My Husband

As you may know, life has been kind of stressful around our house the last few months. Craig decided it was time to quit his job. Then he realized he wanted to go back to school. After he left his full-time job, started classes, and found a new part-time job, I found out that I've been laid off from my job as of June 16th. So now, I too, am looking for a new job, which may result in us moving back to the Salem area.

So, I've been kind of stressing about all of this. I'm not someone who is very good at flying by the seat of my pants; I want things planned, organized, listed, detailed, structured... you get the idea. Feeling unsure about jobs and income and where we're going to live really throws me for a loop most days. My husband noticed that I'm about to crack. 

My husband, Craig, is caring, kind, and thoughtful, and realizing that I needed some rest and relaxation, he got us a room at the beach for one night this weekend. But he didn't just get us any room; he reserved the same room that we stayed in for our honeymoon! He keeps telling me, "We can just do anything at the beach that you want to. This is your weekend."

Our honeymoon at Newport, OR- February 2007

Could he be any sweeter? I am so looking forward to this wonderful time with my husband-- going out to dinner, walking on the beach, snuggling in front of the fireplace...

Feeling Things...

I’ve been trying to write for the last few weeks, 

but I keep feeling stuck; 

I keep feeling numb; 

I keep starting and then stopping, 

not knowing what comes next, 

not being able to find the next word in the sentence. 

I know there is so much to put down on paper, 

so many feelings to pull out of my heart 

and put out in front of my eyes, 

so I can know them, 

face them, 

heal them.

But my heart hangs on so tight.

When I found out I got laid off from my job, I cried for two days, mourning my loss, wishing it could be different. Then I was done. That was over a week ago, and I haven’t felt anything since. I should feel scared. I should feel angry. I should feel anxious about what comes next. Why don’t I feel it? I keep telling myself I’ll start feeling sad again at the end of the school year. Of course I will. But what about the entire month in between? What do I feel for a month while I look at job postings each day and think about possibly moving? Why don’t I feel the enormity of these changes, these inevitably hard and risky changes?

Instead of feeling, I often find myself making lists, usually mental lists. If I can make myself a list each day of things I need to do-- mundane, trivial things that have to be done-- then maybe I can feel as though I hold my own fate in my hands. Maybe this makes me feel more powerful, more in control, more able to predict what’s going to happen in my life, even if the prediction only stretches to the next twelve hours and no further. At least for a few hours or perhaps a few days, I have a plan, I have a direction, I know where I am, and what I’m doing, even if it's nothing that actually matters.

But when my list-making fails, I start to feel anxious about anything that slips free of my grip—when the papers in the filing cabinet start overflowing, when I get behind on writing up the monthly budget or recording the receipts, when there’s a pile of anything forming on the floor, on the desk, pushed away in a corner. That’s not okay with me because if these things escape me, they may begin to overwhelm me, they may beat me, they may never come back under my control again.

If I can have this kind of anxiety about piles of paper that aren’t in the right place, that don’t know their place in the order of life, obviously losing my job is a much more serious crisis. I don’t know my own place. A month from now, it is possible that I won’t have a place to work, and I’m not very comfortable with not being able to predict when or where my place will appear. Until I find my place in a job, then I am unable to predict my place to call home. I can handle the idea of moving, but I can’t handle the idea of maybe moving or maybe not moving. How do I relate to my coworkers, friends, apartment, my town, the streets I’m driving on, right now, when I don’t know if I will be here for much longer? How do I keep feeling like this is home if it may not be home in the not-too-distant future? But if I begin to disconnect myself now, pull away from the things that feel like home right now, then won't I feel lost, disconnected, like I'm floating away?

It takes all types...

There are so many events going on out there in the world that so many of us don't know about, but should.

One such event is the yearly competition sponsored by American Mothers Inc. for Young Mother of the Year. It's kind of like a beauty pageant except that most of the contestants are overweight, dress like they're still living in the early nineties, and have special talents like crock-pot cooking and saving money by making home-made stain remover. So really, it's not anything like a beauty pageant at all.

