Joy and Purple Houses

I watched a TED Talk by Ingrid Fetell Lee the other day on Joy. What is it, how do things in the physical world create an emotional response… It was very interesting and I’ll put a link in for you if you want to watch it:

Where Joy Hides and How to Find It

In the talk she was emphasizing how color brings joy and it got me thinking about how I love bright colors so much. I recently bought myself a bowl from the Pioneer Woman Collection at Walmart. The bowl was less than $5. I was so excited when I bought it. I brought it home, filled it up with cut strawberries and had a moment of bliss. It was so beautiful! So colorful! I sat in a chair, nibbled on strawberries and felt decadent in my colorful splurge.

bowlofcolor

My husband and I often have differences of opinion  when it comes to color. About 7 or 8 years ago we were getting ready to paint our house and my husband asked me what color I wanted to paint it. My answer was Purple! He raised an eyebrow, laughed a second, and then said, really? You’re serious? YES! I want a purple house! Which purple?  I told him I didn’t care which shade of purple or how he wanted to go about it, he was the design/color expert, he could pick out whatever would look best. How could he argue? He would have preferred a more standard color but the color I wanted was tied into emotion..Why did I want a purple house? Because it made me happy, joyful!

So why on earth did purple houses make me happy? Ok. A tiny bit of backstory. I attended Biola University for 2 years, right after I graduated high school. My parents lived in Alaska and I would fly down to Southern California each semester by myself and live in a dorm. Though I made some good friends in college, it was still a bit lonely. My second year my dorm room was at the end of a very long hallway. Some kind soul had decided to try and cheer up the hallway and they had tacked up a bunch of prints of Thomas Kincaide’s paintings. You know what I’m talking about? Fuzzy, cozy houses, with beautiful light spilling from the windows. I would stop and look at these pictures as I headed for bed, late at night, after spending hours practicing piano at the music building. Looking at these pictures created a longing I had never had before. A longing for a home, somewhere stable, cozy, warm, inviting. Up to this point in time I had thoroughly embraced my parents’ nomadic lifestyle. My entire life I had never stayed in a home longer than 2 years. I assumed that I would continue this same pattern as an adult. I would move around, have lots of adventures, never settle too long in one place. When I saw these pictures I suddenly found myself wanting something completely different. I didn’t understand it, I just knew that one day I wanted a home that reminded me of these pictures.  

Later, when I had children, I read them a story called “Mr. Pine’s Purple House” by Leonard P. Kessler. It is a story about a man who wants his house to look different from his neighbors. He finally ends up painting his house purple. I loved this book. When I read it, I would think, Yes! I want a purple house too! But I would imagine a Thomas Kincaide -type purple house: fuzzy, lots of lights on the inside.

So, my husband asks me what color I want my house and I am ready, I’ve been saving up this answer for years…I want a purple house! My husband loves me. He is also a brave soul. He started looking at paint samples of all the millions of shades of purple that exist in the world. He finally came up with a plum purple on the top half of the house matched with a heavy cream on the bottom half. Looking at the paint samples, it looked great. We told the painters which colors we wanted.

We drove up to the house after the painters had finished one side. We both gulped, hard. Wow. That’s really purple. Really purple. We looked at each other, laughed nervously. My husband said, This was YOUR idea. I nodded. Yes, I would take full responsibility. Even though I was feeling nervous, seeing the purple still made me happy. I had an overwhelming urge to just laugh and dance. As the painters added the cream on the bottom of the house and finished everything up, it looked a lot more balanced, not quite as startling. I loved it. Every time I saw it I would start grinning. Why did I want a purple house? Because it makes me happy, joyful!

fuzzypurplehouse

Years down the road, the paint has faded, it needs to be redone soon. But I, the unobservant person that I am, still notice the color of my house and it still makes me happy. I am thankful for a Creator God who made all the colors around us and then also put a desire in us to be around those colors. I am also thankful for my husband whose color choices tend to favor tan and khaki and muted grays who nevertheless lets me indulge in my fits of color. You want to know how much he loves me? He just let me paint our bedroom an interesting shade of orange. Why? Because it makes me happy, joyful!

Anxiety and the Gospel

Have you ever noticed how quickly your mood and attitude toward life can change? One minute you’re walking around and everyone you meet reminds you of Mr. Rogers (of Neighborhood fame), there are rainbows on the horizon, and you feel like you could do and be anything you want. And then one of your kids makes a bad choice and you suddenly feel like the worst parent ever: I’ve failed my child! Something happens at your kids school that makes you mad: I’m going to withdraw my kids from school and we’re all going to live in a commune in the wilderness and home school! Someone is rude to you at the store: I hate this town, why can’t we move! You have a sick day and get behind in your chores: I can’t do this, there is no way I can survive unless we hire a maid! And everything just feels like it’s unraveling right before your eyes.

So, I’ve had a week like that, or rather, that has been this past week. I found myself feeling anxious and unsettled this morning and I started doing some self-talk. It’s going to be ok. You’re going to be ok. You are ok. And suddenly that phrase that our pastors are always preaching at my church came back to me, “Preach the gospel to yourself.” And my self talk changed. I am ok because I have been saved. Everything is ok because Jesus already paid for all my sins. Everything is going to be alright because Jesus cares about me and he is in control and I don’t have to worry. He cares for me. He also cares about my kids, even more than I do. He’s got this. He’s going to help me figure out each one of these situations. I am not alone.

The anxiety rolled off my shoulders. Some of the tension eased. I put on some worship music later as I trudged through the chores. Took a nap because my worry has been keeping me from resting well. Felt better about life.

This is not the first time I’ve “preached the gospel to myself”. When I was 19 yrs old I started having panic attacks. Looking back I can see that I was very over-extended, sleep deprived, pursuing a career that really didn’t suit my personality. All of these were prime ingredients for inducing anxiety. I found panic attacks to be the most terrifying experience I had ever had. Mostly because I felt like I was going crazy and I didn’t know what to do with my racing thoughts. My very brain itself seemed out of order. During this time I dropped out of college and went overseas, spending 4 months in Haiti and then 5 months in Chile. While I was in Chile I attended a Spirit-filled Baptist Church where I had a lot of people pray for me, minister to me, teach me things about church life that I hadn’t learned yet. It was a time of spiritual awakening for me. I can’t remember if anyone specifically told me what to do or if God just helped me figure it out, but I remember I started having a panic attack one night and instead of completely melting down, I started preaching the Gospel to myself. I recited my entire creed of faith out loud. I believe in God. I believe he created the heavens and the earth. I believe in his son Jesus who came to earth. I believe that he died on the cross for my sins. I believe that he rose and died again. I believe that he forgave my sins. I believe that when I die I will be with him. I believe he has has sent his Holy Spirit, I believe his Holy Spirit lives in me.

