The first Ebenezer was a place of upheaval, distress and defeat. But God transformed it into a place of victory, remembering and thanksgiving. You can read the full saga in 1 Samuel 4-7.
It ends with Samuel setting up a stone memorial, calling it Ebenezer, and saying, “This marks the place where God helped us” (1 Samuel 7:12 The Message).
My friends Nicole, Katie and others have reposted significant blog entries to remember the places God helped them and their families. Fabulous idea. One I need to employ as it’s too easy for me to forget.
So here’s an Ebenezer in July. It comes not from this blog which is only five months old, but from a July 2007 email. Some of you received the original email or read the story in our 2007 Christmas letter.
A little background. Our only child Theo was born with an ASD or atrial septal heart defect. This condition usually heals on its own. Theo’s did not. He had open heart surgery four years ago when he was only two years old…
A Sigh of Relief, July 16, 2007
Hello, everyone. I am home to get some sleep after this long and truly amazing day. Theo’s surgery went very well and very quickly—only about two hours. He was away from us for a little more than four excruciating hours. Being separated from him was the hardest part for us—like holding your breath, stepping off the high dive, and waiting, waiting for the water to break your fall.
Theo has been resting with us at his bedside in the cardiac intensive care unit since lunchtime. Our incredibly compassionate and capable surgeon kept Theo’s incision small…“neat and square” comes to mind, like one of Mike Mulligan and Mary Anne’s corners. Theo is being kept sedated because when he wakes up, he immediately requests to “go bye-bye, please,” and then tries to sit up and pull out his IVs. What a relief to see his spunk has not faded one bit, nor have his manners.
I will relieve Jeff early tomorrow morning. Jeff insisted on staying the night, saying he is used to being up to all hours working and sleeping in strange places like airplanes and hotel rooms. He made me, the morning bird, come home to rest while he, the night owl, keeps watch by night. What a good daddy and husband he is!
Thank you for your prayers, calls, emails, visits, gifts and concern for us. It is not a coincidence that Theo was born in a time when this surgery is accessible to us and the technology exists to support its success. Nor is it a coincidence that he lives in a house 15 minutes away from a top 10 children’s hospital. That is the tip of this iceberg. How humbling to realize we cannot begin to understand all the connections and repercussions of God’s purpose.
Breathe then a sigh of relief with us that the first and highest hurdle of this race is past. Tomorrow will be a challenging day as Theo is weaned off the sedatives and strongest pain medications. His doctors hope to move him to a step-down unit, which in layman’s terms means a step-closer-to-going-home unit. Please pray that God will quiet Theo and help him to remain as calm as a two-year-old boy can remain in such a situation, and that He will give Jeff and I an extra measure of strength and wisdom to comfort Theo. Pray God protects him from infection or other complications, so he can come home soon. Please.
I leave you with one of Paul’s doxologies from Romans 11:33-36. It sums up our elation, amazement, and gratefulness. I see this short update is getting lengthier as I my mind spins and treads around the events of the day. Humor me as I cannot resist also including a verse from Charles Wesley. I read it early this morning in the near dark before we left our house, and it still seems appropriate as the sun sets on this evening. Good night, and sweet dreams.
Love,
Aimee
our heart breaker made a quick and full recovery. he was released from his cardiologist's care last year.
Oh, the depth of the riches of the wisdom and knowledge of God!
How unsearchable His judgments,
and His paths beyond tracing out!
“Who has known the mind of the Lord?
Or who has been His counselor?”
“Who has ever given to God,
that God should repay them?”
For from Him and through Him and for Him are all things.
To Him be the glory forever! Amen. Romans 11:33-36 NIV
Other refuge have I none;
Hangs my helpless soul on Thee;
Leave, ah! Leave me not alone,
Still support and comfort me.
All my trust on Thee is stayed,
All my help from Thee I bring;
Cover my defenseless head
With the shadow of Thy wing.
Charles Wesley, from Jesus, Lover of My Soul
A battle is being waged in my home. It’s me against the stuff.
the garage (my colander is in there somewhere. no spaghetti tonight.)
If you’d told me four years ago I’d be happier in a 1,500 square foot house than in a 4,100 square foot house, I’d have said you were off your rocker.
