Off the Beaten Path

The Things We Say

2011-03-07T14:09:00.000-08:00

Surely, every mom-blog has one of these posts, but I can't resist. I keep hearing myself saying things I never imagined uttering before kids--particularly boys--entered my life. Here is a random list of quotes from the past couple days.

"No thanks, I don't want your booger... No, really, I'm good."

"You can be Superman, but you have to wear more than underwear."

"C'mon guys, one bath a week isn't going to kill you."

"Ok, put your shirts back on. No more boxing until Dad gets home."

And my favorite...

"No, absolutely not. You can't take a gun to church."

A Boy's Take on Valentine's Day

2011-02-15T06:58:00.000-08:00

Somehow I ended up with five little boys running around our house yesterday. Two were my own, one was invited, and the other two wandered in from the neighborhood. Being surrounded by little men on Valentine's Day, I got an interesting perspective on the holiday. Here is what I could glean about a boy's take on Valentine's Day.

On a Big Date:
Nathan: "I'll get a job and work lots and lots. Then I can take you to the 'bending machine' at the YMCA."

On Playing with Girls:
"We're no match for girls. C'mon guys let's guard our palace!"

On Decorating Valentine Cookies:
Boy #1: (dumping a pile of red sprinkles on his cookie) "Wow, check out all these sprinkles."

Boy #2: "It's my turn. Look, I have more sprinkles than you."

Boy #3: "Nuh uh, I have the MOST sprinkles. Look at this..." (finishes off the red sprinkles)

Boy #4: (too busy eating cookies and frosting to bother with sprinkles)

Boy #5: (waits ten minutes until the others have lost interest and goes chair to chair licking up the leftover sprinkles)

On Girlfriends:
"Ewwwwwww, gross!!!"

Top of the Pile

2011-02-01T07:31:00.000-08:00

I didn't post our "top of the pile" choices last week, because I was too busy dispensing Tylenol, changing bedding, and cleaning up after very sick children. So, without further ado, here they are in no particular order.

Snipp, Snapp, Snurr and the Yellow Sled by Maj Lindman. Caleb had mixed feelings about this one, but he asked to read it several times and was disappointed when I returned it to the library. It is part of a series of stories about the adventures of triplet boys (there is a similar series about triplet girls, Flicka, Ricka, and Dicka). The books were written in the 1930s by Swedish author Maj Lindman. In The Yellow Sled Snipp, Snapp, and Snurr agree to work for two weeks to earn a new yellow sled. They do everything their mother asks (not without a mishap or two) and she takes them to the store to buy the sled.

While the triplets wait outside, they meet a boy younger than themselves who is very poor. The little boy is looking at the sled and crying because his family could never afford it. Snipp, Snapp and Snurr confer with their mother and decide to give the little boy their sled. Their mother agrees that they can work for two more weeks to earn another sled. This was the point in the story that upset Caleb. He didn't think the boys should give up the sled and was convinced that their dad (who does not figure prominently in the story) would be mad at them. Apparently, generosity is not an instinctive virtue. Ah well, that is why we read stories like this one.

Bread and Jam for Frances by Russell Hoban, Illustrated by Lillian Hoban. I tried reading the Frances books to the boys a year or so ago and they were completely uninterested. I suppose it helped to reintroduce them on a gray and frigid week when we were all feeling too rotten to go anywhere or do anything. In any case, the boys can't get enough of Frances. We've read and re-read Bread and Jam. When I went to the library this week they asked me to get Bedtime for Frances and A Bargain for Frances as well. Bargain is easily my favorite. The boys got all fired up at the injustice of Thelma's tea set deal and cheered Frances when she came up with a creative solution. Very well written and fun to read!

The Logic of Little Boys

2011-01-31T09:02:00.000-08:00

A telephone ringing is, in our house, very much like the bell in a boxing arena. The minute our boys know I am on the telephone, they commence punching, wrestling, kick boxing, sword fighting, and whatever other form of violence happens to grab their fancy.

The other day I was talking on the phone to a neighbor and half listening to the ruckus downstairs. When Caleb began shrieking in genuine pain, I got off the phone and dashed down to the basement. By the time I got there, both boys were crying.

"What happened?" I demanded in my most threatening tone.

"Nathan bit meeeeeee!" Caleb wailed.

Biting is absolutely off limits in our house, so Nathan knew he was in for it.

"Nathan, did you bite Caleb?" I asked.

"Yes," he sobbed.

"You know that's mean and wrong."

"But," he cried, "I was soooo hungry!"