By the time I was finished, the panic attack had eased off. I was still feeling shaky, but I had something to cling to and I clung hard. I was able to fall asleep and when I woke up, the anxiety had passed. Over the years I have struggled off and on with anxiety. For me, it has usually been a symptom of something deeper going on. Extreme stress, extreme fatigue, a need for some serious changes in my life. I have found that if I want the anxiety to really go away, I have to deal with these deeper issues. Make changes. But through it all, preaching the gospel to myself has kept me sane.

I in no way am going to claim that this is how you heal panic attacks. I have family members who have struggled with anxiety for years and they have had to come up with their own ways of coping, but having an anchor to hold on to while you figure it out is invaluable. Having a certainty that you are not alone and that someone a lot bigger than you is holding you even while you go through the storm, that is something I long for everyone to have. Preach the Gospel to yourself. Every day. It is life.

Facebook, Politics, and Respect

Respect has been on my mind a lot. I’ve thought about it as I’ve scrolled through Facebook, I’ve thought about it as I’ve read a whole bunch of political jokes. I’ve thought about it as I’ve listened to some of my kids’ complaints about various school teachers. I’m looking around, and I’m not seeing a whole lot of respect in our culture.

When I was in 3rd or 4th grade I bought one of those Mad Libs books at a book fair at my school. Remember Mad Libs? It had some kind of story with lots of blank spaces. In the blank spaces you filled in whatever it told you, like a noun, or a color, or a famous person. After you had filled in all the blanks, you would read the story and it would sound ridiculous because you had changed all the keywords in the story. I was so excited about my Mad Libs book. I was visiting my Grandma and was doing a Mad Lib with one of my cousins. One of the blank spaces we had to fill in was a famous person. We were young and innocent and the only famous people we knew were from the history books, so we put in Abraham Lincoln. We finished filling in the spaces and then I began reading the story out loud. The story featured Abraham Lincoln (our famous person) and it was ridiculous. Well, my Grandma had been listening to what we were doing and she marched over to me and lit into me. She was mad. She was mad that I was disrespecting Abraham Lincoln, one of our countries fine leaders. She thought it was outrageous that we would use his name so lightly and make fun of him and she put the fear of God in me to ever talk disrespectfully about one of our leaders again. I can’t say that I liked her methods, she scared me to death, but the lesson stuck.

As politics continue to get nastier year by year, I have been confronted with the idea of, “Their actions make them unworthy of respect.” They are liars, cheats, frauds, ridiculous, aren’t doing their job properly, people with an evil agenda. The idea is that these faults make someone unworthy of my respect, which means I can say whatever I want about them, because, after all, they are not worthy of respect.

Ok, let’s look at the definition of respect. The Merriam Webster Dictionary defines respect, the verb, as “To consider worthy of high regard: Esteem”. It gives synonyms for Esteem: worth, value.  Our Declaration of Independence says that “All men are created equal”. The book of Genesis, from the Bible, says that “God created mankind in his own image”. When we look around at all the people around us, we’ve got to realize two things. First we are all equal, there is no hierarchy where some people are allowed to look down on others. Second, we are created in the image of God. He made us special. He made each one of us. He happens to like what he made.

I can hear all the excuses being thrown out, because I’m thinking them myself. If someone does not act in a respectable manner, then I don’t have to respect them. I’m going to put out the theory that really there are two kinds of respect. The first one is just common decency that every human deserves because they are our equal and because God created them. The second level of respect would fit more with the Merriam Webster definition of respect, the noun, (as opposed to the verb) “expression of high or special regard or deference.” Yes, there are people who rise above and do things that we admire, have character that we admire, have accomplished great feats that we admire. Yes, these people are worthy of respect, in a level that goes above the general respect you get just because you are human. Perhaps a better word would be admiration.

But we have forgotten that general respect that people should get, just because they are human. I have noticed it most with our media. I don’t watch TV, so I’m out of the loop, but several years ago I was sitting in a waiting room at a doctor’s office and they had the news on a big screen TV. The room was small and there was no avoiding watching what was playing. It was supposedly a news show, but what they showed was a clip of an elderly woman who was pulled over by the police. The woman was clearly confused and started to be very aggressive with the police. The news anchor people showed the clip and then sat there and made fun of the elderly woman. My jaw dropped. I couldn’t believe that they were sitting there mocking and making fun of this poor elderly woman. What happened to respecting your elders?? Nowadays it’s Memes on Facebook about our President. I’ll go on record and say, I’m not a Trump supporter. I’m not a Clinton supporter either. But these are people! And right now Trump is our President! I’m blown away that people think it’s fine to be extremely disrespectful about him, or on the flip side, extremely disrespectful about the the people who oppose him.

I am not saying that you need to agree with our current administration or with any other political leader. It is not disrespectful to point out things you see as mistakes or are just plain wrong. But it can be done respectfully. Mature adults having a conversation. I don’t think it’s wrong to protest, but it can be done respectfully, sticking to the issues instead of trying to tear down individual people.

Here’s the thing I’ve been trying to drum into my teenagers heads. When you act disrespectfully towards someone, all it’s doing it pointing out a lack of character in yourself. When you are willing to stoop to a level of name-calling and mocking, all you’ve done is made yourself a lesser person.

