Pre--D Day

Well, today is pre-D day. Kindergarten orientation day is upon us. This is the day before kindergarten begins, where all the brand new kindergarten students and their parents meet with Miss Sauce's teacher in their new classroom. We spend an hour there together, familiarizing ourselves with this new reality, and - ideally - coming away with a heightened level of reassurance.

In my case, it is akin to tearing a bandage off of a wound slowly as opposed to all at once. It sounds good in theory, but in actuality, just delays and prolongs the pain. It is the dipping of the toes before tomorrows' big splash into the pool. I prefer just jumping in. But this is not about me.

As tomorrow dawns in 4 minutes, I find myself in prayer, determined to demonstrate to set myself aside to focus wholly on HER. And to satisfy myself in the moment-to-moment commitment to love my child, her teacher, the school personnel, other parents and children, and let the joy of the Lord surprise me.

But, interestingly, Miss Sauce's career in public education may be short-lived after all due to other considerations beyond my longsuffering my heart. Just today (gotta love the kismet timing), our Governor signed into law several bills (with more of the same type on the way) that give far reaching powers to a radical agenda to lawfully inflict themselves onto our children via the public education sphere. Basically, it usurps our rights as parents to educate our children according to OUR belief structure, not an unwelcome, foreign, or improper one.

Well, that is just peachy.

I find myself just simply aghast at the obvious and transparent double standard at work in our public schools. How DARE you brazenly insert your agenda into my child's education, against our will and our collective family religious beliefs and ethics, by mandating adherence to your point of view under penalty of law??!Moral, religious, anti-religious, or ethical agendizing has no place in public school system. It is far better left to families and churches to impart such instruction. Keep your rabid paws off my children's minds and hearts.

Note to the-powers-that-be in Sacramento who believe yourselves so worthy of pushing your brand of ethical and moral instruction onto my children against those held by my family: Are we a land of diversity or not? Why does your moral stand on any religious/moral/ethical/controversial topic have the legal power to trump my own in a PUBLIC EDUCATION SYSTEM when it comes to my child? Shouldn't your attention be primarily upon crafting laws to protect and serve the families who comprise your constituency, not to propagate agendas onto our children at the behest of the few, the proud, the loud, the angry, the self-righteous? And yet you now seek to instill long-reaching punishments for our staunch divergence from your newly established moral/legal standard upon all of us who resist the lemming tendency and refuse to be 'conformed to this world'? Interestingly, the very 'Tolerance' that forms the familiar rallying cry fueling the mechanism by which these troubling laws have been passed, does not extend to those whose religious beliefs or morals prevent us from just merrily going with the program.

Just when I was developing a semblance of peace about kindergarten and the public school journey we will take the first steps of tomorrow, this new happening adds a lamentable and deeply frustrating twist. And once again, the storm clouds start to gather.

observation, not advocation

So, how many alternating red and white circles must Iran's maniacally-menacing dictator (I'm sorry: "President") brazenly paint on his nation before the target becomes too big to ignore, and the rest of the free world officially tires of this missle-testing, war mongering nonsense and seeks to put a definitive end to it?

Mourning the moment when

My baby girl has reached the tender age of five and will begin kindergarten at our small neighborhood school this upcoming Thursday morning. Predictably, I have been in pre-emptive mourning about this tragic day for weeks. Nay, months. Even years? My tender heart and the content of my character results in me being ill-equipped to embrace this leg of the journey of my sweet little girl's life. Because as this new kindergarten era dawns, the first chapter of her life decidely closes.

And that hurts. My heart weeps for the bittersweet reality: that her first day of kindergarten is also her last day of carefree, school-free, unscheduled, brilliant, sunshiney, preschool childhood days. Where others may see a "first" happening this week, my heart sees a "last".

And I am inconsolably sad. The brave smile, comforting words, and joyfulness I plan to display out of sheer love for my beloved Miss Sauce on this fateful upcoming Thursday morning will be hollow at best. Because the ache in my soul began the day I first knew my child was growing in my belly. And it will remain long after the bell rings to mark the end of her first day in kindergarten. It will remain until the moment I draw my last breath on this earth. I am her mother. She is my precious child. I love her to the moon. And back again.

But standing with her at this juncture in her life causes me such a deeply painful ache. I pine inside for the moments that have already become a "last" in my little girl's life. And I pray to be allowed the continued priviledge of sharing a lifetime's more. Hopefully one day I will rejoice for her *firsts* without the inevitable lamenting of the *lasts*.

Karen Kingbury's book, "Rejoice" includes this eloquent and heartfelt poem, written to her son on the eve of his wedding:

"Long ago you came to me,
a miracle of firsts.

First smiles and teeth and baby steps,
a sunbeam on the burst.

But one day you will move away and leave to me your past,
And I will be left thinking of a lifetime of your lasts.

The last time that you ran to me, still small enough to hold,
Last time when you said you'd marry me when you grew old…

Precious, simple moments and bright flashes from the past,
Would I have held you longer if I'd known they were the lasts?

