Anne and the Gift of Mentoring

Rachel doesn't remember who said it, either, but--a few years ago--we were in small group at her house when someone started talking about mentoring relationships. This person encouraged anyone who wanted a mentor to pray for one and wait for God to reveal that person. She stressed: the relationship should never feel forced, always organic. She suggested, basically, that the right mentor would just sort of show up, and both parties would feel it.

I have two women in my community who mentor me to a certain degree, and, oddly enough, they're very close friends: a fact I didn't know when I fell in love with each of them, separately. So I've never really prayed for a mentor. I don't know whether or not Rachel has, either, but--just over a year ago--she lost a mentor to cancer.

I almost didn't include this part for fear of overwriting the post, but I know in my spirit: it's an important part of the story. I loved Rachel's mentor, too, and few times in my life have I felt as burdened as I did during his last days. It's hard to explain, but it was almost as though two loved ones were slipping away because I grieved not only for myself, but also--on a completely different (but equally intense) level--for Rachel.

Rachel and I joke that we take turns going through difficult times, and, praise God, it's more than halfway true. But--just over a year ago--we were both low, and I felt like I had nothing to offer my friend. I happened to be reading a blog, and the smiling face of the blogger captured my eye. I remember thinking: I'll bet she would pray for Rachel and me. I felt prompted in my spirit to e-mail this person I didn't know, and I did. I dumped the truck on her, through e-mail.

She responded by e-mailing a prayer so beautiful that it makes me cry to this day: especially because, now, I'm far enough down the pike to see all the ways in which God has answered it.

And, since that time, my blogger friend Anne has proceeded to fill a void in my life that I hadn't even recognized. A homeschooling mother...a mother of seven!, she's offered so much through the wisdom of her blogged words, alone. She hosts "Pages in Our Heritage of Faith," a weekly link-up through which she encourages bloggers to record the ways in which God shows up in the lives of their families. I started blogging for my children, and Anne motivates me in writing out my faith for them.

Anne has carved out time for me through e-mail, and she's poured her prayers over me, on the phone. Her children know my name and my brother's name, and they pray for us. Before I spoke, last year, at my first retreat, I e-mailed Anne my outline. When I took a pregnancy test last month, and Jim asked me to share the positive result with only one person, I reached out to Anne.

Now, let me tell you something about Anne. She won't much let a person brag on her without saying: "It's all God." And it is. It is God. But Anne allows God to speak, through her, into my life.

That's a powerful, praiseworthy thing. I'm so thankful for God's gift of a mentor!

You can visit Anne's blog by clicking the button below. Also and by the way, this post is the newest of many I've written about my closest friends and the specific gifts they bring to my life. You can read the others by clicking the tiny label, below, that says "Gift Project."

How to Shut Up Your Mother

Wednesday afternoons and evenings have turned plumb crazy-making for my boy. The girls and I get him off the big, yellow bus and head east for one of his five, weekly karate classes. We get home; I try to pull dinner together; and Cade and I head out, again, this time for choir practice at church. After choir practice, he retreats to his room to practice his clarinet because--having taken two karate classes on Monday and participated in Boy Scouts on Tuesday--Wednesday affords his first real opportunity of the school week.

I try to take advantage, every Wednesday, of Cade's and my time in the minivan, but I couldn't get much out of him, this afternoon. He'd whipped out his Kindle as soon as he'd settled in the passenger seat, and I couldn't seem to engage him in conversation. I could tell: he was ignoring as many of my words as possible. He answered my questions with yesses and noes, looking mildly annoyed.

Finally, I could take it no more. "Why won't you talk to me, Cade?" I whined. "Don't you love me anymore? Have I become just a chauffeur to you? What are you reading, anyway?"

"The Grapes of Wrath," he said.

And that's when I stopped talking. Because I decided, instantly: I'm willing to share my sixth-grader with Steinbeck.

Trayvon Martin: Sharing My Heart

I'd just finished telling Jim that I didn't feel the need to weigh in, regarding Trayvon Martin, when I saw a couple posts on facebook that got me all in a tizzy. The posts were comparing the amount of media attention regarding Trayvon Martin's death to (the lesser) amount of media attention regarding the deaths of a white couple who'd been mutilated by black men.

I was reminded of some posts I read after Whitney Houston's death.

Hang in there with me.

After Whitney Houston died, I saw many posts on facebook comparing the amount of media attention regarding Whitney Houston's death to (the lesser) amount of media attention regarding the deaths of soldiers and starving children.

That bothered me, too.

I don't understand the need to begrudge anyone his or her grief, ever. Yes, some deaths receive more attention than others, and that will never change. I think everyone would do well to focus on navigating his or her own grief, also to (unless attempting to comfort) leave others alone to navigate their own grief. Why the need to compare one person's death to another person's death? Why the need to compare one person's grief to another person's grief?

Now, in light of some of the "new information" circulating today, I know some of you are asking: what if the grief is manipulated? What if the media unfairly generates grief by portraying a young man as an innocent when, in fact, ___.

Here's my response: manipulation--when it occurs--is more than unfortunate.