I’ll end with this. One of the things I love about my husband is that he treats all people equally. I am always made most aware of this when I see him dealing with homeless people. My husband works downtown and his construction sites are close to the homeless shelters. He runs into a lot of homeless people. I’ve seen him. He talks to them, shakes their hand, shares any spare change he has, looks them in the face, wishes them luck. On occasion he has reached out and helped some of them get a job, get help. Here’s the thing, he doesn’t believe that he has some kind of “ministry” to homeless people. They’re just people that he runs into on a regular basis, and he’s just treating them like normal people. Because they are. We all nod our heads and say, yes, it’s good to be kind and respectful to homeless people. Y’all, politicians are people too. We are welcome to dislike their political agendas, but we should not be welcome to malign them, make fun of them, and treat them as lower-level humans. And here’s why. If we want racism to end, if we want violence against women to end, if we want sex trafficking and slavery to end, then we have to get rid of the idea that some people are worthy of respect while others aren’t. We have to throw out the notion that there are different “levels” of people. As long as we feel like certain groups are open game to mockery and belittlement, we are never going to achieve true equality.

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Passing On the Family Heritage

Camping is in my blood.

Now when I say that, I don’t mean that I’m obsessed with camping and just want to go all the time. No, what I mean is that from my earliest memories, my parents dragged me along on camping trips until it became embedded in who I was.

My earliest memories of camping are when I was somewhere around 4 years old. We lived in the North of Haiti and I remember my parents loading my brother and I along with a ton of luggage, into our old, unreliable Peugot station wagon. We traveled about 12 hours down to the South of Haiti, up into the mountains. I remember heat, dust, throwing up from car-sickness, my mom singing songs from the Sound of Music to entertain us, chewing on minty gum that we bought from a street vendor. I also remember that we got to our destination late at night, that it rained, the tent leaked, all our belongings got wet, it was a lot colder in the mountains than my parents were anticipating so we were freezing, and my brother and I ended up sleeping in the car because it was the only dry, warmish place. That was just the first night of camping. I think it improved after that. Not sure. Maybe. I also remember picking blackberries, exploring a large fog-filled meadow, and fighting with my brother over who got to be in the hammock that my dad had strung up. Every year that we lived in Haiti my parents would insist on going camping in the Southern Mountains. It was their vacation and they were/are adventurous people. They also loved that part of Haiti and dreamed of working there.

The five years that we lived in Kentucky my mother was in school and life was busy. I don’t think we did any camping during that time, but we spent lots of time at the lake or visiting the nearby Carter Caves or the Natural Bridge. We also squeezed in a trip to Niagara Falls and a trip out West and saw the Grand Canyon. Not camping, but definitely forays into nature.

When we moved to Alaska, when I was 15, camping became a regular way of life during the summer. We would load up into our boat, head up the Kuskokwim River and go for hours until we found a likely spot on the river bank and then we’d stop, spend more hours setting up camp, and then sit around the fire, roasting sausages and marshmallows, drinking tea. My dad would go fishing and we would eat whatever he caught. It was a time of rest and relaxation. And mosquitoes. (Pictures of Alaska are beautiful, but that’s just because they photo-shopped out all the giant mosquitoes making black dots on the picture.)

Later, when my husband and I were living in Chile with our first two babies, my parents came and visited, and what did we do? We went camping in the Andes. My dad and my husband went off to hike Mt Picazo (Same name as my maiden name, my dad felt a connection, wanted to hike it). My mom and I and my two babies stayed in a campground. (We didn’t feel the same connection and were quite content to stay behind with the babies). The two main memories that stand out to me was first, our tent site was on a side of hill which meant that by morning, we had all rolled to the bottom of the tent and were effectively squishing each other, and second, the very friendly owner of the campground explained to me the secret to cooking good pasta: get a really big pot with lots of water so that the pasta has room to cook and doesn’t stick to each other. (I have always remembered this, but I never seem to have a big enough pot handy, so I still deal with clumpy pasta.)

Nowadays,  I would tell you that my idea of getting out in nature is to rent a cabin in the mountains and sit on the deck and enjoy the view.  Alas, I married a boy scout. My husband’s idea of getting out in nature is to get a pack and go off and do a section of the Appalachian Trail. He knows all about wilderness survival and gets out camping/hiking/canoeing any chance he can get. We went camping on our honeymoon. Any time we travel long distances we camp. If we are going to do something fun as a family, it’s probably going to be camping. Still not my favorite thing to do. But it’s in my blood. I feel duty bound to pass this on to my children, it’s part of their heritage. And so I go camping. And if my kids complain, I take on the role of cheerful optimist who thinks that hanging out in a tent with 7 children because it’s raining outside is FUN! Going to the bathroom in the bushes is CHARACTER-BUILDING! Fighting your way through swarms of mosquitoes….well, even I can’t think of a positive statement for that.

Here’s the funny thing though. We went camping this past weekend. Primitive, out in the middle of nowhere camping. We got there by canoe. Took 7 children with us. You know what? I actually had a lot of fun. I loved being outside. I loved seeing the beautiful lake and mountains and streams and forests. I loved cooking over the campfire. Ok, I still just endured using the bathroom in the bushes, but does anyone love that? It was a wonderful experience. I especially loved watching my kids have fun, watching my husband teach them how to cook a simple campfire meal, watching him teach them about “Leave no Trace”. I loved seeing my 7 yr old daughter get her tent and pitch it all by herself. I loved watching my oldest daughter as she paddled our canoe diligently with me across the lake. I loved watching my sons get excited about all the different animal tracks they found. I loved watching my two youngest just run around the camp, so excited to be outdoors for such a long period of time. This camping thing is a bit of a crazy heritage, doesn’t exactly fit my personality, but I’m learning to appreciate it.  And I’m learning the joy of passing it on to the next generation.

canoetrip

God Didn’t Make Me a Nun

It’s been a long crazy week, and we’re only on Wednesday. School is out this week for a break and so, on top of the normal chores, normal baby care etc, we have also thrown into the mix, playdates, sleepovers, dentist appointments, volunteer work, and some babysitting. Today I felt like the world was spinning twice as fast as normal and I couldn’t quite keep up with anything. In the midst of all of that, this evening I found myself thinking about intimacy with God.

So here is my thought for the day.. How do we become intimate with God? What does that even mean?  When I think of intimacy with God I think about having long hours of silence and contemplation, maybe some private worship time. I have always had a bit of envy for nuns and monks who spend their days in quiet and devotion and service. That seems like a bit of heaven from where I’m standing. I will point out the obvious though, God didn’t make me a nun. So how does someone who is super-busy all the time and fully immersed in the world become intimate with God?

