The Long Ride Home, Part 2

So there I was, newly released from 20 hours on a plane, with the knowledge that my connecting flight was currently en route to Chicago and I was not aboard.

Hour 28: Keep Calm and Carry On
JFK Airport, New York City, NY, USA

Know what's awesome about JFK?  Those folks know their business.  You get shunted around in their well-oiled-machine of a passport check/customs process like cattle being driven by people who know what they're doing.  Well done, JFK!

And it was a much-needed respite of smoothness by this point.  Stop for a minute and think what you were doing 28 hours ago.  Now flip forward to everything you've done since then up to this moment.  Now imagine that that whole time you have been traveling internationally.  And now you can read in sympathy.

After I getting through passport check, picking up my luggage (yay!  it arrived!), and going through customs, I was routed out to the Delta desk, where a friendly lady rebooked me on the next Delta flight to Chicago.  She told me leave the old bag tags on my suitcases; that China Southern (flights one and two) have a luggage agreement with American Airlines (flight 4), but Delta (flight 3) does not.  So if she re-tags my bags at this point, the ticket no longer has a China Southern flight on it, and so I'd have to pick up my bags again in Chicago.  If I leave them as they are, they will follow me to Fort Wayne.

The fact that I did not find this reasoning suspicious is indication of how exhausted my brain was.  Those bags were tagged for two flights that I would not be taking; one of which was on a whole different airline.  I should have questioned her, but she seemed competent and I was brain dead.  I left my luggage in her charge and headed toward my next gate in blissful ignorance, preparing for my three hour wait and excited about finding real food to eat while enjoying full movement of my arms (challenging in an airplane seat).

In a glorious kiss on the head from God, shortly thereafter I came upon a McDonalds that was serving breakfast.  This was surprising to me, because it felt like about 267 o'clock PM to me, but was actually 9:45 AM.  With great relish and probably disproportional joy, I ate my sausage egg biscuit with cheese meal.  Though I did not know it then, this was to be the best 20 minutes of my day.

Hour 32: Please Won't You Be My (airplane) Neighbor?
Somewhere between NYC and Chicago

[from Leslie's FB feed]

And then there was that time, remember? Hour 32 or so of the trip, when you were crammed into your tiny airline Barbie-plane seat next to that guy about your age, who was also crammed into his tiny seat and he was studiously avoiding making eye contact or small talk and you thought, "Hmm, surly or shy?" and shrugged mentally and popped in your earbuds to continue listening to your audio book. And then as you happily munched your tiny pretzels and slurped your Diet Coke, you accidentally dumped the coke and it poured all over you and the shy-or-surly guy next to you. And your tiny Delta Airlines napkin did nothing as the soda poured off the tray table into your bag, your lap, and his right leg. Then he contributed his tiny napkin, still studiously not making eye contact. And for the rest of the flight, you both tried to pretend nothing was amiss, even though you felt like you had wet your pants. 'Member that? Yep. That was totally par for the course that day.

Hour 35: The Never Ending Story
O'Hare International Airport, Chicago, IL, USA

Ahhh, good old O'Hare.  I have spent so much time in this airport, it practically feels familiar.  But that being said, I wasn't too pumped to get to spend 4 hours there.  I just wanted to be home.  I was next-door to asleep on my feet.  And again, it was time to eat.  I WAS pretty pumped to get a personal deep dish pizza from Uno's however, so that helped my outlook a bit.  Uno's is one of the big Chicago-style deep dish places.  Have I ever blogged about my deep and abiding love for Chicago-style deep dish pizza?  Well, it's there.  Deep and abiding.  So I was excited to have that for supper on this never-ending day.

[let's pause her to note that most travel highlights on this trip involve food]

I got my pizza and headed out to a seat that I knew was slightly less chaotic than the gate area.  I arranged my little box, my Diet Coke, my napkins, and my backpack.  I opened the box and took that first, expectant bite.

I nearly cried.

It wasn't bad.  But it wasn't Chicago style deep dish.  Again, I had been duped, probably mostly because my brain wasn't really working well.  It was...meh.  It was ok.  But disappointing.  Sigh.

After supper, I walked over to my departure gate and settled in.  I had about an hour before boarding.  I dug out my sweater and settled back to try to doze a little while I waited.  About 55 minutes later, I woke up.

I mean, WOKE UP.  Out of a dead sleep.  Ladies and gentlemen, I had fallen hard asleep at O'Hare International Airport.  I cast around mentally for a moment to remember where I was.  I reminded myself that I was already at my gate, and we didn't start boarding for another few minutes, so panicking was unnecessary.  I turned to verify that the information board still read "United 5377 to Fort Wayne."  It said, "United 3409 to LaGuardia, New York."

GAK!!!

Adrenaline pumping, I gathered my bag and raced to the nearest set of departure screens.  My gate had changed.  Of course it had.  E12 now.  

I frantically started speed-walking toward E15.  (yep, you see it.  I didn't)  I rounded a turn and could see it ahead.  Boarding starts now...no need to panic...plenty of time.  I got to E15 and the info board read "Delta 789 to New York JFK".

GAK!!!  I'm trapped in an airport nightmare.  My still-foggy brain couldn't figure out what to do.