To qualify to be nominated for the Young Mother of your state, you must have children under the age of 18, be married to a man (I believe he's supposed to be the father of your children), and be an active member of a faith-based organization. As I looked at a list of Young Mother contenders for 2011, I realized it also helps to be Mormon, as over half the women on the list appeared to be. Things that would disqualify you from being able to compete for best mother ever include the following: being a single mom who raises children all by herself, being a lesbian whose children have two moms, or being a mother who doesn't take her children to church at least once a week.

I learned about this esteemed group of women while watching a documentary on Hulu called "The Good Mother." The filmmaker followed the daily lives of several of the women who had won the title in their state and were preparing to go to the national level to compete with each other for the title of Young Mother of the Year. At this event, they got to dress up for dinner; listen to speeches encouraging them to put all their hearts into mothering and make a difference in the lives of those around them; make their own speeches to convince the anonymous judges that they had what it took to win the title; talk to each other about their children; and most exciting of all, they got to watch entertaining acts like a a group of eighty-year old women wearing shimmery blue leotards and silver dance shoes do the Can-Can.

At the end, only one woman could take home the title. The mother who won had been a successful professional who felt confident and respected in her job. When she gave birth to her first son, she gave all that up for her new job as mother, admitting that she felt completely unqualified for this new task in front of her. Out of all the women who were highlighted in the documentary, she certainly made an impression on me. She displayed her amazing mothering skills on video as her young daughter cried and cried over nothing while her mother stood watching her, waiting for her to stop. Even more impressive was the part in the video when her son came up to show her something, and she looked up at him for a moment with complete disinterest, then turned back to what she was doing without saying a single word to her son. She showed that she had the tired, stressed, I-just-don't-even-care-anymore attitude down, and sometimes that's what it takes to be Top Mom.

I'm just glad that I watched this documentary so that if I become a mother someday, I'll know how not to get nominated for Young Mother of Oregon, so I won't feel compelled to go to a national gathering to listen to people talk about motherhood. And hopefully, if I'm a bad enough mother, I'll be saved from ever having to personally witness a leotard-clad eighty-year old woman dancing.

*Important Disclaimer: I love my mother!

Racism? Here? Now?

It is incredible to me as I become more aware, more connected, and more informed about what's going on in the world around me, to see how alive racism is in the United States of America. As a child, as a teenager, as a college student, it didn't touch me; it didn't cross my radar screen in the slightest. I didn't see what was going on.

But all around me now, I see examples of racism rising strong among the American people. African Americans are reminded that they aren't ever truly citizens in this nation by the birth certificate issue raised to prominence by Donald Trump. We see racism against Hispanic Americans being pushed to the forefront in Arizona in state laws and school boards aimed at discrimination against native Spanish speakers and the Hispanic culture. The September 11th attacks gave us the opportunity to start expressing our racist views about people who are, or only look like, Arabs. And somehow, the idea has gotten around that Chinese-made products are more dangerous than those from other countries; we all know the Chinese are out to get us. We have stereotypes, put-downs, generalizations, and fears about every race and nationality that isn't our own.

But throughout all of these issues runs the incredibly disappointing thread of ignorance-- ignorance that says that this land with our man-made borders belongs to us, the white people, and no one else has the right to claim it. 

But it never was ours to begin with. It belonged to natives who lived here for generation upon generation until we crossed the ocean looking for new lands and peoples to conquer. The original inhabitants of this land were not white, did not speak English, and did not practice Christianity; they didn't fit into our ideal vision for this land. But just because we were able to kill and exile the Native Americans doesn't mean that any of this belongs to us. Just because we were strong enough to take the land and resources that belonged to them doesn't mean we have a God-given right to be here.

The nation that we did build on the land we stole from the natives was a land of immigrants. Every white person who set foot on this ground in the beginning came from someplace else, was born someplace else, and brought with them a culture and a heritage and a language from another land. 

