New Year's Revolutions

One of my New Year's Resolutions (our nine year old calls them reVolutions) is to learn to shoot, file for my pistol permit, and purchase a gun I can safely manage. 

He, who is nine, wants to eat more fiber and fewer calories. He calls it the diabetic diet.

We are moving the Christmas Tree and instruments out of the music room, replacing them with the weight sets and Nordic machines that reside in the shop (baby, it's cold outside!)

J, now seven, resolves to finally lose his first tooth. 

A Blog as Creative Writing, not a News Report

It's a good day to publish this reminder: this blog is work of creative writing. It's not meant to be factual or accurate. It's a place where a writer can play with words, make connections, and explore ideas. A blogger can cultivate an alter ego, a poetic voice, or a case study.

I make no claims to writing from any single source or perspective.

Many moons ago I was told that I'd insulted someone here.

This person, I believe, imagined seeing herself in a story, although her name wasn't used and the scenario was imaginary.

A blogger is allowed to imagine and explore. I don't however, believe that we should point fingers, name names, or infringe on other's privacy.

Still, I sincerely apologize if I made an insulting remark or published something that was inappropriate.

I'm reminded of an article I read yesterday in The Huffington Post, "The Top five Most Preposterous Things in The Desolation of Smaug." The author (critic) thought that the director had taken too much liberty with this and that scene or character.

Where is our acceptance of creativity?

The Impossible Project

“Impossible is just a big word thrown around by small men who find it easier to live in the world they've been given than to explore the power they have to change it. Impossible is not a fact. It's an opinion. Impossible is not a declaration. It's a dare. Impossible is potential. Impossible is temporary. Impossible is nothing.”

― Muhammad Ali

While searching for a gift on Ebay I stumbled upon The Impossible Project, the name given to the company that purchased the former Polaroid instant film company. In my imagination I can hear the critics who advised the group NOT to purchase the former warehouses and equipment for old, virtually defunct cameras. Now the company is HOT, selling film for the latest artistic craze, "analog photography." I'm wild about the idea.

Our 9-year-old and I are reading "Strength of a Champion," by former NFL player O.J. Brigance.

O.J. Brigance, a former Ravens and Baltimore Stallions (CFL) LB, is the Ravens’ senior advisor to player development. Brigance, who has three championship rings– two Super Bowl rings with the Ravens (2000 and 2012) and a CFL Grey Cup ring with the Baltimore Stallions (1995) – has been an inspiration to the entire Ravens organization for his perseverance and courage while fighting Lou Gehrig’s Disease (Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis) the past six-plus years. The NFL has honored Brigance many times, earning the Best Overall Player Development Program award for two straight years (2005-06) and also receiving the Most Outstanding Internship Program Award in 2005. In 2007, the NFL once again honored Brigance’s program, this time with the Outstanding Continuing Education Program Award. In 2008, the Ed Block Courage Award Foundation also saluted O.J. with its Johnny Unitas Tops in Courage Award for his strength in his battle against ALS. Brigance played seven years for three NFL teams (Miami, Baltimore and St. Louis) before joining the Ravens’ front office in 2004.

Many times, O.J.'s life circumstances seemed insurmountable. He typed the book with his eyes because ALS has stripped him of the use of the rest of his body.

Recently we watched the movie "The Impossible," the story of one family's miraculous journey to find one another following the tsunami in Thailand. It is a gut-wrenching, beautiful, inspiring film.

Christmas is the perfect time to marvel at "the impossible. " God became human. A savior-king was born in a manger. He performed miracles and conquered death.

This blog is a work of creative writing.

Oh Gravity!

I sometimes feel as if the forces of gravity are somehow stronger over and under my house. It seems that the floors are constantly littered with things that have fallen from shelves, counter tops, and clothes hangers.

Yesterday I noticed that a boy's dirty sock had fallen into the basket of potpourri that sits in the living room on a side table. I can't get over the juxtaposition of my best attempts at a nice-smelling family spot next to a boy's mindless attempt at undressing himself.

It becomes very frustrating when I have a cold or some other illness that drains my energy.

I am then no longer capable of working, 24-7 against the forces of boy nature.

The sink fills up with dirty dishes. The laundry pile grows and grows.

I'm finding it especially difficult to manage this week when there is a slim, very slim, chance that a visiting relative might stop by and see the wallpaper that has fallen to the ground, the shoes that carpet the entryway floor, and the well-used bathrooms.

This weekend is our family Christmas get-together. There is also another large snowstorm in the weather forecast.

Snowfall spoiled our Thanksgiving plans.

Snow must fall, once again.

Oh gravity!

Culture Shock

Prior to spending a year abroad in a foreign country, I was taken to a hotel in that country's capitol city for two weeks for intensive language training. Along with grammar and vocabulary lessons, we were prepped on how to handle culture shock.

Culture shock, according to the U.S. State Department, has several phases. Not everyone will go through all of the stages, or go through them at the same pace, but it is very likely that someone living abroad will be fascinated by the new culture at first. He or she will be eager to try new tastes and new experiences.

Later, usually after three months or so, a person can get caught in a stage of comparing his home culture with the new culture. The visitor notices that certain situations are "better" or "more comfortable" in one culture or the other. Home sickness usually sets in at this point and some people sink into a temporary depression.

A person immersed in a new culture eventually moves into an "acceptance" phase. In this phase the new culture isn't better or worse than the home culture, but rather "different." The visitor/immigrant finds a way to reconcile the old and the new.

I am assuredly caught in the "comparison" stage of culture shock with regards to Christmas in the U.S. Understandably, not every family/town/state celebrates in the same way, so my experience here is most definitely a "local phenomena" instead of a national occurrence.

I've always been open to change, but this year I'm especially uncomfortable...

1. The holiday menu is pizza and wings. At another home, our meal is served on paper plates.

I can appreciate the spirit of "making it easy on everyone" but I LOVE the special menu items at Christmas! I appreciate the unique dishes that family members bring. I love to see the special plates and glasses that come out once a year, and to hear the stories behind the traditions. What are we teaching our children we we serve them fast food for a holiday?

2. Boys' girlfriends were invited without parental consent. Call me "Old Fashioned" but I think it's proper to ask parents before inviting the girlfriends of minors.

3. I keep hearing "It's all about getting together." Christmas, in my mind, is a religious holiday. The intent is to recognize and celebrate, publicly, Jesus' arrival. It IS NOT about treating each other horribly during the year and then tolerating one another for an afternoon.

My dear husband keeps reminding me..."nothing will feel normal." His advice: "you can't change things."

If the State Department is correct, I'll eventually move on to the acceptance phase.

Origin Unknown

For some strange reason, I monologue as I drive to work in the morning. I tell (myself) about my home town, my family of origin, my elementary school days, my college years, and more, as if I were dictating my autobiography.

This morning I found myself talking (to myself) about the family safe deposit box. Folded inside, I'm told, are my biological father's adoption papers, the secret to his birthplace and family of origin.