I approached the desk uncomfortably close to "in a tizzy" and incoherently asked the agent why my flight wasn't there.

Me: Excuse me...um, my flight was supposed to leave from here, right now, but this says JFK and I'm going to Fort Wayne...?

Agent: Honey, let me see your boarding pass 

[author's note: it's not normal to use pet names for strangers in Chicago.  I was clearly looking befuddled enough to illicit some special treatment]

Agent: Oh, this isn't even a Delta flight, so I can't look it up for you.

Me; *stares in blank confusion at agent* But...um....I don't...so...what...?

Agent: Honey, there are departure screens for United at E7.  Go look there.

Me: E7.  Ok...yah, that's good...thanks...

I spin and head back the way I'd come.  E7.  I can do this.  Boarding started 5 minutes ago.  But I can still make it.  I will NOT have just condemned myself to another 3 hours of waiting for the last flight to Fort Wayne tonight.  NO.  That is NOT happening.

I get to the screens and see my flight, innocently announcing "NOW BOARDING" at gate...E12.  Something clicks in my brain.  Right, I got the 12 and 15 confused.  And I actually walked PAST the correct gate TWICE in my stupor.

Man, it was time for me to be home.

I arrived at E12 to find that they still were boarding, as the incoming flight hadn't arrived yet.  I sat down and caught my breath..My relief at not missing the flight was quickly overshadowed by the fact that my flight was delayed.  Not much yet, but that's never a good sign.

We eventually got on the flight about 30 minutes late.  Then we sat on the tarmac for an hour before we were allowed to take off.  But I mean, that was a relief because there I was, afraid I might not get any more quality tarmac time during the trip.  So, whew!  Dodged that bullet!

Hour 41: All's Well That Ends Crappily, If It Still Ends at Home
Fort Wayne, IN, USA

By the time we got off the plane in Fort Wayne at 10:30 PM, I was so happy to be home that I didn't even care how late it was.  I joined the small trickle of people heading toward the baggage claim and settled in to wait for my two suitcases to arrive.

In a giant surprise to no one, they didn't show.  I stared at the now-still belt for a few minutes as the rest of the passengers dispersed.  I glanced at the two unclaimed bags.  Nope.  Definitely not mine.  I sighed and headed toward the United desk.

Know how many people are working the United desk at 10:30 pm on a Thursday at Fort Wayne International Airport?  

Correctamundo!  None.

Eventually a very nice lady showed up.  She patiently listened and asked questions as, for 30 minutes, we tried to sort out the events of the past 40+ hours.  Four airlines, four flights, and two days.  It was not an easy task.  At one point the woman said to me, "Wow.  You know, I've had a pretty bad day, but you definitely win."  When it was all said and done, however, I had a claim number for my missing suitcases.  

I took the papers she handed me and turned to go to the parking lot.  Through the windows I could see a light but steady rain coming down.  I thought that a jacket would be good.  Know where my jacket was at that moment?

Neither did anyone else.  In my checked luggage, somewhere between New York and Chicago, probably.

I sighed again, and headed out into the night.  After a mere 20 minutes of trudging around in the dark, wet parking lot, I had found my car and was trundling toward my house.  I couldn't wait to be home.

Epilogue

My luggage was eventually to show up on Saturday afternoon, after two days of largely unknown adventures which, judging from the bag tags on the suitcases when they were returned, involved a little stop over in Dallas, Texas.  The fine people at United, who were the least at fault for the disappearance of my luggage, will be paying for about $50 worth of emergency purchases that I made while I awaited my bags.  In the end, I think I made out pretty well.

It's been six days now since I've been back, and I'm still really, really tired.  Jet lag has never hit me this hard.  I'm looking forward to getting back to normal, which I hope will happen within the next few days.  In the meantime I'm enjoying this cute little lamp that I bought in Thailand and that was happily returned to me along with all my other Thai purchases.

Pretty, yes?  

And so, for the rest of my life, I will probably be comparing crappy trips to this one.  It's good to have that one trip that makes every other trip seem...not so bad, right?  Glad I got this one out of the way.

The Long Ride Home -or- A Series of Unfortunate Events Part 1

Last week I traveled home from a 10 day stay in Thailand.  The first part of the trip was for work, and then I stayed an extra four days for vacation.  There was lots of good, great, and awesome about the trip, but one thing that was less than fantastic was that I had jet lag the whole time.

I'm not new to jet lag, but this was pretty impressive.  By the time I was packing to come home, I was fairly well sleep-deficient.  This is important background information for the story.  Following are highlights (or lowlights, in some cases) of my journey home.  The whole ordeal took a mere 42 hours.  Sometimes the best you can say about a harrowing international trip is that it makes for a good story afterwards.  And so, for your reading enjoyment, The Long Ride Home.

Hour 1: Sentimental Farewell Supper
Chiang Mai, Thailand

If you're an unseasoned international traveler, you might imagine that a final meal in a new country is a golden opportunity to enjoy on last taste of the cuisine of said place.  You would, however, be wrong.  Your final meal is also your last chance to have real food (airplane food generally not meeting that standard) for, potentially, many hours.  You should, therefore, always try to find food that you know is safe, both in providing some semblance of nutrition (in my case, protein), and in being neutral enough to not cause any intestinal distress.  Intestinal distress + hours on a plane = disaster.

