, where I was delighted to find a common egret rookery in "full bloom." The tiny offshore island in the small city park lake was loaded with nesting egrets. I'd seen a blue heron rookery in my home turf years ago, but this was my first egret rookery sighting. The elegant-looking, pure white birds seemed ungainly tree nesters -- I'd assumed they would prefer a nice single-egret nest, something with a water view and a few neighbors at a respectable distance. Perhaps they nest in trees due to their lack of camouflage. A nesting white egret would be easy pickings along a grassy green or rush-lined shore.

As I watched the egrets and a few Canada geese meandering greedily around the shore looking for handouts, I pondered a few avian habits that I could take to heart, as well.

They thrive while living in community with other egrets. I like that about the egret rookery "neighborhood." There is safety in numbers, they don't have to go far to enjoy a cup of coffee with a friend, and (as my husband said), maybe they can help each other out with babysitting.

Even though the rookery appeared to be filled entirely with egrets, on closer inspection, we found an interloper of sorts. "Find what is different in this picture," revealed a black-crowned night heron on its nest, nestled amidst the egrets. Its black-and-white markings stood out against the white-feathered egrets. The egrets didn't seem to mind. Perhaps it's a lesson for us -- when the "other" is different, learn how to live together and get along.

Most of the Canada geese drifted by in pairs. They mate for life and when I see one flying solo, I wonder if it has lost its mate permanently, or is just flying to catch up with its spouse. It's the avian version of: "In sickness & in health, for better or worse, till death do us part." After 32 years of marriage, I have gone through many challenges and they were borne more easily with my husband/best friend at my side.

Pondering avian life along the shores of God's Country . . .

Memory & Smell

2009-04-18T08:29:00.004-05:00

Our olefactory sense is one that evokes deep memories. I have always been able to "smell spring," and until I do, spring isn't really here. Seeing the first robin means nothing if the satisfying aroma of thawing earth doesn't accompany the sighting. And we all know that robins come home too early anyway. I wish I could let them know when it's safe, but then again, I still haven't taken off my snow tires because I don't trust the weather. Last year's April 24th blizzard still resonates in my memory bank.

What other smells bring up memories? When our youngest was a baby, I used to tease his big brothers that they can smell him after his bath once for free, but the next whiff would cost a quarter! Who doesn't love the sweet scent of a freshly bathed baby?

Other smells that I'm actually looking forward to in a weird way:
Wet dog fresh from the lake -- it means we've enjoyed a hot, sandy day at the beach.
Skunk (aka "Peppermint Kitty") -- they don't come out till spring either so it's a sure sign of the season.
Barbeque grill smoke in the air -- we grill year round, but the smell of grills warming up in the summer is one to be savored.
Sunscreen -- I love the smell of the "coconutty" one, but sadly, it doesn't come in a high-enough SPF.
The commingled smells of budding trees, blooming flowers, and rich earth. It can be enjoyed best from the roof, while cleaning out the eaves. Climb the ladder and spend an hour on the roof enjoying the view and the scents of spring.
Lake -- my Arizona sister wants me to figure out a way to bottle the smell of lake. It's the best smell in the world.

I'll think of a few more spring/summer smells and will post them later. What smells of the season do you anticipate?

Look Closely . . .

2009-04-12T11:16:00.005-05:00

I've always liked this necklace.

Look closely . . . the sides of the heart are created from nails.

What a fitting reminder for Easter.

Surprised again on the Road to Emmaus

2009-04-10T06:26:00.005-05:00

It was a simple Easter sunrise service put on by the church youth. With trembling hands, the gangly boys pushed back wheat-colored hair that fell across their oily foreheads. Wispy-voiced girls tugged at short skirts as they rose to read scripture before the assembled worshippers, parents, and friends.

We stood, we sang, we sat, we stood again, we listened, we prayed. The songs were familiar, the liturgy steeped so long in tradition it had the flavor of weak tea.

Next on the program: a pantomimed drama. The actors moved through their roles with no spoken lines--a narrator read the events as they unfolded through scripture.

The scene of the women discovering the empty tomb ended and we patiently waited as the stage was reset and the reader began the story of the road to Emmaus.