Today I’d eat those words. Call me cozy, but a small house suits me. Now please take your rocker with you before I send it packing to Goodwill.
Ain’t nothing wrong with a big house—unless it’s THE big house. Then we’d have other issues to discuss. In the immortal words of Alan Jackson, it’s all right to be little bitty.
My husband is scared. He likes his stuff.
At the closing of the sale of our house last week, I told our real estate agent we’d have half as much to move when the lease ends on our current rental. My husband, bless his heart, said I was being mean. In front of my face. With me sitting right there across the closing table. A nervous laugh to cover his fear.
Maybe I am mean with clutter. Like a drill sargeant. The people and the dog come first, so the extra baggage has got to go. Whatever stays must be packed, labeled and stored appropriately. Ready to ship out at a moment’s notice.
This is combat, and I mean business. By the time I’m finished, we’ll be fit for a feature in Real Simple. Watch out, Martha Stewart. I’m coming for you next. I’ve tasted freedom, and it’s a good thing.
Freedom from debt. Freedom from cleaning a large house. Freedom from catering to the tastes of potential buyers. Now that I have it, I want more. More freedom to do what I love with the people I love.
Commandeering clutter is not something I love. It’s necessary, like laundry. We all have to do it. But let’s whip it into shape and minimize the upkeep, shall we? Let’s hang on to what counts.
Those things packed in boxes I literally haven’t seen in years? The most loved ones bring a rush when I unpack them. Reunited and it feels so good.
The others are asked to peaceably exit the premises. If they dawdle, they will be forcibly removed.
I need the space and the freedom. My time, my sanity, is no longer negotiable.
moth holes discovered when I unpacked my favorite shocking pink cardi. no!
Don’t hoard treasure down here where it gets eaten by moths and corroded by rust or—worse!—stolen by burglars. Stockpile treasure in heaven, where it’s safe from moth and rust and burglars. It’s obvious, isn’t it? The place where your treasure is, is the place you will most want to be, and end up being. Matthew 6:10-21 The Message
Warning: This is a three-song post for a one-post week. Alan Jackson’s Little Bitty, Peaches & Herb’s Reunited, and brand new Dara Maclean’s Suitcases. You’re gonna love it.
While my husband traveled for work, my son and I tagged along, toured museums and rode public transportation in America’s finest cities. Each time we came to a new place or experience I thought to myself, “This is my favorite part of our trip!”
That was true until we came to the next destination where I thought, “This is my favorite part of our trip!”
Themes emerged. American history. Aeronautics. Waterways. Jellyfish. My brain is heavy with ideas. Watch for fresh stories on the blog.
We negotiated a contract on the road in Illinois, finalized it somewhere in Michigan, endured inspections in Pennsylvania and Maryland, received the buyers’ signoff before leaving Virginia, and placed change orders for the utilities in North Carolina. Today we closed back in Missouri.
With our real estate agent’s help, we found a place our family can rent for the next few months. Signed the lease agreement in an Outer Banks hotel lobby.
Also while we were away, everyday epistle seamlessly churned out posts. Thanks to many of you, one post entitled Milk Wars sparked a small but exciting viral episode. Readership spiked to set a new personal record for the little blog that could. Count on more from the farm side in the future.
Other things happened too, other stirrings in thought and action. A likely partnership in one case. A necessary breakup in another. An overarching resolve to press on with new ideas, ventures and stories collected along the way.
We left town in one place and have come home to another, not by our own doing. We left determined to take a break from the concerns. Put life on cruise control. Engage autopilot.
We set it aside, but God didn’t. He never does. As Henry Blackaby and Claude King write in Experiencing God, God is always at work around you.
Wonder what He’s up to next?
Praise be to the Lord, to God our Savior,
who daily bears our burdens. Psalm 68:19 NIV
See the sidebar quote? Over there. To your right. From Erica Jong.
Jong is famous as the writer of “Fear of Flying,” a 480-page tome published in 1973. I read it in my undergrad Modern American Lit class.
It was vile. I hated it. Not sure I read the entire thing, yet still managed to ace the test. Even without reading it all, I could guess what was on the next page.
The same thing that was on every page before. A gross account of protagonist Isadora Wing’s promiscuous encounters as she traipsed around Europe. Vile, I tell you.