So, I opted for Burger King at the airport.  Joy, I thought of you and our travels through Bangkok and enjoyment of BK at the airport and snapped this picture:

Things to note about my BK experience:  the cashier asked if I wanted my Whopper Jr. beef or pork (way to be culturally sensitive, BK) and the condiment dispensers contained "American Ketchup" and "Chilli Sauce".

Hour 6: Leslie Fails Spectacularly at Cultural Sensitivity
Guangzhou, China

I had arrived safely at my first layover, in China.  As I arrived in the hall where my departure gate for leg 2 of the journey would begin, I realized that there were no food options in this basement-hall, and set about going back upstairs to forage for sustinance.  There were no stairs.  There was a down escalator, and a small elevator.  Awesome.  A pack of people stood in front of the elevator, most of them African.

[author's note: I like Africans.  With very few exceptions, I have had great experiences with Africans from various nations.  Before I tell this story, let's remember that I was really tired and about to get on a 15 hour flight.  Ready?]

I mentally braced myself.  There's a lot that's different between African and American cultures, not the least of which is our understanding of personal space.  I looked at the number of people waiting to get on the elevator and judged there to be at least 2 loads of people ahead of me.  I am fully confident that every African in the group saw it as one.

The elevator doors opened and a mad dash to cram into the tiny cubical began.  The people in my area didn't even move- so obvious was it that there were already too many people crowding forward.  The group shuffled and re-arranged themselves, trying to become smaller than they were.

The doors did not close.  They were over the weight limit.

We all waited.  The people nearest the opening tried to press further back into the elevator.

The doors did not close.  We all knew someone would have to get off, but of course no one wanted to volunteer.  I helpfully pointed out that the elevator would come back.  FINALLY, three Middle Eastern men extricated themselves from the group and popped out.

The doors closed.

Meanwhile, behind me, more Africans were pushing in, anxious to get in on the next round.  I closed my eyes as the press of anticipation and bodies behind me grew.

When the doors opened again, we surged forward.  I was toward the end of the group and as I got into the tiny metal box I turned abruptly to face the people pushing in behind me.  I threw my arms out wide, blocking the door and said in my best teacher voice,"Stop!  No more.  Please wait for the next elevator."

If I hadn't been so stressed, I'm sure the looks on the faces before me would have sent me into a fit of giggles.  Shock and confusion.  Utter disbelief.  After all, there were probably only 15 people in the elevator- CLEARLY there was space for, I don't know...10 more?

One woman recovered enough to ask accusingly, "So, you are the enforcer?!?" As I pushed the button on the elevator and the doors began to close, I looked at her shamelessly and with as much bravado as I could muster, lied through my teeth, "Yes."

The doors closed.

I couldn't believe that had worked.  A couple of voices (I think the Middle Eastern guys) from behind thanked me.  The rest of the group rode upward in stunned silence.  As we dispersed into the main airport, I heard uproarious laughter from some of the other riders.  They must have been African, and I was happy that they were laughing instead of angry.

I have a master's degree in intercultural studies.  I knew that what I did was TOTALLY outside the realm of acceptable.  I just couldn't seem to muster up the gumption to care in that moment.  I just couldn't.

Hours 22-26: Trapped on the Tarmac
Boston, MA

The 15 hour flight from China to New York's JFK Airport was nearly finished.  I had survived, more or less in tact, thanks in no small part to the GLORIOUS blessing of having an empty seat next to me.  This was literally a gracious answer to prayer.

As we began our decent along the east coast, I noticed that, according to the little map on my personal monitor, we seemed to be taking a rather indirect path to New York.  A few minutes later a very hard-to-understand flight attendant announced that, due to "very terrible weather at the New York", we would be going to Boston, instead.

I gathered enough emotional energy to be unenthusiastic about this new turn of events.  I mentally tried to calculate how long it would take to re-book an entire 777 full of people who were in the wrong city.  I breathed the sigh of the defeated.  I had a 4 hour layover at JFK, but if we all had to be re-booked, there was no way I would make my connecting flight.  And to make it even more awesome, my final flight (4 of 4) was on a separate ticket, with a different airline.  That means that if I miss that flight, I will have to pay for a new ticket and my luggage situation will be nightmare-ish, since it was originally tagged all the way through to Fort Wayne.

I held onto the hope that they would send us back to NYC in time.  Four hours is a long time, after all.

After four incredibly frustrating hours with basically no information on what was going on, we finally did take off again, heading to JFK.  We touched down exactly five minutes before my connecting flight to Chicago was scheduled to leave.  We weren't even in the airport before I had missed my connection.

Awesome.

You know, just telling this story makes me feel tired.  I'm going to have make this a two-parter.  We still have three airports, 16 hours of awesome, a very disappointing experience with pizza, and luggage drama to cover.  I think we all need a break.

To be continued...

White Gloves and Black Walnuts

One of the reasons that fall is my favorite season is that it's the best time to enjoy nature (in my opinion).  The temperatures are neither too hot nor too cold.  The critters are still around.  The trees are at their most magnificent and I love how the bright rainbow of spring and summer colors narrow themselves down to a smaller but equally vibrant palette of reds, oranges, yellows, and browns.