In a Rut

2011-01-30T08:34:00.000-08:00

At the dinner table last night, we were talking about Caleb starting school. Nathan looked bewildered and asked, "What about me?"

"Well," I answered, "you and Mom will get to have a special date. What should we do on our special date?"

Nathan thought for a moment. "Go to church!"

Now it was my turn to be bewildered. "And what will we do at church?" I asked.

Nathan looked at me as if it should be obvious, "Go to meetings."

Daniel and I laughed. Apparently we need to get a little more creative with our "dates."

Orphan Care--Adoption and Beyond

2011-01-29T12:33:00.000-08:00

"Religion that is pure and undefiled before God, the Father, is this: to visit orphans and widows in their affliction, and to keep oneself unstained from the world." James 1:27 (ESV)

Earlier this week I came across this testimony from the Haines family who, in the process of adopting a young girl from Ethiopia, began to wonder if there was something else they should be doing to care for orphans in parts of the world stricken by poverty. I was thankful they shared their story. Adoption is a loving and often necessary way to intervene on behalf of abandoned and vulnerable children. In adopting, parents model God's adoptive love that takes us from our sin and self-destruction to make us his children. Adoption is one way to reenact the gospel. It is one solution for orphaned children. However, as Seth and Amber Haines demonstrate, it is not the only solution.

My closest friend in Vietnam is not able to have children. Instead, she and her husband have been blessed with an ever growing ministry among the poor. A few years ago, my friend called one evening and told me that something completely unexpected had happened. They had just brought home a newborn baby. The baby boy had been born prematurely to drug-addicted parents who were living on the streets of Ho Chi Minh City. A mutual acquaintance asked our friends if they would intervene and care for the baby at least for a little while.

When I first met him, Binh was so tiny I could barely hold him against my shoulder. With one hand under his bottom and the other patting his back, my elbows stuck out perpendicular to the floor as if I were playing the violin. He was small and wrinkled and his chest sometimes sucked inward indicating that his lungs were not functioning exactly as they should. My friend and her husband cared for him around the clock. They got what medical help they could without a birth certificate or any form of identification. They fed Binh and bathed him and loved him and prayed for him. Without even meaning to, they became his parents.

Every week they met Binh's birth parents at a local shopping center so the couple could see the baby and play with him. Some weeks they seemed to be really taken with their child. Other times they were barely interested. At some point, the dad disappeared and was later arrested and jailed for drug trafficking. Binh's mother admitted that she was never entirely sure who the real father was. Our friends tentatively began to suggest the possibility of adoption.

Binh's mother moved back in with her parents who encouraged her to give the baby up. Instead, she entered a drug-rehab program and found a job. In spite of several failed attempts to stay off drugs and months of ups and downs, she eventually made progress. She even began to get involved in a church near her home and was later baptized. During all of this, our friends kept Binh and cared for him. They desperately wanted to adopt the baby who had become in so many ways their own, but they also recognized that this mother loved her son.

At one point, they stopped suggesting adoption. They began to leave Binh with his mother for longer periods of time and shifted their energy to helping the mother learn how to care for her child. My friend spent countless afternoons in the tiny, ramshackle house where Binh's mother lived helping her play with her son and understand his needs. I remember many conversations with my friend as she went back and forth about what would be best for Binh. In the end, they made the very hard decision to give him back to his mother.

Adoption is one way to rescue orphans and children whose parents can not or will not care for them. It is one way to live out the gospel. Intervening in a desperate situation to lovingly restore a broken family is another way. I do not want to minimize the important role of adoption, but I think the American church can benefit from stories like Binh's and that of the Haines family. Orphans around the world are not always parent-less, but they are powerless. They need our wise and loving care demonstrated in myriad ways.

To Make a Mom's Day

2011-01-24T08:01:00.000-08:00

A few weeks ago Daniel and I went to a meeting at some friends' house. Because they didn't have a lot of extra space, we hosted all the children and two babysitters at our place. The babysitters often help out with these get-togethers and they have watched our boys several times. When they arrived, one of the first things they said was, "We LOVE watching your boys."

Given that some days I don't want to watch my boys, this was astonishing. I was rendered speechless. Now that I've had a few weeks to savor it, I've realized that the straightest route to encourage a mom is to enjoy her children. Compliments are nice, but genuine enjoyment is harder to dismiss. When people tell me that one boy is smart or the other is sweet, I am grateful that the pair managed to cooperate for the ten minutes that the person spent with them. I do think the boys are smart and sweet (thinking that is part of my job description), but I also know they are quite capable of being a host of other things. When a person spends an hour or more with the boys and can't wait to see them again, I am encouraged.