My uncle, second husband to my aunt who is now deceased, may be the only person who knows if the mythological box even exists. I was told about it as I grew up and my grandparents promised that one day I would receive the key. They are now gone, and my uncle communicates with me, on average, once every three years (after I write him a kind reminder asking if he'd mind if I fetched the family heirlooms I was promised from his house. "Oh, I'll bring them to you some day," is his routine reply).

I sometimes wonder about my father's parents, who would have been my grandparents. I've been told that they came from Germany in the early 1940s to the state of Tennessee, but there was never any certainty about their ethnic origin.

I certainly feel German, having an affinity for German food and drink beyond any other cuisine.

I imagine that I look German too. I have German skin, that, as I age, develops the typical tags and dark spots I see on older German women.

My oldest son, without any pushing or prodding, has grown into a German Engineer...a German composer-astrophysicist type.

Perhaps it's this child's status as a senior in high school that has me "summarizing" in this way. These are also his (distant) origins.

Chain Store Children

A topic that has been on my mind lately has to do with State and Federal Education Mandates. My children, especially the younger two, go to school in an era that promotes uniformity. Schools favor the "measurable results" provided by standardized exam.

As a teacher, I realize that a student with "out of the box" thinking and behavior can test my already fragile nerves. I tend to teach to the middle and create evaluations that are manageable to grade. Still, I can imagine a world where students create cool projects, following their own interests and strengths, to show mastery of a subject rather than filling in rows of bubbles with a #2 pencil.

Yesterday was parent-teacher conference night. I knew, going in, that I was going to hear that W hadn't been walking the straight classroom line. He has trouble, even at home, walking a straight line from the shower back to his underwear drawer.

He gets distracted. He daydreams. He isn't a big fan of 100 math problems in one helping or writing out spelling words for practice.

But he loves theater, writing, costumes, drama, and music. He is the proverbial "square peg, round hole."

Do we really want a world full of cookie-cutter children who become cookie-cutter adults? As adults, they might be more employable, easier to predict, or better suited to enjoy living in high rises.

My fear is that we squash out the "Robbert Rodriguezes" of the next generation, the creative, sometimes bizarre individuals of the world. I hope that, as an educator, I can thrive somewhere between Common Core Standards and a sincere appreciation for uniqueness and nonconformity.

Early Exclusive Decision

I got a letter in the mail. The opening paragraph read, "Congratulations! You are the parent of a District Five Section 12.A Area-all-State Orchestra Participant." (Try saying that five times fast). I'm also the parent of an All-State Choir Participant of the same district and section, a Wendy's Heisman Athlete Award Nominee, and a DAR Young Citizen Award Nominee.

This is all new territory, this land of Senior Teas and Senior Award Ceremonies.

Our oldest son just submitted his "exclusive early decision" application to his #1 choice college. Being savvy, he applied to two other schools before he hit the submit button on the exclusive early decision. Some colleges have offered to waive his application fee so he has applied and applied..."Why not?!"

He submitted his NCAA application and football recruitment questionnaire at the very last minute. He wants to play football in college...and then he doesn't.

I was annoyed when this almost-eighteen-year old spent the day at our pastor's house when he should have been working on his #1 college choice application essay. It took all of my strength to step back from personally editing his essays when I thought they could be more well organized.

He spent the entire past weekend performing in the pit orchestra for a show. Then he topped it off with a late-night cast party. I thought he should have been resting and doing homework.

We're on the prowl for scholarships. And he just added started piano lessons to his schedule (great, another recital).

I keep telling myself that every parent of a teenager-athlete-musician heading to college is going through something similar...the tension that exists during the child's "getting ready to blast off" stage of life.

I'm hungry for some good advice from a wise parent who has lived through this stage. At the minimum, I could really use some stress relief.

Let Go and Let God

It was more than two weeks ago when I started to meditate on violence and aggression. It was, I believe, the story of a teacher's body found in the woods and the arrest of a teenage student for the crime that brought this topic to the forefront. It could also have been my body's reaction to the news of The Kenya Mall Terrorist Attack.

I had this nagging, creeping sense that the level of violence in the world, in my world, had ramped up. Indeed, the newspapers have reported an 11% increase in the rate of violent crimes across our nation. Analysts agree that what was a downward trend, is now surely an incline.

And then, last week Monday, a good friend's body was found in a cornfield with a gunshot hole in his head (this is the newspaper's tasteful description of the homicide. I've been imagining that a shot taken at close range to the head might leave more than a hole). He was a good, good man - executive director of a charity, head of a foundation, father and husband.

There is an atmosphere of violence at my own workplace: intolerance, cursing, and threats.

As a mom, highly-sensitive, empathic type, it's very, very difficult for me to tune out these highly charged situations. I'm finding that I'm making silly mistakes in my work and I even have trouble with word-finding in conversations ("bilingual brain in a pressure cooker").

One of the insults being thrown around is the word "moron." I hate this word, and the others that fall into the category of disrespect toward individuals with disabilities like "retard" and "idiot." I don't use them, and I hate it when others use them in my presence.

On top of all of this, we were waiting for the birth of a family member, a little girl who, the doctors said, would most definitely be born with Down's Syndrome. Mom went to the hospital twice over the weekend, only to be sent home again to re-arrange care and meals for the other 4 children at home.

Baby arrived Monday night - beautiful, perfect, and healthy.

Isn't that evidence enough for me to "Let Go and Let God?"

How The Saga Ends

I didn't really understand football until I became a Football Mom. Not just the game itself, which many women claim to "not understand" but rather the harsh reality that is the career of a student athlete.

Since I didn't grow up in a household with a football player, I'd never seen boys burned and dehydrated by 5-hour mid-day practices in 95 degree heat under the sun. Who are subjected to the same treatment for two weeks running. Injuries, food and sleep deprivation, playing in the extreme cold of Western NY in November and December...

This story began with a boy in fourth grade who wanted to play football. I remember the sign-ups at a local restaurant in February, birth certificate in hand, and the first information session at the park in June (hotdogs and sodas provided by The American Legion).

He was required to lose almost twenty pounds, because in those days boys within the same age range had to weigh in under a certain limit. He wasn't overweight, but he was taller and more muscular than any boy his age (as a baby he was always in the 97th percentile or above). His dad put him on a dry wheat toast and egg white breakfast, light Hot Pocket lunch, salad or cereal for dinner regimen for two months.

He was sometimes so hungry he cried. I ached when I heard him suffering from growing pains at night. I hated the way his coaches spoke to him, with threats and shouts. I hated the way that spectators talked about the players. I tolerated the laundry.

The boys he played with over the last ten years were good kids. Many came from broken homes and "underprivileged" circumstances. One player now lives with his grandmother who is very, very sick.

They don't drink, that I know of, and many of them maintain grades in the 90s or better. I've watched our own boy, for years, working on homework into the wee hours of the morning. He would sleep for a little while, and then wake up in time to attend "early gym" at 7 a.m. (this week he has been waking up earlier to take care of animals for a neighbor).