"Now that same day, two of them were going to a village called Emmaus . . . they were talking with each other about everything that had happened." (Luke 24: 13-14)

Then it happened. From where the pastor was seated, I could see him gazing intently down the center aisle. I have long been a lover of drama and studied theatrical staging. I guessed the scenario and thought: Okay, now the men are walking down the aisle and will meet Jesus in the front.

Then I was fooled by one of the oldest tricks in the drama book. I turned around in my pew--just as "Jesus" rose from where he had been seated--directly behind me. He pulled a simple linen covering over his head and joined the youths walking to the front of the sanctuary.

The rest of the narration, indeed the scene itself, was a blur as I mulled over this delightful occurrence. In the earlier flurry of arriving at the church, being seated, retrieving bulletins, and greeting friends, I'd been totally oblivious to "Jesus" sitting behind me, wearing a simple robe, and drawing no attention to himself.

How many other Sundays, indeed weekdays, are the same? Are we constantly mired in our routines of shuttling our kids, working, or recreating? Meanwhile Jesus is in our midst, drawing no attention to himself . . . waiting to receive the worship He is due.

What Plays in Your Head?

2009-04-06T06:55:00.005-05:00

I had a brief, but interesting conversation with my 13-year old last weekend.

A drummer, he said, "I usually have drum beats going through my head."

"Even at school?" I asked.

"Yeah, all the time."

"I understand," I replied. "I like to sing, so I usually have song lyrics playing in my head."

"Ones you know?" he said. "Or ones you made up?"

"Songs I've heard," I said.

He hears and composes drum beats in his head. As I pondered a part of my son that I never knew before, I realized that my original, creative thoughts involve "composing" words. While I love to sing music, I don't feel led to "make" it. However, depending on the project at hand, I often create skits (as in above photo), speeches, essays, or projects involving words in my head.

Left brain or right brain, everyone creates in different ways. What tapes play in your head?

Blooming Again

2009-04-04T17:44:00.006-05:00

"Faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see." (Heb. 11:1)

There is no evidence of spring in my yard. I don't count the robin I can hear, but that hasn't shown his face. He's probably busy learning how to knit a new sweater pattern.

However, I know spring is coming, so I removed the snowscape photo from my blog (see right) and replaced it with a flowerbed shot from last summer. Even the faded, late-summer blooms are enough to buoy my spirits and remind me that winter is on its way out and spring will arrive as it always does.

This long, trying winter has greatly reminded me of Narnia: "always winter and never Christmas." I will keep my eyes fixed on the blossoms of summers past -- the certainties of what I know by faith, but cannot see. I know the flowers will bloom again.

And so can we.

[Above: The heliotrope, with its tiny purple blooms, is the most fragrant flower I've ever sniffed!]

Faith and not Sight

2009-03-28T08:16:00.004-05:00

I've often said my life feels like a hamster wheel -- some days more than others. Racing through work, juggling my son's schedule, managing grad school homework and writing my thesis are just a few daily challenges. Free time? What's that? I own two new DVDs I haven't even taken out of the shrinkwrap yet. I know God won't give me more than I can handle, but as Mother Teresa once said, I sometimes wish He didn't trust me so much!

There is irony as I perform my daily tasks. I've been unable to maintain the treadmill workout I started in January, due to lingering effects from early-February's bout of pneumonia. The irony is compounded by the fact that my thesis topic includes the study of illness narratives. Perhaps the up-close and personal nature of experiencing illness that won't go away is meant to provide a deeper understanding of the topic.

I'll watch my troll get some exercise on the hamster wheel and know that for now, at least, walking by faith and not by sight, are enough.

It's All in the Details

2009-02-26T17:02:00.002-06:00

All children are artists. The problem is how to remain an artist once he grows up. —Pablo Picasso

I've heard that life is what happens when we're making other plans. If that's true, how do we capture the moments and remember them? Sometimes it means taking the road less traveled or paying attention to the tiny details along the way.

When my young son chose to sit on the opposite side of the back seat on a drive into town, he said, "it looked like a different world." It was our road -- he'd just never noticed it from that perspective before. A friend once polished the light globes in her living room after a cleaning hiatus and could hardly believe how they sparkled. She told me she had forgotten that they weren't frosted glass! Pay attention to the details. Have you ever tried to find a substitute for a twist tie when you really needed one? Small things can be important.