So, if you know a young mom and you spend any amount of time with her kids, the best way to bless her is to love her angels. When they wipe jam on your pants and sneeze in your coffee, when they throw themselves in the middle of the floor screaming because Mom said "no," when they take twenty minutes to find their shoes and put on their coats, do your best to grin and bear it. When they crawl up in your lap with a picture book or bring you their favorite toy to "share," enjoy the moment. You love a mom when you love her kids.

The Wife

2011-01-20T06:46:00.000-08:00

I've been pondering the following poem by Emily Dickinson but am still not sure exactly what to make of it. It is interesting that the unspoken sense of loss in stanza 2 produces pearls AND weeds in stanza 3. Who is "himself" in the last stanza? I assumed the husband, but it isn't made clear. Is this a tribute to wives and the marriage relationship or a critique of those things? What do you think?

The Wife

She rose to his requirement, dropped
The playthings of her life
To take the honorable work
Of woman and of wife.

If aught she missed in her new day
Of amplitude, or awe,
Or first prospective, or the gold
In using wore away,

It lay unmentioned, as the sea
Develops pearl and weed,
But only to himself is known
The fathoms they abide.

"The Wife" by Emily Dickinson. Found in Favorite Poems of Emily Dickinson published 1978 by Avenel Books.

Cowboys and Indians

2011-01-15T12:07:00.000-08:00

The Fort and the Encampment

Strategizing

When the boys tired of playing plastic cowboys and Indians, they became cowboys themselves. Caleb, always the boss, ordered Nathan to "round up the horses." Once the horses were successfully rounded, the cowboys joined efforts to lasso snakes which they proceeded to roast in the "oven" (my linen cupboard). Nathan insists that roasted snake tastes just like strawberries. I'll have to get his recipe.

Top of the Pile

2011-01-12T13:15:00.000-08:00

Every week the boys and I go to the local library and trade in one stack of books for another. The books typically end up in a precarious sort of pile beneath the table next to my bed. Our favorites migrate to the top of the pile and we read them over and over again until they are due to be returned.

Since I know many of you share my love for books in all shapes and sizes, I've decided to give a rundown each week of the two or three books that are currently on top of the pile. Eventually I may include books from my own pile (on top of the bedside table), but for now these stories are from Caleb and Nathan's pile (under the table).

How I Became a Pirate by Melinda Long and David Shannon. I must confess that I love reading this book as much as (or maybe a little more than) the boys like listening to it. How often do we grown-ups get to say things like "Shiver me timbers!...We must have taken a wrong turn at Bora Bora" or "...just run the Jolly Roger up yonder pole"? I believe I'm perfecting my "Arrgh!" and my pirate snarl.

In summary, the story is about a boy, Jeremy Jacobs, who goes to the beach with his parents and finds himself recruited by pirates. He loves everything about the pirate life--no carrots or spinach, no please or thank you, no bedtime--until he discovers that there is also no bedtime story, no being tucked in, and no being comforted when things get scary. There is nothing profound about this story, but it is fun, and isn't that really the chief reason we read.

Doctor De Soto by William Steig. This is a clever tale about a mouse who is a dentist. When he finds himself compelled to treat a fox with a rotten bicuspid, he must come up with a crafty plan to avoid being eaten. Our boys have been running around the house all week saying, "Frank oo berry mush."

Lightning: A Cowboy's Colt by Bill and Bernard Martin. Illustrated by Edward Shenton. Found in Best in Children's Books published 1959 by Nelson Doubleday Inc. Nelson Doubleday published a series of books in the 1950s collecting the best of children's stories with full-color and two-color illustrations by some of the most well-known children's book illustrators (Does Ezra Jack Keats ring a bell?). I found two books from the series for 25 cents each at the library's used book sale a year or so ago. In hindsight, I wish I had hunted for more.

Lightning: A Cowboy's Colt is a wonderful short story for boys ages 5 and up (maybe girls too, but I am not an authority on that). Danny, the main character, is the son of a horse rancher. When his father returns from the annual round-up, Danny is allowed to pick a colt of his very own. Instead of choosing a colt, however, he is fascinated by a beautiful black mare and asks to have her. His father agrees but Danny is never able to "gentle" the horse or even get very near her. As Danny's love for the black mare deepens, a dispute arises between Danny's father and their Indian neighbors who insist the mare belongs to them. With no markings on the mare, the Indians cannot prove ownership and Danny's father refuses to give her up. The Indians retaliate by burning the family's barn which, of course, hardens Danny's father's heart against them.