Quintessential women’s lib. Unrestrained, revolutionary, Boomerish. Must be why my overeducated class of Gen-Xers was assigned to read it. There could be no other reason, save more than 18 million copies in print.
Fast forward to 2011. I’m planning this blog, working on the inaugural post Maiden Flight. Fear of Flying flits across my mind, mostly because of the title.
Here I was, preparing to launch into the unknown in a way I hadn’t before. It could fly. It could bomb. It could lead to something. It could lead to nothing. I was afraid, excited, nervous.
On a whim I entered her name on Brainy Quote: Erica Jong. What appeared next was love in alphabetical order.
Advice is what we ask for when we already know the answer but wish we didn’t.
Like.
And the trouble is, if you don’t risk anything, you risk even more.
Like. Like.
Everyone has talent. What is rare is the courage to follow the talent to the dark place where it leads.
Will someone please plaster this to my site—and my forehead?
Fame means millions of people have the wrong idea of who you are.
Maybe I’ve misread this woman.
I have accepted fear as part of life—specifically fear of change… I have gone ahead despite the pounding in the heart that says: turn back.
You didn’t turn back and neither will I.
I write lustily and humorously. It isn’t calculated; it’s the way I think. I’ve invented a writing style that expresses who I am.
And you opened the door for us to write as we are. So I may not care for Isadora’s sexual diary? She may not care for my Bible verses.
Jealousy is all the fun you think they had.
Love.
No one has ever found wisdom without also being a fool. Writers, alas, have to be fools in public, while the rest of the human race can cover its tracks.
Swoon. And she used the word alas.
Show me a woman who doesn’t feel guilty and I’ll show you a man.
Amen, sister.
Solitude is un-American.
Prescient creature spoke the basis for social media decades before we all posted our status updates.
Amelia Earhart’s Lockheed Vega at Smithsonian National Air and Space Museum in Washington, DC
I scurried to the basement, to my boxes of books. Searched for my copy. Alas, it must have fallen victim to an earlier purge.
Checked the library and reserved all her books. Surprisingly, Fear of Flying is no longer among them. Fell victim to a purge there as well.
Her poetry and other books remain. Her poetry is what I prefer, from “Fruits & Vegetables“ to “Love Comes First.” I skip the sexually loaded lines, as I imagine she might skip the Bible verses if she read me.
No matter. We’re family now, she and I. Grace abounds between relations.
The grace of our Lord was poured out on me abundantly, along with the faith and love that are in Christ Jesus. 1 Timothy 1:14 NIV
Everyone I know’s been so good to me. Twenty-five years old. My mother, God rest her soul. I just wanna Fly…
“I have bad news for you,” said my pastor one Sunday morning from the pulpit. “In a hundred years, no one will remember us.”
I love this guy.
He’s also said things like the opposite of longing is not contentment, but apathy. And if your life feels unbalanced, identify the busy peripheral activity, shoot it in the leg, and allow it to go off and die by itself in the corner. I’m paraphrasing, but you get the idea.
What if someone from my past friends me? Or rejects me? What if they make fun of my pictures? What if they email me?
What if a serial killer selects me out of the billions of people on earth because of a Facebook comment about how much I miss Ronald Reagan? It could happen. That’s not an invitation, by the way.
violators will be prosecuted
Furthermore people do not need to be in my bidness, the trash talk pronunciation of business. They don’t need to be in that either.
Privacy is a luxury. Think I’m wrong? Give birth or be hospitalized. Apply for life insurance. Be a victim of crime or get caught commiting one. Run for public office. Face financial ruin. Get divorced. Zip! There goes privacy right out the window with modesty, dignity and safety.
A Bible teacher of mine once told a story about President Theodore Roosevelt. The President took guests to one of his estates, let’s say Sagamore Hill on Long Island, New York. At night, they would walk with him under the dark, vast sky near the bay, silently taking in thousands of bright stars.
Then Roosevelt would say to them and to himself, “Feel insignificant yet?”
If you’re a private person, that’s fine. Continue to be private. It’s okay with me if it’s okay with you.