I am no expert so I’m just going to put out an idea. What if being intimate with God simply means being aware of him more and more. He is, after all, everywhere. If we aren’t feeling his presence, it’s not because he went somewhere, it’s because we aren’t tuned in.  As you become aware of him more and more, maybe being intimate with God means including him in your day to day decisions. Perhaps it means learning to notice him enough to say thank you as you see wonderful little things hidden in the chaos of your day…a child’s grin, a hug, a sunray shining onto your face. Maybe intimacy with God is sending out prayers to him all day long for patience, for willpower to make good decisions, or sending out prayers of intercession as you think about various friends. Perhaps being intimate with God means that you think about his Word throughout the day, not just read something and then forget about it as soon as you step away from the Bible.  

How does this play out in Real Life? I know that I have heard over and over that you should get up really early in the morning and spend time reading God’s word and praying. This is really hard for me, and often impractical as I am still in the stage of life where my nights are regularly interrupted by little children who need their Mama. Though I still want to carve out that time, it hasn’t happened in quite a while, but in the past couple months God has lead me to start memorizing Bible verses with the kids. We focus on one verse a week. It has been a really good experience because I find myself thinking about the verse all week, pondering on it, meditating on it. It’s easy because I don’t have to find a Bible or a quiet place to read, it’s already in my head. I find also that God uses those verses to speak to me too, bringing them to mind at appropriate times.

How do I involve God in the daily things? Well, the other day I was trying to leave the house to go to the store and I was in a hurry and I couldn’t find my handbag. I searched all the normal places several times and I was starting to get a bit frantic and then I stopped and just spoke out loud,

Ok God, you know where my bag is, I don’t, I’d really appreciate it if you could just show me.

I was kind of frozen in one place as I said all this and then I glanced down and there was my handbag, tucked away in a corner where I had never put it before.

Thank you Lord!

I grabbed my bag and headed out the door and it occurred to me that I had just asked the Creator of the Universe, God Almighty, King of Kings, Lord of Lords, to help me find my handbag. (ok, I admit I regularly ask him for help to find things, but this was the first time that I really thought about the implications) I stopped mid-stride and kind of glanced up to the heavens, almost wondering if a bolt of lightning was going to appear and strike me down. I mean, really, wasn’t that disrespectful? I apologized, out loud.

Sorry Lord, I wasn’t trying to be disrespectful, I’m sure you have better things to do than find my handbag for me..

Except that he DID find my handbag for me, and for some reason I think he probably found it amusing.

Ah yes, Esther, I made her especially absentminded, she can never find her bag, her keys, her phone. I can’t keep track of how many times I’ve helped her find something.

It’s not something I understand, but somehow the God of the Universe loves me and actually wants to be involved in every single part of my life. And I’m not sure why, but he isn’t displeased when I ask him for help with little things, it actually makes him happy. The Bible says in 1 Peter 5:7 that we should cast all of our anxieties on him because he cares for us.

It doesn’t say to cast only the really big burdens, the ones that you can’t handle. No, it says to cast ALL of our anxieties on him. Losing things makes me anxious, it gets me upset. When I ask God for help to find my things, I’m casting my anxiety on Him. And it’s ok because He cares for me.

I’ve made lots of mistakes and I’m due for a million or so more in my life time, I’m sure, but that doesn’t have to stop me from growing in intimacy with God. If I’m keeping him involved in every aspect of my life then it will probably be easier for me to hear his voice when he tries to counteract some of my foolishness. Being in the habit of turning to him all the time also makes it easier for me to repent, apologize, ask for forgiveness because I’m just used to bringing everything to him. I don’t have to go looking for him so that I can “Make things right with God”, we’re already talking every day and it just becomes part of the every-day conversation. This happens all the time for me. I yell at one of my children, lose my temper, allow myself to say something that I shouldn’t have said, and God’s right there, shaking his head (in a metaphorical sense) and I feel convicted and apologize to him, and then he waits (again metaphorically) and I finally make myself go seek out the person I just wronged and apologize to them as well.

This is not to say that I have reached some amazing level of intimacy with God. No. I have great days where I’m really aware of him and then I have other days where I hit evening and realize I haven’t noticed him all day. But this is what I want for my life. This is the goal, the dream, the thing to pursue. Spending every day with God, making him such an integral part of my life that I can’t imagine ignoring him. And maybe I can achieve this, even outside a convent.   

A Little Trot Down Memory Lane

acul

I was a missionary kid who grew up in Kentucky, Haiti, and Alaska. I was born in Kentucky and then moved to Haiti when I was 2, back to the Kentucky when I was 6, stayed for 5 years, then back to Haiti when I was 11. I lived in Haiti from the age 11 to 15 with a 9 month break when I was 13. And then when I was 15 we moved to Alaska. It’s confusing. I know. I don’t expect you to remember all that.

I’ve been remembering the 11-15 yrs old stage when I was in Haiti. We lived for a year in Cap Haitien and then moved to a mountaintop home that had a view of the entire Northern Plain of Haiti, including a view of the Bay of Acul, a place where Columbus was reported to have landed. The house and its surrounding property was a child’s paradise. The house was a concrete block, 2 story, flat-roofed home with a balcony and a narrow ledge that went around the entire house on the 2nd story. There was an abundance of fruit trees. The driveway had been cut out of the mountainside and so there was a high cliff on either side of the driveway, and the peak of the mountain above that which was covered in tall grass and scattered with large boulders. There was a patch of jungle/woods/forest that had a wonderful old cashew nut tree in it, it’s branches all twisted and curlicued, making it an awesome climbing tree. There was a separate building a little farther up the hill from the house that housed a generator and there was a bench next to the that little building where you could sit and stare at the ocean off in the distance. It was an amazing home. The windows were all covered in metal grates and so we could easily climb up the windows, and get up on the ledge that surrounded the 2nd story. From there you scooted carefully along the narrow ledge till you got to the railing around the balcony, you could then climb onto the balcony. On the balcony was a ladder that took you up to the flat roof.

Occasionally my brother and I would get home from school before our parents and occasionally we wouldn’t have the keys we needed to get onto the property or into the house. We would first climb over the tall, locked,  wrought iron gate that went across our driveway, go down the driveway and then we would climb up on the balcony or roof to wait for our parents.