We all came from someplace un-American. 

And we brought all of our cultures and religious beliefs and family traditions and melded them into a new thing, into a complicated, multi-faceted, new, American culture, American life, American experience.

So how do we come away from all that as a nation that continues to demean and dehumanize people we see as different from us, as less than us, as a threat to us? 

How did we get here? 

And how do we get out?

I Want Sleep!

Right now, I am exhausted. I haven't had a decent night of sleep in four days. I'm starting to feel very tired, was so tired this morning after tossing and turning all night that I took the day off of work. My brain is starting to go into melt-down mode. 

I tried to take a nap this morning and couldn't because my stomach was all tied up in knots. Why can't I just relax, why can't I unwind and let it go? 

Could this be the worst PMS ever? Could it be the stress of waiting to see if I'm going to be laid off from my job? Have I just taken on too much responsibility and stress since my husband went back to college, and now I'm experiencing the consequences? Perhaps all three at once, a triple-whammy of hormones, stress, and perfectionism?

Whatever it is, I'm ready for it to be done, so I can sleep tight and be a nice person and wake up each morning happy and functional.

When I wait before the divine...

Sometimes I run into things that remind me just how helpless I am, just how little control I have over everything that is going on around me. No matter how hard I try, no matter how much I think about things and try to be wise and brave and good, there will always be problems I can't solve, people I can't help, debates I can't win.

And I really need those reminders, not to bring me down or make me feel like my life is falling apart, but rather because it is just those very situations that remind me why I have faith in something bigger than me. Because when I can't solve problems, that doesn't mean they aren't going to be solved. And when I don't know how help the people I love, that doesn't mean they won't find help. And when my words of wisdom just won't cut it, just don't seem to mean anything, I can turn off the words and wait before the divine, knowing that there is an infinite wisdom and knowledge and grace in the universe that will step in when I am willing to step out of the way.

God grant me the courage to step out of the way more often, in more ways, with greater trust in Your provision.

I MUST HAVE ONE HUGE ASS!

Actually my butt is the perfect size for me. It's one of my favorite parts of me. But I'm getting the message loud and clear, once again, that there is something wrong with the shape and size of my body. Yesterday, my favorite pair of jeans succumbed to loving wear and tear and developed a significant hole right near the crotch. In an attempt to replace them (observing that my other two pairs of jeans will soon have holes themselves), I have been to five different stores and tried on at least thirty different pairs of jeans.

Unless I am willing to wear mom-jeans that come all the way up to my belly button, or let half my butt hang out the back of my jeans when I bend over, then I am out of luck. So apparently I have to choose between two very uncomfortable and unattractive styles if I am going to continue wearing pants. The only pair of jeans that I tried on that were even close to being comfortable were relaxed fit which means absolutely no shape or style, also translated totally not sexy. Oh yeah, and the waist line came all the way up to my belly button.

I'm twenty-six years old. I'm not going to give up and start dressing like a seventy year old woman. If I can help it, I won't ever dress like a seventy year old woman.

And no, I'm not going to use this shopping setback as an opportunity to berate myself for letting my ass get so huge because that simply isn't the truth. I'm not going to solve this problem by starving myself or getting a membership at the gym. I'm not going to buy books about how to shrink my butt because I don't need to. My body is beautiful exactly the way it is. My butt is amazing and perfect and sexy.

But I have come to realize that the clothing industry, like everything else in our culture, doesn't celebrate me and my body. Our culture does everything it can to convince women they should hate their bodies, but I'm not buying it. I will not hate myself because those damn jeans don't fit!

Look in the mirror, and what do you see?

Sometimes it’s hard to look at myself in the mirror. I think most women have experienced that feeling: at just a glance, you can see all the flaws that you know stand out like a sore thumb, that you feel for sure are the only things other people see when they look at you.