But if you’ve got something to say, somewhere to go, something to do, there’s no time like the present. Mind you, don’t hurt yourself or anyone else intentionally. Do live fearlessly now. What do you have to lose?
no trespassing
Think I share too much? Think you know everything that goes on in my mind and in my household? This is the tip of the iceberg. There are stories I’ll never tell.
Besides, one hundred years from now none of us will be here to remember and no one who is here will care.
I hope to be in a better place with no more death or mourning or crying or pain. So for the here and now, I’ll live the bravest life I can.
Nothing in all creation is hidden from God’s sight. Everything is uncovered and laid bare before the eyes of him to whom we must give account. Hebrews 4:13 NIV
So long status quo. I think I just let go. You make me want to be Brave…
Finally grew up and bought more life insurance. Our agent said we need enough to provide for survivors if something were to happen, but not enough to be motivating. Said he hoped it was the best money we ever wasted. Yeah, us too.
Not only did we have to expose our personal finances—our agent was gentle with us, we also had to share our medical histories with a physician turned health examiner.
Judd came to our house at 7:30 a.m., dressed in scrubs. With a name like Judd, it has to be good, I thought—harkening back to The Breakfast Club and Smucker’s commercials.
He took our vitals, completed our questionnaires, made small talk. Told us he was a physician but couldn’t practice the way he would like and still make a living. Had to see a gazillion patients to make money as a doctor. He liked to spend time with folks.
Had an easy way about him, Judd did. Somewhere between contact information and blood samples, he told us a little story.
Well, first he said he liked our dog. Who doesn’t? She’s the cutest dog in the world. Judd has Tibetan terriers, so small dogs appeal to him the way a good story appeals to us.
Tibetan terrier, image from wikipedia.org under creative commons license
Said one night he’d let the dogs out in the backyard for their final bathroom break around 10 p.m. Looked out to see one of them playing with something, flipping it up in the air.
Judd went out to investigate and found the dog had killed a possum. The poor, wretched animal was lying stiff with his eyes closed and tongue hanging out.
“Kind of felt sorry for it,” said Judd. “But it was UG-LY! I didn’t want to mess with it. Figured I’d call the dogs in and take care of it in the morning.”
But no. After he secured the dogs inside the house and started his ascent upstairs, his wife insisted he go back out and dispose of the dead animal.
“It was 10 p.m.!” he said. “I didn’t want to touch it, so I got a big black garbage bag to cover my hands. Then I went out.”
My husband, son and I sat captivated.
“I go to pick it up,” he said, “and all of a sudden it stands to its feet and walks away! I screamed so loud, I’m surprised the neighbors didn’t call the police!”
image from wikipedia.org under creative commons license, attributed to Piccolo Namek
We howled. “Haven’t you ever heard of playing possum?” I said through laughing tears.
“Yes, but I didn’t know it would do that!” he said. “It looked dead!”
Judd finished his work and left our house. We upped our life insurance for a pretty penny. When the bill comes, I’ll think of Judd’s story. How the extra insurance covers us in case. How we hope to find we didn’t really need it after all.
He has saved me from death,
my eyes from tears,
my feet from stumbling.
And so I walk in the Lord’s presence
as I live here on earth! Psalm 116:8-9 NLT
I cannot with clear conscience mention The Breakfast Club without linking to Don’t You (Forget About Me) by Simple Minds. Someone who calls himself “Sheo” set the song to scenes from the movie and put it on YouTube. The video quality of his finished product could be better, but hey, it’s The Breakfast Club for crying out loud.
The Waltons, image used with permission from sitcomsonline.com
Much as I hate to admit it, we don’t have daily family devotions. We don’t live on Walton Mountain either. Great if you do. I confess we don’t.
But we do love God and the Bible at our house. We’ve shared Bible stories with our son since he was itty-bitty.
Noah’s ark was his favorite for a long time. I told him how God brought two of every animal to the ark, a mommy and a daddy. He wasn’t satisfied.
“And the babies,” he said in his tiny three-year-old voice. “The mommies and the daddies and the babies.”
“Well, the Bible says a mommy and a daddy of each animal,” I said.
“And the babies,” he said. I dropped it, granting him liberty. No sense arguing with a three-year-old. Certainly there were babies when they departed the ark.
He’s six now. The Bible stories he likes are the bloody, gory, fighting ones.
