Day of Anticipation

December 23 is my favorite day of the Advent season. The expectation for Christmas is thick in the air and the anticipation is heavy on my heart. Something magical will happen tomorrow. We just have one more day to wait.

Growing up December 24 was the day Baba and Dido would drag us around to friends and family, singing Christmas carols and handing out tins of cookies. The trunk of their Chrysler was always full of Christmas tins and the tins were full of at least eight different kinds of cookies. We'd dress up in our Christmas finery, load up and spend the day driving from house to house. Though it sounds like torture, it was actually a lot of fun.

Somewhere towards the end of the day we'd end up at Grandpa and Grandma Lubovich's house. They weren't my grandparents, but we called them Grandpa and Grandma. They were the cutest little Ukrainian couple ever and kind of reminded me of gnomes. Grandma's voice was high and sweet and her accent made it hard to understand her. She'd hold my chubby face in her hands and kiss me, saying sweet things and telling me she loved me. Grandpa had a warm, deeper voice and his English was better. And he'd hug and kiss us too. Their home smelled of moth balls and pickles. Not an appealing description, but I smile when I think of it. We'd sing songs and exchange gifts and then we'd eat. Pickled everything: onions, mushrooms, and even pickled fish. I never ate the fish.

I'm not sure when our Christmas Eve visiting stopped. I think I was in junior high. I don't know if it's because most of the people we visited were gone by then or maybe we just didn't all fit into that old Chrysler any more. But then Christmas Eve was the day my sister and I would walk around our neighborhood and give Christmas treats to all the neighbors. Sometimes, they'd give us treats back. The best treats were the homemade spring rolls from Mrs. Quintong.

Later, after Baba died, we celebrated Christmas eve in true Ukrainian style for a few years. I was in college and spent a lot of time researching the traditional celebration and trying to recreate it. I'd make three loaves of braided bread, coiled into a wreath, stacked one on top of another. And there were to be twelve dishes, most of them pickled items. The food was nothing special but I think it gave me sad heart comfort.

Eventually I met Scott and Christmas eve morphed again. Blending his family traditions with mine was hard. Christmas Eve lunch on the boat with his dad and step-mom. Then dinner at a Mexican restaurant with his mom followed by aebilskivers with his grandparents. I loved Scott's Grammie and PopPop. And after we got married, they changed again. Christmas Eve supper was now at our house and then family friends would come and while the night away.

Our celebrations still start on Christmas Eve. Tomorrow, we will have a "fancy" breakfast on the good china. We will make aebilskivers and drink apple cider like we did with Grammie and PopPop. Then we'll open presents. Later in the evening, my family will come for a luau.

The anticipation and expectation of all the goodness and fun that will come tomorrow is stored up in happy memories and missing loved ones. And that bittersweet feeling makes me think back to the first Christmas Eve when Mary was anticipating a baby and Israel was expecting a Messiah. And something magical happened. The King of the Universe was both the baby Mary anticipated and the Messiah Israel expected born in a barn, laid in a trough, heralded by angels, worshiped by shepherds and rich men. A baby born to make all sad things come untrue. And that makes me anticipate the day He will return for us. What a glorious day that will be! And I will get to celebrate my King once again with all my grandparents!

Why I'm Not Cheering for Phil Robertson

I commend Phil and the cast of Duck Dynasty for proclaiming their Christian beliefs and viewpoints. I applaud them for standing up to A&E when the station wanted them to stop praying in Jesus' name. I herald them for being bold and real. I salute them for professing biblical truth that is not politically correct.

But I've read the GQ article and I'm not cheering him on for his crass comments.

Before I explain why, I want to be crystal clear: I believe the Bible is very clear that sex and marriage are for one man and one woman. If you ask me my opinion my answer will be clear. It is not easy for me to state my beliefs because there are people I love dearly who are gay and/or believe it's okay and that the Bible is irrelevant on its teaching about homosexuality.

My disgust isn't because of his stance on homosexuality. Did you read that? I do not disagree with his interpretation of the Bible nor his beliefs. And I agree that he has his right to "freedom of speech" and can state his opinion. So, just to re-cap, I agree with his biblical stance on homosexuality and condone his freedom of opinion/speech. We're clear on that, right? Good. Then I can continue.

My problem is he was vulgar. He was distasteful. His words were more along the lines of being "of the world" than being "in the world." Read the article for yourself. It's the quote about male and female anatomies that turns my stomach.

We know, from other quotes, that Phil reads his Bible and quotes it. He paraphrased 1 Corinthians 5:9-11 and Revelation 21:8. And his paraphrase is not incorrect. The Bible indeed condemns sexual sins as well as deceit, idolatry, greed, slander, pride, hate, murder, gluttony, sloth, jealousy and more.

The Bible even condemns vulgar talk. Ephesians 4:29, Colossians 3:8, Ephesians 5:4.

And, I'm sorry Phil Robertson fans, his talk was vulgar, crude, and obscene. That I cannot endorse.

So, some of you reading this are thinking, "Well, Kristy, yes this was offensive. But Jesus was offensive. So it's okay." I'm glad you said that. Yes, Jesus was offensive. He was quite off-putting. To whom? To the Pharisees, to the religious leaders, to those taking advantage of and abusing the citizens they were supposed to be serving, leading, loving, protecting, guiding.

Let's take a look at the interaction Jesus had with an adulterous woman. Adultery is also a form of sexual immorality according to the Bible. John 7:53-8:11 gives us the story of the Pharisees presenting an adulterous woman to Jesus hoping He would condemn her. Jesus answers them, "Let you who has not sinned throw the first stone."  Then when they all left, presumably humiliated or infuriated, He said to the woman, "Neither do I condemn you. Now go leave your life of sin."

Let me ask you, who was offended by Jesus in this passage? Was it the woman caught up in sexual sin? Or was it the self-righteous who'd hoped Jesus would make them feel better about themselves by condemning someone else?

Now you're thinking, "Okay Kristy, you have a point, but 'love the sinner, hate the sin.'" This idea is likely founded in the interpretation of Jude 1:22 which says, "Try to help those who argue against you. Be merciful to those who doubt. Save some by snatching them as from the very flames of hell itself. And as for others, help them to find the Lord by being kind to them, but be careful that you yourselves aren't pulled along into their sins. Hate every trace of their sin while being merciful to them as sinners." 