We have so many images thrown at us of what we are supposed to look like, of what we are supposed to want for ourselves, of what people should admire when they see it in others. And I don’t know who wrote those rules, but those rules are very powerful and persuasive and relentless. And when I look at myself, either briefly or deeply, I don’t see those prized characteristics that I’m supposed to be striving for.

It doesn’t matter what we’re talking about—hair, skin, body shape, style—I don’t have it, not like I’m supposed to. And I know I don’t have what I’m supposed to have because I’ve been told so loud and clear. There are a million different products that have been invented to fix me, and I hear and see how much of me truly needs fixing on the commercials, in magazines, on billboards, just walking through the aisles of the grocery store. I can’t escape the pictures, the messages, the marketing campaigns aimed at educating me about my flaws and how I can and should correct them.

And the most pervasive message of all seems to be that I need to lose weight. If I’m chunky, I probably need to lose thirty to forty pounds. If I’m thin, I just need to lose that little lump of fat on my belly that no one can even see except me. If I’m a young adult woman, I just need to get back to my high school weight, and if I’m a new mother, I can aim for my pre-pregnancy weight. And when I am an older woman going gray and experiencing menopause, the goal will be to look or feel more like my younger self in any way possible, even if it’s just losing that extra five pounds.

So I know, instinctively, without even having to give it a second thought, that I should be eating differently, eating less, dieting, portion-controlling, and for sure keeping track of every bite of food that goes into my mouth. And I have to exercise, not to feel healthy or strong or more alive, but to help me lose the extra weight because being fat feels ugly. And the thing I hate most is feeling ugly. And I’ve already been thoroughly convinced that I am probably at least a little bit ugly. That’s why I have to fix myself.

Or do I? Because more and more often when I look in the mirror, I feel really different. I see other characteristics in myself that I didn’t used to notice so much. Like I’ve realized that I actually like my body better with round, squeezable curves than with bony, stick-like limbs.

And lately I’ve realized that when I wear make-up, I don’t really recognize myself, and I don’t look better, really. Maybe I’m just really bad at putting on make-up, but why do I actually need it? My real face is growing on me, and I think I want to keep it.

And then on days when I have a lot of extra energy, I find myself wanting to exercise, not to make me skinny, but because it makes me feel strong and powerful and alive. And on days when I’m worn out and tired, I don’t have to make myself exercise because it doesn’t actually matter that much.

And when I choose what to eat each day, I’m finding myself asking myself more and more what sounds good instead of what should I be eating? And I eat things that make me feel happy from the inside out because they nourish me and fulfill me and make me feel beautiful and content. And it really is okay that these foods that are filling have some fat in them because my body knows what to do with that.

Maybe that’s the main thing I’m learning, slowly, day by day, is that my body can be trusted. It’s not my enemy; it’s not out to get me. If I love it and cherish it, it will love me back. I don’t gain anything by demeaning or punishing or depriving my body. Hating my body will never make me feel happier or more content, no matter how hard I work to fix it. My body doesn’t need fixing. My body, my self, my whole being is beautiful just the way it is, no matter what anyone else says. And I’m going to fight every day to keep believing that.

Are We Really All So Different?

I think sometimes it feels safer to look at people and figure out what's different about them because then you can hold them at arm's distance, you can shelter yourself more easily, you can pretend like they don't matter as much if they are different enough. 

 But are any of us really that different from each other? Does our religion or politics or race or country of origin actually make us separate or better or more righteous or more intelligent? We like to say, "I'm right, so they must be wrong." We like black and white, cut and dry, no if's, and's or but's about it. But just because those ideas sometimes make life seem simpler doesn't mean life is actually like that. 

Because all too often something jumps out and makes us realize that a person or a group or an idea wasn't actually as different or wrong or backwards as we thought it was, and if we are wise we can use that moment as an opportunity to reevaluate and think and grow.