While I am the "official" writer in the family, the literary "gifts" of the entire family were recently on display in the "Refrigerator Collection." I had purchased a North Woods Words refrigerator magnet set, thinking that I would get a little use out of it and have some fun. After a recent holiday, I was surprised to see the random poetry that my family had assembled throughout the weekend. I am still reluctant to take it down, because the discovery gave me such joy.

It's all in the details that pop up like signposts along the road of life. Remember that even the little things--clean glass, back seats, twist ties, and frig magnets--can make a difference. Write it or forget it.

Telling Tales

2009-02-24T17:20:00.005-06:00

The palest ink is better than the best memory. —Unknown

Life goes by so fast, it is important to write the stories before they get away. The following family tales are candid snapshots of moments in time . . .

Our son and his family came home from the city for the weekend. We had received very little snow all winter, so when the weather reports forecasted snow, we didn't expect much accumulation. As the snow continued to pile up, he realized they were unable to leave. State, county, and private plows all needed to work in synch to clear our roads of snow.

"How long will you stay?" I asked my son, as we watched the snow continue to fall.

"We'll stay till the plows come home," he replied, with a twinkle in his eye.

* * * * *

When my eldest son was eleven years old, I drove him to Camp Shamineau, in Motley, where he’d be a camper for a week. Since the weather forecast predicted rain, I reminded him a couple of times to get his raincoat out of the golf bag in the trunk when we got to camp.

We finally pulled onto the grounds of Camp Shamineau and before my son got out of the car, I said, "What are you supposed to do now?"

"Kiss you quick while no one's looking?" he said seriously.

* * * * *

On countless third-grade schooldays, my last-born son forgot something at home: a mitten, his homework, a library book, the list seemed endless.

But one March morning as I backed the car out of the driveway, I said, "I have the feeling that I'm forgetting something."

He quickly shot back, "Welcome to my world."

* * * * *

My mother once suggested that since I like to write and I like dogs, perhaps I should write dog food advertisements. My sister-in-law, an artist, overheard the suggestion, saw the expression on my face, and summed it up nicely: "You have to write about what inspires you—all the rest is just dog food."

What inspires you? Write on!

BOOCHIE!

2009-02-23T17:23:00.007-06:00

BOOCHIE! Our family tradition of "Boochie" was imported from an episode of the Perfect Strangers sitcom from the late-1980s. Balki, a sheepherder, moved from Mypos (a Mediterranean island) to live with his cousin, Larry, in Chicago. (Balki doesn't call himself a "shepherd," he is a "sheepherder," which is uttered in Balki's inimitable Myposian accent.)

One of the Mypos games Balki taught Larry was "Boochie," which is a form of tag. Instead of saying "Tag, you're it," a player says, "Boochie!" and the chase begins. Players never know when a game begins or ends and players can be ambushed at any time.

When we adopted Boochie at our house, even the dog got into the act and could "boochie" a player with her tail. Our family has refined Boochie over the years with countless variations and rules. Rules such as, Dad can't Boochie our son when the child is being tucked into bed -- there has to be a "safe zone" somewhere! Just to keep the peace, I seldom play. Someone has to referee.

I bought the Perfect Strangers DVD for Christmas and was surprised how short the actual Boochie episode was, yet it provided our family with many fun and happy memories. It's amazing how something so insignificant can do so much toward family bonding.

Boochie is still alive and well at our house. Celebrate your family traditions -- no matter how oddball they may seem to others. Families grow up, but memories will always remain. What are some of yours?

Just so you know . . . because you read this post . . . Boochie!

(And if you're interested, there is even a Perfect Strangers fan page on Facebook!)

Broken Beauty

2009-02-21T16:16:00.003-06:00

"God uses broken things." -- Vince Havenor

I collect beach glass. The sharp shards are gathered and thrown away as a hazard to bare feet. However, the pieces that have been rubbed to matte smoothness, in an array of rainbow colors, are the ones I eagerly seek. The glass fragments that have been tossed and battered in the surf are the ones that radiate rare and subtle beauty.

Seven years ago, I tried the tonsillectomy diet. It sounded simple enough. Since getting your tonsils out is out-patient surgery, in my mind, I compared it to a trip to the dentist. I scheduled it for Wednesday and fully expected to be back to work on Friday. I even thought taking Thursday off was generous.