The words that stick out to me here are: "help them to find the Lord," "being kind to them," and "being merciful."  Did you read help, kindness or mercy in Phil's vagina-anus comparison? No. His response to A&E's resultant suspension which you can read here is more in line with the command to help, be kind and show mercy. And perhaps that is the statement he should have made to GQ in the beginning. 

You see, Phil Robertson, like all of us, has the right to freely express his opinion according to the U.S. Constitution. I support him 100% in that right. But he has the responsibility, according to the call given in the Bible to all Christians by Christ, to love others. To love them as he loves himself. That responsibility does not come with the right to condemn or to judge.  It includes the right to exhort someone who is sinning, but it does not come with the right nor the freedom to condemn. Jesus himself did not condemn the adulterous woman. He told her not to sin anymore, but he didn't call her names, he didn't tell her how evil she was. He didn't say she was illogical or point out how silly and defeating her sins were.

In his vulgar comparison Phil pointed out how illogical the practice of homosexuality is and he said that sin is not logical. Correct. Alcoholism is not logical. Stealing is not logical. Lying is not logical. Gluttony is not logical. Sloth is not logical. Jealousy is not logical. Adultery is not logical. Pride is not logical. Murder is not logical.  Hate is not logical. Boasting is not logical. Hypocrisy is not logical. Slander is not logical. And yet we are all sinners and we all do some of these illogical things.

Logic does not explain why Christ, ruler of the universe, Savior of the world, was born in a trough so that He could die on a cross for all those illogical sins you and I commit every day of our lives. Logic would have let each of us pay our own price for the sins we committed. But God LOVED us too much to let logic rule the world. So He illogically sent His son as a baby who offended the self-righteous religious and political leaders and then endured torture and death so that we could be SAVED from our sins forever. 

The world around us already knows what the Bible says is wrong. They already know we Christians have a long list of things that we are against. They already see us saying one thing and doing another. What they don't know is that we are just broken, screwed up sinners ourselves who have found mercy and grace at the foot of the cross. They don't know that they can find that same mercy and grace in the same place because we're too busy telling them how messed up they are. We're too busy hating the sin. We haven't spent enough time loving the sinner. So they don't know. They don't know. And that, is just illogical.

So, I don't condemn you for sticking up for Phil. I don't condemn Phil for speaking his opinion. I don't think he should be suspended from A&E. I don't think he should be forced to stop praying. I don't agree with people who think his interpretation of the Bible is wrong. I think you should write letters to A&E if you feel led. I think you should defend your beliefs.

I'm just not sure how much of this has won hearts to Christ and introduced a broken person to mercy and grace.

Silly Sayings not fit for a Savior

Recently I've seen a lot of "Merry CHRISTmas" and a few "Keep Christ in Christmas" and a couple "Jesus is the reason for the season." Frankly, it kind of irritates me.

Christmas is about celebrating Christ's birth. That I am not denying. I don't think that should be down-played or minimized at all. I think we should be able to say "Merry Christmas" without fearing we might offend someone. I think we should keep Christ in Christmas. But I don't think that slapping a catchy little phrase on the birth of the Messiah brings Him even the slightest bit of honor. I actually think it trivializes it even more than the fat guy in the red suit. I don't think that these sayings actually keep Christ the focus of anything. I think they just put a band-aid on a broken world and make us feel good about ourselves.

Some Christians think that by using those catch-phrases they are somehow sharing their faith and spreading the gospel. Um, no. These messages are mundane and insincere. They don't capture the depth and breadth of what happened in that cave two thousand years ago. Instead they just put a nice, palatable, simplistic, sweet-tasting smile at a moment that wasn't nice, wasn't palatable, wasn't simple and sure as heck wasn't sweet-tasting.

Let me re-cap. Jesus, God's only son, became human. Became a baby. His parents were poor. His mother was an unmarried teen. He was born in a cave/stable/outbuilding surrounded by animals and his first bed was a feeding trough. He came as a baby because that's how WE needed Him to come so that we would accept Him because we cannot grasp how magnificent and holy He actually is. From the second He was born until the second He died, people wanted Him dead. And yes, that baby came to this world for one purpose: to die. To die for you. To die for me. To be tortured and hung on a cross.

That is not a sweet moment. That is not palatable. That is off-putting. That is something that a cute little rhyme cannot convey.

And, as if that's not enough, when these words are written, they're in a big happy font. Or when they're spoken, they're spoken with a Dr. Seuss voice. And then the writer or the speaker GOES RIGHT BACK TO THEIR  REGULAR DAILY LIVES LIKE NOTHING HAPPENED. As if saying "Jesus is the Reason for the Season" somehow excuses or explains why there's Christmas shopping and baking and wrapping and caroling to do. It's like a commercial.

I don't have a problem with Santa. I don't have a problem with Christmas shopping or baking or card-sending or any of the rest of it. It's all good. But when you take a sacred event like the incarnation and dumb it down with "Merry CHRISTmas" I throw up in my mouth a little bit because Jesus didn't come to earth so that we can make ourselves feel good about over-spending or be self-righteous because we know the "reason" for the season.

And here's the real coup de grace: most of the world -- certainly most of America -- already know that Christmas has something to do with a baby in a manger. What they don't know is why that matters to them. They don't know why they should care. They don't understand why that's important. And no amount of patronizing, puerile mottos will explain that.

So yes, Jesus is indeed the  most important part of Christmas. He is Christmas. But can we give that a little more respect than a trivial, mindless saying?

Why I Love Halloween

Halloween is a holiday with dark roots.  It celebrates death, horror, and even evil.  It's hard to find Halloween anything that isn't a witch, zombie, vampire, ghost or cursed black cat. It seems as though, everywhere you look there's something dark and dismal.

Yet, it's one holiday I've come to love.

I grew up in a God-fearing family, attended conservative Christian school and a great big church with lots of programs. Today, my childhood church would still be classified as a mega-church. 

Our school had Harvest Day and we all got to dress up as something Historical, Biblical or Literary.  In kindergarten, my pals and I dressed up as Job and his children. In first grade, I was Delilah. I skipped second grade, but my entire third grade class dressed as Cherokee Indians.  My entire fourth grade class dressed as pioneers. In fifth grade, I was Queen Liliuokalani.  In sixth grade, we dressed as a bridal party out of some book I had read.  We'd parade around the gym and then go to our classrooms for candy and games. It was fun and we often discussed that we were celebrating God's bountiful harvest. But mostly, it was just good-natured fun.

