Friday's Grace

"From the fullness of his grace, we have all received one blessing after another." John 1:16

I have to admit, it was a rougher week than most. Not in compared to the devastation in other parts of the world mind you, but by Friday, my normally cheerful self was feeling pretty glum and I was beginning to feel like a good fist-shaking at the heavens was in order. We had lost a court case based on false evidence. We had learned of death, both close to home and afar. We had joined in the sadness of our dear friend being hospitalized, not knowing if she would make it back out or not. There was not a whole lot of laughter filling the house, (except for Liam of course who apparently has to meet a certain laugh quota each day to fulfill his destiny.)

So, as I was getting ready early Friday morning, I heard the garbage trucks outside and realized we had not gotten the cans out yet....ARGH!

"Oh no! The trash!" I said, rushing downstairs and out the door to get the can down to the street. As I turned around to head in, I saw the truck coming out of the cul-du-sac next to us and realized I had missed them entirely. Our very kind neighbor across the street has a different trash service so using the blanket statement of permission he gave me long ago, I added some of my stuff to his half empty cans and took mine back up into the garage. I pushed the button to close the garage door and went in, tail between my legs to tell Kurt I had missed the truck. It just wasn't a good week.

"Look, the guy is right outside. Run the can to the other side of the street and maybe he will take them," Kurt replied, having noticed the garbage man stopped in front of our house.

"It's too late," I said, feeling defeated and not wanting to chase down a truck. "I already brought the can back into the garage and he won't wait."

"Well, look, he has our can," Kurt said.

Sure enough, the garbage collector, having seen me running around with my cans after his pick-up, had come back by the house, stopped in front, come up into our garage where the door had for some reason not gone down after all and had taken our trash to the other side of the street so he could get it into his truck! I was half way down the driveway when he came back around with our cans.

"Thank you SOOOOOO much!" I exclaimed in complete gratitude. "That was SOOOO sweet of you!"

He simply smiled and, without a word, moved on.

I came back in refreshed; delighting once again in God's creation. There is much devastation in the world. There is much sorrow and pain. There are those who will do anything, no matter how immoral or unethical in order to get what they want.

But, in the midst of these, there is love. There is kindness and great joy and ever so often, an angel or two, sent to remind us that we are loved and cared for and that if only we have a little faith, even our trash will be collected and thrown out so we can once again start anew.

Thanks Trash Guy!

And Happy Weekend World!

May all your days be filled with grace!

In Memory

The first time I met her, I was a newly wed, having just moved to Palo Alto, CA where Kurt was attending business school at Stanford and I was a novice first-grade teacher at one of the many Bay Area private schools. I had decided that in my spare time I would play violin with the Stanford Symphony which generously opened its arms to both students and the outlying community.

As I waited at her door for my audition, anxiety took hold. I had not auditioned in years and the only feeling I had about Karla was extreme intimidation. She was not just a conductor. This woman towered over me like an Amazon, knowing heights I could only experience from the top rung of a ladder. She was confident and filled with a passion for music that went beyond the notes and tempos, style and artistry. When she began to move her arms, she became the music, inviting the rest of us to do the same.

"What are you playing for me today?" she asked.

"First movement of the Dvorak concerto," I blurted, hoping maybe I could hide somewhere behind my music.

"Huh. Interesting choice," she noted plainly, sapping me of any calm I had left. "Alright, let's go."

I began the only piece I had worked on in years, praying all the while that she would stop me before I either completely humiliated myself and sent Dvorak rolling in his grave, or got to the section that I hadn't learned yet. (Or, God forbid, both!)

After a couple pages she said, "Great. Read this," and handed me some violin part. I have no idea what I played as I was too busy breathing again.

I was filled with relief after that first interaction. I hadn't completely ruined the Dvorak (although the attempt was thorough!) and I would be able to play, lost in the violin section of the Stanford Symphony, or so I thought. The thing about Karla though was you were never lost under her watch. She ALWAYS knew where you were in the music and where she wanted you to be and even though I spent two years trying as I might to hide behind my stand, praying I'd go unnoticed, I was no match for her superhuman eyes and ears. She was humbling. She was inspiring. And her passion drove each of us beyond what we might have been able to accomplish otherwise. Woe was the section (often ours) that needed individualized help in sectionals. Woe was the musician (often me) who didn't make a little extra time to practice. Karla was on top of it all, and even when she didn't call us out by name, she knew who we were. She was like God: there was no place to hide!

I remember feeling extreme pity for the few students who had wandered off during our recording session at George Lucus's Skywalker Ranch (yes, it was as cool as you imagine!) and who had taken it upon themselves to tour the private mansion without permission. Karla's passion was complete, well-rounded and had a wide range of uses.

