Veterans Day Reflections

My awesome-possum dad, Tom Foster, served four years in the Air Force during the Vietnam Conflict.  He would sometimes tell us stories sometimes about being in the military, but they were always about funny stuff- how the drill sergeants would act (have you ever cleaned out the inside of your toothpaste tube nozzle?) and how he was well-prepared for the military, because he had been raised by Juanita (his mom) and three older sisters.  He was used to being told what to do. 😉 Sometimes we would hear about crazy stuff he and his buddies did (ask him about putting the giant snake in the trunk of the taxi) and the food he liked best.

He never talked much about the darker side of war, other than to tell us about the man named on his POW/MIA bracelet.  Dad was an airplane mechanic crew chief, and he got to know the pilots that flew in his planes well.  One of them flew out on a mission one day and never came back.  On a family trip to DC when I was in elementary school, Dad made a rubbing of his buddy's name at the Vietnam Memorial.  He didn't talk much about it; we didn't ask.

But this year my boss's daughter was looking for vets that she could interview for a project in her history class, and she asked if my dad would be willing to participate.  He did and after the interview she sent me the transcript of the interview.  I was eager to read it.  Most of it was more or less what I expected to see, but one part of the conversation took me by surprise.  That was Dad's perspective on sending troops to war.

Dad and I don't agree on a whole lot politically, but what he said in that part of the interview is something I can get behind with all my heart.  I'm posting it here (with his permission).  

K: Is there anything else you would want my generation, or people in general, to know about the Vietnam War?

T: I think I maybe already shared it, but let’s don’t get into a war sacrificing and risking the lives of Americans if we aren’t there to win it. Doing it for just political reasons, or financial reasons, is wrong. Those are no reasons to have a war....  I just think that if we are going to get involved in a war, we should be in it to win.

K: I really like that perspective a lot. Thank you so much for helping me better understand this part of history, and thank you for serving our country.

T: You bet! And, just a little thing for you. If you would, don’t forget. Don’t forget your history, history is so important - the old stuff that happened years ago. But I was always told that if you forget your history, you are bound to repeat it down the road sometime. Never forget that.

K: I won’t. Thank you so much.

I don't always agree with where we have troops and why, but I am always thankful for those willing to serve.  It bears repeating that if we're going to ask people to literally risk their lives, the very least we can do is support them as fully as possible.  Go big or go home.  If we're not in 100%, we should be 100% out. 

On this Veterans Day, I'm thankful for the service that the men and women in our military, and their families back home.  I'm thankful for my Dad's willingness to serve, and so grateful that he came home.  And most of all I look forward to the day when all wars will cease and there will be no more tearful goodbyes or heartbreaking notices from foreign lands.  Lord Jesus, come soon!

Just a baby!

Leslie and the Russian Birthday Party

I spent the first semester of my junior year of undergrad studying in Russia.  There are more hilarious, confusing, and otherwise-noteworthy events during that semester than I could ever write down, but some rise to the surface, even two decades later.  Here's one of my favorites.

Leslie and the Russian Birthday Party

For six weeks of my semester in Russia, I lived with a wonderful Russian host family (see them in the picture?  Are they adorable or what?!?).  Papa Zhenya (who often shouted randon German words at me in an attempt to communicate) and Mama Vera (who offered me tea and/or food nearly every time she saw me), and their children Masha (a high school senior) and Little Zhenya (maybe 9 or 10?), welcomed me into their tiny, 2 1/2 bedroom apartment with an abundance of enthusiasm and zealous hospitality.  From the moment I stepped into their home, I was family.  And if you know anything about Russian culture, you know that being family makes all the difference.

As family, one event I got to be part of was a birthday party for a life-long friend of my host sister and her cousin (who visited us often).  The friend lived in a small industrial city, an hour or so outside of our GIANT city of Nizhni Novgorod.  Masha, her cousin Tanya, and I headed there together the morning of the party.

We walked/bussed/trained/walked to Tanya's family's one bedroom apartment first.  Yep, you read that right.  This family of four shared a one bedroom apartment.  We would spend the night there after the party rather than return to NN so late.  Tanya's father and little brother (her mom was away for some reason which was probably explained to me and which I probably didn't understand) were warm and welcoming in bold, Russian strokes.  Lots of noisy greetings; lots of excitement to meet me (an American), lots of offers of food and drink.  If you ever need an ego boost, I recommend this experience.  