I watched you grow and never noticed seasons as they passed.
I wish I could've frozen time, to hold on to your lasts.

For come tomorrow morning life will never be the same…Would I have held on longer… if I had known they were your lasts?"

Lord, please help me find joy, peace, calm, and bravery amidst the pain, longing, uncertainty, and loss clattering around inside my heart. Please help me find shelter in your promises and lead my daughter into the next chapter of her life with strength I borrow from you.

Please help me do this. Amen.

PRAISE GOD!

Steve Centanni and Olaf Wiig have been released by their kidnappers! Thank you Lord!

Sweater Trek

Stardate: September 26 point 7.

Dr. Spock stole the sweater and says he lent it to Scotty. Who knows what they are doing with it, because they both have large craniums and the whole "stretchy" factor only goes so far. Mental notes: check Mr. Spock's closet anyway. And all the laundry chutes on level 5.

*~*~*

Yes, it's true. My blessed, purple, chenille turtleneck-shaped security blanket is no longer gracing my body 24 hours a day. I removed it unceremoniously last night and, miraculously, managed to make it through the night without being attacked by zealous Cobras and Pythons. Funny how that happened, since being attacked by poisonous reptiles is otherwise quite a commonplace occurence in my everyday reality.

And Copper. God bless him, he managed to keep his giggly teasing to a minumum, thereby avoiding being attacked by said sweater, as punishment for utter lack of reverance during his wife's continued state of freaskedoutedness over that dumb movie, Whatever-The-Heck-That-Was On A Plane.

Movies tend leave a lasting imprint on me, and I am never quite sure which ones are going to sneak in and make up semi-permanent camp in my psyche. One wonders why I continue to voluntarily go to scary movies at all anymore.

For months after seeing the flick, "Signs" (smashing entertainment, for those who have yet to experience it. It's my all time favorite Shaymalan film), all Copper would have to do is creep up behind me as I walked, lean in close to the back of my neck and make those creepy alien clicking language noises to cause my adrenalin to spike and my insides to pool at my toes, as I ran for cover (usually up the stairs in the DARK, as Copper routinely chooses dimly lit, quite moments like these to scare the daylights out of me).

We have learned two things from those moments:. One, that there is no way can I be held responsible for my actions under those circumstances. And, two: under diress, I seem to have quite good aim (albeit accidentally) with my right hand.

Here's to healing from snake bites...

North Carolina Heat

WOW. This guy has got it going on!

...wonder if he'd consider moving to California and making a run in this forsaken state.

sweater watch 2006

Stardate: August 23, 2006.

Day 2: I wore the turtleneck to sleep again last night. Copper actually laughed at me. Or near me, as he said.

But it was really at me.

Tonight I'm taking baby steps. The sweater will be off, but located near enough to the bed where I can grab it in an emergency. What, exactly, constitutes a snake-thoughts-related emergency is to be determined solely at my discretion. And any more giggling Copper does at my expense may result in the sweater being ever-so-gently lobbed in his general direction.

Doggone that movie...

Rumours of Another World

This book is currently captivating me. Check it out - it fascinates, challenges, and illuminates. Reading it has caused my senses to recognize new glimpses behind the veil from me perch well within the borderlands. What a neat, neat read.

icky~yuck~yuck~ptooey

Chalk this up as yet another reason I love these turtleneck sweaters.

Forever the victim of bulk shopping culture, I made a run on these lovely chenille, impossibly soft sweaters last Christmas. When they finally went on final clearance sale (because I can't stomach buying something that is NOT on sale if at all humanly possible), I bought one for each female family member and a few for myself, too (howdidthathappen?).

I knew it would get cold in the theater today, and since my body has been struggling to be able to stay warm lately, I decided to wear one of my exactly-the-same-except-for-the-color sweaters on my date night to the movies (well, date" late afternoon" is a more accurate term: we went to the early show with the rest of the geriatrics, in order to be able to pay the el cheapo "twilight price" of $5.50) with my beloved husband. I wore the purple turtleneck sweater, actually, since it matters.

And thank goodness that the material is stretchy, because the turtle part of the turtleneck was up over my face up to my eyes for about two hours. Just long enough to make it through the wretched catastrophe of a movie, "Snakes on a Plane".

OK, I should have known better.

SNAKES. ON. A. PLANE. ~ It's not like I wasn't amply warned.

It's not Shyamalan or Spielberg or Bruckhemier or even Ed Wood. It's formulaic scary thriller movie meets pointlessly sickenning, gratutitously gruesome yuck fest.

Yeah, I didn't care for it too terribly much.

This lovely little psycho serpent film did not make for fantabulous date night entertainment for Lachen and Copper. Although Copper did manage to work himself into a giggly fit watching me squirm, squeal, and try to carve myself into the cushions of my seat or into his seat with him, out of sheer discomfort and desire to avoid etching graphic scenes of angry venomous snakes attacking people in my mind forever. Ooooh, this movie was an amplified experiment in icky~yuck~yuck~ptooey for our friendly neighborhood blogger.