I remember my humbling conversation with her, a few weeks before we were supposed to go on a two week tour: Carnegie Hall and then London.

"Karla, I'm really sorry but I can't go on the tour," I had told her, hoping to at least salvage some of my deposit.

"Why not?" she asked, un-accusingly.

Pause. "I just lost my first pregnancy in miscarriage," I explained, tears welling in my eyes as I took a few deep breaths. "I just don't think I can go on the tour right now. I need time to heal emotionally and get things situated since we are moving down to San Diego at that time as well."

"I am so sorry," she told me, her eyes revealing that her passion included abundant amounts of compassion as well. We then went on to talk about the musical I had written for my class, the kinds of things that teaching entails, small talk mixed with just a sampling of her fun-loving humor; conversation she might have had with dozens of others who probably all felt the same way I did: although our lives and paths were vastly different, she knew me and she understood.

After the last performance I played there, I was taken by surprise when Karla, in her adrenaline driven enthusiasm whisked me up in an Amazon-sized hug and swung my little frame around in the air. I remember laughing, as much in shock as in delight, as she thanked me for being there. I still think she meant more that I was just the right sized person to come walking by at the right time rather than that I had in any way made her life better by filling a seat in the violin section. But then, knowing Karla, she probably felt that each of us made her a little better. Though at times it felt as if we were her personal pawns, she was able to exalt each of us to greatness, a truly royal status, and in turn, we gave her hope that the future of music would not die an early death. I wish I could say the same of her.

So to Karla:

Thanks for claiming a part of the show for yourself and then giving so much of it away. Though the show must go on without you, you will be remembered, appreciated and applauded by many. May you rest in peace knowing that in doing your best, you touched so many; your life an open invitation to the rest of us to rise up and do the same. May your soul forever soar on the symphonies that sustained your heart here on earth, lifting you to heights much greater than these.

Karla Lemon 1954-2009

Lemons to Lemonade

"Mom, I know what I want to be when I grow up," said Lily the other day.

"Oh yeah? What's that?" I asked.

"I'm gonna be a DRAGON when I grow up," she half roared, stating a claim she has been making for a few weeks now.

Saying the only appropriate thing I could think of, I answered, "Uh, ok."

"Yeah, I'm gonna be a dragon AND an angel!" she said excitedly.

"Lily, you can't be a dragon and an angel," Madeline joined in, taking what would normally be the position allotted to her older brother. "Angels are messengers...FROM GOD! and you can't be both a dragon and an angel," she explained. "You would have to be a dragon first and THEN you can be an angel," she clarified.

Because clearly dragons are not capable of being God's messengers (sheesh, EVERYONE knows that!) but surely after Lily is done with dragon-hood, angel-dom will be a piece of cake....and sadly, I couldn't even support Lily on this because what am I going to say? "Now, now Madeline, Lily can be whatever she wants to be when she grows up."

Right. I am just happy that she has moved away from wanting to be a stripedy skunk "without the stinky." Surely a dragon will be much easier to explain...

****

Speaking of future career paths, I do think I have an idea of what Liam might be when he grows up.

You see, we have created a bit of an issue for Liam. So, long ago the well meaning doctors told us to feed him whatever he would eat in order to help with weight gain. Now, although we lean toward the healthier options as much as possible, he eats all sorts of stuff, giving high preference to that which, um, backs him up a bit. So recently, he has suffered enormously by the inner workings of his bowels. Each movement sends him crying and squirming and leaves him just a little raw and at times, bloody. It is painful to even watch and he usually comes toddling over, crying, just trying to grab hold of any part of me that might lend relief.

When this first became an issue, I tried just holding him. Soon, I was actually assisting in the process, offering whatever vaseline might be laying around and keeping his knees back in a slightly birthing-like position. But then a few weeks ago, he came to me crying and my asking if he needed to use the potty was met with a very decisive head nod. Just like that we had instant potty training. Now, as he sits there holding onto me as if in some Lamaze video, we count 1-2-3 PUUUUUSH, he mimics my urgings and fairly quickly is relieved of his, um, burden. Thus, I believe he is prepping to be an Obstetrical Nurse, (or perhaps an OB Doctor as he will be just the right height for the catching!) or simply, a very good husband and labor support.

Perhaps he doesn't see this potty training approach as lemonade, but trust me, he isn't exactly offering up lemons either!

Wind Chilled Chickens

The question, from someone in Canada (posted on gardenweb.com): "Does anyone let their chickens outside during the winter?"