After a couple hours, the three of us trudged through the snow to an identical apartment in an identical apartment building, just a few hundred yards away from Tanya's.  In this tiny apartment's kitchen and living/dining rooms were crammed about 20 people, most of them around my age.  No one but Masha spoke English, but this was about 10 weeks into my time in Russia, so I could at least manage the standard greeting and getting-to-know-you stuff.  Masha was a great interpreter.

Until she and Tanya left.

For over an hour.

I never understood fully where they went or why (not understanding things is pretty standard when you live in a foreign country), but in the meantime I was in an apartment with a group of total strangers, not one of whom spoke English.  It was hot and crowded; loud and overwhelming; and it was an experience of a lifetime.  Everyone was fascinated by me (in spite of my mostly non-verbal state).  I was a foreigner.  I was an American.  I was a native English speaker.  I was INTERESTING!  Masha told me later than some of the people I met there had never before met a non-Russian.  

Think about that.  It's pretty humbling and surreal to be someone's first-ever experience of a foreigner! 

One guy in particular assigned himself as my new interpreter, in spite of the fact that he knew about five English words.  You can see him sitting next to me in the photo below (I'm in a red shirt), toasting the camera.  When someone would speak too quickly for me to understand, he would chide them and tell them to slow down.  He spent LONG minutes trying to say things to me in English...generally just random words.  :)  Eventually someone came up with a Russian/English dictionary, and he commandeered that baby the whole time.  I did a lot of smiling and nodding.  Occasionally, he would encouraged everyone to back up a bit, so as not to crowd me.  He constantly tried to get me to eat and drink various things.  Just about the time I thought my brain was going to start oozing out of my ears, Masha and Tanya returned, and the party began in earnest.

Into the already-crowded rooms came more and more people.  I believe the final count around the table was 20 or 21.  The table had been placed in the living room- the biggest space in the apartment), so we were surrounded by a couch, a tv, and the rest of the living room furniture.  To get up from the table, you had to stand on the seat of your chair and step over it onto the furniture behind.  But we weren't getting up; we were too busy eating and toasting.  Russians are not slouches when it comes to putting out a good spread for a special occasion!  There was food for days.  And drinks!  The men drank vodka (of course!) and the women drank white wine.  I drank juice (along with the couple children there), thanks to the community contract I had signed for the study abroad program.  

My unwillingness to consume alcohol seemed to be a personal insult to my dear protector.  He tried and tried to convince me to try just a sip!  "Eet ok, Lyehzlyee!  No problyem!  Nooooo problyem!" ("It's ok, Leslie!  No problem!  Noooooo problem!")

When we were all stuffed to the point of explosion, and more hard liquor had been consumed than I had ever witnessed in my life (I had not yet lived in China at this point), the table was cleared, and then removed.  The parents and younger siblings of the host family left the rest of us and headed to bed.

The photo above is Masha, Tanya, and the little sister of the birthday girl, singing one of the many songs I heard that night. We played some party games; they danced (by this point I was struggling to stay awake), and eventually the whole crew decided to go for a walk.   It was nearing midnight, but it was snowing, which made it easy to see as we walked.  After a snowball fight we all returned to the apartment and said our goodbyes.

Masha, Tanya, and I, along with Tanya's boyfriend and my personal protector, returned to Tanya's home.  We were all staying there for the night, and then we would take the train back to the city the following morning.

At this point you might be scrolling back up to verify the number of bedrooms in this place.  One.  One bedroom.  It had two twin beds in it.  Counting Tanya's dad and brother, there were seven of us staying overnight.  I figured Masha, Tanya, and I would get the bedroom, and all the guys would camp out in the living room.  But that's because I'm an American.  Were I a Russian, I would have known better.

I would have known that the most honor is shown to the guest least-closely related to the family ( you know; they are the most properly "company").  So the blood-family members (Tanya, her dad, her brother, and cousin Masha) shared the living room.  We three guests (the boyfriend, the friend, and the American) shared the bedroom.