And though I have no one to blame but myself for this voluntary venture into this cinematic catastrophe, images of snakes are haunting me now. It has been now 9.25 hours since the movie ended and I have been yet unable to take this turtleneck off. I dont know why. Possibly, I am even planning to sleep with it on tonight. To ward off psycho snakes~on~airplane dreams. But I think I just might need more than chenille sweater therapy after two hours of the raunchy reptilian torture test today.

I love this turtleneck sweater. Love it.

The valley of the falls

Fallible: amiss, awry, bad, blamable, blemished, botched, broken, cracked, damaged, defective, deficient, distorted, erroneous, fallacious, faulty, flawed, frail, human, impaired, imperfect, imprecise, inaccurate, inadequate, incomplete, inexact, injured, insufficient, invalid, lame, maimed, malfunctioning, marred, mortal, sick, unfit, unreliable, unsound, warped, weak.

Fibromyalgia: medical events resulting in the acute recognition, through humbling daily phenomena, the depths of your own body's fallibility

Lachen: Rejoicing in God's nearness through this unusual journey, as my body seems to be going on strike at rather inopportune moments again.

*~*~*~*~*~*

I have deliberately not updated the blogosphere on my medical situation for awhile because I am hesitant to focus attention on it, frankly, as though talking about it openly somehow makes it more real. And since I am emerging from a period of time delightfully bereft of intolerable levels of pain, medical catalysts, injuries, or doctor visits, it has been an appropriate time to give myself a break from this topic. However, as I sense that temporary but blissful state of grace ebbing and have begun to encounter pain again as I undertake simple, everyday tasks, I again confront this condition head on. Even as I fight this with all my might and want so badly to be healed from it - to find the way out of the pain that accompanies such little things as getting up from a seated position or grasping a cup, I also have this strange sense of peace about the Firbromyalgia, Reynaud's Disease, and Migraine Disorder combination that grips the edges of my body and occasionally shakes me.

I desire to live in harmony with this disease, denying nothing, but also in relentless pursuit of God's total and utter ability to take this cup from me if it is His will. Evidently, it is not His plan for me to be healed from this... yet.

*~*

So, while I pursue healing, I also find peace in these present places of unhealth. Because I am not alone in this Valley, and this leg of the journey, however unpleasant it is for me physically at this very moment, is not without a purpose beyond my understanding or appreciation.

*~*

That is enough to get me through to the other side of this particular mountain. Where I've heard there are some greener pastures. And maybe even a glorious palm tree studded beach.

eight men out of the ordinary

Have you ever been in the presence of God so tangibly that the earth seemed to stand still?

I have been. About a dozen times, most notably (and predictably) at the births of each of my children and the day I stood, sunburnt, before the man God appointed for me and made a promise to love, honor, and obey (yes, we each said 'obey'. People audibly gasped and one lady about fell off her chair. It's California...) one another for the rest of our time on this earth.

But last night, there was no great cause. No child emerged from my womb, no marriage vows were exchanged, no gargantuan historical moments of human experience came to pass.

Just seven people, huddled together on the darkened alter of our church after worship team practice, praying. Praying as we have done each Wednesday night at about 9:00 p.m. for the last few years. Praying in joy, pain, petition, and thanks. Praying. Just opening our hearts and pouring them out to the God of the universe.

Last night, as one of our women singers began to pray, each word she spoke seemed to have emerged from a lyrical comingling of Romans, Matthew, Philippians, and the Psalms. I heard echoes of the apostle Paul in her utterances and suddenly understood with new clarity the difference between your garden variety prayer, and the God-given spiritual gift of intercession. Whoa.

Now, I cannot tell you what this woman said. I don't recall her words, and I know that she is not a particularly eloquent or verbose in everyday conversation. She is not a preacher or a public speaker. She is just a simple, complex, relatable, amazing woman of God. But as this woman spoke last evening, I felt the earth tremble, the trees bending to hear her, and there was just a deafening silence, and the Lord's presence just absolutely descended on us all, as we sat cross-legged together on that stage. I wept, not because I am a girl or because I am easily moved to emotions (both true statements), but because God was undeniably with us. And in that moment, our prayer became conversation with our father, not a contrivance of religion. It became not a mechanism, but a miracle.

Thus occured a miraculous moment in an ordinary Wednesday night, as the breath of heaven swept in amidst seven little human beings, sitting cross legged on the stage of a church with our eyes closed and our hearts open. Ordinary prayer on a typical night with the usual suspects came to an abrupt end when, at 5 minutes past nine last night, our group of seven praying souls gained an eighth. God was in the house.

"For where two or three are gathered together in my name, there am I in the midst of them." ~ Matthew 18:20.

Amen.

Dogged

A&E channel has been running a Dog The Bounty Hunter Marathon tonight.