But the bigger issue, here, is that a young man is dead. Does alleged crime or sin on his behalf make his death less tragic? Because I would argue: crime or sin (and let me be crystal clear: I'm not making a judgment call about Trayvon Martin) makes someone's death more tragic.

When I read questionable things about someone, I tend to think: there but for the grace of God go I. I tend to think: I hope that person knows/knew Christ as his or her Savior. I tend to think: that person is/was loved by people who are even now in a state of high grief, wondering if they could've somehow held on a little tighter, for a little longer.

Boobies on Venus, Scratches on Jesus

I asked Jim if he'd like to participate--along with a group from our church--in a tour of religious art at the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts. He declined. I would've taken Cade, but he was camping (in the rain) with the Scouts. So I decided to try Clementine.

I'll admit: I got a little thrill at the mere thought of it, because one never knows what might happen when embarking on an outing with the Wild Orange. On the way to the museum, I explained: she'd need to be quiet like a ninja and listen to the person talking. "Will it be like school?" she asked.

"Sorta," I told her, "except better. Because, in school, you have to sit still. But--at the museum--you get to walk around and look at things."

"What kinds of things?" she asked.

"I'm not sure," I said. "That's why we're going: to find out."

An art museum, as it turns out, fascinates for whole new reasons when one looks through the eyes of a barely-three-year-old sidekick. Sometimes, when the guide focused on particular pieces for long periods of time, Clementine and I walked quietly around the rooms. She pointed out many mamas and babies, looking fondly from paintings and statues to the baby doll tucked under her arm.

She noticed, also, that a lot of people in paintings have exposed breasts. She was particularly interested in the breasts of Venus, who lounged in bed beneath Cupid and his bouquet of flowers. "Mom," she whispered loudly in my ear, "What's wrong with her boobies?"

"Nothing, Honey," I whispered back. "She's just not wearing any clothes."

At one point, Clementine and I came upon a painting of the crucified Christ. "Mom," she whispered sadly, "He has so many scratches."

I explained quietly about the crown of thorns and pointed out the wounds in His hand and side. "Some people weren't very nice to Jesus," I told her. Wide-eyed, she nodded, and I thought: what a way to give a three-year-old perspective, as Easter approaches.

And Clementine did have Easter on the brain, as it turns out. As the guide spoke about the Imperial Pelican Easter Egg, Clementine--who'd been quiet throughout the entire tour and could hold her tongue no longer--called out: "Well, I'm going to do Tinkerbell eggs at Easter. With stickers."

Review: Being Elmo

Jim and I were looking on Netflix, this evening, for something to watch, and we came across Being Elmo: A Puppeteer's Journey. "Is that the guy who 'plays Elmo?'" I asked Jim, squinting at the screen. He opened the film so we could check it out. Within minutes, both of us were completely enthralled.

Listen, I can't think of a person in the world (including a non-kid person or an Elmo hater) who wouldn't enjoy this documentary narrated by Whoopi Goldberg. It's about the birth and tenacity of a dream. It's about becoming. And it's beautiful.

From a young age, Kevin Clash glued himself to the tv, trying to figure out how Jim Henson made puppets that appeared seamless. Clash started making puppets, himself, at the age of 10. As a teenager, he performed on local (Baltimore) tv, shrugging off the derision of classmates who didn't understand why he was "playing with dolls." On his senior trip to New York City, he struck out, alone, to meet Muppet designer Kermit Love.

Love took Clash under his wing, teaching him tricks of the trade and introducing him to Henson. After a few years on regular shows (including Captain Kangaroo), Clash worked with Henson on Labyrinth. Eventually, Clash made his way to Sesame Street.

I appreciated, especially, hearing how Clash's parents supported his dreams; how Clash developed Elmo's character from that of a caveman to the one we know today; and how Clash reaches out to both fledgling puppeteers and critically-ill children.

Beautiful film. I can't think you would, in a million years, come away disappointed. I look forward to  watching Being Elmo again: next time, with my twelve-year-old dreamer.

Book Review: Same Kind of Different As Me

When I saw Same Kind of Different As Me in a local thrift shop, I remembered: someone I love had blogged about it in such a way that made me want to read it. In that moment, I couldn't remember who'd blogged about it, but I figured out, later: it had been Anne Conder of I Live in an Antbed.

I bought and read the book. I give it five stars. If you haven't read it, you're truly missing out. It's the nonfiction account of fancy schmancy Ron Hall who--until he falls back in love with his homeless-people-loving wife--is totally happy with getting his weekly dose of Jesus at church on Sundays. In Ron's efforts to please his wife, he gets involved at a gospel mission and develops a relationship with intimidating former sharecropper Denver Moore, who's been living on the streets. In Same Kind of Different As Me, both men share their heart-warming (and, at times, heart-wrenching) testimonies.

This book includes some of my very favorite themes: redemption; God's working all things to our good; inner (vs. outer) beauty; true wisdom (vs. "book learning"); receiving and responding to God's callings; the life-changing effects of trust; and the commitment of true friends.

I have to say, though, my very favorite element of the book is Hall's and Moore's willingness to step out on a limb and talk about things like prophecy; instructive dreams from the Lord; visitations from the dead; all-night prayer vigils; the tangible power of shared prayer; and other, "uncomfortable" spiritual matters. They rocked these topics, and--thanks to personal experience--I bought every word and took it to the bank.