During that time period in Haiti there was a lot of political upheaval and the infrastructure of the country was not good. There was an electric company, but the power was rarely turned on. We had a generator but later, when Haiti was put under an embargo by the US, there was little fuel to run the generator. We had a well that gave us good clean water, but the well required an electric pump. By the end of our time in Haiti, we were turning on our generator every 3 days for about an hour during which time we would fill an entire room full of buckets and containers of water to hold us over for the next 3 days.  We would quickly run some laundry through our agitator/wringer washing machine, and then quickly turn the generator off to conserve the fuel. I took a cold bucket bath every morning before I headed out to school, mastering the skill of making a 5 gallon bucket last for a complete bath, including washing and conditioning my long hair.

My teen years in Haiti were spent going to school, attending a Haitian church on Sunday mornings, and then an English church on Sunday evenings. The occasional Saturday was filled with going to the beach or getting together with friends. During the summer I would accompany my mom into Cap Haitian for a day of shopping the market places, getting in a supply of basic groceries. We regularly visited friends. A big chunk of my time though, was spent simply at home, left to my own devices.

My brother was trying to graduate early and so he spent much of his time holed up in his room, working on his high school correspondence courses. My father was out doing his work and my mother was busy doing all the work that is required when you don’t have electricity, or convenience stores, or even well-stocked grocery stores. She also worked in medical clinics a couple times a week, and held medical clinics at our home for people in our neighborhood. I helped my mom with her medical clinics sometimes, wrapping pills in paper packets we made from cutting up magazines, handing her the right pill packets as she needed them.

I need to make something clear. I was not a missionary. I was simply a missionary kid. I did not feel any special calling or burden for the Haitian people. Haiti just happened to be where I lived. My parents did their work and I was caught up with school work and friends and daily life. My grandparents had been missionaries in Haiti for 40 years. My father grew up in Haiti. My mother came from England as a young single missionary, met my father, and they married and had my brother there in Haiti. For me, Haiti was not a mission field, it was simply where my family lived.

While my family was busy with their various pursuits, I focused on reading books, practicing music, journaling, and simply sitting outside, taking in nature, daydreaming, trying to sketch pictures of the view, trying my hand at writing poetry (unsuccessfully). I loved to get to a high perch, stare out at the ocean and just exist. I loved to sing and I would often sing loudly, giving it all I had, confident in the knowledge that no one was listening. I would sing hymns and praise songs, not really understanding the concept of worship, just knowing that the earth around me was so beautiful, I had to acknowledge the beauty and the creator of the beauty somehow. And so I sang songs.

I liked to write in my journal, just putting down the every-day occurrences of a young girl. Which friend had a crush on who, what my current crush had said to me the last time I saw him, stories of my life. Looking back through my journals it’s interesting to see how I gradually became aware that I wasn’t speaking into an empty void. Someone was listening to me. As I grew older my journals started becoming a conversation with God. A prayer. A place to vent and rant when I was upset, knowing that someone safe was listening to me. Through journaling I slowly learned the art of expressing my emotions and then learning how to be thankful anyway. I learned how to turn a complaint into a prayer request, a difficult trial into something that made me think and ponder and grow in my understanding of God and life.

Music took up a large chunk of my time. I was blessed to live close by to Laurie Casseus, who, in a fun turn of events, ended up becoming my aunt-in-law. Laurie was a singer and pianist, a missionary kid who had grown up knowing my father. She had married a Haitian, Jules Casseus: pastor, academic extraordinaire, author, among other things. The two of them assisted in the running of a Bible Seminary/University that was only two kilometers away from us. Laurie loved to share her talents with her community. She took the missionary kids under her wing and taught us piano lessons, voice lessons, had a children’s choir, and had us highschoolers working on duets and quartets and other ensembles. We sang popular songs, spoofs, hymns and classical music. I also had a full-length, weighted-keys keyboard my parents had bought me. My father had it hooked up to a car battery so that I could always play whether we had electricity or not. He also had a little lamp hooked up to the car battery so that I could see my music at night. I played that piano constantly, it was one of my only ways of expressing myself, the emotions I was feeling. I honestly don’t think I would have survived my tumultuous childhood without music. I am forever thankful to God for giving me a musical talent and to my parents for fostering that talent as much as they could and to Aunt Laurie for giving me so many opportunities to learn and grow in my music.  

One of my favorite memories of music was one night when there was no electricity, the entire valley was dark except for the small flickers of lamps and candles. There was a full moon and it was shining brightly on the ocean bay. I remember, in the silence, playing Debussy’s Clare de Lune and the music spoke to my soul. I knew what Debussy meant when he wrote the music. He meant this, this dark, moon lit night, silence, calm, peacefulness. It was a glorious experience to become one with the music and moon and the night. I remember it vividly to this day.

This past week I had been contemplating some of the more difficult aspects of life in Haiti, and I wondered if really any good had come out of me growing up there. God’s response was to flood me with memories. Memories of a childhood that was full of quiet moments and contemplation. No distractions of tv and internet and plugged-in entertainment. A childhood of music and book reading and journal writing. A childhood of nature and beauty. In the midst of the chaos God nourished my soul. I am thankful.  

When a Car Enthusiast Marries a Car Ignoramus

I married a Car Lover. Car Enthusiast. Car Restorer. Car Know-It-All. Yep. My husband is pretty amazing when it comes to cars. I truly believe there isn’t a single car I can point to and say, “What kind of car is that?” that he wouldn’t be able to tell me the kind of car it is, what year it is, and what kind of motor it has. He especially loves really old cars and is always looking at Old Car’s for sale that need fixing up.. Look at this! I just found a 51 Plymouth for sale on Craig’sList!

51plymouth2

I look at it. Honey, that’s not a 51 Plymouth, that is the remains of a 51 Plymouth. (Because, of course, I don’t see interesting old cars, I see projects that are going to cost a lot of money to finish.)

I think I’ve mentioned before that we are opposites. Yes. Well, my knowledge/interest in cars extends to color and basic shape/size. It’s white. Kind of small. Has 2 doors. I think. I suffer from a combination of disinterest and a general absent mindedness which means I’m not the best person to talk to about cars.