When you're studying abroad, there are some things you do not mention when you talk with your mom.  Like how that one time you shared a bedroom with two drunk Russian men you'd just met a few hours before, and how they slept in their boxers, cause, you know, that's what Russian men do, I guess.

But in reality, the worst part of the whole event was when Masha explained the sleeping arrangements, and everyone stood around laughing good-naturedly as understanding dawned on my face as the two guys started stripping down, and I began to blush.  In the morning I woke up to my protector, thankfully once again fully clothed, rolling up his pallet of blankets and encouraging me, with broken English and lots of sign language, that it was early and I should go back to sleep.

As our crew I rode the train back home, I knew that attending that party had been a gift for me.  That trip was a special glimpse into the Russian culture that not many foreigners have the privilege of experiencing.   I came home totally exhausted, physically and mentally, but the whole event was more than worth it!

What's Happened So Far

So, how does fostering work, you ask?  Here's a simplified version, according to what I know thus far (translation: this isn't advice and in a year or so I'll probably shake my head at the quantity of things I didn't know or understand when I wrote this.  Such is life.).

RESEARCH

First, I talked to everyone I could who has fostered.  I heard about various experiences, and they all reinforced my understanding that the system is a mess and there is a lot about it that is really, really hard.  But most of them said it was worth all the hard. 

I keep being impressed by this thought: these kids don't have a choice.  I look at the system and I think, "This is too...

...too messy
...inconvenient
...scary
...expensive
...broken
...emotionally draining
...physically draining
...uncomfortable
...unfair
...depressing
...intimidating
...hopeless

And my next thought is always that I can choose not to help, but those kids can't choose not to need help.  This thought steadies me.

Next I jumped online and started looking at the agencies in my area.  And then I checked out the DCS website.  I completed and submitted a bunch of online forms to be contacted for more information.  I slowly pieced together (I think) the fact that DCS (the department of child services) is the hub.  They get all the cases of kids that need fostering.  Then they place those kids with foster families in two ways:
1. directly to foster parents who were licensed through DCS 
-and- 
2. through LCPAs (licensed child placement agencies) who license their own families.  Some kids end up in facilities rather than homes.  I haven't yet learned when and why that happens.

Anyway, I've chosen this second route of using a private agency for several reasons.  First, the DCS is understaffed and overworked and fostering through them directly means that everything is "government work".  Like, reimbursements take months to process, and case managers are worked off their feet.  But the biggest difference for me is that my LCPA is an openly Christian organization.  Not only will I have the support of their staff, but they are like-minded and I get the added bonus that they serve as go-betweens between me and DCS for many things.  So they absorb some of the irritants that come with working with the government.

[note: this isn't a political statement about this government or any other.  it just is]

PAUSE TO PRAY FOR DIRECTION

So, after talking to the DCS, I decided on using a private agency.  And after speaking with people from about five different agencies, I spent a couple weeks praying about the right agency.  My prayer team was awesome in supporting me.  Eventually I settled on an agency and contacted them to get the process started.

APPLICATION PROCESS

So far I've completed and returned a survey about my experiences and philosophy about parenting; had an initial interview; taken 12 hours of RAPT classes (resource adoptive parent training); and I'm currently working to gather various things to complete my application packet.   But never fear; there are only about twelve million things to do.

Yesterday I got fingerprinted!  Did you know they don't use ink?  So fancy.

Today I set up an appointment to get my kitties vaccinated against rabies.  I thought about pointing out that my cats never come into contact with any other animals, but decided not to die on that hill.

Since I have well water, I have to prove it's safe.  Apparently the fact that I've been drinking it for three years doesn't qualify as proof.  And I guess that's just as well, since my first test came back "unsatisfactory".  (so diplomatic)  So I'm in the process of bleach-shocking my well and we'll try again.  So excited that I get to pay that testing fee at least twice.  (please note sarcasm)

Meanwhile, I've been garage saling and watching Facebook Marketplace and creating a baby registry (because they don't have foster kids registries) to try to get my house ready to handle kiddos.  I plan to request girls who are in full-day school and not older than 6th grade, at least to start with.  That narrows the "what I need" list down significantly, but it's still a pretty wide range.  So I'm focusing on the basics and will have to fill things in as I go.