One evening Danny goes out after dark to check on his mare. He finds her quietly nuzzling an Indian boy while the boy rubs her neck. The Indian boy explains that the mare was his. Danny can see that this is true by the mare's behavior, and he willingly gives her up to the Indian boy. Danny must tell his father about the mare the next morning and his father insists that Danny has been tricked. Danny responds simply, "Horses don't lie, do they, Daddy?."

The following summer the Indian boy returns at night with a surprise for Danny--a colt--the offspring of the black mare and the lead stallion from Danny's father's herd. The next day Danny asks his father to take him to the Indian camp so he can thank them for his colt. His father agrees and the story closes with the stage set for a reconciliation between the rancher and the Indians.

One of the reasons I love books is that they allow you to see virtue with its skin on. Honesty is a boy giving up something dear to him when he knows it belongs to another. Forgiveness is a rancher thanking an Indian chief. Love is Danny relinquishing a horse he can't tame. These are virtues I want my boys to embrace. How better to teach them than through story.

No More Excuses

2011-01-11T07:02:00.000-08:00

Since returning to the States eighteen months ago, I have not had a portable computer. I transitioned from a cranky, ready-to-retire laptop to a desktop that has been rebuilt more times than I can count. The desktop is still a good computer and suited to my needs, but it set up permanent residence in our basement. Accomplishing anything more than a quick scan of new e-mail required convincing or cajoling both boys to play quietly in one place for more than five minutes. It goes without saying that my computer usage plummeted in 2010.

After Christmas, we discovered that we had accumulated enough reward points on our bank cards (plus some cash from Christmas gifts) for me to get a new netbook! I am finally mobile again. It is small enough and has a long enough battery life that I can carry it easily around the house. While I wander after the boys keeping them from strangling each other or setting the house on fire, I can also write a quick blog post. Three cheers for multi-tasking! I won't be churning out the next great literary novel in this fashion, but at least I can post more frequently than once every five or six months.

A Creative Solution

2010-08-02T15:16:00.000-07:00

Nathan has reached that endearing stage when children discover their individuality and creatively assert their personal preferences. In other words, he is two.

After his third or fourth spanking of the day, I found him sitting on the couch with his arms crossed against his chest and a scowl on his face. The ensuing conversation went something like this...

Me: Nathan, what's wrong?

Nathan: I don't like Daddy.

Me: Why don't you like Daddy?

Nathan: I don't like spankings.

Me: You don't have to get spankings. What can you do so you don't get spankings?

Nathan: Put Daddy in jail!

Good Friday

2010-04-02T08:18:00.000-07:00

Taking a moment to remember that my peace and joy and life were not cheap. The love of Christ truly is amazing.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Dooif2-yAoI

I was bought at a price, therefore it is no longer I who live but Christ lives in me.

Perplexing Pronouns

2010-03-31T07:13:00.000-07:00

When we first started studying Vietnamese, I was baffled by the use of pronouns. There is no general "you" or "your." Instead, pronouns are specific. In order to use them correctly, you have to know your hearer's age and gender. You also must gauge the person's relationship to you, being careful not to seem too intimate or too distant. I was forever coming across as either flirty or snooty because I lacked the subtle understanding of culture necessary to define a relationship in each and every conversation.

It makes English pronouns seem like child's play. Our verbs may require complex conjugation, but our pronouns are a breeze. At least, they are for an adult. A two-year-old apparently finds them more puzzling. This morning, Nathan and I were singing together (roughly to the tune of "Where Is Thumbkin")...

Me: Where is Nathan?
        Where is Nathan?

Nathan: Here me are.
              Here me are.

Me: How I want to kiss him.
          How I want to kiss him.

        I can't resist.
        I can't resist!!!

Nathan: (giggling and fleeing)

On My Mind

2010-02-25T08:05:00.000-08:00

I've been reading a lot lately about education. Like everything else in our life, decisions about educating our children are complicated by living and working overseas. In Vietnam, our best option is homeschooling. We're not comfortable with the government schools, and international schools are way outside of our price range (read that as WAAAAAYYYYY outside). I've never seen myself as a homeschooling mom and am trying to learn more about it.

I've come across several books or articles that make a compelling argument in favor of Christian education or home education. The argument is this: education is about training the whole person and is primarily about shaping character rather than conveying information. If this is true, the conclusion is that we can't train a child without being deeply engaged in the education process and without being able to teach from a biblical perspective.

It's hard to find fault with this argument. On the other hand, I've known many godly and wise parents who have shepherded their kids through public school. This is clearly one of those issues that isn't answered by one prescription for every family.