My behind has managed to etch a semi-permanent indention in my chenille rocking chair cushions over the last three hours. The episode where Duane finally married Beth, but that very same day, his daughter tragically died, moved me to tears.

I need therapy.

Glorious Goonies...

OK. Fess up.

Who else absolutely loves this movie and, when it first came out in our tender pre-pubescent years (make that 26 years ago. TWENTY-SIX YEARS) - wanted to go live on the Oregon coast just to get a chance to have so much fun in the pouring rain, hunting pirate treasure?

F.I.B.'s + P.I.T.B = J.D.F.T.T.

OK, so the F.I.B. terrorists strike again. Well, they don't strike. They plan to strike, get ready to strike, but manage to fumble and get ratted out, and the Brit's nail their collective behinds before any more innocent human beings perish on exploding airplanes. Sadly, these are the days we live in, where the clear and present threat of liquid bombs in the hands of F.I.B.'s. is not something of a Hollywood Bruckheimer film, but our collective, international reality.

Busy, busy, busy little F.I.B. terrorists.

An F.I.B., you ask? What the heck is an F.I.B., Lachen?

Well, F.I.B., you see, stands for Fascist Islamic Bastard. Now before you react in anger or shock with one of the following requisite and expected 3 protest utterances to my using this phrase, I will offer these pre-emptive rebuttals:

1.) Protest One: But Lachen, "bastard" is a vulgar curse word and totally unbecoming a woman who says she wants to live a life in harmony with Christ's example!

"Bastard" means, at its heart, a child born illegitimately, out of the family structure, and without the inheritance guaranteed therein. (I do not mean this as a slight towards ANY of the single parents I know and love and their blessed children I adore - this is a philosophical discourse). In seeking to somehow accurately define the morally and bankrupt souls who run around the planet trying to blow themselves up nearest to as many of us as possible in order to effect a more deadly mass murder, it is dead on accurate. These people are only unto themselves. They have no God, no religion, no family, no faith, no morals that are collectively held by anyone except themselves. They do not speak for Islam or for a country or ethnicity. They act only as illegitimate barbarians, borrowing tenets from Islam and methods from Hitler in continuing efforts to cover their own barren souls with something that sounds bigger than they know they are.

They are illegitimate. They exist outside the structure and boundaries we acknowledge as collectively, historically, and morally suitable to qualify for inclusion under the banner of "humanity".

They are, in all sense of the word, "bastards."

And you're right - I aim not to use curse words in general. I have failed miraculously at times and repented for each utterance. I don't believe vulgarity reflects terribly well on the intelligence of the one from whose mouth pours those filthy words, and I certainly do not find it reflective of Jesus Christ for me to go around calling people He created, bad names. But my use of "bastard" is akin to calling a dog, a dog. A fish, a fish. A blonde thirty-three year old woman, a blonde thirty-three year old woman. It is simply an accurate manner of classifying these terrorist guys, not a means of degradation or vulgarity. It is not disparity, it is definition.

2.) Protest Two: Oh no, Lachen! You're stereotyping all Muslims and the religion of Islam by this one group of terrorist wackos. You're displaying ignorance.

First of all, if I can't call them wackos, neither can you. And please don't call me ignorant - ignorance is what causes people to board planes with liquid bombs, not what causes the rest of us to engage in conversation about that stark reality.

Secondly, the deeply held beliefs about the religion and practice of Islam I hold and have shared with you all, which are drawn from my understanding of and daily immersion in Biblical truth and love of God, are not applicable here. I believe it is a big fat lie. Salvation is only through Jesus and Jesus + ANYTHING ELSE is a big fat lie.

But aside from that, this whole "blowing up of planes" trend in the Terrorist Weekly Playbook has only to do with Islam in that these Evian-suicide-bomber-dudes claim Islam as their rallying cry, Allah as their author, and Mohammed as their leader. Well, Mohammed and Osama, that is. Lovely little combination, that: ancient, historical figure and religious prophet meets modern day genocidal maniac. Try making sense of that explosive juxtaposition. The mental and spiritual exercise may lead you to some interesting forays.


FascistIslamic is one word in my definition. There is Islam, and then there is the radical barbary of terrorism that FascistIslam represents.

If these bomb-happy guys were a bunch of lunatic Christians or overzealous Jews or lost Atheists, the initials by which I refer to them would change, corresponding to the religion they are hijacking as their "cause". It would become "F.C.B.'s" or "F.J.B.'s" or "F.A.B.'s". Because this is not about Islam or any religion at all, since these people exist outside of any acknowledged or accepted family of religious beliefs and practices I am aware of on this planet. Certainly, no legitimately established religion, church, mosque, temple, teachings, or tradition advocates the senseless unmitigated murder of as many people as possible in the name of God, other than the rare but rabidly violent radical bizzaro sectarian fringes from which these terrorists hail.

3.) Protest Three: But Lachen, isn't that a dismissive way of looking at these guys? Isn't the term "F.I.B." rather flippant and not loving? Isn't there another way to address this issue?