Over the years there were memorable games and not so memorable games. This year they added in many more hours of time lifting weights and other "state of the art" training techniques. It seemed to pay off. Their record was good enough, by Friday (the last home game), to be in the running for the playoffs.

Two years ago the team lost a teammate to leukemia (the same year our son was injured at the summer's first lineman camp. He walked to his best friend's funeral on crutches). Nicholas was a good athlete and an amazing, funny, friendly, intelligent person. At Friday night's game the boys taped up with orange duct tape in Nick's memory. It would have been his senior year and his last home game too.

For senior night cheerleaders and football players walk the field with their parents through a line of underclassmen. There are handshakes and flowers. One mother, M.I.A. for months, made an appearance for the event.

Our team seemed a bit "emotional," gloomy even. They played hard, and they were largely evenly matched with the rival team.

We could have lost the game with a five point spread and still made the playoffs. The coaches planned, in that case, to move our younger son up from JV for the playoff games (we've never seen them play together on the same team even though they are only two years apart in age).

It was a close game but we lost 31 to 38. One could blame bad calls by the refs in the other team's favor but that road goes nowhere. Our boys lost the game, and their playoff hopes.

The last three minutes of time on the scoreboard clock seemed, to me, a bit surreal. It wasn't about the score or even about the game. It was my son's last three minutes of football on his home turf. Ever.

HIgh School Rivalry

It's one of the longest running rivalries in the country, a series started in 1920 between the Purple Eagles and the Mustangs.

We live in the home of the Purple Eagles (during home games, when a touchdown is scored, the announcer calls out " and the eagle has landed!" Corny and endearing at the same time).

Last weekend our team eeked out a narrow win over a school located in a a well-to-do suburb of a nearby big city (one of the more "entitled" players made a death threat against my son. Can you believe that?! Let me talk to his mama). Instead of celebrating their win during the bus ride home, the boys begain to plot their strategy against the Mustangs, this weekend's game.

When I was little, I would arrive at the family cottages, break open the car door, and run across the driveways chanting "Purple is #1!" A great uncle, a retiree who didn't even live in either school district, would yell back "Go Mustangs!" It was summer, not fall. I was 9 or 10.

I didn't even understand football then (I'm not sure I understand it now) but I loved the friendly competition and the good-humored jabs. I miss those days.

I understand now that my boys suffer aches and pains at the expense of football. They sacrifice to do their homework late into the night after practicing and lifting into the late afternoon. We go four months without family dinners while we run, and run, and run to and from school.

The skin on one boy's knee is so beat up it oozes. Their arms and shins are covered with bruises. They are very, very tired.

They represent their school, our town, and a tradition held for almost 100 years.

It's the oldest boy's last home game. They will recognize seniors and their parents.

I think it would be great fun if the whole town really did come to watch and support the team. That's what Wikipedia says happens. Wikipedia. Wrong again.

American Noise

"American Noise" by Skillett



Lyrics

Angry words and honking cars
Satellites and falling stars
Distant dark blue radios that whisper down my boulevards
Ghosts and chains rattle in the attic
Broken headphones filled with static
Lonely room you’ve got nowhere to run


3, 2, 1 for all and all for 1


Times will be bad, times will be good
Things I wish I hadn’t done and some I wish I would
Cutting through the American noise
You’ve got a voice and a song to sing (and a song to sing)


Drink deep in the morning
Drink deep in the morning
See what the day will bring


La da da da
Lift up your voice
Let love cut through the American noise
La da da da
Lift up your voice
Let love cut through the American noise


Lady Gaga has a hit song called "Blah Blah Blah" (???!) The day's news programs are filled with endless bickering between Republicans and Democrats about who is to blame for the U.S. government shutdown. 500 channels and nothing worthwhile on the the radio.

Evey time I move my computer mouse a new ad pops up. Images fill the top and bottom of any website I visit, flashing animated lead lines at me like "miracle belly fat loss" or "find Latina girls here."

How can I help my children and my students cut through this American Noise? So many worthless distractions...

The boys' orchestra conductor, just this weekeend, mentioned this. People these days, he feared, tend to surf and dabble. They never seem to study (or listen or think) deeply. Even their relationships are distant and superficial. People become, like information, something to tune into for a short time and then file on a shelf for later or throw away all together.

Help me Lord, to have the wisdom to tune out the noise, and to tune into my family and friends. Help me to know the difference between what is worthwhile and what is merely a distraction that drains my time and energy.

School of Rock Spirit

It was homecoming last night in our little town. It's a BIIIIIIG deal. Everyone comes. The mayor, the entire police department, alumni, students, parents, grandparents, cousins, cousins of cousins (I was especially grateful that our church family came and surrounded us...with cookies:).

One of our boys, who sings the Star Spangled Banner for sporting events(or is it The National Anthem? Or are they one in the same and I'm too dizzy to know that right now?)sang the school's alma mater before the big game.

It was a tough crowd to sing to. The people in the stands were ready for some football. He himself was ready to finish singing and head over to the pit band, where he would loudly bang a drum for the duration of four quarters (he recently joined drum line, leaving his saxaphone in the cupboard for orchestra).

The football players wrapped their ankles and the tops of their shoes in pink duct tape to promote breast cancer awareness. It was a very cool thing to do.

The Eagles fought hard, beating the visiting team by a spread of over 30 points.

At the end of the game Mr. WestBerryWorkingDad and I took a photo of our four footall players out on the field in front of the goal post. It was a proud moment.

There were many, many memorable, wonderful moments this week. N (age 15) made All State Chorus. For celebrity day he dressed like his Forensics teacher, who, in turn, dressed like him. I never thought I would see the day when this child looked up to a science teacher.

Personally, the proudest moment of the week was when J (a senior) dressed like Jack Black for school. It brought me to tears.

I would have been good with Jack White too (see this article about Third Man Record's attempts to preserve music history).

When Sky High Met Duck Dynasty

I would like to have more time to journal. I want to record the sweet details of how J (age 6) reacted to being named quarterback, how J (17, h.s. senior) plans to perform a 7-minute drum battle at the senior tea, and the amazing plays N (age 15) made in his football game last night (final score 36-0).

Instead, I'm so far behind with everyday chores that I had to take dirty clothes to the laundromat where I threw $22 into a slot and ran 5 triple loads simultaneously in order to "catch up." (some). There isn't a clean table or countertop in the house to be found.

This was my first week as a new teacher at a school district far, far away. It was also homecoming week at that school. The students dressed up according to daily themes.

I arrived on my first day to a class full of super heroes. Super Women, Green Lanterns, and Iron Men.

Day 2 was "hick/camo" day. Picture a room full of characters from the TV series Duck Dynasty. Some of the boys decided to wear Daisy Dukes. That was a baaaaaad idea.

A student knocked on the door during my quiet planning time and asked if she could come into the room and search for a Trojan (the school's mascot). I chuckled...never before did I think I'd have to respond to that request as a teacher! Tradition dictates that a little statue of a Trojangets hidden somewhere in the building and there's a big prize for the person who finds it/him.