So, the other day I was sitting in traffic, waiting for a very long red light to turn, and I noticed the car in front of me. It was one of those brand new shiny tiny bubble-like cars with a cute little antenna sticking out the back… And now you are scratching your head and wondering what kind of car I’m talking about. That takes us to point of this piece. I don’t know what kind of car it was. I thought it was a VW bug and so I texted my husband later and said, “Hey, I think I know what my dream car would be, a VW Bug.”  That may seem random to you, but my husband, being who he is, asks me questions like, “What is your dream car?” and my answer is, “One that doesn’t break down.” (I feel like this is a legitimate answer considering some of the vehicles we have owned during our marriage.) So, I saw this car and I really liked it and I thought, AHA! I have discovered my dream car! I must share this with my husband!

He, of course, took it to the next level. A couple weeks later he says, Hey, I’ve been looking around on the internet and I found this VW bug for sale close by, what do you think? He shows me a picture of an old VW Bug that is cute, but it isn’t the one I meant when I had texted him. Umm. It’s nice..? He quickly pulls up a bunch of pictures of other older VW Bugs so I can tell him what I like and don’t like. We have just now officially stepped out of my area of expertise and I’m just winging it. Well, umm, I like that color…That one looks fun…He picks up on the uncertainty in my voice and asks, Which one were you thinking when you told me you wanted a VW bug?  

Well, you see, I was driving and I saw this car, I’m sure it was a VW…almost sure…and it was kinda bubble shaped and lots of glass and ummm a cute antenna. Or maybe there were 2 cute antennas, that looked like a bug? He stares at me. Looks at his screen where he’s been perusing cars. He says, exasperated, I don’t know any cars that have 2 antennas on the back, “kind of like a bug.”

Considering his vast array of knowledge I figure that if he doesn’t know  of a car with 2 antennas that look “kind of like a bug” that means that I probably was imagining it or remembered it wrong.

I try to come up with examples. You know that family that went to our church years ago, I can’t remember their names, Umm, they were friends with our other friend…and I think their teenage daughter had one. I think. Don’t you remember?? That family?? He looks at me blankly.

Ok, lets try something different. I grab my phone and start googling for pictures of cars, hoping to find a picture of what I saw. Except, of course, I don’t know how to search for a random picture of a car… I know I’ve seen a lot of them so, maybe “popular cars?”  Nope, nothing. Uhh, I think I’ve mostly seen women driving them, lets try, “women’s favorite cars?” Nope. Nothing. I decided to give the VW bug another search, maybe it was just a certain year that I was thinking about? I stare at hundreds of pictures of VW bugs. Weeellll, maybe that’s it? I point at a newer model of the VW Beetle. My husband stares at the screen, then he turns and stares at me, distaste written all over his face.

01-vw-beetle-final-live

 

He says…I may have to not like you as much as before.

I bristle. Well, I like it! So there! And just so you know, I happen to think some of the cars you like are ugly!

He looks surprised at that…Which ones do you think are ugly?

Those old square shaped Mustangs!

Mustang_SVO_1986

I don’t like square-shaped cars! I like bubble, round cars!

He looks puzzled, but he’s always ready for a conversation about cars..So, why do you like “bubble shaped” cars?

I think for a minute..Well probably cause when I was a kid I would draw pictures of cars and they were always “bubble shaped” and that just seems like the right shape for a car!

estherpiccar

 

My husband groans, shakes his head, then pulls up a picture of a Miata sports car…Like this?

2017-mazda-mx-5-miata-rf-first-drive-review-car-and-driver-photo-674193-s-original

Yes! That is what a car is supposed to look like!

He grins, Ok, I guess we can at least agree on that.

It’s ok, it goes both ways. I regularly bore him with accounts of all the interesting philosophical articles I’ve been reading, and my opinions on history and education. He gets the same glassy-eyed look that I get when cars are mentioned.

It’s a good thing we love each other.

Keep It Simple Stupid

My life motto has been, for quite some time now, KISS or Keep It Simple Stupid. In a world that is full of mixed up complicated advice, I am looking for that one simple instruction that is doable, attainable, simple. I don’t do well with complicated. When I make decisions, you can bet money that one of the top priorities for me is which solution is going to be simple. As I have recently been struggling with a problem and needing some simple advice, I found myself remembering the birth of my last child.

The part about the birth that I remember the most was the very end. Everything had gone in a rush. I had shown up at the labor and delivery floor at 7:30, contractions coming every 2 minutes. The baby was 3 weeks early and so I hadn’t even had time to preregister. I made my way to the nurse’s station and started talking quickly, trying to say as much as I could in between contractions. Hi, I’m Esther Heneise, this is my 10th pregnancy, all natural births, Contractions started at 5 pm……pant breathe pant breathe………..Ok, I have gestational diabetes, I’m taking insulin, the baby is really big……pant breathe pant breathe……..umm. Last ultrasound said the baby was 13 pounds, doctors wanted to induce early, they’re worried about shoulder dystocia……pant breathe pant breathe…………………The doctors suggested a C-section but we want to try natural first……….pant breathe pant breathe…………………..My labors are really fast so you don’t have much time……….