I found the following prayer in a book called, "What Do Muslims Believe?" by Ziauddin Sardar. According to Sardar, "Just as the sun passes the meridian, two million pilgrims stand in unison, and pray as they have never prayed before. From north to south, and east to west, as far as the eye can see, line after line of pilgrims, of all races, colours and class, all dressed in white, stand together, bow down in synch, and prostrate themselves in unison." This is what they pray together on the plains of Arafat:

You,

Rescuer of the drowned!

Saviour of the lost!

Witness of every secret thought!

End of all lamentations!

You, Whose beneficence is without beginning or end!

You, Whose goodness is eternal!

You, of Whom all things are in need!

And without Whom none can exist!

You, O God, Who provides provision for all--

And to Whom all return!

You, to Whom the hands of those who supplicate are lifted,

And towards Whom worshipers yearn!

I ask You to place us in Your protection,

And Your generosity,

And Your refuge,

And Your shelter,

And Your security.

Miraculous Exercise!

I guess to most people, exercise isn't a miracle, but to me it is. Seven years ago, my body stopped letting me exercise on a regular basis. I don't know what happened, but my body started shutting down, stopped working like a twenty-year old body is supposed to. And all this time since then, I've been searching for solutions to claim my strength, my energy, and my vitality back as my own.

I've tried so many different things to try to get my health back on track, and many of them worked temporarily. And then they stopped working, and things would go back to where they were before. Then I would try something new. So I've been to doctors, herbalists, and naturopaths. I've tried allergy treatments and eaten gluten-, dairy-, and egg-free. I've taken thyroid hormone and various vitamin and mineral supplements. At one point I was swallowing about twenty pills a day and still felt like crap.

Now I take one pill a day, and swallow some nasty, brown, herb concoction my acupuncturist mixes up himself.

One of the most important things my acupuncturist, David, has taught me about taking care of my body is that I have to let go. Worrying about my body and stressing about whether I'm doing the right or wrong thing is the worst way to take care of myself. So I'm learning to relax and not worry so much about whether I eat all the right foods or do my relaxation exercises every morning. I'm practicing letting the stresses of life roll off my shoulders instead of holding on to everything and trying to solve it all.

And I'm getting well. I'm feeling strong! My brain and my emotions and my muscles are all starting to work the way they're supposed to for someone my age. And miracles of all miracles, I'm exercising and enjoying it too!

For Which Words Are Not Sufficient

In this moment of awe,

In the still, quiet moments of perfect beauty,

I almost dare not

To form into words

My thoughts,

My joys,

The images that flood my soul,

That they might flee from me

Were I too forceful or direct

In my naming of them,

In my speaking of their existence;

For isn’t the deepest beauty,

The fullest love,

The most cherished of treasures,

That for which words are not sufficient,

That which human speech

Cannot capture or express?

Isn’t the greatest joy found most surely

Under the shroud of divine mystery?

One more step on our new life adventure...

With Craig getting ready to go to school in just a week, our adventure is about to truly begin. And with the start date nearing, the worries and doubts begin to flood my mind. I keep finding myself thinking about all the what-ifs. What if Craig doesn't find the kind of part-time work he needs to fit around his school schedule? What if we don't have enough income to keep paying all the bills every month? What if we end up having to take out a loan? What if we decide that we need to move closer to Monmouth because gas costs too much? What if I have to quit my amazing job and get a different one? What if I need to start working full time for us to have enough income?

These are all questions that will answer themselves with time, but for right now I have to find a way to let them all go. I can't predict what will happen; I can't plan for the unknowns, and worrying is only going to make life harder right now. Because this a journey that we did not choose for ourselves, but rather one that God set before us, I know that God will also provide the answers to the what-ifs. Every answer will fall into place in the right and proper time. But that is the easiest thing to forget. I need reminders.

The blessed reminder today: Craig got hired for a part-time job. He went in for an interview at Chemeketa and got hired on the spot! It's an entry-level computer technician type of job, which is an incredible blessing because that is what Craig is going to school for. So he will be able to have hands on experience working with computers while he gets his bachelor's in Information Systems or Computer Science. And they're totally willing to work around his school schedule even after he transfers to Western Oregon.