Sure. You're right: it is a bit flippant, and there are lots of other ways of approaching this. But it is not dismissive. And it gets me to the heart of the matter immediately.

Using the term F.I.B. is my way of realizing that when people are lost, without family, faith, or foundation, they really do feel cast away in the world - like bastard orphans. When they do not know Christ, know hope, know truth - I can understand how they might feel tempted to buy themselves out of this life with a terrorist act of quasi-religious "martyrdom". I can see the scales in their impressionable, passionate, zealous, poisoned minds balancing the reality of an ordinary, stifled, life based in legalism and the attempt to achieve the sacred amidst the profane here on earth vs. the larger-than-life promises of a bevy of 1000 virgins waiting for them in paradise after they have "martyred" themselves and taken out a few hundred others with them. I can see that, with nothing live for, these individuals are choosing something to die for.

I see all of that. Not only with my eyes, but with my heart.

And I am reminded that, if we really want to know the solution to this rampant death-mongering we've got going in the world lately, we need to be saturated in and offering in spades - the hope that only comes from one source: Jesus. Because it is THE ONLY THING that will heal the hearts of the wicked and lost and encourage those of us who find ourselves in the crosshairs of the violent expression of that lost wicknedness, and are becoming a bit paralyzed by our fear and forgetting to love.

When I write about the F.I.B's, I am starkly reminded of my own humanity - my own basest instinct to seek for these guys the VERY WORST possible retribution for their plans to destroy human beings. I would wish for them to perish from the face of the earth: for God's wrath to be poured out on them or for them to be sucked up into some F.I.B. vortex or something. Obliteration. Righteous retribution. Salvation from their evil.

But wait a minute. That's what my human heart, Lachen's omnipresent sin nature, says. That's not what God says.

Yes, ultimately, God is coming back to get us. He promises that He will not leave us here indefinitely to suffer, struggle, and die. He assures us of our inheritance, and He assures us of His enduring love and a plan for our lives. A PLAN. Authored by the LORD! Isn't that especially comforting right now, when the world seems to be writing it's own playbook in complete absence of a workable, long term plan? GOD HAS A PLAN. He has not forgotten that we are here, loving others as He taught us, and trying to be lighthouses to the life-altering, miraculous fact that there IS a way out of this mess.

It's called Jesus. And it is available to ANYONE. Even F.I.B.'s. But they'll never know that if the Lachen plan of suck-them-into-a-vortex-of-righteous-obliteration is put into effect. This is yet another reason why I am glad I don't run the world. Because acting on my human instincts would so often be a grievous affront to my Lord and would get us all into a heap of trouble.

The truth is: the F.I.B.'s are a pain in the behind (P.I.T.B.), but Jesus loves them too. Moreover, He died for them too (J.D.F.T.T. - see the pieces in the title-of-this-post puzzle fall into place?) so that they may also inherit the Kingdom of God. These same people that want to kill us are who HE DIED FOR, too. These guys running around with hate-filled hearts and agendas of righteous murder are HIS CREATION, too. Are HIS CHILDREN, too. Are not throwaways. Are not orphans. Are not worthless. They may be pains in the behind, they may be fascist bastards, but they are God's children too. They just don't know it yet.

Maybe we are too angry. I certainly am. Maybe we are too busy. Guilty again. Maybe we have lost our faith or lost the taste of sharing Christ with people who most need what He offers, but are the least likely candidates to open our hearts to, by our estimations. Maybe we just don't care anymore. Maybe we'd rather give them death than give them the key to everlasting life.

Maybe we've forgotten the Great Commission. Or maybe it is just back burnered. Maybe we have forgotten how to love. Or maybe that is reserved for people who don't seek to kill us. Certainly that is not how Jesus loved - even to the end, seeking God's pardon for those who nailed his own hands to the cross. Maybe we have forgotten how to share this bread of life we have with others.

No matter how fascist,
no matter that they are bastards,
no matter how evil,
no matter how the seek for our destruction,
no matter how foreign,
no matter...

what.

So that they too can find shelter under the wing of the Lord and be transformed: that they, too may be taught that they can exchange their bastard state for that of a beloved child, their fascist sins for the redemption of the Cross, and where they once were lost, now can be found.

Because, you see, even though F.I.B.'s are a P.I.T.B., J.D.F.T.T.

Newsflash: groping gardener gets the ax

Just thought you'd want to know how that lovely little situation was "resolved" this morning by my mom. May his hands stick to weeding lawns, not grasping tushies.

Note to my Mom's gardener

Regardless of your nationality, our language barrier, or whatever other factors precipitated your unbelievable action ~ when I ask you to please not use the gas blower because my son is napping, it does not mean, "please take this opportunity to put your hand on my rear end and squeeze."

Gardener, meet the business end of Lachen's Anger.

Man, that was an incredibly disconcerting experience. I came away from what should have been a benign, everyday conversation feeling violated, livid, sad, and a little bit bewildered. I even pondered for a brief second whether or not I had anything to do with his aggregious trespass by inviting it? Right. I mean, I know my pajama pants, T-shirt, sleepy hair and unbrushed teeth were irresistably alluring, but c'mon...