We were running early one morning, so at breakfast I said, “I’ll read you a Bible story. You pick!”
“Read about when Queen Jezebel died,” he said.
I turned to 1 Kings 21, the story of Naboth’s vineyard. How King Ahab wanted it for a vegetable garden, but Naboth wouldn’t sell it to him. How King Ahab pouted and refused to eat.
My son’s favorite phrase these days is It’s not fair! No matter what it is, if he doesn’t like it, we hear the refrain It’s not fair! My husband and I are about to pull our hair out over It’s not fair! No sense arguing with a six-year-old.
So that morning I read the story my son had picked: His wife Jezebel came in and asked him, “Why are you so sullen? Why won’t you eat?”
As my child listened and munched cereal, I smelled a teachable moment.
In the whiniest Ahab voice I could muster, I said: “Because I said to Naboth the Jezreelite, ‘Sell me your vineyard: or if you prefer, I will give you another vineyard in its place.’ But he said, ‘I will not give you my vineyard.'”
Then—God, forgive me and grant me liberty, I said: “It’s not fair! It’s not fair!”
Out of the corner of my eye I could see my son’s head pop up from his bowl.
I continued reading: Jezebel his wife said, “Is this how you act as king over Israel? Get up and eat! Cheer up. I’ll get you the vineyard of Naboth the Jezreelite.”
As it goes, Jezebel had Naboth killed, Ahab took his vineyard, and Elijah caught the king and queen red-handed. Elijah spelled out God’s judgment against them saying dogs would eat Jezebel’s body. Told you it was gory.
We turned to 2 Kings 9 where the prophesy came true: But when they went out to bury her, they found nothing except her skull, her feet and her hands.
My son was quiet.
“It came true,” I said, “because God does everything He says He will do.”
The Whetstines
Then I dropped it. No sense arguing with that either.
As the rain and the snow
come down from heaven,
and do not return to it
without watering the earth
and making it bud and flourish,
so that it yields seed for the sower and bread for the eater,
so is My Word that goes out from My mouth:
It will not return to Me empty,
but will accomplish what I desire
and achieve the purpose for which I sent it. Isaiah 55:10-11 NIV
Proudly presenting The Waltons Theme Song by Jerry Goldsmith. Loved that show. What a week and what a way to end it!
Competitive parenting has us taking sides against each other on everything, and marketers know it.
Before our kids are born we divide over natural, drug-assisted or C-section delivery. At the hospital or at home. Doula or doctor. Bottle or breastfeeding. Cloth or disposable diapers.
Rocking to sleep or crying it out. Nanny, sitter, daycare or stay-at-home. Ballet or soccer. Piano or tennis. Swimming or Mandarin. Public, private or homeschool. Religious or secular. Hot or cold lunch. Bus or carpool.
Sadly, we even divide over milk. Conventional or organic.
The Journal of the Academy of Nutrition and Dietetics published a study* concluding concluding there are “no biologically significant differences in quality, nutrients and hormones” between organic milk and conventional milk produced with or without rbST (recombinant bovine somatotrophin hormone). The conventional milk “had statisically lower bacterial counts,” a fact that may lead some to argue it’s safer.
as seen at Lacoste
So conventional and organic milk are compositionally the same. When you buy organic milk, you’re paying a premium for packaging that says so. Kind of like the alligator on a Lacoste shirt.
Buying organic for taste, convenience or preference is one thing. Buying it because you believe it’s safer is misguided.
It doesn’t stop with milk. In February 2011, STL Family Life published a post by a contributing writer. She saw the documentary Food, Inc., followed it up with Fast Food Nation, then, in her words, “freaked out” and decided to feed her family organic food only.
Jolly good for her. That’s her choice. Problem is, she implies all responsible parents should follow suit.
She writes buying organic food is more expensive, but cost is a poor excuse. She is willing to sacrifice things like a new car, video games, and real wrapping paper. In her words, making kids’ safety a priority is a parent’s “OBLIGATION.”
image from http://PinkePost.com
I agree our children’s safety is a priority, and the film disturbed me too. But I disagree with this mom’s implication that all conventionally-produced food is somehow unsafe or inferior.