I seriously started crying when Craig told me that he had been hired! Over and over again, God has shown us that when we are faithful to listen and follow, He is faithful to provide. And it gets me every time.

Thinking about Grandma

My grandma is being moved to an assisted living home tomorrow. She's going to the same place my other grandma lived when she got old enough and my great-aunt Nellie, as well. I feel like it's our family's official assisted living home.

The problem is, when you take someone to a place like that to live, you know that it means they may not live much longer. Or at least, the life they live is not going to be anything like the life they've had for all their years beforehand. My grandma is making the passage to the next stage of her oldness, where she's still my grandma-- she still has stories to tell, still complains about the same things, still looks like herself-- but she's starting to not be completely herself. She's not all the way there when I visit, when I see her, when I look in her eyes. She slipping away and she won't be here for too much longer.

That's okay, because she's had a long life, raised her kids, watched her grandkids grow up; she's lived. And it's not okay because she's my grandma and has been for my entire life, and life will feel very different when she's not anymore. A piece will be missing, a person who matters will be only memories, no longer tangible, hugable, kissable, visible. And I know grandmas always go away eventually, but it doesn't make it any easier.

Remembering...

There's this poem that's been stuck in my brain for several weeks now. It's a poem that my grandpa read to me when I was about eight or nine years old. He told me that every time he read this poem, it reminded him of me. This is the first poem I can remember liking. I didn't read poetry much when I was a kid, but when grandpa died, I got a couple of his poetry books which are treasures to me. And I write a lot of poetry now; maybe I wouldn't have started writing poetry if my grandpa hadn't shared this poem with me. I don't know.

Daffodils
by William Wordsworth

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the Milky Way,
They stretched in never ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced, but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed-- and gazed-- but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

Freedom for Egypt!

Today, I watched a Frontline episode online about the revolution in Egypt. Initial reaction: no one in the U.S. would ever do anything like that because we don't care about anything. We aren't passionate enough about any issue to walk into the streets, risking injury or death to demand that things change. Is there anything happening in our country right now that would be worth protesting on a large scale? Maybe not. We aren't experiencing dictatorship or a mass genocide. We don't necessarily have to fear our own police force or the military.

But what about the role we play in the world around us? Over and over again, different peoples have proved to the world that revolution is possible simply through non-violent protest. People gain their freedom and bring down dictators by marching through the streets, using their words, telling their neighbors and friends, letting the police beat them, kill them, arrest them. And then they come back day after day, using the power of their words and the power of their numbers- without violence- and they win. Persistent, determined, courageous non-violent protests move mountains and change the world we live in.

So why do we as a nation stand by and watch as our government sends out tanks and bombs and guns to nations across the world when we think they have problems that we should fix? Why do we send thousands of troops to shoot at people instead of sending thousands of pacifists to join the suppressed in their cries for freedom? When a nation is crying out for help because they are being tormented by a dictator, why don't join hands with them in protesting, in organizing movements, in starting their own revolutions? What's our obsession with guns?

How do we help a nation of people who are suffering by dropping bombs on them? And if the purpose of our presence in any given nation is not to help the suffering, then why are we there at all?

My New Life Adventure

Really, it's more of my husband's life adventure. This is how it started a year ago:

We were saving up money and looking at houses. House prices were low, and we got an invitation in the mail for an informational meeting about home loans. We went to the meeting, and said, dude, we should look at houses. So we looked around, found one house that interested us, looked at it with a realtor, got pre-approved for a loan, and didn't buy it. There weren't any other houses that we liked, so we stopped looking.

After several months, we both realized that we weren't supposed to buy a house at that time, but it had been extremely educational to go through the process of almost buying a house. Now we knew much more about what it took to make it happen, where as before we had known nothing. And gradually, we both began realizing that buying a house wasn't actually one of our highest priorities. There were so many positive things about continuing to rent.