Oh, and the bugs aren't as bad.

I don't like bugs.

Anyway, I love to be out and about in the fall and I'm thankful to be in a city with fantastic walking trails that almost...ALMOST...allow me to trick myself into thinking I'm in the country.  

I've been taking full advantage of those trails this fall, and find myself snapping pictures almost every time.  I just can't help it.  It's so beautiful.  Here, see for yourself.

I like that nature helps to draw my focus to God.  Both the vastness of the ocean and the seeming insignificance of the life of an ant help me to remember that, in fact, life isn't all about me.  This is a perspective that I need lots of help keeping in focus.

Nature also makes me think of my cute funny mom.  For any new (or forgetful) readers, my amazing mom battled cancer for 10 years before graduating to heaven in 2004.  I was 24.

I inherited my appreciation of nature from Mom.

Actually, a more accurate statement is that I'm kindof a washed-out imitation of her love of nature.  I like nature as long as I don't get any on me.  Mom was the real deal.

I remember walking with her in the woods, and looking as she pointed out whole worlds we kids were tromping past, completely unaware.  How this moss can tell you what direction you're going.  How that plant is edible but never, never try to eat a plant you don't know because it could poison you.  How to figure out what animals have been around by their tracks.  How to be still long enough to begin to hear the sounds of the forest.

She pointed out mushrooms and cocoons and special flowers and caterpillars and robins and spiders and a whole host of other things that we seemingly ceased instantly to be blind to.

It's a little like magic to be staring at the same 1 foot square bit of forest floor for a full minute, seeing nothing special, and then suddenly, right before your eyes, a morel mushroom appears.  Seriously.  It's not that you didn't see it and then you did.  It wasn't THERE and then it WAS.  Mom could work that sort of sylvan magic.

This walnut tree stand sentinel at the entry to my favorite stretch of trail.  I took these pictures of this walnut tree both because it was showing off with the vivid blue and white of the sky behind it, and because unhusked walnuts always make me think of my mom, and more specifically, of a story she used to tell from her childhood.

Little Susan and the Walnuts

When Mom was little, preschool and kindergarten weren't really a thing.  Most kids, my mother included, started right into first grade.  Mom was the youngest, so on the morning that Grandma Nell was to take her to her first grade interview, they were the only two at home.  Grandpa Roy was at work, and Janet and David were both at school.

Mom, who was from the first, and to her mother's chagrin, a tomboy, was less than enthusiastic about the special outfit she was dressed in.   (This picture isn't from the day of our story, but it will give you an idea.  That's my mom on the right, with her grandma.  Check out that poofy dress, baby!)

In addition to the Sunday dress and dress shoes, Mom was wearing special white gloves for the occassion.

"You may go outside while I get ready, Susan, but don't get your dress dirty," Grandma Nell warned my mom.  Obedient Susan trotted outside, happy to be released into the great outdoors.

After she finished getting ready, Grandma Nell called mom back into the house so they could leave for the interview at the school.  Mom came back in, pleased with herself for having found some way to entertain herself while still being obedient to her mother's admonition to not dirty her dress.  She had decided to collect all the walnuts that had fallen from the tree in the yard.

The dress was clean.  Unfortunately for Grandma Nell, walnuts contain a natural dye.  Little Susan's beautiful white gloves where now permanently stained black.  I can only imagine that this was not the first time Grandma Nell dealt with similar minor crises surrounding her youngest daughter.  In any case, the fine people at the school agreed to allow mom to come to school in spite of her lack of white gloves, and everyone lived to tell the tale.

The End.

May you too find time and space to enjoy God's creation this fall.

Why I Stopped Reading My Bible

When you teach writing, you teach your students to start with a good hook.  Something interesting, surprising, or shocking to get your reader's attention.

Something like....

Why I Stopped Reading My Bible.

See?  It worked.  You're reading.

Anyway, that title wasn't JUST for shock value.  It's really true.  I'm going to attempt to the brief version of this story.  But we know how I am.  So no promises.

Ten or so month ago, I was at a low point spiritually.  I could probably say, my record low.  My walk with God had become mired in unmet expectations, which led to anger, then bitterness and resentment.  It was delightful.

Needless to say, my devotional life was not stellar.  poor.  non-existent.  I'd forced myself to go through the motions (read some scripture; pray; fall asleep; try to pray some more; give up and set alarm to sleep until time to leave for work) for a long time.  Eventually even the faking it stopped.  I just snoozed my alarm a few extra times.

My counselor asked me about it.  I told her God had stopped showing up, and so eventually, so did I.  She suggested that I try again.  I wasn't interested.  (in defense of my wonderful counselor, this version of our interaction leaves out lots of stuff)

I was in dialogue with a friend during this time.  She has a solid walk with God.  I respect her opinion in Jesus-stuff.  She suggested that I do something else.  Not read my Bible.  Seek God out in other ways.

I was a little scandalized.  Which is ironic, since I wasn't reading my Bible anyway.

My friend had some solid reasoning.  For the majority of Christian history, most Believers never saw God's written word.  Even today, heaps of Believers don't have access to scripture, or ability to read it.