Another step is to get a "child care plan" in place, so I've started researching child care options near me.  Depending on what time the kiddo(s) gets picked up for school, I may need before-school care.  I will most likely need after-school care of some sort.  I toured a center today.  It was a little surreal.  I felt like at any moment, someone was going to approach me as say, "Hey, you're not supposed to be here!"  :)

PRAY, PRAY, PRAY

And around all of these steps, I've been praying.  There is no part of this new ministry-adventure that I expect to be able to do well on my own.  I fully expect this to be one of those situations where if God doesn't show up, it's not going to work. 

And while that's a little scary to think about, I also think it's exactly where God wants me.

A New Ministry: The Why

Since I last wrote, God has been doing big things in my life and I want to update you on them!

Short version: I'm going to be a foster parent.

Long version:  The Why

Though I've always wanted to adopt some day, I've always dismissed the idea of raising children in any capacity as a single women.  It was something I wanted to do after I got married.  My default position was that kids are best served by two parents, and single parenting should be reserved for un-chosen circumstances (the death of a parent or divorce).

However, over the past five years I've slowly been coming to the conclusion that I might never get married.  It's possible, of course, but at the moment that is nowhere near happening.  And as this realization was dawning on me, so too was the concept that maybe single fostering is actually a good thing, and something I could do.

Single parenting is not ideal, of course, but no fostering situation is ideal, is it?  Ideally a child could be safe and cared-for by their own parents in their own home.  I can't offer a child a home with a father and a mother, but I can offer a home where they will not be abused or neglected.  The bar, friends, is not high.

But let me be clear- I'm not pursuing fostering because it's logical or I feel duty-bound.  God has asked me to do this, and so I am.  I'm believing Him to work in and through me, to make me enough for the kids that He brings me.  As the saying goes, "God doesn't call the equipped.  He equips the called." (see Hebrews 13:20-21)

Plus, my last name is Foster, so I figure it was destiny.

Zero Food Waste Fail -or- Who Wants Potato Soup?

Today I decided to make potato soup.  I’ve been hankerin’ for some loaded baked potato soup for several weeks.  I moved the diced ham from the freezer to the fridge in preparation.  That was about 3 weeks ago.  Today I threw away the diced ham.

Last night I moved the ¼ pound of bacon from the freezer to the fridge so I could put that in the soup in lieu of the neglected ham.  This morning I popped it in the oven to bake... 

[author’s note: if you’ve not yet discovered the joy that is baked bacon, allow me.  It is the ONLY way to cook any batch of bacon bigger than your skillet.  Google it.  So easy]

 ...and in a few minutes I thoughts, “Hmm, that bacon smells a little…off…”

Now granted, said bacon had been in the freezer awhile, but I put it in a ziplock, and then put that ziplock into a FREEZER ziplock, which I presumed would keep it good until roughly the second coming of Christ.

I check the label I’d written on the bag in blue sharpie.  June 2016.  Really?  I was sure this bacon was from this past summer (I’m writing this in December 2017).  But the sharpie doesn’t lie.  Hmm.

I peek in at the bacon. 

It look normal.  Didn’t it?  It was definitely not green.

I google “how do I know if my bacon is rancid” but that results in irritatingly subjective advice.  If it smells “off” or looks brownish, throw it away.  Well Google, what if it’s apparently been 18 months since I last cooked bacon and can’t remember if the smell is normal?  Is that red or brown?  Reddish-brownish?  Brownish-reddish?  All I’m sure of is that it’s not green.

I decided to give it a taste test.  Just a small bite, so I don’t end up with food poisoning (again) but so I’m sure that I’m sure it needs to be tossed.  Cause, you know, bacon is a terrible thing to waste.

I take a bite.  It tastes…off.

ARGH!

Meanwhile, I've been I making up the rest of the (now vegetarian) potato soup.  As I stir in the cheese, I realize that I have somehow accidentally gotten reduced fat cheddar cheese.  Guess what doesn’t melt into soup nicely?

Reduced fat cheese.