I terrified them. College professor speaking Spanish faster than they could understand. They terrified me. Camo-boot-wearing superheroes who chew gum, roll their eyes, and zone out periodically.

Of course, I know that most students are "dizzy" during homecoming week.

Note to self (jotted down on a napkin or a sales receipt).

"Next week will be better."

I Like Therapy Tooooo Much!

A gentleman from our church supports an orphanage in Liberia that serves blind children. As a congregation, we pitch in by donating recyclable bottles and cans. Every other year or so, the orphanage's director and his family visit us and every few months, the children write letters to thank us for our support.

They often write, "we like __the gifts/turkey/candy_______ toooooo much," as is the way to say "very much" in their language. Translated to English, the phrase sounds a bit silly, like when I say, "I like Occupational Therapy tooooo much!"

My first therapy appointment, to treat tendinitis in the right hand, was strange. The therapist put my arm in a waterless whirlpool machine filled with small pieces of corn. She took measurements of the angles of my joints and the strength of my fingers. And she fed me Italian chocolates.

There is a table in the OT room. Several therapists sit on one side while patients sit on the other. It's a clean, bright, cheerful environment, with photos of the employees' children and pets on the wall.

This week, I met Doris, an elderly woman whose hand is crippled. I chatted with Lisa, a retired systems analyst who told me about a gift store located near my work. The therapist, Natalie, told me about wag.com, where I can order soap, dog food, vitamins and more...all delivered to my home for free.

I learned that some folks supplement their large breed dog food with canned beans and carrots. I got strange ultrasound treatment on my arm.

And it was nice to relax for an hour.

I think I like occupational therapy too much!

WANTED

I've been thinking lately about how nice it is to feel wanted, and how absolutely awful it is to feel unwanted.

Certainly, we've all experienced childhood playground rejection. We've seen the real physical pain that a child goes through when he/she is insulted or criticized by peers or, perhaps, we've felt that pain ourselves.

Adult loneliness, I believe, is no less painful. Consider the individual rejected by his/her family or the church member who feels ostracized by members of a congregation. Or the employee who senses that his/her co-workers don't really care if he/she comes in each morning.

A few weeks ago I was contacted by a local school district who needed, yes, again, a Spanish teacher. I quickly said "no" and kept my eyes open for a someone I could refer the position to.

And then, yesterday, I interviewed for that same position, a .2 (on my lunch hour every other day) assignment.

The principal and head teacher were extremely kind and grateful.

"You're an angel with wings," I was told. The "computer guy" rushed to give me computer access and passwords and a lesson in "all things D" in my beautiful smart classroom.

The principal managed to convince the B.O.D. to consider me a .3 teacher so that I could be paid more for planning time. Wow! (I'll earn more than a third of my regular full time salary by teaching on my lunch hour). Wow!!!

It's nice to feel wanted. God wants all of us to know that we are wanted. Have I done my part to share that news with the people around me that I find abrasive or even cruel?

Everyone is significant. Every last jailhouse man, woman, child, prisoner, orphan, widow...



Bethel Church in Redding, CA came up with 4 things to know that will boost your faith:

1. God is good- because He is better than we think we must change the way we think!

2. Nothing is impossible- through faith we enter into realms that were formerly defined as impossible.

3. Everything was won at Calvary- Jesus's death on the cross was ultimate victory.

4. Everyone is significant- the Father decided you were worth the life of his Son!

What would you add to the list?

She Gets Me

It's a beautiful thing to know someone so well that they just "get" you.

Yesterday morning I hopped online early to record attendance for the week. I discovered that my oldest, now a senior in high school, had been working on his online application to Pitt.

He didn't even tell me he was willing to apply there.

I was ecstatic. I did "the pierogi dance" and vowed to call my grandmother. She would understand.

"Pitt! And he's willing to play football for them!" "And, he is thinking about Penn State again."

"Really?!," she asked."That's wonderful!"

I knew she would get it.

I come from a loooooong line of Penn State graduates. My great aunt was crowned "Miss Penn State" before she became the model for an illustrated Jiff Peanut Butter advertisement.

We love Pittsburgh.

I'm so grateful to still be able to call Grandma. She understands my lifestyle (hungry boys, lots of laundry).

She laughs at my jokes.

Sometimes I tell jokes to people and they look at me with a puzzled stare. For instance, at a work luncheon I recently announced that "I met John and Mary's (pizza) at Fisher Price." That statement works in Spanish but comes out sounding weird in English. I'm speaking Spanish a lot these days, at least in my head.

Or last night, I was describing OT to my mother-in-law, explaining how some of the patients get arm and shoulder messages as part of their therapy. "What, I asked, do I have to do to get prescription?!" (Instead, I get to insert my arm into a strange dry whirlpool machine filled with ground up corn).

That blank look again.

Oh well.

Grandma loves cats. I don't.
She understands football and stocks. I don't.
She gets me when most people don't. Thank goodness.

Searching for Ana

I had a dream last night about Ana. In my dream she was locked away in a mental hospital (residential facility). She was still beautiful but her eyes looked more dull and her face showed wrinkles. The man who loved her, handsome, Irish (Bobby), visited her in this place. And he was sad and tired.

Ana was my childhood best friend. She went to a different school, a private school, and I would run to meet her when she got off the bus in her uniform. We co-authored stories, co-painted murals, drank coffee and laughed.

I could barely keep up with her mind and her imagination. We went to the private tennis clubs wearing crazy clothes and one each of each other's shoes. We spent weekends reading to one another in her room, part of a flat with very tall ceilings on the other side of town.

Her parents worried about her - she was impulsive and violently artistic. The quality of her painting made people pause. Their jaws dropped whenever her work was on display.

I miss her terribly. We now live thousands of miles apart and I can't find her on Facebook or through Google.

While I've asked from time to time, my father, who still communicates with Ana's father through an Engineer's alliance, does't seem to have any leads.

Accidental Pharisees

Yesterday I read a book review at Challies-dot-com on the book Accidental Pharisees by Larry Osborne. I'll offer a few quotes from both Osborne and Rev. Challies...

"Osborne is concerned that a new kind of legalism is creeping up within Christianity—even Christianity that focuses on being theologically-correct and gospel-centered. He hears these constant calls for zeal and sees behind it all a subtle pride that will inevitably work itself out in legalistic ways."

It’s easy to see the scriptural misalignment in the crazy guy on the street corner with the “Turn or Burn” sign. The same with the cut-and-paste theology of people who toss out the Scriptures they don’t like. It’s also easy to spot it in the pompous coworker with a big Bible on his desk, a chip on his shoulder, and a tiny heart in his chest—the self-proclaimed great witness for the Lord—whom everyone tries to avoid and no one wants to eat lunch with. But we seldom see it in the mirror.

We don’t have freedom to lie, steal, slander, turn a deaf ear to the poor, hoard the gospel, worship idols, or fornicate. But we do have freedom in many other areas. And it’s this freedom that can drive the fledgling legalist within all of us crazy. Once the Holy Spirit places a clear call on our life to do something (or not do it), it’s hard for most of us to fathom why everyone else didn’t get the same memo.