Some of the answers from people in Canada:

"We leave chickens out all winter here. I have an insulated coop and when it gets cold (-40 air temp), I sometimes use a heat lamp wired into a ceramic socket in the ceiling to keep the chickens from losing combs and toes....and [you need to] collect the eggs frequently as catching them before they freeze is the biggest problem."

"If you want to ensure eggs all winter, you will need to give them supplementary light, preferably on a timer. Otherwise you may have a few eggless weeks. Not a big deal since eggs keep a long time in the fridge. Single combed roosters may get frostbite on the comb and wattles. This will make them feel lousy and it can be serious but often is more of a discomfort. The affected parts will turn black and eventually fall off."

Ok, now if I were a chicken I might take exception to the idea that the "biggest issue" about keeping chickens outside in the winter is the freezing and cracking of eggs rather than MY TOES FALLING OFF!

Seriously, I'm pretty sure losing body parts trumps a "few eggless weeks." But then, I'm not a chicken- I just play one on the internet. :)

Speaking of chilly chickens, we Minnesotans have been under this weather advisory the last few days:

A WIND CHILL ADVISORY IS IN EFFECT FOR THE REMAINDER OF SOUTHERN AND CENTRAL MINNESOTA WHERE WIND CHILLS WILL DIP INTO THE 25 BELOW ZERO RANGE...

IF YOU ARE PLANNING TRAVEL....MAKE SURE YOU HAVE A WINTER SURVIVAL KIT IN YOUR CAR WHICH SHOULD INCLUDE SOME WARM CLOTHES OR A SLEEPING BAG.

Right, and you might also consider a teleportation device able to "Beam me up, Scotty"....assuming Scotty is somewhere in south Florida of course, as we'd hate to end up in Canada (where they care more about egg safety than bodily harm) or Siberia...then again, there is a chance it would be warmer there!

But seriously, we are currently very cold up here. It is truly one of God's awesome wonders - the crazy things that living organisms can actually survive, as well as the fact that some of us humans live in this part of creation by choice! Every day, I stare out at that bright, sparkling snow; so glittery you have to squint just to look out the window; and I am filled with awe. It is incredible; magnificent. It is pure, shimmering, unadulterated beauty. And I am thankful for the ability to survive here...even during the extremes.

(And according to this chicken, these extremes are best enjoyed from the warmth of a heated home so that nothing freezes and cracks, or more importantly, falls off....)

Screature

A little chicken humor for your viewing: Cluck of the Bells

If I ever own chickens, you know I will try this at home....

And, as usual, I can kind of relate to that clueless chicken in the back of that whatever you want to call it. You see, our three-year-old, Lily, asked for two things for Christmas. There she sat on Santa's lap in the middle of the mall mid-December and told him all she wanted for Christmas was noodles.

Noodles.

More specifically, she wanted "cheesy" noodles. Nothing more, nothing less.

"Oh, and Screature," she added, as if perhaps she needed a back up plan.

Now, we didn't hear this exchange take place mind you, but she repeated it enough in the days leading up to Christmas that we understood that her life would be complete if she received some cheesy noodles ("oh, and Screature") from Santa.

Christmas morning was a wonderful, exciting time in our house. The kids eagerly opened their presents and Lily was thrilled to find a 5-pack of Mac-n-Cheese in her loot as well as her new best friend Screature. I know, I know, you are sitting there asking yourself: What exactly is Screature? Well, let me introduce you to Screature. (You have to click the link....and make sure to scroll through the pictures for the full effect...)

So, she carries Screature around as if he were a soft, sweet bunny and she tries to snuggle with him in bed at night. Yet, when you meet him, he bites and snaps at you, and growls his terrible growl and laughs his evil laugh. He's kind of like something right out of the book Where the Wild Things Are. (For the record, they are here.)

Ok, I must get to the point. The one thing Screature can do that the kids didn't know he could do was squirt water from his mouth. Without water, he simply rears up on his hind legs, does his Fighting Fish impression and makes some noise. With water, he completely sprays you down. So, I thought it would be really funny if I secretly filled him up with water so that when the kids were playing with him they'd get a huge wet surprise. Nothing can go wrong there, right?

So when the moment presented itself, I turned him over, opened him up and tried to fill him with water. The water ran through his poor little body and out the other end. Thinking surely I just missed, I tried again. Same effect. So then I get the bright idea of reading the directions. Doh. You are supposed to fill the tank, after you take the tank out, which is the only way you can get water in it to begin with, had I paid any attention at all to the details. Furthermore, getting the rest of him wet KILLS HIM!