*Leslie jumps on soapbox*  PEOPLE!  CHEESE IS SUPPOSED TO HAVE FAT IN IT!!  THAT’S HOW GOD AND THE COWS INTEND IT TO BE!  EAT THE FAT!  DON’T TRICK THE REST OF US INTO GLOPPY POTATO SOUP BECAUSE YOU’RE WORRIED ABOUT EATING FULL-FAT CHEDDAR!  FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS RICH AND CREAMY AND GOOD!  *Leslie steps down from soapbox*

So now I have gloppy, vegetarian potato soup.  I went ahead and added some broccoli, hoping to camouflaging the mess.  It’s not working.

Anyone want to come over for dinner?  I’m cooking!

May Your Praise Be Louder

I work with volunteers. More to the point, I work with people.

If you work with people, too, you know that about 95% of the feedback you get is the negative stuff. And that's on a good day. It can be disheartening.

Last year I worked with a dad and daughter who wanted to set up a spring break trip. The daughter was a high school senior, and she wanted to go into orphan care after graduation. I was able to connect them with a ministry doing wonderful things with orphans with special needs in Central America. It was a pretty low-key event for me, though the dad (first time abroad for himself and his daughter) asked lots of good questions and was pretty nervous as departure time approached.

Last week I got this email from the dad out of the blue.

**********

Last year on this day, you took time to call, answer my never ending list of questions, and took time to pray for my daughter and I as we prepared to take a trip to ____________.

There isn't a day that goes by that I don't think about that week. Things I learned, things I saw, and how incredibly clueless I was about things outside the states.

Early this past Tuesday morning, I drove my daughter to Chicago for another flight to ____________. This time she is going as an intern for the next six months. She will work and help the kids there at _________________.

Thanks so much,

(signed)

*********

This sort of thing makes my work feel significant. It breaks into the monotony of monitoring account balances and holding for hours with various embassies with a joyful announcement:

"These trips can change lives!! It's not just visa requirements and luggage allotments! God can use these trips to Change. Lives. Eternally!"

It helps drown out the frustration of bureaucracy and politics. It helps to balance out the other 95%.

This email was a great reminder to me to be louder with my praise than with my criticism.

The praise matters.

How to Change a Headlight Bulb in a 2011 Honda CR-V

A comedy in 20 Steps

Step 1:  While driving to work at 4:30am, to pick up your computer so you can work from home since you're sick, notice that your lights seem dim.  When you arrive at the building, note that, indeed, your driver's side dim headlight is burnt out.  Take a moment to appreciate that at least when you got rear-ended this summer and it totaled your beloved (PAID IN FULL!!!) 2005 CR-V, at least it rid you of the problem of burning out headlights about once a month.

Step 2:  Later in the day, but still in your pj's and fuzzy socks, on your way home from a Meijer run for cold meds, swing into Advanced Auto Parts and pick up a bulb.  Appreciate the fact that bulbs for the 2011 CR-V cost $5 more than bulbs for the 2005.  Smile and nod when the helpful AAP guy warns you not to touch the bulb with bare hands, lest you reduce the bulb's life.  [psht.  rookie mistake.  i've known that for years]

Step 3: Before changing the bulb, pull up a Youtube video to make sure it's the same process as bulb-changing in a 2005.  BTW, it's exactly the same, so you can skip this step if you want.

Step 4: Gather supplies and consider that changing the bulb in the dark wasn't the wisest choice.

Step 5: Head out to the car with your gear and realize that you don't know where the latch to pop the hood is.  Sheepishly realize that after owning the car for over five months, you should probably know this.  Feel around uselessly for awhile.  Give up, and dig out your owner's manual.  Find the completely incomprehensible diagram describing the location of the latch.  Feel around uselessly some more.

Step 6: Take a break to go to the bathroom and blow your faucet (ahem), I mean, nose.  Return and eventually find the latch.  Apparently we're hiding it from the general populace, eh Honda?

Step 7: Open hood and peer hopelessly at the teensy, tiny space in which you must maneuver to make this happen.  Silently curse Honda's engineers in your mind.

Step 8: Remove the plug from the back of the bulb.  Note with trepidation that it's really tight.  Be sure to squash the back of your hand when it finally comes loose.

Step 9: Loosen and pull off the rubber boot.  Be excited that this part was easy!