I loved that last line "hard for most of us to fathom why everyone else didn't get the same memo." I know peace and joy, why wouldn't everyone else want to?!

The simple fact is that once we have found our passion, once we have found that implication of the gospel that stirs our hearts, we find it inconceivable that anyone else would have a different passion, that they can’t see things the way we do. And it is not long before we begin to criticize or exclude them.

Osborne describes a situation I know well. I've seen competition between churches, miscommunication between family members, and even disagreements over the "best" worship music stem from these tendencies. My first reaction to the book review was to think of the names of several people I knew who should read it!

"If there is any sin we can spot in others from a thousand paces but cannot see in ourselves even when staring in the mirror, it is pride."

Yesterday I complained about a co-worker whose lifestyle, work habits, and personality are not like my own. Perhaps "by accident" I was prideful and intolerant. How easy it is to fall into the trap of judgement.

What I Want Their Teachers To Know About Us, on the First Day of 2nd and 4th Grade

Dear Teachers,

I'm not confident that it is a good idea to share these things with you. So Instead of saying these things directly, I merely hope and pray that you know...

1. Our school clothes come from the second hand store. It's the only way I can manage to clothe this large family. By the time the uniforms make their way down to boy #4, the knees of the pants are threadbare and the rubber sole of the sneaker is already beginning to detach. Please don't let other children make fun of him.

2. My children ran wild all summer. They were unsupervised, covered in dirt, and loud. I believe that kids are "free" from the tyranny of schedules and jobs for such a short time during childhood so we "underschedule" summertime, or at least try to. It may take them a few days and a few good scrubbings to get all the grime and wild behavior out. 

3. I work a second, and sometimes a third job to pay the rising cost of tuition. 

I understand the school's need to fundraiser but please know, we are already tapped. Our family and social networks are very small. When school is off or a child is sick, I have to rely on the older children, who then miss days of high school.

4. Their hearts are tender. They are eager to please but they still make kid mistakes. Please don't be too stern or critical with them. Let them keep their childhood joy intact.

Thank you.

M.o.b.

Make a Move for Miley

I just read a blog post entitled "I weep for Miley." The author lamented Miley Cyrus' downward spiral and the degradation of our culture. It's a topic that has been on my mind since seeing the news coverage of the VMAs and a story about Simon Cowell's love child with the wife of his friend. 

What I appreciated about the piece was that the author "credited" the entertainment industry, producers, choreographers, advertisers and even viewers for the gradual acceptance of the type of dancing, lyrics, gestures, and costuming people are criticizing Miley Cyrus for. 

I was shocked when I heard a news anchor justify Simon's actions and the photos taken of the couple with the phrase, "but he's in love."

There were people along the path to production who could have held themselves, and these shows, to higher standards. 

It's up to every one of us to stop buying products (tv, movies, cable, clothing, cell phones, magazines) that sexualize children and promote the objectification of women. It's up to us to MOVE. 

Jesus gave the example when he drew a line in the sand. Love the sinner..hate the sin...and stand up against injustice. 

Get off the couch people and please, stop pointing at Miley Cyrus. Her performance didn't deserve a first, let alone, a second glance.

A Mind for Things

I'm not the kind of person who brags about purchases but...I have to say, I am so happy that we found a new (used) car for MrWestBerryDad. It's a sensible, comfortable vehicle with WORKING doors, windows, and air conditioning. It passes inspection. 

Yesterday (here I go again, bragging about a "haul") I found two beautiful botanical prints at the second hand store. They had been custom framed and they will be perfect in the dining room, once I'm done painting that same dining room. It is fairly rare that I make it into the second hand store. Rarer still that I find something that I'd want to live with. I try not to bring "things" home.

Part of the delay in painting the dining room and other projects is getting to the store to buy the supplies. I don't mind the work, it's the shopping I loath. 

I just don't have a mind for "stuff." It's exhausting to survey it, touch it, move it, and display it. 

There are three rooms upstairs that are currently full of boxes of stuff. We decided to rearrange my art studio and two back rooms. One room needs to look like a boys' bedroom before their principal comes for a home visit this Sunday. 

Wishing there was a "fairy godmother" to help me clean and organize. Wishing I could take some time off in order to gather up the time and energy to label, box, stack and ship (and burn!) some clutter. 

Wishing I could ignore stuff and sit down for the length of a movie or go visit a friend.

Too much to do.

Sugary Drinks

Insert Coca Cola logo (this function isn't currently working).

Today was one of those "afternoon slump" days. I'm helping out in the building I supervise, where we clock employees in and out by scanning their badges as they enter or leave for the day. It's not a particularly demanding task, but my eyes get tired looking at old, fuzzy monitors.

I walked over to the maintenance building and grabbed a half glass of Coca Cola. First let me say, I rarely, if never, drink soda. Can't stand the stuff.

But today, this Coca Cola reminds me of sitting on the porch of my grandparents' suburban home. Every afternoon, when I visited them on vacation, we would enjoy one bottle of Coca Cola and a Reese's peanutbutter cup. I was terribly indulged!

My grandmother loved petunias and she always planted a circle garden full of them around the flagpole in front.

We read and discussed the newspaper or chatted about literature.

The sweet, sweet summertime...in Penfield.

Two Obituaries

Our local Pennysaver happens to carry, alongside the announcements of auctions and fish fries, the week's obituaries. I always read this section, to be sure to learn of any deaths that have involved friends, family, or neighbors.

Last night I learned that two great women, both of them having influenced my life, had passed away.

It struck me that their obituaries appeared side by side. 

One obituary, for the woman I knew to be rather "contrary,"  was quite lengthy, listing her hobbies, volunteer positions, grandchildren...even her level of physical fitness! 

The other obituary, for the women I knew to be a deep thinker, a generous soul, and a tireless worker for The Lord, was quite short in length. There was no mention of the years she spent as a school teacher, her long letter-writing campaigns, or her work with the DAR. 

Now matter how my obituary ends up reading, I want to live like "Miss Betty," with her great mind, her sense of humor, and her beautiful smile.

My Homework Excuse

True Story.

This morning I was driving my husband's car to work. It's an old, used up Pontiac held together by bungee cords.

The roads were wet. When I hit the breaks for a yellow light at a busy intersection, the car spun out of control.

I didn't hit anyone, but the centrifugal force from the spin opened the back doors and all of the papers I was supposed to grade blew out. Some sheep registration certificates were lost too, I now realize.

I surveyed the long black skid marks and my students' papers flying over the highway. And then I put the car back into drive, got into the right lane,  and went to work.

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A Treasure Hunt Through The Past

Having a right relationship with the past is a timely topic. I attended my 25th class reunion just this past weekend.

I told myself, the morning of, that I wasn't the least bit nervous. Yet, I exhibited a terrible rash on my forehead and I had a terrible belly ache.

Deciding where to sit for the picnic and wondering who to chat with after the meal brought back a few childhood fears. Still, it was a very pleasant event.

This morning's "cup of tea with Carol" by Bible teacher Carol McLeod suggested taking a treasure hunt through the past.