My husband grew up on a dairy farm and has worked in agriculture his entire career. Last fall, we had the unique privilege of meeting filmmaker Rob Kenner, director and producer of Food, Inc., when he presented to a small group of agribusiness professionals.
The film was such a success, Kenner said environmentalist elite Prince Charles requested a private audience with him during a retreat to one of the castles. Think the royal family’s hurting for grocery money? Not on your Union Jack.
Kenner also talked of working on a second film about food for the same group of investors who backed the first Food, Inc. Cha-ching!
Meanwhile, millions of moms and dads stand before grocery store shelves and refrigeration units wringing their hands. Are they doing the right thing, buying conventionally-produced food and milk? Are they contributing to animal abuse and the destruction of the planet?
Are they bad parents? Are their children being short-changed? Do they really need all that clothing, shelter, education, transportation and wrapping paper? Maybe they should give it up to buy only organic food like responsible parents.
I mentioned my husband grew up on a dairy farm. His family named their cows and they had about 200. To this day he can tell you about cows’ individual personalities like teachers can tell you about former students.
image from Troxel Dairy Farm, IN
Good farmers don’t abuse their animals. They recognize those animals are their most valuable assets.
Good farmers love the land. They pursue the very best practices and technologies to produce the very best fruits, vegetables, grains and livestock. Seeing the healthy growth of their plants and animals is a primary force that drives them to farm.
Are there unscrupulous farmers? Yes there are. Same as there are unscrupulous butchers, bakers, candlestick makers, teachers, preachers and politicians. Should they be prosecuted? If they break the law, absolutely.
image from http://PinkePost.com
Should we all throw up our hands, head for the hills, and buy nothing but organic? You are free to do so if you choose. This is America. But please don’t guilt, scare or legislate the rest of us into doing the same.
Personally, I like having choices in this free market of ours. I buy what looks and tastes best, what my family will eat, what meets our nutritional needs, what’s available and what we can afford—conventional or organic.
It’s my responsibility as a parent to put the food on the table. It’s not my responsibility to compete with other parents or be judged for what I serve.
Those who feel free to eat anything must not look down on those who don’t. And those who don’t eat certain foods must not condemn those who do, for God has accepted them. Romans 14:3 NLT
*Reflects an updated link to the abstract of the study Survey of Retail Milk Composition as Affected by Label Claims Regarding Farm-Management Practices by John Vicini et al., published in the Journal of the Academy of Nutrition and Dietetics (1/2008).
It was alive and chattering the day before. But that afternoon it wouldn’t click on. Wouldn’t speak to the satellite or dance with the DVD player. It had expired during the night, never to be heard from again.
remotes at rest
That TV was a monolithic dinosaur of technology and size. Ancient at only five years old. As rigor mortis set in, it became apparent a proper burial would not be easy.
Time of death occurred when my husband was out of town on business. The most interesting things happen when he’s not here. No way was I hauling that carcass to the dumpster alone.
So guess what happened when he came home? Ladies, you know the answer to this one. The TV remained exactly where it died for the next six months.
I have to explain. As you know, our house is for sale. The TV made for good staging. Prospective buyers didn’t know it was dead. They just thought it was off.
The perils of the housing market left us unsure we could afford another TV. Turns out, replacing it immediately was one of the best things we didn’t do.
The first few weeks were tough. Withdrawal and separation anxiety raged.
hobby in waiting
We pouted when we couldn’t watch Dinosaur Train or the new Ken Burns special or Top Chef. I agonized how I would occupy my child for the entire two hours after school and before dinner.
Gradually, incomprehensibly, we stopped missing it. I’d like to say we started some fantastic hobby like oil painting or guitar. Those are still on the list of things we’d like to do someday.
What we did when the TV died was simply live. We survived to tell the tale. It is possible to live in America today without a television.
Don’t get me wrong. I was raised on TV. It was always on in our house, a constant whirring of background noise. We do enjoy a good movie or show. And when we absolutely have to get something done child-free, our son’s favorite DVD comes in handy.
the new slim shady
So after six months of watching movies on a 13-inch laptop screen, we decided it was safe to replace the television.
The new TV is smaller and slimmer than its predecessor. Light enough to pick up and throw out the window if it misbehaves.
We watch our selected shows or movies and turn it off. We have mastered it, at least for now.