That was just at school. Our Wednesday night Pioneer Girls program at church also had dress-up parties.  One year I dressed as Vanna White, which is hilarious because I was a chubby brunette, but hey, that's the magic of costuming.  The next year, I dressed as the Lady in Red.  (side note: my mom owned a bridal/formalwear shop, so there were always lots of sequin dresses to choose from while being a cowgirl or a hobo proved more difficult for me)

But the Halloween that made me really start to like the holiday came when I was in 9th grade.  I dressed as a pirate that year, in case you're wondering.  My youth group hosted a haunted house in the youth building on our church campus.  I know some of you have stopped reading and some of you have pre-judged my church and its leaders for holding a haunted house.

The youth staff decorated the entire two-story building and we traveled through the "haunted house" with our small groups.  Every room featured a different Bible story all pointing to the amazing grace shown to us by the Almighty and Merciful Savior. My favorite room featured John the Baptist; he was already beheaded, so it was just his head on a silver platter in the middle of a table.
It was the coolest thing ever.  There were other stories told too, like that of Mary Magdalene and of Stephen.  And if my memory serves me, there was a crucifixion scene as well.

I don't know how many 100s of kids came through that display that year. But I remember how all of us were affected by what we saw.  It put real faces and real feelings to thousands-year old stories. It made the Bible real and tangible and palpable.

Eventually I grew up and when I met Scott, we decided we wouldn't "do" Halloween. It's an evil holiday after all and Christians should have nothing to do with it. Then we had Adam. And I couldn't resist dressing him up as a mobster when he was 18-months-old.  But still, no Trick-or-Treating, no Halloween décor. We even taught the kids to say "Happy Harvest" because Halloween is evil and it's a holiday no Christian should celebrate.

The reality is, no matter how much Christians condemn Halloween, no matter how much they try to ignore it, that won't change Halloween. The ONLY thing that will change Halloween is Jesus.

Halloween is perhaps the darkest time of year.  And Jesus calls us to be lights in the darkness.  He doesn't tell us to run and hide from the world. He calls us out. He calls us out of darkness and into the light. He calls us out of darkness and into the light and to share that light with people.

The Light defeats the darkness. Jesus defeats death. 

And then there's this amazing opportunity to do just that because people of all walks of life, hurting people, broken people, happy people, sad people, angry people, poor people, rich people come and ring our doorbell and hold out their hands for and ask us for something sweet. What sweeter thing is there to give them than the love of Jesus?

This year is the second year our church is hosting a Trunk-or-Treat event in Bismarck.  Again, some people think this is ridiculous and maybe even "sinful."  But I look at it as one of our biggest ministry opportunities ever.  Hundreds of kids will come through the parking lot, asking us for candy.  But that's just what they're verbalizing.  What they're really asking for is what we all are asking for, "Please, love me?"

So, the kids will come, we'll talk to them, ask them about their costumes, put candy in their bags and connect with them right where they are just like Jesus connects with us right where we are.  We won't judge them for picking a Dracula costume.  We won't condemn them for dressing like Miley Cyrus.  We'll just love them.  We'll pour candy into their bags and love into their hearts and then we'll let God take over. 

For some of these kids, it's the only time they have a positive interaction with an adult.  For some of these kids, it's the only time they'll experience Jesus.  And for the parents that come with some of them, it might be the first time in a long time that they feel like they're part of the community, that they're loved and accepted.

So, yes, I'm a Christian and I love Halloween not for the witches and goblins, and not even for the candy.  I love Halloween because I can let my light shine in a very dark world.  And, that, folks, is what being a follower of Christ is all about.

"This little light of mine, I'm gonna let it shine.

Hide it under a bushel? No! I'm gonna let it shine."

Tugging on My Heart Strings

Last month, Adam had his first ever sports physical since he will play football this fall. Everything was fine, but the doctor heard a heart murmur and said we'd need to see the pediatric cardiologist the next time he came to Bismarck. This mama, prone to anxiety as she is, fell apart.

We've known Adam has a murmur since he was a newborn. Gracey has one too. But for whatever reason, the doctor thought that it should be checked out by an expert. He assured me it was probably nothing and signed the sports release, but "probably nothing" is never reassuring.

Today was the big appointment. I was a mess most of the day, crying between Avon deliveries and on the verge of a panic attack. Adam was very nervous but tried to be tough. He went to the bathroom three times while we waited for the appointment. Scott was our rock, concealing his own worries to reassure both of us and lead us in prayer. Repeatedly.

Dr. P came in and asked us and Adam some questions. He was a little concerned when I told him about Gracey's valve issue as a newborn. (read about that here) Then he listened to Adam's heart. For. A. Long. Time. In several different locations front and back. Then he listened to, palpated and timed major arteries. It. Took. Forever.

He told us that Adam's murmur sounds innocent. He said it's the kind of murmur that is common in children aged 2-5. Adam is 9. He said since Adam isn't having any ill effects of a murmur (passing out, chest pain, etc) and that all of his valves and arteries sound good otherwise, so an EKG isn't necessary at this point. But if when he is 12 the murmur is still there, then it will be time for an EKG as a 12-year-old heart should not sound like a 2-5 year-old heart.

Then he drew a sketch of the heart and explained that some cardiologists thing this type of murmur is caused by an extra ligament in the heart that kind of reverberates the way a harp string does. The ligament has no purpose, most people don't have this little extra ligament and all it does is make a musical sound in the heart.

You could hear a collective sigh of relief come from the three of us.

As we got up to leave, I said to Adam, "Dude, I think Dr. P just said you have music in your heart."

Dr. P agreed and said that yes, Adam does indeed have a musical heart.

I started crying (again) and could only whisper, "Thank you Jesus."

As we got into the elevator, Adam looked at Scott and said, "I've got a song in my heart, Dad. A song in my heart for Jesus."

I don't want Adam to have an EKG in three years. I want his murmur to go away and to never cause us stress or worry again. Yet, if having a murmur will keep Adam's heart turned toward Jesus, then I can live with that.

Pro-Respect

Even though I agree that life begins at conception, it is very hard for me to be joyful about the North Dakota bills signed this week.