"We all have things in our past that we're not happy about. We all have things and events and people who didn't treat us right. We all have made choices that we're not proud of.

But listen...every day of your life you're going to have some kind of relationship with your past.

Never look back at your past with shame or regret, because that ties you to your past in an unhealthy way. And that's not the purpose of your past.

When you look at all of your life before today, you need to go on a treasure hunt to look for God's goodness, for his faithfulness, for the way's he blessed you, even when you didn't like all of your circumstances. Because I can tell you, that if you look, you can find the fingerprint of God in all of your days before today."

A Girl's Day Out

I was surprised to find out that it was really quite enjoyable to attend a large, Christian music festival...alone (it was a shame not to use the other three passes. Despite my efforts, I couldn't find anyone who wanted to go with me).

So I danced in the "World's Largest Electric Slide, " slipped in and out of venues, and browsed the merchandise tent at my leisure.

I found the message by women's speaker, Carol McLeod, refreshing and uplifting. Because I was alone, I could soak it up without having to think of commentary.

I did leave the festival in the early evening to pick up a boy with an injured back. I ate chocolate chips and peanut butter from the can while sitting on the couch (alone), and then fell into bed, exhausted, by 8:30 p.m.

It was a great day.

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Fair v WestBerry Mom

The Fair is still in session and I'm home in bed, sick and exhausted. Once again, the Fair got the best of me.

I tried to stay on top of the dirt, food, running, camping, socializing...

But here I am, down for the count.

I could really use a pep talk. And some Pepto.

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Casual

There's something missing from The Fair this year. Criticism is largely absent, and it's wonderful!

My childhood Fair experiences were filled with "not enough." The animals weren't clean enough. I didn't stay in the cow barn long enough.

This generation of Fair officials and parents seems stretched for time but generous with smiles and encouragement.

I wonder if we haven't sacrificed in the quality of our exhibits some. The wire for banners hasn't yet been strung and it's already Day 4. There's mud on the barn floor. The basket raffle was canceled.

It is, I'll admit, painful to lower my standards

But if the tradeoff is less stress and more joy, I'm in. People seem to be socializing more. The children are caring and cooperative toward one another.

It's a softer place to land. A more casual Fair.

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Christmas Eve in July (x2?!)

Pastor Eric gently reminded us last Sunday that our children look forward to Old Fashioned Day almost as much as they look forward to Christmas. 

It Is a wonderful event. There are carriage rides, toys to build and take, treats galore, and games. We sing, dance, feast, and laugh. The village is filled with friends, good conversation, and historical demonstrations. I love to play with wool and watch guests delight in the flowers and woven baskets.

I've been busy costuming the four boys. The ladies of the church baked 250 pies between yesterday and today. The cooler is stocked with bottled water for tomorrow, the big day. Mr. Westberrydad serves as the village blacksmith and it's a hot job.

We also have to take animals to the Fair tomorrow (and a boy across the state to camp.) The little ones just reported that the love the Fair second to Christmas. They are nervous and giddy with excitement.

I'm already exhausted on the eve of these events, so much so that I keep confusing my words. Today I lost a debit card. The washing machine broke.

Oh July holidays!

Pre-Fair Preparations

In the photo below, our oldest son is seen preparing his sheep for show. He can shear, train, and wash animals on his own and has for many years. Now he and his brother are "grown up" with full time jobs. Their involvement in the Fair is minimal.

The two younger boys are just starting off as showmen. Last night we pulled their show sheep out of the pasture and put them into a separate pen. Then we spent some time trying to teach two small boys and two Spring lambs how to walk in a circle. 

I sent them to daycare today with homework...diagrams of sheep body parts and poster making supplies. 

I call this the "lots of crying" phase of Fair preparations. We heard cries from frustration, from the heat and hard work, and from the pain of toes getting stepped on (lesson #1 don't wear flip flops). Our new sheep have horns and yes, they know how to use them!

I feel as if I'm heading into something completely new, as opposed to yet "another year at the Fair." It's great fun to watch these two learn and grow. This year, they aren't just tagging along. 

Everything You (I) Do

This picture illustrates how I usually feel by oh, the third day of the County Fair. 

Then again, just getting ready for the Fair is stressful. Supplies are expensive. We are under pressure to perform well. There's no help from any direction (which makes me feel resentful because people show up to watch the shows and have a good time but there is never anyone around when we are desperate for help).

I eat and breathe that resentment every year and it ain't pretty.

Yesterday I heard this song by Steven Curtis Chapman. It reminded me to do everything as if for Christ. If I we can keep this as our focus, our attitudes could be much brighter. Here's to a Fair Week during which we are models of patience.

Lyrics...

Maybe your that guy with the suit and tie
Maybe your shirt says your name

You may be hooking up mergers
Cooking up burgers
But at the end of the day

Little stuff
Big stuff
In between stuff
God sees it all the same

While I may not know you
I bet I know you
Wonder sometimes, does it matter at all?
Well let me remind you, it all matters just as long
As you do everything you do to the glory of the One who made you,
Cause he made you
To do

Every little thing that you do
To bring a smile to His face
Tell the story of grace
With every move that you make
And every thing you do

JonathanThe Barber

Sometimes I don't understand why it takes me so long to do something, like taking the little boys to the barber. Maybe it's the way they whine when I suggest a haircut.
OK, so they don't just whine. They get ugly faces and stomp their feet too.

This has been the case since last July, when Greg The Barber was tragically hit by a car while riding his motorcycle. He survived, but after months of surgeries and therapy, he still has limited use of his hands and legs.

He hired a young man to mind his shop. We hadn't visited since the accident.

Finally, yesterday, we met Jonathan The Barber.

The shop looks different. The walls are painted red and there is a Bible verse posted to the mirror. A desk stands where there used to be chairs.

Still, there are hunting magazines in the racks and the famous "Joe DiMaggio sat here" barber's chair spins, lifts, and lowers.

Jonathan is quiet. He wears flashy, comfortable sneakers that fit his athletic build. He is going to the Ukraine for two weeks in a missions trip.

The older men don't seem to know what to make of him. The shop lacks the chatter of town gossip and tool talk.

Jonathan doesn't do haircuts as fast as Greg, but my boys sure looked handsome after he worked on them! Was it the hair or the happy faces?!

Tips on choosing a barber from Make Your Home Awesome. http://www.makeyourhomeawesome.com/finding-a-barber/

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The Fourth of July Fatigue

In the "good old days" we used to host a 4th of July get together at our cottage. We enjoyed spending the weekend by the lake, watching the neighbors set off fireworks and the community parade.

Still, there was considerable work to do in terms of packing, cooking, and cleaning, especially when the children were very small or the group of company grew large.

I called it the 4th if July Fatigue. Some years, I felt as if I couldn't move after running between cottages, worried about water safety and guest comfort.

This year we hosted five, then six guests at our home throughout the long weekend. I cleaned four bedrooms and the living room from top to bottom to prepare for the visit...windows, linens, walls...