Don’t you know that when you offer yourselves to someone as obedient slaves, you are slaves of the one you obey—whether you are slaves to sin, which leads to death, or to obedience, which leads to righteousness? Romans 6:16 NIV
“It’s hard living between airplanes,” said the stranger sitting next to me.
I had the window seat. He had the middle. No one had the end seat, but he didn’t move. He reached out with conversation.
“Do you live in Charlotte?” he said.
“No, I used to live in North Carolina. I’m just visiting this trip.”
“Do you know the university in North Carolina?” he said.
“UNC-Charlotte?” I said.
“I don’t know what it’s called,” he said. “I can go there for my graduate degree.”
“There are a lot of good schools in North Carolina,” I said. “What will you study?”
The stranger introduced himself. Said he was studying recreational therapy in Illinois. Hoped to do graduate work so he could train other therapists in Saudi Arabia. Recreational therapists are in demand there, even more so instructors to train them.
Before school, he’d organized conferences to educate Saudi companies about the internet. Showed me pictures of the events on his iPhone. Seemed impressed I have a blog. The flight attendant gave us dirty looks.
Showed me pictures of his two little boys and his beautiful wife. Said her name means scent of flowers.
He’d left them in Saudi Arabia to come to the United States to study. Left his former work to pursue American degrees that would give him job security as an instructor in his own country. He missed his family and would travel more than 20 hours on four flights to see them.
blind freedom
“Dubai is not just a city,” he said as we looked at his vacation pictures.
“Forgive me, but are those Christmas trees in the hotel lobby?” I said.
“Yes,” he said.
“Isn’t Dubai in a Muslim country?” I said. “They have Christmas trees?”
“You have your beliefs. We have ours. No reason to fight about them,” he said. “The vacationers come for Christmas holiday.”
My new friend may be Saudi, but that sure sounded American.
He showed me apps to get free phone calls, text messaging, and voice reminders. Then more free apps to book flights or turn my iPhone into a flashlight or a piano. The refreshment cart passed us by.
He’s learning English. The writing comes hard. His iPhone is full of SAT and GRE vocab apps. We played them with abandon. Well, I played.
“You are so fast at these word games!” he said.
“I’ve been learning English all my life,” I said. “You’ll get it.”
“You know Mubarak?” he said. “The guy in Egypt?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Obama’s advisors called Mubarak because he’s won so many ‘elections’ in Egypt. They wanted him to help with the next election here.”
“Okay,” I said now hooked.
“Mubarak agreed to let his advisors work on the election here,” he said. “After it was over, Obama called Mubarak and cursed him. Mubarak asked Obama what was wrong. Obama cursed him more. So Mubarak told Obama to put Mubarak’s advisors on the phone.”
“And?” I said.
“Mubarak’s advisors were so happy. They said to Mubarak, ‘We won! We won! Congratulations, Mr. President!'”
Cheers to my new friend, wherever you are.
For the Lord is high above the nations;
His glory is higher than the heavens. Psalm 113:4 NLT
Dear sweet 1984, we didn’t know the Cold War years were the good old days. Thanks for leaving us 99 Luftballoons by Nena.
Saudis in America
While writing this post I watched Saudis in America, a short documentary by Saudi filmmaker Fahmi F. Farahat (2007).
There are no easy answers. Although I disagreed with some opinions expressed in the film, it makes good food for thought. Catch the interview with Farahat on the extras.
My man is a bit of a messy. Not filthy, rather blissfully cluttered and unaware.
I asked his parents prenuptually, as we searched for an empty spot to sit in his living room, if he’d always been like this.
“Yeah, pretty much,” said my future father-in-law. Then he looked at me, a glint in his eye, and said, “You know he’s not going to change.”
Without hesitation I said, “Neither am I.”
Smug in my neatness, I relayed this story to my husband all these years later.
“Oh, really?” he said. “That’s funny, because around that same time your brother pulled me aside and told me you’re a perfectionist.”
What? My brother knows I’m a perfectionist?
“Yeah, he said, ‘You know she’s going to want everything to be perfect.’ I think he wanted to prepare me and protect you,” said my husband.
A perfectionist? My brother told my fiancé I’m a perfectionist? How did he know? Who told him?