Why? Because as my friend pointed out tonight, both sides have gotten so ugly. And she's right.

If I post on my blog or on Facebook that I am pro-life and/or in favor of North Dakota's decision, I am both a hero and a villian. Some of my friends and family will agree with me and maybe even applaud me for speaking my viewpoint. Others will disagree and probably accuse me of being ill-informed or even hateful.

I mean, honestly, why can't we all just get along?  You're not going to change my mind, I'm not going to change yours. I respect your opinions and beliefs. And I like you as much as I like someone who agrees with me. I don't call you names and I don't think you're stupid. I'm glad you have your opinion and I'm glad I have mine. If you want to post it all over Facebook, go for it. I'm not offended.

Now I want to put this idea out there for all of you, pro-life and pro-choice to mull over: is this empowering to women when both sides are screaming "You're wrong" in every woman's face? Is it honoring God?

So whether you're rejoicing or raging tonight, remember someone else is feeling the other emotion and she has as much right to her opinion and her emotions as you do. With rights come the responsibility to be respectful.

As of tonight, I am changing my stance on the issue. I am no longer pro-life nor pro-choice. I am pro-respect. Won't you join me?

Hawai'i In My Heart

For my birthday, my sister gave me this sweet necklace. As you can see, the heart-shaped pendant has the islands of Hawai'i stamped into it. When I slipped it out of its tiny brown, I thought, "Hawai'i in my heart." As I fingered the pendant, while driving Adam to chemistry class, a poem crawled out of my soul.

 

Hawai'i in my heart, forever from the start.
Always in my heart, hurts to be apart.
Hawai'i is in my heart.

Islands amidst the sea calling sweetly to me,
"Come be shaded by a tall banyan tree."
Aloha my only plea.

Whispers through the trees floating on the ocean breeze,
Over the mauna and over the seas,
"Come home, come home to me please."

Sweetly scented air, yellow flowers in my hair,
A lei to share, how I want to be there.
Aloha plenty to spare.

I took a sandy stroll and there I left my soul.
Console my heart with the waves' crash and roll
And wash away worry's toll.

Hawai'i in my heart, forever from the start.
Always in my heart, hurts to be apart.
Hawai'i is in my heart.

Mahalo nui loa to my sweet sister for the birthday gift and the sweet inspiration. 

Slamming Doors

It stinks when the realization hits you that you had to get hurt in order to figure out what God has for your life right now.

Nothing like having the door slammed in your face so hard that your toes get caught and your nose gets splinters. And if you're like me you think that this means you've still got a chance because your toes are stuck under the door. That's what "having a foot in the door" means right? It's dark and lonely on this side of the door  and you desperately want to be back on the other side. You jiggle the knob, knock on the panels, "Let me in! I'm supposed to be in there!"

Then someone on the other side stomps on your feet until you have no choice but to yank them out from under the door. In doing so, you fall backwards, stumbling, trying to grab the door knob to stop your fall.

You flail backwards like a cartoon character falling off a cliff. Falling, falling, falling. Panic starts to build. You're crying, thinking of ways to open the dang door, wishing there was something you could do to get yourself out of this predicament. You're blaming the door. You're blaming yourself. You're blaming the jerk that slammed it shut in your face.

But just before you go splat on the cold hard floor of rejection, you whisper, "OK God. I give up."

Suddenly big strong arms are around you and you're safe. You're loved. He looks down at you resting in His embrace and smiles. Warm comforting peace slowly fills your body from your stepped-on toes through your sucker-punched gut and into the tip of your splinter-filled nose.

You take a deep breath and sigh. You're safe, but it still hurts. That door didn't close on its own. Someone, probably someone you trust, someone you counted a friend or maybe even a loved one, slammed it. And if that wasn't enough then they stomped on your feet. It hurts. A lot.

You start to explain to God what happened. You try to justify your hurt, anger and sadness. Bug He just puts His finger to His lips. "Shhhhh...." Your grumblings cease.

"I'm sorry you were hurt," He whispers. "I tried to get you to close that door on your own, but you weren't paying attention. You were consumed with doing what you thought was My Will that you weren't listening." He smiles and squeezes your hand.

A light bulb goes off in your head and suddenly it all makes sense.  He sees the realization in your eyes and smiles again.

"You were doing a wonderful job but didn't you notice no matter how much of yourself you poured into this, you just feltl ike you were hitting a wall." 

You nod. He hugs you close.

"Oh dear one, I'm sorry you hurt yourself."

You nod, smiling through the tears. He holds you against His chest and you melt into His embrace. His steady breath and strong heartbeat wash away the doubt, the anger, the sadness. You forgive the people who hurt you. They were unwitting tools of God, used to push you toward Him and His will.
Now it doesn't seem like such a horrible injustice and an unhappy ending but a beautiful beginning ordained by God.

When He sees that you've forgiven and understand all that happened, He gently places you on your feet. There, next to the old door now boarded and nailed shut is a new door. It is open and a warm glow streams out of it.  He puts His hand on your shoulder and says, "OK dear one, now here's the door for you. Here's the path I want you to take. Go. Make me proud."

Gently He pushes you toward the door. You approach cautiously, afraid this door might suddenly swing shut but then the glow of possibility and potential envelops you. You smile and go through the door. And it's kind of like waking up in technicolor after weathering that grayscale tornado.

Christmas Craziness to Christmas Selah

Because I'm an AVON rep and also work part-time from home as a District Assistant for AVON, the Christmas craziness begins for me in August. It starts slowly with much anticipation of seeing the Christmas product line-up. But somewhere around Halloween, it picks up speed. Then Thanksgiving comes and the pace moves so quickly and the stress builds so steadily that it is almost unbearable.

This is my tenth Christmas as a rep and my sixth as an assistant. Every Christmas, I tell myself, this is it. This is my last Christmas. I'm going to quit before next Christmas. And inevitably next Christmas comes and I get on the roller coaster.

Sometimes, I let the stress of it all rob me of the anticipation of Advent and the joy of Christmas. That is why I set out to accomplish as much of my Christmas to-do list as early in the season as possible. My goal in shopping early, sending cards early and decorating early is to get to a point in December when there's nothing left to do but relax and enjoy the season. The challenge then becomes to say no to extra busy-ness in those last days of Advent and to not again load my plate with stress.