Ugh. What a way to begin the day.

Chanel or $12.00 crackers?

Airplane travel has never been one of my, let's say, top 10 favorite things to do on the earth. It's a means to an end, really. And since the end usually justifies the means in our case because it almost always involves someplace warm, with lots of white sand beaches, a few fish, and dynamite sunsets over turquoise seas, we cope with the air travel part of the equation.

But the whole 'traveling process' does not thrill me, I gotta be honest. It begins with the "thinking about what to pack" part, then progresses to the actual packing part (in our case, this progress is painfully slow since we almost always pack less than 12 hours before our plane actually departs. It's not always our fault, since everything we chose in the "thinking about packing" part of this whole ordeal is usually in the laundry when it comes time to fold it neatly and pack it away into a suitcase). Then comes the packing the luggage into the car, checking the house for the inevitable one thing you are going to forget no matter how many times you check the house, getting everyone safely buckled into the car only to have to undo at least one child's seat, get them out, unlock the house, and accompany them to the bathroom. Again. Then, it's driving to the airport, finding the only available parking space which is happily located in the furthest parking lot from civilization imaginable, schlepping all your marvelously packed suitcases, laptops, and carry ons (which, if you're me, usually contain a comfy pillow, supply of tart candies, and at least one Dr. Pepper) to the airport. Along with your children, who seem to be determined to work against you in this endeavor, and their 47 toys, diapers, bottles, necessities, and trifles. The then whole dance of porter services, another bathroom break or two, waiting in line to get to the check in counter only to be told your checked luggage is 4 ounces overweight requiring a $50.00 additional fee for overweight baggage, payable-immediately-and-they-do-take-cash.

Mentally berating yourself for having packed that extra pair of socks (now worth $50) that threw your bags over into the "FAT" category, you make it to the airport line for X-ray check in. This is the line that moves at the speed of light. Yeah, "light" cargo strapped to the backs of little snails. During which time someone in your party has to use the bathroom again. And someone else decides to show their disdain for the waiting process by running for the hills in the opposite direction you are going while trying to pull off their diaper and fling it at innocent passengers. Finally, you find yourself at the front of the X-ray line, where everything you are carrying, holding, wearing over your clothes, is draped over your shoulders, in your pockets, on your ears, holding up your pants, being worn on your feet, or you have given birth to is summarily required to be stripped off and scanned. And your perfectly packed laptop, purse, diaper/carry on bag is opened, perused, and then scrunched into little sterile containers for the trip through the X-ray machine and then wiped down with bomb detecting discs.

Once you and your two and five year old children are determined not to be a threat to national security and allowed to proceed forward, you reassemble yourself and repack, under a copious time constraint, the various items you had once packed so nicely earlier at a leisurely pace, and find yourself... at another X-ray check point.

After repeating the above scenarios several times, you reach your gate and find yourself in one of two predicaments. Either you've arrived too early and will need to find a way to pacify the restless natives while trying to stave off the threat of your prickling legs refusing to function altogether, but do not have enough time or energy to wander back through the airport maze to the last place you noticed there might be a morsel of food available for purchase along with a magazine or two and maybe even a roll of Mentos. OR... you are running to the gate carrying kids on each hip while your poor longsuffering husband is burdened with every scrap of luggage you brought, down the longest hallway ever designed for airports, with no help from those flat escalator helpy walky thingys in the middle of nowhere that seem so popular with every airport but the one you happen to be in. Everyone around you seems to be operating at warp speed except for you and all those traveling with you. Worse, your gate happens to be the one next to the airport Chili's. The delicious food smells waft tantalizingly in your nostrils as your family of roadrunners sprints down the jetway to the airplane trailing items from gaping bags left open by airport security that you had hoped would actually make it to your destination with you.

Finally, you're on the plane, mauevering frontally through an aisle apparently designed for traveling sideways. After pole vaulting your carry on's into the 6 centimeters of space left in the overhead compartment, you settle yourself and the kids into seats designed to allow every angle of your body to unpleasantly invade the personal space of each adjacent passenger. And buckle up for a long flight in cramped quarters.

During which, we were dismayed to learn last month, it is now becoming standard airline policy to NOT offer a meal. As in, AT ALL. On our 5 hour and 15 minute American Airlines flight which spanned over midmorning and lunch time, no food was served whatsoever. Midway through the flight, drinks and a "snack pack" was offered to us at a cost of $12.00. The snack pack contained miniature packages of Ritz crackers and Oreos and some peanuts. I think it broke down to $1.00 per cookie or a quarter per peanut. Lovely. I simply would not pay $12.00 for that meager "snack pack" on principle. $12.00 typically buys a decent dinner at any given budget restaurant - no way was I shelling out twelve bucks for a few nuts and nibbles.