Perfectionism is akin to chicken pox. And messiness. Can’t be hidden really. That’s its main imperfection.
I like to think my perfectionistic tendancies have mellowed with the years. Same way my husband likes to think his messiness has. I like to imagine my Myers-Briggs Super Feeler personality has no qualms with my Super Thinker husband. My J and his P can live together peacefully.
Seems truer though, our greatest strengths and weaknesses are two sides of the same coin.
The optimism that so attracts me to him drives me to the brink when it runs up against my realism. My emotion that so touches his heart often leaves him flailing alone in his logic.
How do we survive? Somehow we work it out. Temper one another. Genuinely like one another. Struggle and fight to love. Pick up day after day and maintain a disciplined loop, a quiet repeat of what works, a layering of commitment and time as circumstances spiral up and down.
Where I bring organization, he brings spontenaeity. Where I bring order, he brings fullness. Where I am prone to panic, he is even-keeled. Where he is tempted to inaction, I hold ground and press on.
Not sure how it works, messy and imperfect though it may be, but thank God by His grace it does.
Above all, love each other deeply, because love covers over a multitude of sins. 1 Peter 4:8 NIV
we three
You Take Me the Way I Am by Ingrid Michaelson is one of the sweetest songs ever. Some people don’t like the video. Must be the clowns. Normally I don’t like clowns, but I do like this video. Reminds me of a certain married couple I know.
Two of my favorite FashionMisters, Tim Gunn and Clinton Kelly, have this thing about flip-flops. Both admit to wearing them, just not out.
Gunn discusses “the flip-flop phenomenon” in “Tim Gunn: A Guide to Quality, Taste & Style“: “Where is this taking our society and culture other than into a long and winding fashion decline (2007, p. 26)?”
In his book “Oh No She Didn’t,” Kelly shows a pile of flip-flops burning the way books burned in Fahrenheit 451.
When it comes to comfort clothing, Gunn explains, “The key is not being dressy. The key is being appropriate (“Gunn’s Golden Rules,” 2010, p. 116).”
image from amazon.com
Makes sense. Gunn and Kelly spend a lot of time in New York where flip-flops are not appropriate.
Who knows when you might run into Sarah Jessica Parker or The Donald or a dead rat. Those three are different how, you ask? I jest about the similarities between them, but when we lived in Chicago, the latter nearly happened to me.
As soon as my husband and I arrived, I set forth scouring the Windy City for an apartment to rent. It was freezing. When they say cooler by the lake, they don’t mean Bartles & Jaymes. Had to wear my winter coat. In June.
But Chicago weather is almost as unpredictable as St. Louis weather. Soon the temperature tables turned, the sun came out, and my coat was sidelined.
Warm and happy, I went apartment hunting one morning in a little dress, sunglasses and flip-flops. Adept at walking while reading a map, I was in Streeterville when I became particularly distraught. I’d gone to see an apartment only to get the leasing agent’s cold shoulder. May have been the flip-flops.
as seen at Old Navy
I stumbled onto Ohio Street, got my bearings, put my map in front of my face, and by golly, I marched on. Trudge, trudge, trudge in the sunshine. Look ahead, look at the map. Look right, look and the map. Look left…
On the other side of the street, five burly construction workers were lined up on the sidewalk smiling at me. Not in a hound dog way. More in a ready to bust a seam way.
Being Southern, I smiled back and looked down to make sure all was in order. My gaze landed on the pavement just in time.
There on the sidewalk in front of me was the largest, bloodiest, deadest rat I’d ever seen. It had been run over once, and I was about to barrel over it again in my flip-flops.
This may be the real reason why Gunn and Kelly do not wear their flip-flops out. In which case, they should amend their books.
Admit it, guys. There are plenty of places where flip-flops are perfectly appropriate. It’s in places like New York and Chicago that you must closet the flip-flops, keep your chin up, and always, always watch your step.
“…The Lord doesn’t see things the way you see them. People judge by outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart.” 1 Samuel 16:7 NLT
Her company flippin’ cute! infinitely customizes them with your choice of colors, monograms and teams. Imagine them in school or sorority colors. Or itty bitty for little girls. Brides have even worn them in weddings. (Can you hear Clinton and Tim screaming?)