The nurse jumped into action, asking a bunch of questions that I could barely answer. Some important, when did you last take insulin? Others not so important, do you have a working refrigerator and stove at your house? (huh?) There was a flurry of getting into a gown, getting blood work drawn, and in the meantime they were still trying to get an idea of how big the baby was and how important was it for me to get a C-section? They did an ultrasound while I sat on the bed almost delirious with pain. I asked if I could get an epidural and they said, sure, as soon as the blood work comes back. I was doomed. I knew there was no way I would still be in labor by the time the blood work came back. I was already at the end of this process. No one else seemed to understand. They checked me and told me I was dilated to 7. I told them that the baby was going to be born within the next half hour. They all nodded and smiled and patted me reassuringly, don’t worry, as soon as that blood work comes back we’ll get you your epidural. By this time I was in transition and basically retreated from the world, just trying to focus on not dying from the pain.  At one point in time they came up to me and asked if I just wanted to go ahead and get a C-section. All I could think was, If I get a C-section will they knock me out so I don’t feel this any more? At least one logical part of my brain spoke up and said, I’m in so much pain I can’t make any decisions, ask my husband. Andy looked up, startled, but fortunately we had talked about this beforehand and so he gave our agreed upon answer which was that we were going to try natural first. I groaned. I had really hoped that I could just get knocked out. Suddenly, I knew, it was time to push. I started pushing. The nurse looked startled and asked if I was pushing. Yes. Stop pushing! You can’t push till the doctor checks you, it might not be time! I looked at her, felt the urge to push, and pushed again. She shook her head, announced to the room at large that I was no longer listening to her and I had started pushing. Total chaos broke out. The room was suddenly filled with people, the bed was being taken apart and 2 nurses came up and pushed me flat on my back, grabbing my legs. I was in a fog and was not tracking with anything but the pain. Suddenly a man’s voice broke through all the commotion. Ok, breathe! Breathe it out, contraction is coming, get ready,, Ok Push! I turned my focus on him, a big tall guy in scrubs and a mask. I have no idea who he was. He might have been a doctor, a nurse, an aide, or some random observer off the street. All I knew was that finally someone was actually helping me. He became my focal point as he coached me through a couple more pushes and then, without any complications, the baby was there. No problems, only weighing 9 pounds 12 ounces instead of the predicted 13. (pretty much 30 mins after they told me I was dilated to 7!) Everyone was healthy and well.People started leaving the room till I was left with just a couple nurses. I survived my last birth.

Looking back, I don’t know if I can emphasize enough how important the man in the scrubs was in the whole process. I was so caught up in my pain and the confusion that I could no longer help myself. I desperately needed one person to break through and just give me some simple instructions. Something I could handle and latch on to. He was a life saver.

I had this happen another time. When I was pregnant with my fourth child, that summer I had a real struggle with panic attacks and anxiety. I didn’t want to leave my house and I felt like I was barely holding my sanity together. Life was so overwhelming and I hadn’t learned yet some of the basics of self-care. I was pouring everything in to my 3 children, expecting another child, and felt like I wasn’t succeeding at anything.  My husband finally asked if I’d be willing to go and speak to our pastor. I made an appointment and we met and talked. I can’t really remember much of what we said but I do remember that he wrote down on a piece of paper 3 things to do. They were very simple. One was to establish a quiet time every day where all my kids were in their beds either napping or looking at books and I could have an hour to myself. The next one was to make it a priority to have a time to just talk to my husband every day with no interruptions, adult conversation. I can’t remember what the third was, but I do know it was equally as simple. It was a voice speaking through the fog of my anxiety, just giving me a couple basic instructions to help me establish some good practices of self-care. Even though it was simple, it really helped.

Sometimes I’ve had an actual person who shows up to speak some life into my situations. Other times, it’s the Holy Spirit just speaking a simple idea into my mind. I have been dithering around for a couple days now. I want/need to start eating healthier. I’m ready to do it. But how to go about it? I’ve read so many books and heard about so many different methods that now I’m completely stalled out and I don’t know what to do. This plan says no animal products, this other says, mostly only animal products. This plan says no fat, this other plans says all the fat you want, just don’t eat it at the same time as Carbs. This plan says one cup of grain a day, this other plan says all the grain you want as long as you don’t eat fat. ACCKK!!! What do I do? I finally made it a matter of prayer, Ok Lord, I need some guidance here. And an idea came to me. No sugar. Every single plan agrees on that one, no sugar. Just keep it simple. Tackle one bad habit at a time.  A still, small voice breaking through the confusion, giving me some simple advice. It’s exactly what I needed. Just keeping it simple….stupid.

Boredom With a Bit of Yoga Thrown In

“Here’s what I’ve learned about raising boys… if you keep ’em busy, they’re fine. You let ’em get bored, they’ll dismantle your house board by board.”

                                                                                                 Kenny Rogers

I saw this quote the other day. It was timely for the kind of day I was having. Now that all my kids are back in school, I am home alone with my 2 little boys, almost 4 yrs old, and 21 months old. I’m still trying to get us into a good routine, but usually I at least try to keep things moving. We all work together and get chores done in the morning. (Ok, I move around doing chores and they follow me, staying in a 2 foot radius at all times). We go outside and play in the yard. A couple times a week I try to load them up in a stroller and we go for a long walk. We have a couple activities we attend once a week where they get to be in a nursery/preschool setting. It’s not a super-busy schedule but it’s busy enough.

This week I have had a horrible cough/cold. The kind that keeps you up all night coughing and completely drains all your energy. It’s also been raining this week. I cancelled all our activities that we usually attend (not going to share this cold with anyone). It is raining so we can’t go out in the yard, and I do not have the energy to take any long walks. Cue boredom.  I have 2 little boys running around the house, trying to amuse themselves. I sit in a chair with a pile of tissues and try to play referee. We start off in my bedroom:

NO, don’t play on my dresser, put down the jewelry box and climb back down off of there!

No, don’t take all my shoes out of the closet.

DO NOT HIT your brother with the toy phone!

Stop trying to play with my computer!

Why did you just pull all the blankets off my bed?

 

I get desperate and I find their 2 big rubber balls: Here! Play with these….

 

No, stop throwing the ball in your brother’s face.

No, DO NOT throw the ball in my face. You will never see the ball again if you throw it in my face!

Stop throwing the balls at the windows, you’re going to break something.

LOOK what you just Did! No more balls.

 

I decided to relocate. Let’s go play in the living room…

 

No, we’re not going to put on a tv show, we already watched one.

No, don’t take all the books off the bookshelf, I just organized that bookshelf! All the little kids books are on the bookshelf upstairs, go upstairs and get your books! Do you want me to read you a book?? No? Ok..

Get off the fishtank. We don’t climb on the fishtank…ever..I think I have already told you this..

Here, here’s some matchbox cars! Play with your matchbox cars!

No, wait, we don’t throw matchbox cars. We only throw balls! (my voice fades out as I remember that I just took away the balls).

Look, just roll the cars across the floor..yeah, like that! No, wait, don’t roll the car on me. I’m not a road.. Roll it on the floor!

No wait, the red car is for you, the blue car is for him…. Do not take his car from him!

Do you want to trade cars? No? Well, you can’t have both cars, you have to share…

 

Ok, time to relocate.