To me, Christmas is magical, but its magic is fragile. It can easily be lost, broken, or otherwise damaged if we are not careful. And like Matthew Broderick's character in "Deck the Halls," I have a tendency to schedule the magic right out of the holiday. Last night, as I was tidying up the kitchen for the umpteenth time, that was what God laid on my heart. I felt He was saying, "I know you're pouring yourself into this season, trying to make every memory magical, trying to create a Christmas the kids will never forget and working at building meaning into everything you do this Christmas. But what are you missing out on?" My heart responded, "the joy."

I can spend day and night decorating, baking, wrapping and caroling in a good-hearted attempt to make Christmas special for my kids but if I alienate them in the process, what good have I done?

That's why when I read "Selah in the Sky" in InTouch Magazine this morning, I felt like it was written just for me. The author wrote from my heart as she did from hers. So today I am going to selah the wonder of Christmas. Join me?

I Think I Can

I know this is an odd photo to post. But I took this picture this morning of my "command central" where all my tasks and to-dos await completion on a daily basis. When life gets really hectic, as it has been the last few weeks, this area ends up looking like a dumping ground. The piles of papers, books, bills, checks, Avon orders, church stuff, school stuff and other random things grow and grow until I'm literally stacking things on top of other things just to have room for more things that need to be done.

Scott hates my "command central" and I don't blame him. It eats up valuable counter space and it's not pretty to look at, but it's convenient. If I put something there I know it will be accomplished. If I put it on my desk in my office upstairs, I will forget about it. If I put it in the file trays in the pantry, I know it will get lost. If I pin it to the bulletin board, it will get holes in it. So I stack it in priority order on the counter.

But what makes this picture so great is that "command central" was virtually empty this morning. All that's left are my cookbooks and grocery list because all I have left to do this Christmas season is bake. And for me, that is hardly a chore.

Today is the last day at breakneck speed. Starting tomorrow, I can shift into a lower gear and coast into Christmas with a smile on my face.

I think I can, I think I can, I think I can.

"The Little Engine that Could" is without question my most favorite childhood book. My aunts and grandmother read it to me tirelessly and I really believe it shaped my outlook on life. I don't give up easily. I push and push to get something done even when everyone says it can't be done. Uphill, downhill, it doesn't matter. Forward motion is all that counts.

Of course, even the Little Engine couldn't do it without help. He had the toys to cheer him on, the smiles of those waiting kids to encourage him. Me? I have my family. I know I could not have survived the past through weeks without the love and encouragement of my husband, parents and kids. Without their support, I couldn't have chugged along.

And more than that, I serve this awesome God. I'm certain He's given me extra minutes in long busy days so I could get everything done on my list. I know He's given me sound and peaceful sleep and restored my energy when I wake in the morning.

I can, I can, I can! I knew I could, I knew I could, I knew I could.

A Salve to My Soul

Here's something about me that may surprise you. I suffer from anxiety. On the outside I probably look like I have it all together. But if you had been standing in my kitchen on Monday morning, you would have thought differently.

It was snack time. The kids were at the counter eating bananas and chattering on about something.  I went to pour them some milk but instead had an anxiety attack. My heart was racing, I was crying and felt like I couldn't breathe. Quickly I turned my back to the kids as to not freak them out any more than I already had and sent Scott a text message. When he called me back, I couldn't even tell him what was bothering me or what sent me into panic land. And when normalcy (whatever that is) returned, I was exhausted, feeling like I'd just run a marathon.

I wish I could tell you that Monday was a one time deal for me. But it isn't. Anxiety stalks me. It's always lurking in the shadows. Sometimes it's nothing more than a fleeting feeling of impending doom. Other times it's tears. And sometimes it's worse.

But it always goes away. God always rescues me from its grip. I always find peace and usually it comes to me through music or sometimes through verses I memorized as a kid.

Tuesday I was in a fog all day. Just feeling tired and run down. As I drove home from homeschool gym, one of my favorite songs came on the radio.

 How many times have you heard me cry out  "God please take this"?
How many times have you given me strength to  Just keep breathing?
Oh, I need you.  God, I need you now.

The next morning, as I sat at the table, in the quiet before the storm of our daily lives, I wrote in my journal, "Your enemy, anxiety, is like a roaring lion, sneaking around to find someone to attack." I remember reading 1 Peter 5:8 in a high school assembly when I was a junior. I never thought it would come back to me like this.

Tonight, though, was my favorite. Locked in our junk room adjacent to the garage, I was sorting Avon for  a big fundraiser I just hosted. I had my MP3 player going when a song from my childhood started playing. My mom bought Amy Grant's "Age to Age" cassette when I was almost six years old. We played it endlessly in her Lincoln and eventually learned every word to every song on that album. So when "Arms of Love" came on tonight, that's exactly what it felt like. It felt like a great big hug from God Almighty. It was like He was saying, "I held you then, I'll hold you now." And all the anxiety just melted as I stood there singing off-key all by myself, surrounded by tubes of lipstick.

These instances are like a balm you rub on a sunburn. They're a salve to my soul.

I don't know why I'm sharing this with you. I just felt you needed to know. Maybe there's something you're struggling with, maybe you battle anxiety or depression or some other variety of the enemy's arsenal. Maybe you just need to be reminded of God's mercy and grace. Or maybe you just need a supernatural hug. Turn up the volume on your speakers and let His arms wrap around you:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yc0Wkq_DQnM

21st Century Genocide?

I am opposed to federally-funded or federal mandates requiring insurance funding of abortion and birth control.

Let's talk about abortion first. I am not opposed to federal funding or federal mandates requiring funding for abortions because I am prolife. I am, in fact, prolife and believe human life begins at conception. I believe ending that life, at any point in the pregrancy, is indeed murder. I understand, however, that extenuating circumstances exist turning a black and white matter into one that is very, very grey. However, my prolife stance has nothing to do with my opinion on federal mandates on abortion.

Similarly, I am not opposed to birth control funding mandated by the federal goverment because I believe birth control is morally wrong. I don't. I know some people believe that using birth control violates God's will and breaks His command to "be fruitful and multiply." I'm not one of those people.  I believe God can make anything happen whenever He wants and a silly little hormone pill isn't going to prevent a pregnancy if God's will is for you to be pregnant at that moment in time. But I digress. The point is, though I have no problems with birth control, namely oral contraceptives, I do have a problem with the government mandating its coverage by insurance.