You can read more about the book from my friend Anne's gorgeous perspective, here.

My Relationship with Food, Pt. 2

After the miscarriage, Jim and I decided to just kind of "go with the flow" for awhile: if we happened to get pregnant, fine; if not, we'd start actively trying in the fall. I wanted to get some weight off in hopes of avoiding gestational diabetes with the next pregnancy, but just the thought of dieting made me want to lay my head down and cry.

I've always felt so deprived when dieting. I know; I'm ridiculous. But, always, in the back of my head, I've asked: when will it be appropriate for me to eat a piece of chocolate-on-chocolate cake as big as my head? I've remembered over and over: the answer's "never," and that's just ticked me off beyond your wildest imaginings.

I wrote more about it here, but I started the Daniel Fast because I looked at it as an opportunity to reset my eating habits, to start from scratch. I wondered if dieting has frustrated me because I've worked so hard to appease my sweet tooth (by limiting my portions of sugary foods, also by consuming mass quantities of sugar substitutes) and found, instead, that my sweet tooth grows until it's about to jut out of my mouth. I wondered what would happen if--for 21 days--I gave up not only sugar and sweeteners, but also dairy, meat, eggs, leavened and white breads, pasta, white flour: everything, basically, except fruits, vegetables, nuts, whole grains, and water.

Here's what happened. (You may receive some of this as TMI.)

• I expected the water-only thing to drive me crazy. Surprisingly, it may have been the easiest part of the fast, for me. I flavored it, generally, with True Lemon or True Lime (each packet of which consists only of a powdered fruit slice). In all fairness, I did end up drinking very small quantities of 1% milk because I found out I was pregnant after I started the fast. I plan to continue drinking only water and small quantities of 1% milk.
• I also expected the no-sugar/sweetener thing to drive me crazy. I had a killer headache the first day, and I believe it was a sugar-detox headache. After that, nothing. I really didn't even think about sugar, which proves to me that 1) sugar poisons me, 2) I can live without sugar, and 3) I'm better off to avoid sweet stuff altogether than to torture myself with sweeteners and small quantities of sugar; moving forward, that's my plan. Honey only.
• I got very hungry at mealtimes, but I didn't have to stay hungry. I just had to fix myself something Daniel-Fast friendly to eat. I discovered that tofu satisfied my hunger like none of the other appropriate foods but tried to limit my consumption of it to 3x/week.
• Within days of being on the Daniel Fast, the stiffness in my fingers went away. I don't even know what the stiffness in my fingers was, but it's gone.
• Within days of being on the Daniel Fast, my eyes felt less dry, like they were moving more freely around in my head. Also? I had a great deal more energy. (I'm feeling very tired, again, as of the last few days, but I think it's because the pregnancy's kicking in.) I'm pretty sure I was dehydrated. 
• Within days of being on the Daniel Fast, I started--*cringe* I'm just going to say it!--having bowel movements once or twice a day instead of once or twice a week, which has been my body's pattern my entire life.
• I feel much more confident in the kitchen, now, when it comes to preparing healthy foods. I've experimented with soup, tofu-based smoothies, stir-fries, pizza (Yes: believe it or not, there's a way!), homemade hummus and salsa, homemade tortilla chips, and baked oatmeal. I will absolutely continue preparing these foods for my family.
• The hardest things, for me, were 1) eating out (I pretty much had to go the salad route!), and 2) no sandwiches. I guess I'd never realized how much I count on sandwiches.

So, it's too soon to say if the Daniel Fast has been a life-changing experience for me. I feel like it could be life-changing. I've absolutely stripped my diet down to the point that lunch meat and cheese on whole wheat sounds like an indulgence. Scrambled eggs and healthy cereal sound like indulgences. Wheat pasta sounds like an indulgence. Fish and shrimp sound like indulgences. (I allowed myself small quantities of chicken after finding out I was pregnant.) The hamburger I plan to eat tomorrow sounds like a HUGE indulgence!

Realistically, if I'm able to limit myself to eating red meat and white bread once a week, otherwise incorporating only healthy foods back into my diet, my life and health will change forever. Over the last 21 days, I've prayed consistently for this kind of strength.

Any prayers you offer up on my behalf will be dearly appreciated. I don't want to suffer with gestational diabetes during this pregnancy, and I'll be honest with you: I'm a little afraid. It was a terrible disease to navigate when I had only an eight- or nine-year-old son. I don't know how I would manage, now, with the little girls in addition to Cade. Furthermore, I don't think my husband will mind my saying: he struggles with his weight, too, and my choices in terms of what foods I prepare and bring into the home impact him tremendously.

For me, it had to be cold turkey on sugar and sweeteners...just like it had to be cold turkey on cigarettes. If there's any hope for me, it will come in this form: cold turkey, and with the help of Christ.

If you're interested in reading more about the Daniel Fast, you might check out this website, which was my primary resource for recipes. I loved every one I tried and have since ordered her [Kristen Feola's] cookbook. I found help at this website, too.