We still had to go to our jobs, see teens off to a youth retreat, and take care of the farm through flooding rains.

I felt, once again, The 4th of July Fatigue.

Thankfully, there is time and space for recovery, with two whole weeks until the Fair.

And, we felt very blessed by the visits. One cousin wrote, "can't wait until next year." It is, I suppose, the tradition.

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Human Error

I found three tadpoles swimming in the dish water. They had fallen out of a container when W, 8 years old, was portioning out individual pollywogs over the sink. He was going to give them away as gifts.

I recently made the mistake of pulling a few weeds without gloves on. Now my arm is covered with an itcy, oozy rash. A close encounter with something poisonous.

In my ticket office we've spelled Allegany as Allegheny. Typed 2011 instead of 2013. Included ticket office copies instead of customer copies.

It happens because we are human. Perfect messes every last one of us.

I'm worried that I've left a stem of milkweed in our large, new pasture area. One bite of milkweed and a sheep will blow up and die. It ain't pretty. It has happened before.

Mistakes seem more common when we are put of our routine. Yesterday I lost a pizza, the best supper I could manage, to the floor and the dog.

It's a very, very good thing that God is in control and not any man or machine. He's the only one with the perfect plan.

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The Funny I Hear

W, age 8, said this to me this morning..."You're really correct, Mom."

What I heard was, "You're really CRACKED, Mom."

I laughed when I realized I'd misheard him. There IS more on my plate these days, more than the usual, at least. I could be cracked.

Mr. WestberryMom is working across the country for a time. The boys' schedules are in flux thanks to the end of the school year. There is sooo much yard work to squeeze in between raindrops!

All the while I'm fascinated by this mismatch between what people say and what others hear.

It happened last weekend, when I was talking to a woman who was estranged from her daughter and grandchildren. We were talking about an incident where a man fell and died, without ever reconciling with his granddaughter. "That would be just terrible," she said.

I hear her say this and wonder why her words don't don't seem to match her behavior. I wonder if she believes what she says. Or maybe my perspective is limited, and I'm not really hearing or understanding.

I try to be very clear in my instructions to students and yet, at least someone in the group will go off in a completely unintended direction because of an assumption or a misunderstanding.

Help me Lord, to be a good listener and a clear speaker. Please give me wisdom and help me see the truth.

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The Hog Island Sheep Part 1

Three weeks ago I responded to a general Farm and Garden CraigsList posting asking about six sheep. "Good home needed, price negotiable." I described our home - 4-H family dedicated to rebuilding a rare breed,large pasture, caring shepherds. The person who owned the sheep called me shortly thereafter, describing the six animals he needed to find a good home for...a near-extinct breed of sheep called "Hog Island." We would be, he thought, the perfect family.

My Japanese friend Yuko thought that this was a very practical way to find the right home for such valuable animals. I'd compare it to the method used by Willie Wonka in "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory." Focus first on integrity rather than the value of the gift. Focus on logistics later. (She also guessed that maybe I was chosen because of my lineage back to the Mayflower." Probably not.) :)

I'm still in a state of shock, quite frankly, over the "burden" (the privilege, really) we now have to care for these creatures. They arrived just in time for W, who is now 8 (the official coming-of-shepherd-age in these parts), to take ownership.

All seven (yes, seven, the final count after unloading the truck into our pens) were given to us "free of charge" and free of conditions regarding selling, butchering, breeding or housing.

They just spent a year at a research facility, being tested and harvested, in preparation for the possible reality of their extinction. I'm fascinated by the details in their lab reports - how many embryos were frozen, what diseases they are resistant to, what was discovered in their blood draws, etc.

They are surprisingly docile and affectionate for having run "hog wild" for hundreds of years. Yet, their personalities (and their appearances) are vastly different from the other breed we care for.

Their survival and their peaceful, trusting nature (along with "no strings attached" gift from the Dempsey family) has me thinking about Jesus, our Good Shepherd, in brand new ways.

Welcome "Betsy" "Martha," "Patrick," "Fraggle," "Belle," "Eva," and "Paris."

Changed for Good

(Glinda):
I've heard it said
That people come into our lives for a reason
Bringing something we must learn
And we are led
To those who help us most to grow
If we let them
And we help them in return
Well, I don't know if I believe that's true
But I know I'm who I am today
Because I knew you...

Like a comet pulled from orbit
As it passes a sun
Like a stream that meets a boulder
Halfway through the wood
Who can say if I've been changed for the better?
But because I knew you
I have been changed for good

Songs from the Broadway musical "Wicked" were very popular this year, appearing on students' Ipods and in the set lists for year-end performances. Our own High School Choir performed both a "Wicked" medley and this song, "Changed for Good."

I've been thinking on the lyrics lately, reminiscing about people who have influenced my own life (for better or worse).

I posed the question at the dinner table. It was interesting to hear my husband mention an 8th grade teacher who, in guy speech, "kicked him in the butt" (this being a good thing.)

Who will these people be for my children, I wonder. Who were the history makers in your life?

You're Never Fully Dressed Without A...

I use my IPad at work to listen to music on Saturdays, when my staff is off and the office is quiet.

It's loaded with the boys' music right now, as they "owned" the IPad for the last year or so.

I just let it play, listening to their playlists.

Then suddenly I have earworms that I don't recognize, like songs from "Annie." I'm dressing for church on Sunday, trying to place, and finish the line from a song,"You're Never Fully Dressed Without A ______."

A bowtie? A pinky toe ring?

As I'm drying my hair, wrapped in a towel, my  little boy throws open the bathroom door to show me a smooshed black ant.

Really?! I grumble inside but say, "oh. Cool." And then urge him back out through the door.

My toenail polish smudges when I put on my sandals. I truly feel there's nothing to wear in my clothes closet. I'm headed to a bridal shower after church...I'd like to look clean and pressed.

Instead, I'm simply, as a Boy Mom, Never Fully Dressed.

Later at the shower Sara, the bride to be, agrees to wear a crown of fruit to go with the theme of the party. We battle strong winds to keep the garden tent in place. Our paper plates and napkins blow away; drinks spill.

But still we smile. That's it!  The word to the song! "You're Never Fully Dressed Without A Smile."

You can hear our Pastor's Sunday School Lesson on "Encouraging Words" (It's a really good one!) At www.eastshelbychurch.com

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This Summer...The Sweet Life

Song, I'll Stay With You
By Cadia
(I can't seem to make links work, today. I can't copy or paste. And I'd planned on writing about things being "simpler and easier these days. Maybe not technology)

Life seems a little bit easier this summer.
We are getting more done around the farm. Not a lot, but more.

Yesterday we expanded the pasture and I ripped wallpaper off of the dining room walls. Today I picked out a color for the paint!

Last year I was on my feet at work and my shifts varied. There wasn't much left of me once I arrived home. It was difficult to make plans.

The summer before that were working through the process of selling the cottage. We are still managing three properties, but there's somehow less to manage...this year, for a change, there's only one lawn to focus on (for the first time in over 20 years).