I didn’t count on becoming so sick I couldn’t stop throwing up and ending up in the hospital for three more days. The exciting part of the hospital stay was losing seven pounds and receiving a souvenir water jug as a lovely parting gift.

Amy Carmichael, a missionary who helped poor and abused children in India, once said, “God never wastes His children’s pain.” By Friday afternoon, I was honestly beginning to wonder how my pain and discomfort could fit into God’s plan.

The Saturday afternoon I was being checked out, my nurse went through the standard checklist with my husband and me, including her question: "Any children at home?" (I’m sure they wanted to find out if I was being released to face mounds of dirty dishes, laundry, and squalling toddlers. In which case, I wondered if they’d let me stay another day or two to recover more fully.)

“One child at home, our son is seven,” I replied.

"Other children?” she continued.

So with great anticipation of how the nurse would react, I replied, “Two sons, one married, both live in the Cities. The oldest is twenty-two and the married one is twenty.”

Contrary to the surprise I expected, the nurse told us that she was eight months pregnant and the child she was carrying would also have a twelve-year-old sibling. My husband, who isn’t a talker, even told her about his experiences in having our third child. When I told the nurse of the beautiful relationship between the two older sons and the youngest, she was encouraged that the same bond might develop between her adolescent and the baby.

I knew that my time in the hospital wasn’t wasted. I felt that God could use me—can use us—anywhere to encourage someone else. He comforts us in our troubles so we can one day comfort others "with the comfort we ourselves have received from God" (2 Corinthians 1:4). Even though the time and place -- the tossing in the surf -- may not be of our choosing.

Ages & Stages

2009-02-21T09:58:00.001-06:00

Growing up as a country mouse meant playing with my little sister because my other playmates lived too far away. Our mother had specific ideas about appropriate play toys for little girls. We weren't allowed to have Barbie dolls, so we dressed and made up storylines for our collection of trolls. Mom was ahead of her time in thinking that Barbie projected a poor body image for girls to try and mimic. However, I've always questioned what made the troll body image more appropriate?

When I was in college the first time, it was quite a few years ago. How long ago, you ask? Let's just say I used to play the role of the ingenue in theater productions. Back then, when I took stage make-up class, I had a hard time creating old-age makeup on my face. About twenty years later, when I was making up my face for a conference story-telling event, I had no problem making myself up to look old. What changed? I now had wrinkles to follow. Just draw along the lines—piece of cake.

And now I’m back in college. It’s funny, when I filled out the last FAFSA for our older sons I rejoiced that I wouldn’t have to do it again until our youngest was ready. Two years later, I was filling out the FAFSA for myself.

One of our sons said, “Mom cut her hair short , wants to take up kayaking, went back to college, bought a new car -- if the car is red, it’s definitely a mid-life crisis.”

I like to think of it as a mid-life inventory. I won’t go looking for a trophy husband, and buying a convertible isn’t really my style. But what is wrong with making changes in our lives? At any age?

By the way, the car wasn't red, it was gray, but it gets 32 mpg, so I'm happy.

A Universal Rule of Parenting

2009-02-18T19:25:00.003-06:00

I always said I'd never let my youngest son do two things: play hockey and play drums. So far, I've raised a basketball player, so the winter sport is a given. The drum is a different story. It started out with band tryouts where he was told he could choose any instrument he wanted, due to innate rhythm from playing three years of piano. Guess what he had his heart set on?

Right.

After purchasing one snare drum and several months of lessons later -- he wasn't too bad. A couple of years ago, Target had a super sale and the starter drum set was 75 percent off. I could see son's puppy-dog look and he wasn't even with me. I caved in and bought it. Although the set was way too small, it satisfied the drummer's need to bang on more than one surface at a time. Remember the days of cake pans and wooden spoons on the kitchen floor? It's kind of the same thing only louder and somewhat more organized.

I recently came across one of his favorite books -- one that I read to him countless times when he was little: The Boy with a Drum. I have no one to blame but myself for his instrument choice.

And now he has graduated to a full-size trap set. This confirms one of the Universal Rules of Parenting: Never say "never."