And considering that airfare costs are rising everyday in seemingly direct ratio with the burdening hassle and inconvenience factors, it is disheartening to realize the services we once took for granted (like food and water on long flight) are now starkly absent. Or they've been replaced by a craptastic snacky packy thingy for an extra fee of $12.00. What is the new plan here? To hold the small amount of food on board for ransom to the highest bidders?

But to add insult to injury was the airline magazine in the on-board seat pocket, which included a long article highlighting the delightful new trend that was being noticed by the airlines: dressing up for air travel. The article detailed the increasing numbers of travelers that are apparently wearing formal, dressy attire, complete with heels and glitzy jewelry, in order to mark the occasion of sitting on their behinds for any number of hours.

I'm sorry, but when the airlines fawn over the fact that people are wearing cashmere and Chanel as they occupy their seats while simultaneously denying passengers food and drink for 5+ hours at a stretch, there appears to be a strong disconnect between the airline industry and, say, REALITY.

welcome Elisabet

Miss Sauce has a deeply tender heart for children. She reaches out to children at the park who are playing alone, notices and seeks to comfort each crying baby we encounter, is impacted to her core when children are hurting around her, and - lately - cannot be in the room when the TV is turned onto the news, because she asks, "are the bombs and smoke hurting children, Mama?" with teary eyes and a wise little face.

Gulp.

Over the past few months, she has increasingly shared her ardent vocal distress that there are children who do not have enough to eat, a place to sleep, medicine, clean water, school, or sometimes - anyone in the whole wide world to love them. Last night, she hit a fever pitch. She became overwhelmed at dinner and began sobbing over her burrito. She decided that she wanted to send all our food to the "hungry children with swollen bellies." All of it. Right now.

She announced that we have too much and they had too little, "Those children are hungry, Mama!" She bounded up from the dinner table and tried to pack a box with everything from bananas to cans of split pea soup. When she was done, she demanded packing tape and stamps. She was going to send our food where it could nourish tiny little bodies that are so, so hungry. Never mind that she had no idea where that was - she was mailing this package. Anywhere. Everywhere. Just to help the children she loves without having ever met them. Because that is her heart's desire. And she had utter faith that if she gave her Mommy the box of food, surely I would know how to get it into the children who need it so much?

Well, actually, I do.

My heart and mind was flooded with her compassion. Although Copper and I had talked about the possibility of sponsoring a child some time ago, we thought the kids were too young to truly appreciate the phenomenon and reality and hope and need and committment. Quite evidently, we were wrong. Miss Sauce is there now. She understands the need and she wants to respond with her whole heart. Isn't it our job to help her hone that raw desire into a practical application with real power to change the world for, at least, two tiny children who share it?

So, today, our family has a new member. Miss Sauce has a new friend. Today, we adopted Elisabet. Through sponsorship at Christian Children's fund, we have added to our family a child from Indonesia. And my beloved daughter now can see the world through the eyes of another little girl. And love her with her whole heart (which today, consists of putting the entire contents of her piggy bank into an envelope to mail to Elisabet and making art projects to share with her - so far, she has produced 17 large hearts cut out of art paper, and a big cross made of pipe cleaners and sparkly stickers).

Today, my heart is singing. And my child has, again, taught her Mommy how to live.

adventures of a selective wimp

In my 33-years on this planet, I have been afraid of very little that can commonly cause squeamishness in my peers. Particularly my fellow FEMALE peers.

Mice? No worries.

Rats? They're just bigger mice.

Bats? Love them. Genuinely. I find bats fascinating, meek, sweet little critters.

I think we've already soundly established my abiding comfort level with possums. This extends to raccoons and the whole rest of the general "varmint" category (squirrels, gophers, rabbits, beavers, the occasional badger...)

Snails and slugs? Please.

Snakes? Well, the really poisonous ones don't live in California. And the one type of poisonous snake we have here has a loud rattle on the end of his tail. That's fairly easily avoidable.

Frogs, lizards, geckos and other assorted amphibians? I've been peed on by more than one grouchy froggie. And it is well known that when we visit Maui, I have known to keep our windows open all night to allow geckos to freely move in and out at will.

But there are two living things on this earth that will send me packing to the hills: sspiders and bees.

When we moved into this newly constructed house, we discovered that our dream home was built near established nesting grounds of a wonderful little deadly spider known as the Black Widow. That first hot summer, the unhappily displaced spiders swarmed around the perimeter of our house, effectively convincing me of two things. One, that spiders are totally capable of revenge. And two, that Motel Six looks increasingly outstanding when you are facing the lethal spider gauntlet of 2002. The official black widow death count for that horrifying summer of fear stands at 237.

Two hundred.

And thirty seven.

Spiders.

I don't care who you are, that's a lot of spiders. And even I didn't already have a well established fear of spiders (which, who are we kidding? spiders have just plain freaked me out since I learned what they were), that many deadly little crawly things running around my yard definitely sent me into shivering retreat.