Conclusion: reading the Bible can't be the only way God communicates with his people.

Let's all pause here to relive a couple of events from Sunday School Past:

Teacher: Children, how do we speak to God?
Kids; We pray to him!
Teacher:  Right!  And how does God speak to us?
Kids: We read the Bible!

Is this true?  Yes.

Is it incomplete?  Also yes.

How many ways are there for God to speak to us?

Well now, I don't know.  How many spiritual disciplines are there?  How many mountain ranges are there?  How many spring flowers?  Breath-taking sunrises?  Selfless acts of love?  Children laughing belly-laughs around the world in this very moment?

But back to my story (you know, the brief one?)

Around this same time, another friend invited me to work through a resource called Spiritual Disciplines Handbook by Adele Ahlberg Calhoun.  [author's note:  WONDERFUL resource.  I highly recommend it]  I started working on the disciple of silence.

If you know me, you're probably gasping.  Or laughing.  You're marveling at my courageous choice.  Silence isn't a natural gifting of mine.

It was hard.  IS hard.  Turns out I'm impressively bad at sitting silently, staying awake, and focusing on God, all at the same time.  It's harder than it sounds.  But I liked the simplicity and I kept trying.

It was through silence that God and I began communicating again after months of nothing.  Ironic, yes?

But here's the simple truth: I was finally listening.

Not waiting for an answer.

Open to anything He wanted to say.

Not reading familiar words without comprehension.  Not repeating a stale list of requests.

Just listening.

Just sitting in silence.  Trying and failing and trying again to clear my thoughts of anything but God.

For awhile nothing happened.  Except falling asleep.  But slowly I got better at staying awake and holding my focus.

And He showed up.  He came with a message.  The message isn't important for you.  It was for me.  What I want you to know is that there WAS a message.

I was...well...shocked.  Just like the prayer team doing battle for Peter's release from prison, I was shocked to receive what I had asked for.

The voice was not audible to my ear.  It was audible to my heart.  In a way that I've only heard God speak to me twice before in my 24 years of seeking to follow Christ.  Twice.

A few weeks later, another message.  Just as clear.

Suddenly, time with God wasn't such a chore.  And one day I thought, "I WANT to read my Bible."

I WANT to.  I WANT to sit and wait for God.  I WANT to spend time in His word.

Just last month, a third message.

Are you hearing me when I say to you that God has given me clear messages five times in the past 24 years, and three of those five times have happened since I started practicing the discipline of silence, in SPITE of the fact that I had been a really bad place with God?  Because this is huge.  HUGE!

Now, let's just say this.  I'm not promising you anything here.  Not that you need to buy that book and do what I did and then God will speak into your silence.  I am not a prophet, and God is not a genie, to perform for us if we do the right combination of things.  I'm just telling you what I'm learning.

I'm learning that time with God doesn't necessarily need to involve a Bible.  Or prayer.  Or a devotional book.  God uses those tools, but He's pretty creative and flexible.  They're not the only tools in his toolbox.

I'm learning that God may not be so hard to hear as I've always thought.  Maybe it's just that I haven't really been listening.  Not long enough.  Not deep enough.  Maybe, just maybe, He is more excited to speak than I am to hear.  If I can just sit in the silence long enough.

How to Weed Wack Your Yard

This past weekend I moved into a house.  I'm renting, and have the (ahem) privilege of now being in charge of nearly an acre of yard.  Some unknown, gracious neighbor has cut the grass twice now, between the time when the owner moved out and I moved in.  However, said awesome neighbor did not do any trim work, so that was looking pretty sketchy.

Last weekend my wonderful, generous, amazing father and step mom came to help me with a day and a half of cleaning and painting in the new place.  Man, did we have fun!  Well, ok, "fun" might be a bit of a stretch, but it was good bonding time.  And we were super-productive.  They're awesome like that.  That was Thursday evening and all day Friday.

The next day (Saturday morning) I went back to trim by hand.  I mean, it looked really bad.  I took my gardening gloves, my scissors, and one of my two gardening tools- a small pair of clippers.

If you've ever tried to trim an acre of yard with scissors, you're probably snickering right now.  Fair enough.  Two hours, a giant blister on my right middle finger, and a wet, nasty mess later, the front part of the yard looked a bit less hillbilly.  And I was determined to find a better solution.

As it turns out, my sister and brother-in-law had recently left a used weed wacker behind when they moved to Seattle, and my brother, Josh,  had been using it.  After seeing my pitifulness, he gave it to me as a house warming gift.  :)

So this morning, day 3 in my new house and Memorial Day, I decided to gather my courage and give it a try.

Allow me to interject here about the emotional strain that has come along with yard work for me.  There are undoubtedly HUNDREDS of things at which I am totally and completely inept.  Milking a cow?  No idea.  Car maintenance (beyond oil changes, tire changes, and giving someone a jump)?  Clueless.  I'm also pretty bad at making fried chicken, which is disappointing to me.  But generally, the things I suck at are things I can avoid without much trouble.

Then I started renting a house with a giant yard.

Yes, I grew up on a farm with a giant yard, but I wasn't the one who kept it looking nice.  I've mowed once or twice, but generally that wasn't one of my chores.  I'd never even HELD a weed wacker before last week.