When I was in college at a very liberal, all women college, a lot of my classmates had bumper stickers on their cars that read: "U.S: Out of My Uterus!" I remember not really understanding what that meant but thinking it was kind of humorous.  Today, I'm shaking my fist in the air in support of such a statement.

Let me break this down for you: if we allow, or in this case ask, the government to pay for birth control and abortions, we are essentially asking them to control our reproductive abilities.

You read that right. We are inviting the government back into our uteruses. But now it's worse. Decades  ago, we wanted the government to give us control of our uteruses, to grant us the freedom and the right to evict any tenant thereof. Essentially we said, "It's our uterus, it's our choice."

But now, we're saying, "It's still our uterus, it's still our choice, but now we want you to pay for it." Common sense tells us what the government pays for the government owns. So we are selling our uteruses to the government. Sadly, we think that getting free or low-cost abortions and free birth control is somehow our right. We think receiving such things gives us more freedom, allows us greater choice, and somehow liberates us.

But it doesn't! You cannot ask the government to pay for something and expect they won't tell you how to do it. That just doesn't happen. Even in the most liberal of socialist cultures, there are rules and qualifiers in order to receive welfare and social services.

So asking the government to pay for abortion andbirth control is the first step to government control of all our reproductive rights. Maybe in a few years the government will require that all women of a certain age or certain race will be required to take birth control. Or maybe they'll be required to have hysterectomies. This is already a part of our history, just google "forced sterlization in US in 20th century." Or maybe several years from now, women will be required to abort girl babies or babies who will be born with a defect. Maybe what seems like a great idea now will actually turn into genocide.

I don't know what will happen in the future, but I know that there is no such thing as a free lunch.  Somebody, somewhere has to pay for it. And we might end up paying for this "choice" with our freedom.

Back from Niagara

We returned from our 10-day field trip to Niagara Falls last week-end. We had a great time, saw lots of interesting things and came back exhausted.

This week friends and family have asked me about the Falls and honestly I haven't known how to answer. It is so breathtakingly spectacular that I cannot find the words to describe it. The roaring, crashing, plunging water is powerful yet peaceful. You just can't stop looking at it.

Pictures cannot capture the magnitude of magnificence that is Niagara Falls. It is untamed beauty. It is majesty unbridled. It is more than just a waterfall. Having been to Hawai'i a couple dozen times, I've seen a lot of waterfalls. But Niagara is just spectacular.

We of course did all the touristy things like take a boat ride on Maid of the Mist where we got utterly soaked. After the ride, we went to the restrooms and stood by the hand dryers. The kids thought that was hilarious. We also saw a 4-D show called Niagara's Fury which tells how Niagara Falls were formed. Of course, it's only theory and we don't completely buy it. It's much more believable that the Falls are a work of a Wondrous and Almighty God. We also went to the White Water Walk which is a boardwalk along the banks of the Niagara River, below the Falls. They are category 6 rapids. Professional rafters usually raft on category 4-5 rapids.

And we went "Behind the Falls" which was wet, slipperly and dumbfounding.

Along the way to and from Niagara, we made some more field trip stops. One was at the Bonneyville Mill, a water-powered flour mill in Elkhart, IN. Beautiful! And we also visited the Jelly Belly Warehouse in Pleasant Prairie, WI as well as 4 of the 5 Great Lakes. We already visited Lake Superior last year, so now we've seen them all. The kids also got to add 6 new states to their travel logs bringing Adam to 22 states visited in just 8 years! He's only 1 behind me. And of course we stopped at the Mall of America for our Lego Store and Disney Store fix and paid two visits to Trader Joe's. All in all, it was a wonderful vacation!

Relax? Check!

I am not a "roll with the punches" kind of girl. I don't do spontaneity and I don't think anyone has ever called me "laid back." In fact, if you look up "easy-going" in the dictionary, it says "antonym: Kristy Rose." I'm serious. Go look. I'll wait.

Let me just break this down for you. I alphabetize my spices. My movies, books and CDs are organized by genre and then placed in alphabetical order. My closet is arranged by style then by color. I keep three calendars and make to-do lists. Excel is one of my favorite software packages because I make spreadsheets for everything. Like the seven-page outline for our wedding. Or the packing lists, complete with multiple check-off boxes for each item, for every trip. I spend hours obsessing over schedules and itineraries and eventually put those into spreadsheets too. I even schedule "sleep" and "relaxation." I can't help it. I like to have an order to everything.

That's probably why God called me to be an Avon lady. I can whip up a two-day delivery schedule broken into 15-minute increments in under five minutes. And then I stick to that schedule. My customers joke that they can tell the time by me. Yes, punctuality is as important as order and remaining on schedule is of top priority. I mean, why bother making a schedule or a spreadsheet if you're not going to stick to it?

In high school, I had a button on my book bag that read, "I thrive on stress." Yes, yes I do. Deadlines, timetables, lists, spreadsheets. These are the fabric of my life. Don't mess with it.

To me, life is all about the details. I know this makes me intense. Perhaps that's why the Pastor who married us suggested I join his Type A recovery group. Oh how I wish I was joking.

That said, there are three things that bring me deep relaxation and relief. I mean the kind of relaxation that sinks deep into your bones and makes your soul sigh. That's the kind of relaxation a Super Type A like me needs.

Baking gives me deep joy and relief from my world of order. I know most people believe cooking is an art and baking is a science. But for me, baking is an art. An art from the deepest place in my heart.

Being in the water, whether it's pool, ocean, lake or river, washes away the stress and compulsion. I remember taking a class on Watsu (water-based massage) and the teacher said, "wow, girl, you really let go when you get into the water." At the time, she was performing watsu on me and noticed how every muscle in my body just melted and glided through the water.

Yet there is one thing that takes me to a tranquil place even more than baking or water. You guessed it. Hula. When I hula, I forget there's a world around me. I forget to think. I let go of planning. I just dance. My body responds to the music as though it was created for hula. My hips keep time, my hands tell the story and I step-together-step-touch into another world.