So, there I was, a drenched and broken Screature in hand, roaring my terrible roar and rolling my terrible eyes. How could I go from the kid who would read EVERY LAST WORD of the drug facts on anything in the medicine cabinet so that I didn't miss any valuable information to the mom who failed to read a simple set of directions, thus breaking the one tangible toy her kid wanted for Christmas?! Simple: because I am like that clueless chicken in the back row who just can't quite get it right. Thank goodness for grace. (I just hope there is enough for the rest of you guys because this chicken takes a pretty good helping of the supply!)

Needless-to-say, Kurt had to run out last night and take Screature to see the Screature "doctor." And what do you know...just like that (and $35 later) he was "like" new. Amazing!

Unfortunately, I can't say the same for the noodles. I'm just glad Lily is to blame on that one!

Percolating Gerbil

Yes, you read that title correctly. Those of you who currently own a gerbil probably already know what I am going to write. Or maybe not but you will totally get it.

So, last week, Monday to be exact, I was dropping Madeline off at school when her super awesome teacher whom we all adore to the point of wishing we could take her home as that one really sentimental preschool keepsake, and whom LOVES Madeline to death, mentioned to me that they didn't have anyone to take the class pet home for the holidays: PAUSE. Puppy dog eyes. Head tilt. Irresistible Smile. And I am pretty sure the thank you was almost out of her lips before I even said, "Well, we'll take Buddy, why not?" Who could turn down a request like that anyway? Plus, it's only a little gerbil, how hard could that be?

"Oh great! Can you take him on Wednesday instead of Friday since it will be really hectic on the last day before break, you know, the preschool program and party and all...."

"Certainly, what's another couple days...."

So, we have added to our holidays, Buddy the gerbil. The very noisy-late-at-night Gerbil....(not as noisy as a train outside our window or anything crazy like that!), but he's awake and likes to spend his free time chewing up things (noisy) and running on his gerbil wheel (really noisy.) The wheel cracks us up though. The first time we heard it, Kurt comes in and asked, "Are you making coffee?"

"Nope," I said and then we both hushed to listen to the gerbil who sounded like percolating coffee. This is especially fun late at night when I awake to the sounds of what we now just call the percolating gerbil. (It's a little different if you hear it from down in the basement; then it sounds more like something out of a submarine and I must admit, it's a little creepy.)

But, we love him nonetheless. Almost enough to make me want to run out and get our own pair of them....almost. And the one who most loves Buddy is Liam.

You see, we are instructed to let Buddy have up to 30 minutes a day outside his cage, but it must be inside his big ball so that he can run and move about without getting lost (or stepped on in the pursuit). Now, if you have seen the movie Bolt, it is EXACTLY LIKE THAT! It is hysterical. And Liam, God bless him, has all of a sudden developed EXTREMELY accurate soccer skills for a kid who was still unable to walk less than a month ago. That poor Buddy. We are doing our best to keep the little hands and feet off of the rolling Buddy but you know how that goes....I think I overheard him squeaking: "Run, run, as fast as you can, you can't catch me I'm the Gingerbread Man!" right before he shot across the floor by one heck of a left kick....

****

On another note, I had one of those proud parent moments today. We were driving along and Madeline was bubbling over with contagious enthusiasm:

"I just LOVE Christmas!" she announced. "It is the very best day of my whole life! Santa comes and we get lots of presents and..."

"Madeline!" Aidan scolded. "That is NOT what Christmas is about! Christmas is about celebrating the birth of Jesus and all that Jesus did for us. It's not about the presents and the...."

I about wrecked the car! 'YEEEEES! And Wow! And, poor Madeline her parade just got rained on but woo hoo anyway, points for me'! I was thinking as my ears drifted back to the ongoing conversation.

"Well, your spirit doesn't actually touch your bones once you die. When you are alive, your spirit touches all your bones but not once you are dead, then you are just a spirit, no bones," Aidan was explaining. "And your blood is blue inside your body, and sometimes green, but not red. It's only red out of your body."

Um, weren't we just talking about Christmas? How'd we get to bones and green blood?

Who knows, but at least one of my kids understands there is more to Christmas than the gifts and packages, cookies and candy and trees and lights and.....somehow, the manger on our mantel has not gone unnoticed and that makes up for the 'easiest chocolate fudge recipe ever' that didn't at all set for me (not even in the freezer!) and has to be eaten with a spoon (it's still pretty tasty I'll admit!) and it makes up for the failed ornaments I tried to sew my friends because apparently you need to own more than just two pins to keep things straight (who knew?) and well, it just makes this season all the merrier.