Step 10: Push the little hook out of the way to release the bulb.  Bulb will fall free and drop about 2 feet into the bowels of the engine compartment.

Step 11: Stand and look at the dead bulb, lying so far down.  Just, you know, look for awhile.

Step 12:  Try unsuccessfully to reach the bulb.  Enjoy the delightful reality that you can't both see the bulb and reach for the bulb at the same time, as the act of reaching blocks the light, making it impossible to see.

Step 13: Head into the house for some pliers.  Return to the car and carefully try to reach the bulb with the pliers.

[Editer's note: you know what's coming, don't you?]

Step 14:Drop pliers into the bowels of the engine compartment.

Step 15: Close your eyes and sigh.  Retrieve errant pliers by touch, and feel happy at how easy that was.

Step 16: Eyeball the bulb, give up on the light, and push your arm into the engine compartment as far as you can.  Consider how odd if would look if your arm got stuck and you ended up dying in this position.  Realize that next time you should either have your cell phone within reach (you know, so it can fall into the engine compartment, too) or bring a pocket knife, so you can cut your own arm off in a pinch, like that mountain climbing guy.

Step 17:  Shudder and re-focus.  Very, very carefully, whilst pushing your arm in as far as humanly possible, retrieve the bulb.

Step 18: Perform a private happy dance.

Step 19: Finish changing the bulb with minimal drama.

Step 20: Take a moment to be thankful.  For a car.  For money to buy a bulb.  For access to Youtube videos.  And that your headlight works now.

There is no decision that you can't come back from.

Today someone posted this on FB:

"Be decisive.
Right or wrong, make a decision.
The road of life is paved with flat squirrels who couldn't make a decision."

I chuckled.  And that made me think of this event in my life:

In 2011 I moved to the US from Ecuador, leaving a job and a community that I loved to come back to NO job.  Eventually I found a job six hours from home that turned out to be an employment nightmare that went on for two long years.

But at the time of the event, I didn't know about the forthcoming 2 years.

[evidence of God's grace]

I had just moved to the new town, and was living in a cheap motel for a week while I looked for an apartment (and while I did my first week of work at the new job).  During day one of that job, I was informed that, though I had been led to believe I would be working full time, they could only offer me 20 paid hours a week.  But don't worry- that can change every month!  Hopefully next month it'll be full time!  [it wasn't full time for three months, but again- it's probably best I didn't know that then.]

Somewhere in the midst of that horrific, honestly hardest week of my life...

In a totally new place where I knew no one
Living in a motel
Trying to negotiate the system of a new teaching job
Far from my family
Doubting my decision to leave Quito
Doubting my decision to take this job
Doubting everything

...my exceedingly wise friend Brooke spoke this simple truth into my chaos:

There is no decision that you can't come back from.

I think she said more words after that, but they are all lost to me.  My soul was thirstily lapping up that hope she had offered, before it evaporated and was lost.

There is no decision that you can't come back from.

The GRACE in those words overwhelms my heart, even today.

See, I'm not naturally a gracious person.  I have this theory that we all naturally lean either toward grace or justice, most of us to a fault without the leading of the Holy Spirit.  My natural bent is most definitely justice.  If you've ever met me, you already knew that.

Justice isn't all bad, of course, but being a person who naturally errs on the side of justice causes me to sit in awe, absolute, slack-jawed awe, at the appearance of hard-core grace.

And that is what I did that night.

I sat in awe.  And I wept.

Well, I was probably already weeping.  (did I mention "hardest week of my life"?  that wasn't an exaggeration)  But now I was weeping not out of despair, but out of hope.  Well, maybe half-and-half, in that moment.  But definitely moving toward hope.

These well-known but forgotten in the moment truths became visible again to my soul:

It will be ok.
Even in the dark, God is still in control.
Even when I make a wrong choice, He will redeem it if I let Him.  
Stop trying to white-knuckle it right.

There is no decision that you can't come back from.


And now I'm saying that to YOU.

There is no decision that YOU can't come back from, either.

If you want to join me in the corner, and weep with me over the grace, I have an extra tissue for you.  Come on over.  We will sit in awe of the Grace and weep together.