That's why hula worship has struck such a deep chord in my soul. The music leads me to a meditative mindset and my hands tell the story of my Awesome Creator and Savior. When I dance and sing praise to God, I feel this calming yet invigorating energy move through me and fill me up. It's Aloha. (read last week's post to understand)

Hula worship to me is like melting into Him and finally taking a breath, finally resting in His love and grace.

Living Aloha?

Even though I'm a lover of all things Hawai'i and Polynesian, I've often wondered what it meant to "Live Aloha." It wasn't too long ago, while reading a book about the Big Island, that I figured out what that saying meant. Before you can know what "live aloha" means, you need to understand the meaning of aloha and its antithesis haole.

The word aloha though used mostly as a greeting, its literal translation is much deeper than just "hello" or "goodbye."  The word actually "breath of life." Conversely, the derogatory term "haole" means "breathless." Haole (how-lee) is what islanders call white people. When the first white men arrived on the islands, they were dressed in heavy, stiff clothes with tight collars. To the laid back islanders, the white people looked like they were struggling to breathe.

Living aloha means to live and treat each other with love and respect. It means to connect mind and heart in a compassionate, considerate way. It means to spread love around to everyone.

When I think about "aloha" and "haole", I think about passion. I think of living aloha as meaning living with passion. I think of "haoles" as people who are living life without passion. We all know people who are haoles. They go through life, one day to the next, rather robotic about everything. And when you ask them what they are living for, they look at you blankly. That's a haole.

Job 33:4 says "For the Spirit of God has made me, and the breath of Almighty gives me life."

Aloha means "breath of life" and my Almighty Father breathed life into me, so I strive every day to live with passion, to live with love.

What Happened to that Plan?

Sitting in church today, I asked myself, "Whatever happened to that dream of being a nurse-missionary in Africa?" And I couldn't figure out the answer.

That was the one career dream I kept coming back to in high school. Oh yes, I was as fickle then as I am now. I'd also wanted to be a podiatrist (why?!), a production assistant (um, ok), a journalist (been there done that not for me), a corporate mogul (that is another post for another day) and President of the United States (ok, I still daydream about that one).

But being a nurse in Africa resonated with me. So why did I forsake that dream? I think it was a perfect storm.

I was accepted to two nursing programs but turned them both down after spending a summer as a candy-striper at Summit Medical Center. So I went to a liberal arts school thinking I'd go pre-med.

My college adviser scared me to death when I said I was thinking pre-med. I remember leaving her office in tears. She even terrified my dad. And he isn't easily scared.

One of my closest friends at the time told me the medical field didn't seem like a fit for me.

Half-way through my freshwoman year at Mills--it's an all-girls college, so yes, we were called freshwomen--my grandmother had a series of strokes and it was during that crazy time that I declared my major. Perhaps I would have chosen differently if I hadn't had that emotional stress weighing on me. Who knows?!

I'm not saying I regret my choices because I don't. It's just I'd forgotten about wanting to be a nurse in Africa until this morning. And I couldn't remember why or when I let go of that aspiration. Ironically, my grandmother had also wanted to be a nurse-missionary in Africa. This is something I didn't know about her until we sat and chatted one afternoon after she had her strokes. She too couldn't think of why it didn't happen.

It's funny how life bends and shifts. Ironic how the future looks nothing like we imagined it would. Yet comforting to know the Big Guy has it all under control. It's all in His hands. And who knows? Maybe one day I'll pursue that Africa plan.

I Miss You, My Hawai'i

Aloha! It's Friday!

Last night, I had a dream about Iz. You know Israel Kamakawiwo'ole, the guy who sings "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" with that sweet angelic voice? Yes, him. I had a dream and he was in it. When I woke, I didn't remember the details of the dream, but I had this deep longing in my heart for Hawai'i.

It's just like the song, I miss you, my Hawai'i. So I went through the photos I have saved on my laptop from some of our trips and thought I'd share a few with you. Come, visit my Hawai'i with me.

1979: My first visit to the islands

1981: My sister's first visit to the islands

 

 

1983

 

 





 

1989: my sister and I have always been water-lovers. I'm pretty sure we have gills. This hotel was in Honolulu. The pool is on the roof!

1993: on our Hawaii vacations, Karianne and I would always pretend we were twins and we'd give ourselves new Hawaiian names. Karianne's was always Kali but I don't remember what mine was.

 

2001: Though Scott had been to Hawai'i once as a child, he'd never been to Kaua'i until he went with our family in 2001. This photo was taken on Polihale beach.



 

2002: Our honeymoon to Maui

 

2004: Adam's first Hawai'i trip



 

And now, a little music. Click here. 



Ding Dong...Hope Calling

Today was one of those days when I remembered why I sell Avon. It's not because I love the products (to which I am actually addicted). It's not for the money (that has paid for a lot of extras). It's because of my customers. Today was an exhausting, emotional day but I came home feeling rewarded. Exhausted, but content.

My morning started off pretty smoothly until I got to my usual 10:30 appointment and her husband greeted me at the door with, "She's not here. She's in the hospital. She had a stroke last night." I literally staggered backwards and grabbed onto the railing to steady myself. He told me she's okay and will be fine, but as soon as I got into the car, I started to cry.

"I need a new job," I told my mom. "If my customers are going to start having strokes on me, it's time for a new job." I'm just so darn attached to them. They're like family.

My next stop was one of my favorite Avon Grandmas. She has pictures of my kids on her fridge, tells everyone their her great-grandchildren and she calls me "babe." Seeing her was salve to my sad soul. 

From there I went to my next regular stop, rang the bell and waited. When I didn't here Ann call for me to come in, I knew something was not right. Rang the bell again. No answer. Called her from my cell phone and left a message to call me when she got back.

I re-grouped over lunch then continued on with my day. At my second stop of the afternoon, my second favorite Avon Grandma shared her burdens with me. Her sister, also one of my customers, had her first chemo treatment for her stage four cancer yesterday. Her husband who is in a home because of severe alzheiemer's doesn't recognize her anymore and today he told her to go home. We hugged, said "I love you" and away I went.