That and the percolating gerbil. I'm just hoping we don't find out about gerbil spirits drifting away from gerbil bones or the color of gerbil blood on our watch! But, that will probably depend on who wins the soccer game. Go Percolator!

Grace-filled Holidays

It's hard to believe that it has been almost two full weeks since I last posted. I am not sure if it has more to do with the hustle and bustle of the holidays or the fact that I have been negligent (to the blog Kurt, not the kids....for the most part...) but whatever it may be, I apologize for the absence.

At any rate, some of you may be on the receiving end of the most hideous Christmas Card ever. If you believe you have already received such a card, just wait. Ours is still a'comin'!

You see, since Kurt started his own business almost a year ago (and seeing as how this blog has not yet made us that fortune I had anticipated....seriously, you'd think EVERYONE would want to get their hands on a Graceful Like a Chicken T-Shirt, no?), we have been on a mission of saving money wherever we can. So, last January, after having moved across the country and in the midst of settling in, I happened to wander down the 90% off Christmas clearance aisle in Wal-Mart. Now, I am no product connoisseur but from what I can tell Wal-Mart is not exactly the epitome of high quality products; although most of them are certainly good enough and I am a frequent visitor. But that day, my eyes targeted the best deal ever on Christmas Cards. There were boxes and BOXES of these cards (probably my first hint...) with this fairly simple holiday cake on the front. Each box contained 15 cards and only cost 50 cents! Do the math: that is less than 4 cents a card! WHAT A BARGAIN! I was thrilled. I snatched up as many as I could and felt so on top of things for I was going to be WAY ahead of the game come the holidays.

Fast forward to last week. Already feeling behind, all sorts of beautiful cards rolling into our mailbox each day, I finally dug out my boxes of bargain cards and got my address labels set so I could begin the long process of writing each one. (Seriously, it is nearly impossible for me to just sign, seal and send these things....it's a problem, truly.) Anyway, I was sitting there the first night and Kurt comes in. He took one look at the cards and said,

"Those cards stink."

Oh, did I forget to mention that they are like the scratch-n-sniff brand of Christmas Cards? I did? Well, you won't have to be reminded when it arrives in your box because you'll likely catch a whiff of them BEFORE you even get the mail....and if it isn't obvious, you may notice the mail carrier hunched over in their truck gasping for air or perhaps wearing a special gas mask as they drive by so that when they yell out Merry Christmas, it will sound a little bit more Darth Vader and a bit less Santa.

Yes, the cards I bought literally STINK (in every possible way)! Whoever thought to add scent to their holiday cards should probably be sentenced to drowned in perfume; and I, the crazy person who knowingly made that purchase, right along with them!

Then, to top it off, you still have to OPEN the card. On the inside are the typical pleasantries of the holiday written on a removable insert:

Here's to all our Holiday favorites!
Wishing you a wonderful and festive Season

And if you take the insert out, you discover a festive recipe card on the back! Woo hoo! Not only did the genius who made this card add smell, but they also added the pressure of having to write a recipe on EACH AND EVERY ONE! (Side note: we send out close to 200 cards every year!)

So, in my hysteria, after pointing out the recipe card to Kurt he says:

"You aren't going to send these out to people I do work with are you?" (I am guessing he'd rather me scratch them altogether and not allow our family to be associated with them in any way.)

Uh, the answer to that is obviously no.

"I'm not now," I said, still laughing. And then holding up a stack of last year's cards that we didn't use I said, "Hey I can just use these!" I think I was eye-rolled...

So much for the cheap cards. For those of you who are on the receiving end, please note: it is only because we love you and know that you love us so much in return that forgiveness is forthcoming. For some, you may not get the privilege of receiving the card's season's greetings on the removable insert for I took the liberty of replacing some with a photo to save myself the time. For others, you may get to see the insert I am referring to, so please, use the recipe card for whatever you may choose: perhaps you were looking for another lovely trashcan filler? I will not be at all insulted if you fail to even notice the insert's removable-ness and the fact that it is absolutely and completely blank on the other side. For those of you who get the card and think it isn't all that bad, may God bless you (for you are as in need as I am!)

As for the chicken scratch on the card that appears to be some sort of writing...that would be me trying to write something festive in the midst of gigantic, aroma-induced belly-laughs. Good luck reading it.

And for those of you who receive not only the card and the photo and the insert complete with a hand-written recipe, please know I have totally lost my marbles and go ahead and call for help. I probably need it!

****

May your lives be filled with the love and joy (and humor) of the season!
May you experience the grace that has arrived for all of us (however 'like-a-chicken' it may be!)