Always Grace

Last night this caught my eye:

"When John, who was in prison, heard about the deeds of the Messiah, he sent his disciples to ask him, 'Are you the one who is to come, or should we expect someone else?'" (Matthew 11:2)

This is JOHN. As in, The Baptist. The kid who grew up hearing his parents talk about his miraculous birth, his in utero first meeting with his cousin, Jesus, and his heavenly assignment to prepare the way for that cousin, the long-awaited Messiah   Heard those stories ad nauseam. He knew Who Jesus was.

He knew who he was, too. This Calling was his whole life. He had never tasted wine (the standard drink of the day) because of it. He lived in the desert. He battled the hypocritical religious elite and baptized and discipled the spiritually open. This preparing the way for the Christ was John's purpose. It was his whole existence. There was never a time in his life when he wasn't aware of that.

How could John possibly doubt Jesus? According to the prophecy given to his father before his birth, he was filled with the Holy Spirit from birth (a rare thing before the HS was sent at Pentecost). John himself baptized Jesus and would have been one of those who witnessed the Father's testimony that Jesus was his Son. You know, just in case the family tales and the testimony of the Holy Spirit weren't quite convincing enough. Earlier in his ministry, John testified to his followers that Jesus was the Christ. John knew.

And yet.

"Are you Him?"

In general, the Jews were looking for an earthly king, not a heavenly one. Maybe John, sitting is his prison cell, was thinking that now's a great time for Jesus to flex his political muscle, and get his cousin out of prison before he's executed? That seems like a fair expectation. After all, we consider family loyalty a virtue.

It's funny what fear does to us. And the combination of fear, time to think, and unmet expectation? That's deadly stuff, right there. That's the perfect formula for doubt. For bitterness. Despair. It can cause us to question things we've known since we were kids. Things we've believed without hesitation our whole lives.

Suddenly, in the darkness of fear, things look different. Unfamiliar. Unsafe.

Jesus himself said of John (AFTER he got the message of John's questions), "Truly I tell you, among those born of women there has not risen anyone greater than John the Baptist..." (Matthew 11:11)  

Do I think John lost his faith and recanted? Nope. I think in a moment of despair, he asked an honest question of his Savior.

"Lord? That's you, right? I know it is, but the light is playing tricks on my eyes. I just need some reassurance. I need to hear you say it."

And reassurance is exactly what Jesus sent back. Here's the message:

"Go back and report to John what you hear and see: The blind receive sight, the lame walk, those who have leprosy are cleansed, the deaf hear, the dead are raised, and the good news is proclaimed to the poor. Blessed is anyone who does not stumble on account of me." (Matthew 11:4-6)

No shaming. No reprimand. No incredulity. Just grace.

And that, kids, is why this whole thing is encouraging to me. There is always grace. Even if you should know better. Even if your family tree is rife with those whose faith puts yours to shame.  

For the strongest and the weakest among us (because when you come right down to it, we are one and the same) there is always grace.

Grace to reassure us of things we used to know. But forgot in the dark.

Always grace.

Communication is Hard

Yesterday afternoon my supervisor (Tami) asked if I could pick up our mutual boss (Dave) at the Kroger close to my house and take him to the office at 8:15. His car is in the shop. Tami went on to explain something unnecessary about how she would do it but it's so much closer for me [true story- like 40 minutes closer for me] and that she has to drop her kids off at school [also true. she has kids and I assume they go to school].

I must have zoned out at the point when she said "tomorrow" or "in the morning" or "AM". I didn't need to be convinced that I was the obvious choice for this assignment. I was instead thinking of the time Dave volunteered to drive an extra 3 hours to a meeting so that I could go watch my dad participate in the tractor pull at the county fair.  

I said of course I could pick him up.

That evening I was SO tired that I actually set an alarm for 8, when I needed to leave, so I didn't sleep through it. The alarm woke me as planned and I stumbled sleepily out the door to pick up Dave and take him to the office. I maybe should have given myself a little buffer wake-up time, because I was already part-way to work before I realized I'd missed the first step (picking up Dave) and had to turn around. Oops.

As a result of my crystal-clear post-nap thinking, I got to Kroger about 8 minutes late. No Dave. Weird.