And bees. Bees sting you. It's what they do, I'm convinced. They sneak up on you, think you're a flower to pollinate, get irked when you're not, and then sting you. Bees are mean. I sure do have respect for their place in the circle of life. As long as I am in the rectangle part while they are busy doing whatever they are doing over there in the circle. I have only been stung by a bee once - when I was five. I accidentally stepped on him and he let me know that was not going to fly. It was then that my allergy to bee stings was discovered. Thus, bees were added to my short list of things I do not play well with.

So we have established that I am not a gigantic wimp. Rather, I am a selective wimp. That is certainly respectable.

All this is to plead that the fact that when I encountered a black widow spider AND his buzzing bee entourage in my backyard this afternoon, which sent me running into the house at lightening speed while emitting a high-pitched squeal, that should been viewed with the appropriate level of respect. Because if I came across a cougar with snails, mice, and snakes on his back, that would have been fine. Weird, but fine. But a whompas black widow spider AND several big black buzzy bees basically constitute my personal critter apocalypse.

My children thought it was highly hilarious, chasing me and laughing. Disrespectful little boogers. But I happen to know that Miss Sauce has an avid fear of snakes, volcanoes, and the act of toilet flushing ~ which sends her into a complete panic. And my little one, Dash, is currently afraid of a vast array of things ranging from the opening credits of Peter Pan to the sound of the neighbor's truck warming up in the driveway. So neener, neener, neener.

Laugh at me, will ya?

Sheesh. Next time we go outside, I am betting my 2 and 5~year old children will have to comfort me. After they're done giggling, that is.

forgive us our sins

OK. Yeah, Mel? You might not want to be drunk again. Ever.

Because when you make a mistake out loud like that, the veritable feeding frenzy begins. And you'd be advised to learn the skill of dodging stones that are being hurled at you from all directions.

The story-of-the-week is that Mel Gibson spewed an ugly outburst concerning, among other things, Jewish people, while he was drunk. This afternoon, both FOX and CNN actually broke into the news coverage of the Israel-Hezbollah war and the situation with Fidel Castro at regular intervals to let us in on the latest VIP's opinion on Mr. Mel's apparently internationally newsworthy drunken-induced lapse of moral character.

Um, guys? He's a guy who got drunk and said some really stupid stuff.

Yes, he's an actor and producer and he is famous and that matters more because we make it matter more. I get it. Sure.

But you'd think he was the leader of the free world for all this hoopla being paid to this one man. He is AN ACTOR, people: one human being on the face of this wide planet who uttered a nonsensical, illogical rant while he was under the influence of alcohol that contained racist elements that slandered Jews. It was a terrible thing to say, absolutely. But he was drunk when he said it. Though his drunkenness and drunk DRIVING arrest lowers my general respect for him, I hardly think that the words issued by someone when they are under the influence can be said to represent the content of their character. Ridiculously drunk people are not generally known to be a.) astute, b.) kind, or c.) conservative with their words and action, but I digress. Drinking tends to lead to appalling errors of judgement. It does not excuse him, and it does not relieve him of the responsibility for his actions, but it does provide a backdrop upon which to view this transgression.

And keep in mind we have ALL said some awfully dumb things, even hateful or name calling stuff. Stop denying it. I have, absolutely. You have, too.

Maybe our words did not come against a certain population of people in the form of drunken racist rants, but each one of us, if we look in our hearts with an eye towards truth, is no better than Mel. Including me. Remember when I called Cindy Sheehan a daft old bat? (you don't? well, I did. Quite a few times, actually.) And I meant every word of it - I wasn't even drunk when I spoke, like Mel was. I said those things on purpose and without regret. Well, for awhile. I regretted it later, quite suddenly and markedly. Even though she IS out to lunch, there are kinder ways of expressing that sad truth than denigrating her in the same manner she denigrates others. I said hurtful, mean, stupid things about people without knowing them. I am just as guilty as Mel Gibson.

Individual sins are only specific manifestations of the real issue of sin. So I stake my claim on the sin of this man as my own. I am NO BETTER THAN MEL. And neither are the vast majority of us who have been gleefully and with malice casting an awful lot of stones in his direction this week. We are such hypocrites, the lot of us.

I am far less impressed with our individual failures as human beings than I am with the humility and courage this man has displayed in seeking to take for the wounds his ugly words have caused to others. I am humbled by his earnest desire to be reconciled and his passionate quest for forgiveness. I was moved by his broken heart today, as he openly spoke in apology, asking for audience with those his words. This fellow Christian brother is clearly despondent and aware of the ramifications of his hateful words, and seeks to reconcile himself and make amends for the hurt he caused. Especially amidst the Jewish community of the world. Especially right now. I am filled with hope and even joy at this example of the brokenness of human beings - how we can fail so miserably sometimes, but how we can also humble ourselves, realize our transgressions, and seek forgiveness.

Anyone who does not have it in their heart to forgive Mel is invited to offer me an explanation, please. I do not understand those who deny compassion to someone in the face his heartfelt repentance.