Upstairs to the boy’s bedroom. Full of toys, childproof, there’s a comfy chair up there I can sit in. We get settled in upstairs, boys are enthusiastically playing with their toys and I have this great idea. I’ve been reading this book that teaches a simple yoga-type workout. I want to do these workouts in the morning, but I need to do a practice run so I can figure out what I’m doing first. Why not practice here in the boy’s room while they are happily playing??

Ok. So, I have the book on my kindle app on my phone so I’m holding my phone, squinting at the screen. Breathing. It’s all about breathing. Breathe in through your nose, fill up your tummy with air, breathe out through your nose, push your stomach back to your spine..Got it. (Did I mention I have a bad cold?) Ok. I’m definitely going to need some tissue before I attempt this.. Squint at the screen.. It says to do some practice breathes. I do some practice breathes. They are rather noisy. The little boys look up and stare at me trying to figure out why I’m suddenly pretending to be an elephant. The almost 4 yr old asks uncertainly, “What are you doing?” Just exercising. Leave me alone. Keep playing.

Squint at screen again. Ok. I’m supposed to raise my arms up in the air while I breathe in and then lower them while I breathe out. Got it. (Sounds easy right? Apparently coordination is not my strong point and it takes several attempts before I get it right.) The little boys have stopped playing and have now moved closer to me, staring at me with concern. Squint at screen again. Ok, I’m supposed to bend all the way over and touch the floor and stay in that position while I do 5 breathes. Got it. I bend over. This is definitely not as easy at it looks. I am focusing really hard on trying to get my breathes rights…I feel little hands grab hold of my feet. All the blood has rushed to my head. I turn a little bit and find myself face to face with the 21 month old who now looks like he’s about to cry. Mama?

It’s ok sweetie. I’m just doing yoga. Exercise. Mommy is fine.. Oh wait, I’m breathing, not supposed to be talking. I’m still bent in half but I can’t remember what comes next. Straighten up very slowly, grab phone, squint at phone for next direction. Oh. Ok. Apparently I’m supposed to do some breathing while I straighten up and then go into this new position where my knees are bent in a squat and I’m reaching forward… Right… Ok…(Did I mention my current athletic abilities are at level 0?)  Modify. They said to modify.. Ummm.

Now the 21 month old has wrapped himself around my legs and begun a mantra of mama, mama, mama, mama, mama, mama…you get the point.. Wait sweetie, I’ve got to bend down again and try this again. Squint at phone one more time, set phone down and bend in half again. Oh shoot. I forgot to breathe. Stand back up, breath in (through the nose! I think I need another tissue..) and bend over. I’m now face to face with the baby again. He takes the opportunity to grab hold of my head. I forget to breathe out (stomach pulled into the backbone!) while I yell at the baby to let go of my hair. The 4 yr old decides to join the circus and comes and stands next to me, bends over as well so that we all have our heads at the same level. He looks concerned.  Ok. Forget it. I’m not going to exercise.

I disentangle myself and go sit down in the chair again. Look out the window. It’s still raining. I’m still coughing. Not sure if the house or my sanity will be intact by the end of the day.

A Bit of Parenting Advice For the Day

Today my oldest child turns 18. So here I am, a mother of 10. I have managed to take one child to the age of 18 and she has been launched from the home (first time around anyway) to go to college. I’ve been in the parenting game for 18 years. As I reflect a bit on my parenting journey, one regret stands out. It’s something that caused me a lot of heartache, and I would love for some of you younger parents out there to maybe learn from my mistakes.

So, here it is…

 

Don’t read parenting books.

 

The end.

 

Ok, I guess I can clarify that a bit. I would say there are two types of parenting books. Books that seek to educate you on what it means to be a parent, perhaps explain some of how children’s minds and development work, perhaps offer some encouragement. Those kind are helpful, informative and useful. My aversion to parenting books falls on the other kind. These are the books that set out an exact plan and method for how you should parent. Your child should sleep this much at this age, here’s how to make that happen. Your child should display this level of respect to you at all times, here’s how to make that happen. Your child should be disciplined whenever they do A, B or C, here’s how you should discipline them.. These parenting books prey on the poor parents that are at their wit’s end, they don’t feel like they are doing a good enough job, they are failing on some level, and so they start desperately looking around for help. Or, these books focus on people who are about to have a child appear in their life: birthed, adopted, fostered… and they have no idea what to do, and so they start turning to books for the answers.

In my grand career as a parent I have read 4 different parenting books of this type. I regret reading every single one of them. Each book set up a system, a pattern of thought, a path to follow that would somehow get me from point A to point B with good kids and a happy home. They all failed. In fact, all of them lead me to go against my conscience at some point in time and had me doing things that my inner-self was thinking, “Surely this can’t be right?” but I doubted myself, I was not an authority, and the book said I was supposed to do it this way. My husband finally convinced me that we needed to throw out the books and just rely on our common sense, our own consciences, and our own relationship with God, trusting that he would give us whatever wisdom we needed to raise the kids. I can’t say life got easier after that, but it wasn’t as stressful and I felt a lot more true to myself and my kids than when I was trying to imitate somebody else’s ideas.

Here’s the thing. We are all unique. We’ve each got our own set of DNA, we’ve each got our own histories, our own set of life-circumstances…how on earth can a book be written that will properly address every single family? It can’t be done. (Ok, there is the Bible, which is good for all things, but you will notice that the Bible doesn’t try to specify exactly what to do when your child has a meltdown while getting ready for bed. It teaches you the general concepts and then lets you apply it to your unique life.)(Meltdowns at bedtime: love is patient and kind, long-suffering.)

I am not against seeking advice. Talk to other parents that you know, whom you’ve observed and you like what you see. Talk to trusted counselors. Talk to people who know you and your particular set of circumstances. I have talked to other moms, I have talked to my pastors, I’ve talked to psychologists and pediatricians when we were struggling with some really big issues. It’s good to seek counsel. I’m also not against reading books about people I admire, hearing stories of how they parented. It gives me a lot of good ideas, but in the end I have to sift through all the advice, all the examples that I’ve seen and I have to figure out what’s going to work for me and my kids. Believe it or not, if you ask, God will give you all the wisdom that you need to raise them.