So that left us wondering what we were going to do with all the money we saved up as our "house money."

Well, not too long after, my husband began thinking about the possibilities for his career. He likes being an electrician, but he didn't want to keep working in the construction industry for his entire life. So he started thinking and looking at the possibilities. He felt like he needed to change what he was doing some time in the near future. I began getting ready, getting excited, and getting anxious for a time of transition in our life: the possibility of new jobs, new town, new home, anything.

Then my husband realized a few months ago that he was really hating his job. It was making him downright miserable at times. He started seriously contemplating leaving his job and looking for something else. He thought and prayed and spent a lot of time listening. And he clearly heard God tell him that it was okay to leave, it was time to leave, he didn't have to stay at his job. But he kept praying about it, thinking about, didn't want to act rashly. And he still got the same message over again: it's time to leave. So he put in his two weeks notice at work and started looking at job postings online.

After looking at job postings for several days, it became clear that there were very few jobs available for people with his license, and the few openings that were potentials were in Portland, which is the last place either of us wants to work or live. But this really didn't get either of us down because God had made it clear that he was supposed to quit, so there had to be something else waiting for us in the right time and the right place. So my husband started thinking, praying, and listening again. And he realized that he wants to go to college. He felt confident that this was God's idea and not his own because my husband hates school. He already did college once, and it was not fun. But he was feeling this urge, this drive, this ambition to do it, to go to a university and get a bachelor's degree. He kept thinking and it kept feeling right.

This past Friday, my husband and I talked to an admissions counselor at Western Oregon University about enrolling for spring term and majoring in Information Systems, minoring in Computer Science. He has only a few weeks to get all the proper paperwork, applications and such ready to be able to start school on March 28th. It's a good thing he doesn't have a job because otherwise there's no way he'd have the time to get everything ready and done.

So, we found a way to use some of our "house money." We still have to wait and see how we're going to pay our bills while he's going to school, but we're really not worried about it. God keeps giving us answers, keeps showing us the next step on the path. So we'll see later on how the bills are going to get paid for the next two years.

What an adventure!

Jury Duty

I just served on a jury that convicted a man of four separate charges including selling marijuana. This man has a fiancé and a toddler at home. He has a job and supports and his family. And now he’s probably going to jail. The jury’s verdict on whether or not he was selling marijuana was not unanimous. I was one of the jurors that voted not guilty on two of the charges.

However, I also volunteered to be the presiding juror. So when the jury finally came to the point where they had a strong enough majority to reach a verdict on all four counts, I marked guilty in four places, signed at the bottom of the verdict, carried this paper into the courtroom, handed it to the clerk, and verified for the judge that this was indeed our verdict and that two of the verdicts were unanimous, while two were not.

And the defendant sobbed with his head in his hands.

We went back into the jury room to verify for the judge the count of guilty and not guilty votes for each verdict. And one woman in the room, who had changed her vote earlier that morning, asked if she could change her vote back to not guilty. After we had already handed in our verdict, heard the judge read it out loud in the courtroom, and watched the defendant break down into tears, one juror admitted to having doubts about a guilty verdict. Her one vote, had she stuck with her original feelings, would have been enough to cause a mistrial on two of the charges.

But she waited to voice her doubts until it was too late, and there was nothing we could do. I don’t know how I managed, but I didn’t shed a tear until I got back home.

Just think about it. You know you want to...

Have you ever found yourself chowing down on a piece of greasy, crunchy, salty, breaded buffalo wing, chicken tender, or chicken nugget and wondering, “Why does breaded chicken taste so good?”

Breaded chicken can undeniably be called the best food invention since sliced bread or pre-sliced cheese or even crispy sliced pickles! And it’s not even sliced!