North Woods Survivors

2009-02-17T15:23:00.003-06:00

I know why the CBS Survivor television show will never tape its series out in my “neck of the woods.” Used to a steady diet of skimpy bikini-clad women and shirtless men in a tropical setting, the audience would never tune in to watch castaways bundled up in parkas, pack boots, mufflers, gloves, and stocking hats.

What would they do for challenges? Would the contestants stand on iceblocks and the last one to plunge into the snowbank wins? Or mush a sled dog team around a forested path—the first one to the finish line takes home, not an SUV or Corvette, but a snowmobile? Perhaps the survivors could drop a fish line through a hole in a fish house and try to catch enough crappies [translate: small panfish] to feed the shivering tribe. The first challenge is definitely going to be for the prize of fire. The losers would be permitted to perform camp chores for the winners to catch a few errant waves of warmth, lest anyone suffer frostbite on national television and give a black eye to the good name of reality TV.

If you really want to talk survival—place them all in a couple of snow caves. But then again, maybe the ratings would go up. Much more survivor “cuddling” would take place and the audience would jam the Survivor chatroom with speculation on what is really going on in those zipped-together, down sleeping bags.

The tribe has spoken. Brrrrr.

God Danced

2009-02-13T20:25:00.002-06:00

A few years ago, we thoroughly enjoyed having one child in driver's training and another in toilet training at the same time. I discovered that half the fun of having such an age spread among our children was telling strangers about our family.

The ages of our three sons was a great conversation starter. In revealing that our first two children were 15 and 13 when our third was born, I got remarks ranging from, "Oh, you poor thing," to "I'll bet that was a shock." Perfect strangers weighed in, calling him our "Whoops," or "Little caboose."

When I tell them that I had prayed for another child for eight years and our third child was the blessing that was missing from our family, my story was thoughtfully received. However, my solution to solving the empty-nest blues was seldom embraced.

And now I'm a grandmother -- times three.

As I approached grandmotherhood for the first time, I explained to our then-six-year-old son that he would become an uncle.

"And do you know what that makes me?" I continued.

"No."

"I'm going to be a grandma."

"But you're not going to be old," he quickly replied. Perhaps he was afraid that I'd sprout blue hair and begin wearing polyester pantsuits.

My Mother's Face

2009-02-05T16:10:00.004-06:00

When disciplining our children, every parent has thought, “I sound just like my mother/father.”

But I do have my mother’s face.

An 8x10 photograph of my mother is on my desk. On her face, she wears a Mona Lisa smile. I keep the photo there as I write—a continual reminder of the parents who let me escape through a loophole in high school graduation requirements. They let me drop advanced math when it became obvious, from the continuing decline in my math grades and straight As in creative writing, that I was destined to pursue the words I loved.

One day, when I was working at my computer, I glanced up at her photo. The reflection from the window projected my face onto the picture glass—my oval shape perfectly matched my mother’s. I was mesmerized by this glimpse of time in fast forward as I previewed my countenance as it would appear thirty years from now.

My eyes gazed calmly from within her sockets, my chin followed the gentle sag of hers, our necks rose as one from our collars, and our wrinkles were a perfect match—hers slightly more pronounced.

We are a society that prizes youth; indeed, we run from anything that hints of wrinkles and gray hair. Yet, the proverb says that gray hair is a crown of splendor (Prov. 16:31)—prized in societies where elders are respected and honored—but it is Lorealed out of sight in affluent America.

Aren’t we, too, worth it?

Beginnings

2009-02-05T15:07:00.001-06:00

I used to describe myself as a wife and mother. I am still all that and more, but I've reached that marvelous age of freedom -- I can define myself the way I want, wear make-up only when I feel like it, and I'll never be held back by the limitations of: "I've never done it that way before."

I went back to college to finish my B.A. degree and then earned my master's in communication. I was one of the older students in my "adult education" cohort. The experience has opened my eyes and I can never go back -- going forward is much more gratifying.

Life is too short to let stuff get in the way. We're here for a purpose, God's purpose, so I'd like to encourage others to stop wasting time and start doing what He has already lined up for you to do (Eph. 2:10).

That's my plan for the rest of my life. This blog will show a few tips I've learned along the way, as well as things I'm reading and pondering. It should be fun! According to Philip Roth: "Nothing truly bad ever happens to a writer -- it's all material."