At this point, for the FIRST TIME it crossed my mind that maybe Tami meant 8:15 am. Tomorrow. That would make a lot more sense.  

I call Dave. Voicemail.  

I call Tami. Voicemail.  

I text Dave. No answer.  

I text Tami. No answer.

I sit in my cozy car listening to my current book on cd until 8:45, assuming by this point Dave would have at least tried to call me if he can't find me, and then I drive home. Just as I'm pulling into my driveway, and very sorrowful and apologetic Dave calls. He needs a ride in the morning. He's UBER sorry.

About ten minutes later, Tami calls. "I guess I should have said 'tomorrow' or 'Thursday', but I figured when I said I needed to drop my kids off at school..."

Oh well. It's nice to work for people that you like enough that you don't really care when stuff like this happens.

And besides, all's well that ends with me going to bed.

Communication is hard.

Everyday Drama -or- Leslie Tries Sugar Scrub

This year a lovely woman at church I've been getting to know better gave me a Christmas gift- a jar of sugar scrub.

I was excited.  I like presents.  I like sugar.  I...don't like scrubbing things, but two out of three ain't bad.

Having had zero experience with sugar scrubs (or any scrubs, for that matter), there were some questions in my mind.  So I asked.

Um, what IS it, exactly?  "It's made out of coconut oil, sugar, and lemon oil."

Huh.

I'm not gonna lie.  I wanted to taste it.  It's like halfway to a cake.

I asked some more strategic questions.

Do I use a washcloth or a poof?  "No, just scoop some up and use your hands."

Ok.  That sounds simple.

Do you use it on your face, or is it too harsh? "Probably avoid your face."

Check.

I had more questions, but by this point I felt silly.  What 35 year old American woman doesn't know how to use sugar scrub?  Obviously the others in the party did.  So I happily carried my little jar of scrub home.

I'll ask Papa Google, I thought.

Fast forward a couple days, and I'm standing in the shower, holding my jar of sugar scrub.  I have overnight guests coming the next day, so I bribed myself to clean the shower by promising myself I could use my new sugar scrub after.

So there I am, the shower is clean, and I'm switching gears from cleaning the shower to taking a shower, and I realize I haven't asked Papa Google my questions yet.

Stink.  It's too late to get out of the shower and search.  But the next thing I wanted to know was if the scrub should be used before, after, or instead of soap.  This seemed like an important point.  And it seemed important to know BEFORE I use it the first time.  Not so much AFTER.

But what the heck.  I decide to live on the wild side and guess.

After.  We're going with after soap.

Normal showering activities accomplished, I open the jar.

*Author's note: open the jar before your hands are wet and slippery.

It smells good.  On this first day of a New Year's sugar fast I remind myself not to taste the scrub.  It will not taste good, Foster!!  No.

I scoop out some goo and have at it.

*Author's note: I can see why sugar is an exfoliant.  Don't start out with too much vigor.  Go easy.

As I finish up one should and arm, I realize that those surfaces are now oily.  Right.  I just rubbed oil on them.  Curious that I didn't see that coming.  I rethink my After decision.

I continue scrubbing and consider the fact that I've heard of people using coconut oil like a lotion.  Well, I should be lotiony now, fer sher.

Meanwhile, the water has started to lose a bit of its heat.  That's normal for such a long shower, but it hurries me along a bit.

As I notice the intriguing way that the water is now beading up on my shoulders, my feet start sliding down the surface of the tub.

Yes, coating a surface with oil will make the water bead up on said surface.  It will also make your tub slippery.

I finish scrubbing.  As I stand in the cooling water, I ponder what to do.  I'm greasy.  This isn't my standard post-shower state.  Should I cave and wash with soap again?  Will it rub off on my towel?  Is this what's SUPPOSED to happen?  Will I eventually swear by moisturizing with coconut oil, or will it clog my pores and cause me to break out in a horrific rash?

Again, what's a new year for, if not to live dangerously?  Besides, the water's getting cold.  I turn off the water and reach for my towel.

And now, a few hours later I have determined that I made the right call.  My arms and legs don't feel greasy, but they do feel soft.  I just checked- they DON'T taste like lemon cake (alas).  But in all, the sugar scrub was a win.  Thanks Amber!

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...