But is breaded chicken actually a product of human ingenuity, or is breadedness the way nature intended for a chicken to be? This is one of the important and consuming questions of our age. What does it matter which came first, the chicken or the egg? What should really be tugging at your brain cells is this: were chickens truly created, in the beginning, in the form we now consider the domestic feathered chicken, or were they in fact amazingly different than the modern day chicken that lives in our modern day farms?

Perhaps the farm-bred chicken that has legs, wings, breasts and a beak is nothing like its ancient ancestor, is nothing at all like it was created to be, has in fact rebelled from the path that God set it on in the beginning. Have you ever considered the possibility that chickens were in fact created in the first days as multi-sized and various shaped, small pieces of meat and bone (or no bone) coated in crispy, salty, savory breading and deep fried in grease?

If this thought has ever crossed your mind, my new book is for you. This is a thinking man’s book. If you don’t think about the origins of the domestic chicken, this book is not for you. If you don’t think about how good your food would taste if all of it were breaded and deep-fried, this book is not for you. If you are not a thinking man, don’t even bother trying to read it!

For the rest of you chicken tender lovers, check it out. Coming to all the right book stores very soon:

The Rebellion and Evolution of the Chicken: The Journey From Deep-Fried Perfection to a Fallen Feathered Future

*Authors note: This book doesn't actually exist.

My parents are leaving Silverton.

My parents are moving this weekend; they're leaving Silverton and moving to Keizer. I feel like I shouldn't really care so much, but I really do care a lot. I'm upset, I'm sad, I'm mourning a loss in my life.

I don't know if I'm really going to miss the house that I lived in with my parents for 13 years. Yes, there are plenty of memories there, so many crucial moments in my life that happened within those walls. But the town itself is so much more a part of who I am.

I can mark so many moments in my life by age and place, almost all of it in Silverton.

Five years old: We start going to Silverton Friends Church. We drive every week from Salem to Silverton to worship with a congregation that becomes like our extended family. These people become to me like my aunts and uncles, grandparents and cousins. They are the people who know me and love me the most in the whole world.

Nine years old: I start going to Silverton Christian School. It’s at our church, so it already feels like home. It’s not perfect, and sometimes I wish I wasn’t there, but it’s small, it’s safe, and it’s familiar.

Ten years old: We finally move to Silverton. We’re home all the way now. Everything in my life fits together in one neat package: home, school, church, and friends, all in Silverton.

Skip a few years down the road past middle school and high school. I’m going to school dances and singing in the choir. I write for the school paper, and I get my first job at the library. I graduate from high school and start planning my future.

Even the beginning of my future starts in Silverton.

Twenty-three years old: My boyfriend takes me to the park so we can take pictures. As we’re walking through the park, he stops me on the bridge across Silver Creek, gets down on his knees, and asks me if I will marry him. I cry, I say yes, I hold him, and I am the happiest I have ever been in my entire life.


Still twenty-three years old: February 3^rd, 2007, Craig and I get married at the Assembly of God church across from my high school and just a few blocks away from the house where I’ve lived with my parents for thirteen years. Now that I’m married, I’ll live in Albany, but I can always come home to Silverton, to my parents’ house, to all the people and places that have been my life.

Except now my parents are moving.

What is holiness?

Words of Charles Marsh, taken from the book, The Sacredness of Questioning Everything by David Dark.

If only holiness were measured by the volume of our incessant chatter, we would be universally praised as the most holy nation on earth. But in our fretful, theatrical piety, we have come to mistake noisiness for holiness, and we have presumed to know, with a clarity and certitude that not even the angels dared claim, the divine will for the world. We have organized our needs with the confidence that God is on our side, now and always, whether we feed the poor or corral them into ghettos.

To a nation filled with intense religious fervor, the Hebrew prophet Amos said: You are not the holy people you imagine yourselves to be. Though the land is filled with festivals and assemblies, with songs and melodies, and with so much pious talk, these are not the sounds and sights that are pleasing to the Lord. "Take away from me the noise of your congregations," Amos says, "you who have turned justice into poison."