Anywho, this morning seemed the perfect time to put on my Big Girl Panties and git er done.  No time like the present to try out something intimidating and potentially beyond your abilities.

I tried to bolster my courage by reminding myself that 13 year old boys regularly do yard work.  Surely I can keep up with a 13 year old boy, right?

I put on my work clothes and my oldest sneakers.  I got out my shades (thank you, cousin Muir, for this stellar suggestion).  I grabbed the WW and headed to the back yard.  I figured it'd be easier on my ego to figure it out where no one could see me.

When he was here helping me move, Josh had gone over (very quickly) how to start the machine.  There were a lot of steps and I'm not an auditory learner.  Seeing helps me, not hearing.  I nodded a lot and tried to appear competent.

Now as I looked at the WW, I was greatly relieved to see that the 10 steps are on a little sticker on the side of the engine.  (TEN STEPS!?!?!  just to START the thing!)  Then I noticed that there was no gas in it.

In hindsight, I realized that when Josh had said, "You're welcome for the gas I gave you" he was being sarcastic.  The tank was completely empty.

I left the WW in the grass, grabbed my wallet and keys, and headed to the car.  20 minutes and $20 later, I was back with a shiny new gas can and gas, which, given the price, SHOULD by all rights self-fill with gasoline.  After a bit more experience feeling dumb while trying to use the fancy new spout thingy that's supposed to keep the gas from evaporating, I got the tank filled and got it started.

You know.  Ten steps.

Now her comes the part of a WW that saved my life.  It has a strap.  The strap goes around one shoulder and your neck and carries most of the weight of the machine.  SO SMART!  Kudos to whomever figured out that little stroke of genius.

Did you know that the little plastic strings that do the cutting on a WW disappear as you work?  Yep.  They just disintegrate, right before your eyes.  Did you also know that to pull out more plastic string, you just tap the head on the ground while holding down on the throttle?  Well, I didn't know that until today.  Thanks, Dad.  It's pretty nifty, that.

So around the yard I went, wacking merrily away at my unruly weeds.  After gaining a little courage, I headed to the front yard.  Here are some other discoveries I made this morning:

-If you try to move too fast, you can actually stop the spinning by getting caught in the overgrown weeds.  That's probably not manufacturer-recommended.

-Height is important in this job.  Too high, you just blow the weeds around.  Too low, and you end up skinning a patch of grass down to dirt.  Oops.

-With a bit of encouragement, a WW will happily strip off tree bark and house paint.  Also not recommended.

-WW are apparently designed with people with strong arms in mind.  If like me, your upper arm strength leaves a bit to be desired, do not plan to do anything requiring good small motor skills immediately after WWing.  Watercolor painting is probably out for a couple hours.

-When you're planning your day, be sure to calculate time to shower after your WWing is done.  And you should cover your hair.  Do you know how much fun it is to get grass out of your hair?  Each.  Blade.  Individually.

And so.  I wacked until I ran out of plastic string.  My brother assures me that doesn't run out too much.  I guess I was just lucky to get to experience it in my first go.

Now, an hour and a half after the string ran out, I'm sitting contentedly on my couch in my new living room- clean, and with an arm recovered enough to type again.

That wasn't so bad.  My yard looks MUCHO much nicer than it did.  And now if someone asks if I know how to use a WW I can say yes with confidence.

If they ask if I WANT to use a WW, though, my answer might be a little different.

The Most Important Lesson

My mom was awesome at pretty near everything.  At least that's what my brain holds on to.  A few exceptions include most things to do with fashion, and mastering even the simplest remote control.  Seriously, to the very end we kids would beg her to cut her losses and let us control the remote.

Mom taught me all kinds of stuff.  Basics, like how to cook and clean and sew.  How check out a book at the library when you wanted to do something you didn’t know how to do.  How to garden.  Paint.  Budget.  Hang wallpaper.  Clean a room ankle-deep in junk.  What to do when you run out of gas at an intersection.  [I’m pretty sure that was an accidental lesson.  Especially since she looked over at middle-schooler Leslie and said, “You don’t need to bring this up with your father.”]

She taught me that being a follower of Jesus is journey of errors and path corrections.  That no one’s perfect and sincere apologies are important.  That there is never an excuse to treat someone or something weaker than you unkindly.  That people are created in God’s image, regardless of how they look, think, act, dress, smell, or speak, and that one should always be aware of that.

Going into the woods with Mom was always an adventure.  She drew our attention to the small miracles of God’s creation- the things you miss if you’re not looking.  A tiny flower.  A mushroom (in spite of the hours I’ve spent hunting morels, I’m still terrible at it).  The mark of an animal who had passed this way before.

Some of Mom’s lessons changed my whole outlook on life.  During my sophomore year of high school, I had an art class with a girl who despised me.  She wasn’t in my grade and I’d had no previous interaction with her, so I was mystified that she should seem to hate me for no apparent reason.  One day I was telling Mom how, no matter how nice I tried to be to this girl, she was still spiteful in return.  Mom said, “Honey, not everyone has to like you.”  Wow.  HUGE paradigm shift for me.  What a relief!