On to Doris' house. Doris is 82 and was recently diagnosed with osteoporosis. This diagnosis deflated her for a few weeks because she'd never had to take any sort of medication until then. But today, she called to me from her side yard as I got out of my car and then waved at me kind of crazy like and walked out of sight. I followed. What do you know? Doris was painting the trim of her house. By herself. In the heat. She told me about the painters who ripped her off and left the trim undone. Then as I said goodbye, she asked, "Kristy, do you have a cell phone?" I told her I did and she told me she needed me to come into the house with her and help her find her missing cell phone. So that's what we did. There it was under the couch. She again told me the story of the painters who ripped her off then asked if it was too hot outside for her phone. I wanted to say, "it's too hot outside for you but not your phone." I didn't of course. I just gave her a hug and left her laughing at a joke.

Next was Jim and Jan's house. Jim was sitting on the porch drinking a beer when I walked up. He's 80-something and has dementia. I've never seen him drink a beer before. He followed me into the house talking about beer and once Jan and I got into our Avon mode, he disappeared into the garage. She sighed and said, "Finally some peace." Then she cried. His dementia is worsening and suddenly he's decided he needs to have a beer or two every day. The doctor said it was okay but it's making everything harder on her. Jan is my third favorite Avon Grandma. We usually swap recipes and talk about cooking. Today I sat with her for forty minutes while she vented about her husband's failing mind. When I got up to leave, she said, "Maybe I should have the beer." We laughed heartily.

A few stops later, I arrived at my regular 2:30 appointment. Virginia's husband came to the door and told me she wasn't home. She was at the hospital with her dad who was having serious heart troubles again. We chatted a bit about this latest heart problem and I went on my way.

Now I had some extra time so I called to see if Anne had gotten home. Indeed she had. She too had been at the hospital. Her sister's husband had been admitted and her other sister's husband was being discharged. She was the taxi.

By the time I made it to my 3:30 appointment, I'd heard of two more loved ones being in the hospital for serious illnesses and I didn't know if I could take much more. Bonnie was my last stop of the day and had just gotten home from a funeral. It was the second one she'd been to in a week. I told her how my grandfather used to say, "I just don't want to answer the phone anymore. It's just going to be someone telling me so-and-so died." She smiled weakly and said, "that's just about it." She's 80-years-old and said that they go to at least two funerals a month. I told her about homeschooling and she told me how proud of me she is for taking on a monumental task.

On the way home, I recounted my day.  Suddenly it occurred to me why I'm always so tired when I come home from delivering Avon. It's more than just delivering lipstick to me. It's delivering a little bit of hope.

Post-Home Economics

Recently, I read an article in Cooking Light magazine entitled "Bring Back Home Ec!" by Hillari Dowdle. You can read it yourself by clicking here.  While reading, I was nodding my head in agreement, mumbling "you got that right" and even applauding. Yes, I enjoyed it thoroughly.

Here's the thing: we did mess up an entire generation (at the very least) by removing home economics from school. In this post-home economics, post-modern world, there is at least one generation that doesn't know how to sew, cook, or keep house. Dowdle's article focused on nutrition and how learning basic cooking skills go hand-in-hand with basic nutrition. Intriguing to say the least.

I got to thinking about my own middle school and high school experiences and the home economics classes offered. In the 7th grade, I signed up for home ec, but one of my mom's friends talked me out of it because she wanted me to take yearbook of which she was the teacher.

"You don't need that stuff. Your grandma can teach you how to cook and sew," she told me one afternoon before school started.

And, in some ways she was right. I was lucky enough to have a mom, grandma and great aunts who taught me to clean, cook, bake and sew. They also tried to teach me to garden, but somehow that didn't "stick." I probably failed, if not then, certainly now.

After my 8th grade year, home economics was removed from our middle school/high school campus. That was 1990, folks. And it was removed because there was very little interest in the class, and that had been the case nationwide for a decade. So it makes sense that schools would get rid of an unwanted program for something in demand like computer skills or even art.

But it's sad and I think Dowdle's right when she says "we lost out on something important." Yes, those girls and boys who opted out of home ec, whose schools didnt' offer home ec or whose mother or grandmother didn't teach her home ec skills, lost out not only on learning those skills but also on passing them down to their own daughters and sons. Think about that for a minute.

If Molly didn't receive any cooking, sewing or baking training from school or home, now that she's grown up with a daughter of her own, Susie, she can't even teach Susie how to do the things she didn't learn to do. And unless Susie learns those skills in school she won't be able to pass it down to her children. Can you say "microwave ready" or "heat-and-eat"? Well Molly and Susie know those words well because unless they teach themselves to cook by watching you-tube videos (how else do you learn how to do something in the 21st century?)  that's all they'll ever know how to cook.

As for feminism and sexism, please, I don't have the time or energy to discuss that in this blog. But let me say this, cooking, cleaning, baking, sewing and caring for children are basic skills that both genders should learn. My husband knows how to sew. Does that make him less of a man? No. If anything, it makes him manlier because he doesn't need his mommy or his wife to do it for him. (though I am happy to hem his pants or patch his jacket)

So, leave sexism in the 20th century and bring back home ec.

First Week at Providence Academy

Yes, I know it's Friday. Aloha Friday to be precise. But today, I'm not going to herald you with Hawaiian folklore or share my Hawai'i memories with you. Instead, I want to tell you about Providence Academy.

Providence Academy is our brand new homeschool and we've just finished our first official week of school.

The decision to homeschool was nothing short than providential. For years, even before we had children, we considered homeschooling. It intrigued us. It also scared us. And we convinced ourselves that it wasn't for us. But it still came up from time to time, and as time wore on, we met more and more homeschoolers. We admired them. I was horribly jealous.

I won't bore you with the details, though you might chuckle when I tell you on Adam's first day of kindergarten, I stood in the kitchen, sobbing into a dishrag and while I mumbled, "I can't do this." I've dreaded every first day of school from preschool until this year.

Well, as it often occurs this way with God, doors just kept closing. Signs just kept pointing us in the direction of homeschooling until one day, the door to "traditional" school slammed squarely in our faces. I, of course, was once again crying. First they were tears of hurt, anger and disappointment. But as God's undeniable peace washed over me, I cried tears of joy. We were finally going to do what He had been calling us to do!

So, that's more or less how we ended up in this position and it explains why we decided to name our homeschool Providence.

We've now completed our first official week with success and joy. The days were peaceful, enjoyable and seamless. We already did our first science experiment and had our first field trip. The kids have told us repeatedly that they are so happy we are homeschooling. Oh, trust me, I know every day won't be as wonderful. I know there are many rough spots ahead. But I also know we can weather any and every storm through the power of God.