I think God knew just how much we could handle then, and now. As I'm mowing and planting these days, I'm enjoying the sweetness of a little bit slower pace.

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"Uncle"

Amid the concerts, practices, and parades, I've had two things on my mind.

1. It's so very sweet to spend time with my cousins. Their father was one of my favorite uncles and, as children, we shared many adventures, mostly by the lake. Now, they are aunts and uncles to my children...fixing their training wheels, listening to their college plans, or setting fire to a pile of old porch wood they had torn down together.

I'm grateful that, despite the fact that we live many miles apart, we are still a family.

2.I lost my Mom two years ago. She was someone who gave me solid parenting advice, who checked in on us during severe weather events, and who always asked if there was something we needed when she was heading to the store.

Perhaps because she used to say, "Good job," I'm struck when I hear this (once in a great while) from an older woman. And it reminds me of how much I miss hearing it from her.

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"I Wanna Be Like You"

I'd like to consider where we are, musically, as a family.

N, who is 15, entered a solo festival this past weekend. He had to travel by bus for a couple of hours, and then sing, accompanied by a piano, in front of a judge. He had chosen a piece that was rated "level 5" in difficulty. The highest difficulty rating is 6, usually reserved for college musicians. He scored a 100%!!! One of his peers, a fellow high school student from our home town (daughter of a Grammy winner), brought the judge to tears with her beautiful voice and flawless performance.

N's Mens Select Ensemble will sing with/for a prestigious Music School that is performing in our town this weekend.

W, who is 8, recently started to take piano lessons from the wife of a local youth pastor. She happens to be the same piano teacher for the children of the above-mentioned Grammy winner also (although I'm not trying to play the 7 steps removed game, I promise).

On the first day she presented W with three lesson books and a rigid practice schedule. Since he is also enamored of athletics, I wasn't sure about that jagged little practice pill. Amazingly, he loves it! And, he has asked his older brother to show him how to compose music on the computer.

His older brother (J, 17) had to create two "fake" emails in order to register a second and a third "Note Flight" account that he uses for composition. He has written pages and pages of scores. Just yesterday J took the AP exam in Music Theory (and just today he announced that he is currently first in his class. Woo hoo!)

W, the 8 year old, has been invited to play in the church orchestra for the first time (his two older brothers already play in the "Band of Renown." W might play the "tangerine," as he has been prone to say. (the tambourine)

This house full of musicians is, well, loud. When I came home this afternoon W was banging on the drums (wearing ear protection, phew!). I could hear the drums as I drove in. Then, when I got out of the car, up the steps, and into the kitchen, he popped out from behind the counter and yelled, "boo," as if I couldn't tell by the drums that he was home.

In the car we listen to show tunes and Disney, which leads me to my last thought.

I've often wondered what other mothers, especially those who have parented famous musicians, have endured. I enjoy imagining the home of The Sherman Brothers, for instance.

I Wanna Be Like You by The Jungle Book

Now I'm the king of the swingers
Oh, the jungle VIP
I've reached the top and had to stop
And that's what botherin' me
I wanna be a man, mancub
And stroll right into town
And be just like the other men
I'm tired of monkeyin' around!

Oh, oobee doo
I wanna be like you
I wanna walk like you
Talk like you, too
You'll see it's true
An ape like me
Can learn to be human too

"He LOves His Life"

At the end of the semester we run oral presentations in class. Many students talk about their families while they show pictures in a slide show.

This year one particularly beautiful young lady (she remindsme of a young Janis Joplan with wild blind hair), showed the class a picture of her siblings.

The slide came up and it was as if a strong wind blew over all of the guys in the class. They all lost their balance.

Lined up were five stunningly attractive sisters.

I asked what life was likefor her father, thinking he must constantly be on guard.

"Oh, " she replied assuredly, "he loves his life."

She said it as if she had heard him say the same. No sarcasm. No pride. Just a genuine adoration and sense of gratitude.

I hope that I reflect, and say, the same. In spite of the messes and the frequent small frustrations, I LOVE my life.

I love my family, my job, and this country. I am truly blessed.

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Bittersweet

Two hours into the "Stars of Tomorrow" contest/showcase, our cast hadn't been recognized in a single category. We were sad for them, because we knew the quality of their work.

The curtain rose on their "Beauty and The Beast Medley" and they burst into action, performing the dance number from "No one Fights Like Gaston, " a tavern scene choreographed with clinking mugs, bar brawls, and stomping. The crowd was amazed; they cheered and clapped louder than they had all night.

But our kids weren't done. Beast and Belle sang a powerful duet and then the cast waltzed and sang to "Be Our Guest." The student orchestra played flawlessly.

The costumes they re-rented from Disney looked magical.

They brought it...energy, professionalism, talent.

The crowd went wild. The announcer was left speechless until he muttered, "wow."

We ran into the boys and the director in the hallway. Mr. S looked very proud, an emotion he doesn't often let show.

We don't know why the judges didn't recognize the cast, but we were there when they "showed the world their stuff!"

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Stars of Tomorrow, on Stage, Tomorrow

The Stars of Tomorrow, sponsored by The Broadway Theater League, is a competition that recognizes outstanding student casts, tech crews and orchestras as well as individual student actors and actresses.

The top prize is a large scholarship and a trip to NYC to learn from professionals on Broadway.

Our two oldest boys will compete tomorrow.

We are going into the city to watch the show.

Tickets were expensive. Even our "way in the back of the balcony" seats. Mr. WestberryDad drove downtown during his lunch hour to pick them up.

We are excited to go to the historic theater where the event is held.

We're looking forward to watching The Stars of Tomorrow, tomorrow.

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Mother of a Chechen Boy

Numbers 14:18 - The LORD [is] longsuffering, and of great mercy, forgiving iniquity and transgression, and by no means clearing [the guilty], visiting the iniquity of the fathers upon the children unto the third and fourth [generation].





I am a mother to a Chechen boy. When the announcement came early Friday morning that the two suspected Boston Terrorists were Chechen, I wept. But I wasn't at all surprised. In fact, it all made sense in a heart-breaking, tragic way.

I've lived with the "genetic stubbornness of a Chechen child." I've breathed in his rebellious spirit that was formed by generations of violence and resistance.

Could we have been so naive to think that so many atrocities, although conducted 1,000's of miles away, would never reach us, would never touch our lives?

I've been listening to ChucK Swindoll's series on Biblical Parenting. In one segment, he touches on this idea of "sins of the fathers." He describes how patters of behavior, if not broken, reoccur down into third and fourth generations.

This week, a conflict that has gone on for hundreds of years "spilled down" to hundreds of innocents.

Except for the fact that my son is only 13, I suspected that either one of the bombers could have been him (he doesn't have any siblings because the Russians killed all the men in his family save for one uncle).

Images of wolves will haunt me...I see the rabid confusion of the injured animal (the wolf is the symbol of the Chechen resistance), their collective barks and cries in the night, and the mother wolf protecting her cubs.

A girlfriend sent a one-word text Friday morning. It said, "CHECHEN."

Chechen.