This month would have been my mom’s 63 birthday.  The 10^th birthday since she graduated to heaven.  It’s strange to think that had she lived, she would be 10 years older than I remember her, and a grandma six times over.  I wonder if she would have had grey hair?  She wouldn’t have minded, though.  After losing her hair to chemo twice, her motto was, “Any day with hair is a good hair day!” 

I miss my mom.  I miss getting to learn from her.  Normal, boring lessons.  Deep, profound ones.  I miss running errands with her.  And those days when we’d have lunch together.  Being able to use her as a reference for nearly any question.  Enjoying a fire in the fireplace when it was cold; sweating it out in the summer heat because Mom always insisted that hot fresh air was better than cool, stale air.  I miss laughing with her until tears started forming in her eyes.  I miss her hugs.  Being called Tall Daughter when she needed something off the top shelf.  Calling her Shorty.  Disagreeing about music.  Just enjoying one another’s company.   Knowing that she knew me better than any other person on earth, and she still loved me without reservation. 

I think that last one was the best lesson.  If that's the only one I manage to learn, that'll be a win.

The Why

Today during worship I was thinking about how, as a kid, there were a few occasions when one or the other of my parents would tell me to do something and I would ask why.  I could tell that this was not their desired response, but I wasn't asking because I was deciding whether or not to obey them.  I was a fairly obedient kid.  I wanted to know because that's how my brain works.  It is always asking why.  The Why helps me- to know my goal; to get behind the reason; to have a better attitude (hopefully).  I didn't mean to be disrespectful; I was just asking an honest question in hopes of getting an honest answer.

I know that parents don't owe their children an explanation for every call they make.  It's not that I deserved an answer.  And maybe sometimes the answer has to be "Because I said so," but I really think that's not what we normally mean.  In my experience, that answer is code for, "I'm too tired to explain," or "I don't know how to explain," or just, "I feel like you're being disrespectful and I don't to respond to that in a way that pleases you."  My experience is based on my own interaction with young people under my authority- mostly middle schoolers.

When my students asked an honest "why", I tried to answer thoughtfully and truthfully.  I don't think I ever went with, "Because I said so," but I know I have said, "Because I'm the teacher," which is essentially the same thing.  I'm playin' my trump card.  I only used it when a kid was being openly rebellious.  So, I get it.  Maybe my parents thought that's where I was going when I asked, too.  Can't blame 'em for not being able to read my mind.

Anyway, back to this morning.  I'm going through what seems to me to be the longest hard season of my life right now.  Explaining it all would involve a lot of words and drama, and I'm just not up for that right now.  But here's what I was thinking: this would be easier if I knew the why.  Not easy, but easier.  I think I could even be ok with not knowing if where I am is permanent or not, if I could know why.

My theology tells me that my God created me and knows me intimately.  It also tells me that He has good plans for me; plans to prosper and not to harm me.  And it tells me that all things in my life are allowed by my God, for His purposes, which will bring me good and Him glory.

This is all true.  I believe it is Truth, both in a generic,for-the-whole-world sense, and in a personal one.  But when I ask God why, these truths boil down what seems like essentially a God-shaped version of, "Because I said so."  Not an untrue answer, and yet THOROUGHLY unhelpful, unsatisfying.  Un-everything.

And here's the real kicker- God's not misreading me.  He knows that I'm asking out of sheer desperation.  I am in a hard place.  I have been here for a really long time.  I'm trying to hang on.  My knuckles are white and my fingers are bleeding- I'm trying with everything I've got.  I've basically stopped asking for rescue.  He's leaving me here and it must be for a reason.  I'm just asking for a little perspective.  The Why.  Is it too much to ask that He share it with me?  I'm not being disrespectful.  I'm not deciding whether to turn my back on Him.  But it sure would help to be able to hang onto the why.  It sure would help.

Chicken Enchilada Yumminess

A week or so ago I shared a recipe on my FB page for a chicken enchilada dish that I wanted to try.  It was really good and I made TONs of changes, so I'm going to write my own version here.  Mostly for me, but you feel free to try it if you want.  You can see the original recipe by clicking here.

Here are the ingredients that I changed and why:

• 4 bone-in chicken thighs, skinned; I used three boneless, skinless breast tenderloins (because that's what I had)
• 1 cup frozen corn kernels, thawed; I used 2 cups. (I like corn)
• 1/3 cup (3 ounces) 1/3-less-fat cream cheese, softened; I used about 2/3 of a block of full-fat. (I love cream cheese AND the newest studies are showing that fat from dairy is actually good for you.  Yay!)
• 1/2 teaspoon ground red pepper; (I took this out- don't like hot)
• 1/2 teaspoon ground cumin (doubled.  I like cumin)
• 1/4 teaspoon kosher salt  (doubled.  It needed salt.  I used regular table salt)
• 1 cup fat-free, lower-sodium chicken broth; (I just used normal broth- what I had in the cupboard)
• 2/3 cup salsa verde (I used green enchilada sauce)
• 1/4 cup water (I replaced this with broth)
• 2 tablespoons chopped pickled jalapeño pepper (didn't use this- again, don't like hot)
• 1/4 cup (1 ounce) shredded sharp cheddar cheese (seriously?!?!  1/4 cup for four servings?  That's a TABLESPOON per serving.  If you're counting calories hard-core, be my guest.  I used a total of 1.5 cups of cheese.  It was delicious, but I'll probably dial it down to 1 cup next time, as a nod toward health)
• I used less chicken than they said because I didn't have that much.  I supplemented with an 8 oz box of small white button mushrooms (I just learned that mushrooms contain a savory flavor called umami, which our brains associate with meat.  Plus I'm trying to get in more veggies)
• I would have put in a can of black beans for extra protein and deliciousness (because black beans go with anything Mexican) but I was out.  There was some weeping and gnashing of teeth)
• I added some medium salsa.  More veggies and added flavor.  Maybe 1/2 cup?

Ok, so here's my version:

 Leslie's Chicken Enchilada Casserole Recipe

Ingredients

• Cooking spray
• 3 skinless, boneless chicken breast tenderloins
• 8 oz mushrooms
• 1/3 cup chopped fresh cilantro, divided
• 2 cups frozen corn kernels, thawed
• 2/3 a block cream cheese, softened
• 1 teaspoon ground cumin
• 1/2 teaspoon salt
• 1/4 teaspoon black pepper
• 2 cups chopped onion, divided
• 6 garlic cloves, minced and divided
• 1 cup chicken broth
• 1 10 oz can green enchilada sauce
• 1/2 cup medium salsa
• 9 (6-inch) corn tortillas
• 1 cup shredded sharp cheddar cheese

Directions

-Preheat oven to 425°F.

-In a medium sauce pan, boil the chicken until it's cooked through and tender.  Drain and set aside to cool.  

-Use a food processor to dice separately onions, mushrooms, and cilantro.  (you can do it by hand if you prefer).  Will only take a couple spins so you don't puree it.  By this time, you chicken should be cool enough to handle. Put it in the food processor for just a couple spins to chop/dice. (don't worry about rinsing out the food processor between foods; everything's getting put together anyway)

-In a large skillet, saute 2/3 of your onion with 1/2 the garlic, all the mushrooms and chicken in about a 1/4 cup olive oil.  Toward the end, add the salt, pepper, cumin, and salsa.  Last, remove from heat and stir in 1/2 the cream cheese and 1/2 the cilantro.  Set aside.

-In the sauce pan you used for the chicken, mix together the green enchilada sauce, the remaining 1/3 of the onions, the chicken broth, the remaining garlic, and the rest of the cream cheese.  Bring to a boil, then simmer for about 10 minutes.  Set aside to cool.

-Back to your skillet, rinse it out and spray with cooking spray.  Over medium-high heat. Add 3 tortillas; cook 1 1/2 minutes on each side. Remove tortillas from pan; repeat procedure with remaining tortillas. Cut tortillas into quarters.

-Go back to the cooling sauce.  Carefully pour it into a food processor with the rest of the cilantro.  Blend until smooth.

-Spread a thin layer of the salsa mixture in the bottom of a 9x13 or 8x8 baking dish coated with cooking spray. Arrange 12 tortilla quarters over salsa mixture. Spoon half of chicken mixture over tortillas. Sprinkle with 1/3 of the cheddar cheese.  Repeat tortillas, meat, cheese, and then tortillas again. Pour remaining salsa mixture over tortillas; sprinkle evenly with cheddar cheese. Bake at 425°F for 15 minutes or until bubbly and lightly browned.

It makes four servings and from start to finish took about an hour.  AND during the 15 minutes of cooking, I got all the washing up done, which is a fantastic bonus in my world.  Mmmm....

Family Dinner ~or~ Sharing Life

Today I read a friend's Facebook post about laughing with her family at the dinner table.  It triggered a whole slew of memories.

Dinner at the dinner table was an every-night event when I was growing up.  If you were on the property at supper time, you ate with the family.

We did not watch TV.  We did not have our cell phones.  (ok, true confessions- there were no cells phones.  BUT I am 376% sure that would be the rule, had my mom lived to the age of cell phones)

Mom grew up in a German family, so we had meat, potatoes (referred to as a "starch"), and a hot vegetable.  At every meal.  (well, nearly every)  Bread and butter if you didn't want what was served, or if you were still hungry.  Dessert was usually fruit.  Oh man, home-canned peaches and plums.  My favorite.  My mouth is watering...

ANyway, the point of this blog isn't food, yummy though it was (the college cafeteria was a harsh reality check).  It's about family.  Living with people.  I miss living with people.  It's messy- don't get me wrong.  But it's rich.

It's having Your Seat.  And relishing the week that your chore was setting the table- CLEARLY the best of the three (clearing and washing both being more work).  It's talking about your day, even through the years when the conversation goes a lot like this:

Dad: How was school?
Kid: Fine.
Dad: Anything exciting happen?
Kid: No.

Every.  Single.  Night.

(sorry, Dad)

It's about those nights when you have real conversations where minds are expanded and values are shaped.  And the nights when you laugh until you can't breathe and milk shoots out your little brother's nose.  And some nights when absolutely nothing of interest occurs.  A thousand meals.  A million conversations.

There are stats that show that kids who eat meals at the table with their family succeed more that those who don't.  This probably surprises no one who ate meals at the table with their family growing up.  Dinner with the family isn't just sharing food or space or conversation.

It's sharing life.