I'm curious, how have you made decisions about educating your children? Do you home school, provide for them to attend a Christian school, or guide them through public school? If your kids are in a secular school, how do you help them form a biblical worldview? If they are away from home most of each day, how do you stay involved in shaping godly character? If you homeschool or send your kids to Christian school, how do you stay engaged with the community so that you are able to share Christ's love with others?

Enough questions. In short, I would like to learn from your experience.

In the Vernacular

2010-02-22T17:35:00.000-08:00

I was at the sink washing dishes when I heard a scuffle break out downstairs. I ignored it until Caleb started howling. I hastened pell-mell down to the basement wiping soapy hands on a dish towel. The ensuing conversation went something like this...

Me: What's going on down here!?!

Caleb: (Wailing and clutching his head) Nathan hocked me!

Me: Huh?

Caleb: (Still wailing, still clutching) Nathan hooooockckcked meeeee!!!

At this point, I look to Nathan for clarification. He stares back at me with his very large and very innocent chocolate eyes, wisely saying nothing. Unfortunately, he forgets to discard the plastic hockey stick he is holding over one shoulder. I begin to put the pieces together.

Me: Nathan, did you hock your brother?

Nathan: Yes. (Wailing stops. Both boys wait wide-eyed for the consequence.)

Me: Nathan, no more hocking your brother. Give me that stick. (He complies.) No more hitting, kicking, pinching, scratching, biting, or hocking each other before lunch. Do you understand?

Both boys: Yes.

They return to playing semi-civilly. I return to my dishes. Another word is added to our family dictionary.

Winter Colds

2010-02-18T06:38:00.000-08:00

The Germ

A mighty creature is the germ,
Though smaller than a pachyderm.
His customary dwelling place
Is deep within the human race.
His childish pride he often pleases
By giving people strange diseases.
Do you, my poppet, feel infirm?
You probably contain a germ.

Ogden Nash

"The Germ" by Ogden Nash, found in Winter Poems edited by Barbara Rogasky, illustrated by Trina Schart Hyman, and published by Scholastic Inc., 1994.

Romance is Overrated

2010-02-15T05:01:00.000-08:00

Daniel and I are arguably the most unromantic people in the world. It isn't that we don't love or enjoy each other. It's just that romance isn't really our bag. I like to be surprised about as much as I like wormy broccoli, which makes gifts tricky. Daniel isn't keen on roses or chocolate or perfume, and unless I have serious change left over from groceries, I can't afford the things he really does want. It works out well. We just make a pact not to buy anything and shake on it for good measure.

The boys reinforce our natural unromantic tendencies. With them around, candles inspire blowing contests, fancy meals incorporate ground beef or chicken, and the table looks like a Jackson Pollock painting when we're finished. Deep conversation revolves around the Backyardigans or the latest trip to the library. It is periodically interrupted by "powing" or "vrooming" noises depending on whether Nathan is a cowboy or a race car driver for the evening.

We have never called each other "honey" or "sweetie" or "babe." I would probably wince if Daniel tried to get my attention that way. He would surely shudder if I tried it. Occasionally, we do call each other "friend," as in "Hey, Friend, how was your day?" It seems most appropriate.

Digging Out

2010-02-12T13:29:00.000-08:00

When it looks like this out of doors....

...it looks like this indoors.

Both boys napped this afternoon which hasn't happened in ages. Guess how I spent my unexpected free time.

Super Bowl Crib Notes

2010-02-07T08:59:00.000-08:00

I must confess that I am a Super Bowl imposter. I am attending a Super Bowl party this afternoon without having watched a single game this season. To be perfectly honest, I have not seen even a few minutes of a game, a recap, a playback, a sportscast, or a blooper for the past several years. Until a few minutes ago, I didn't know which teams were playing, where the game was being held, or what XLIV stood for (my Roman numerals are a bit rusty). To avoid being discovered and disgraced this afternoon, I've just completed cramming Super Bowl info. I thought I would share the fruit of my labors with my fellow football neophytes.

A few tips to begin, do not write these facts on your hand, the inner part of your arm, or any other appendage. If you are suspected of cheating, the evidence will be impossible to destroy. A sticky note or 3x5 card is a much safer vehicle for crib notes. Keep it up your sleeve or, better yet, slip it onto your plate and cover it with a pile of bbq chips. Don't reveal your "knowledge" too liberally. You are sure to be uncovered if you randomly announce, "Super Bowl is a much snappier name than AFL-NFL World Championship Game. So glad Coach Hunt came up with it." Reserve comments for those moments when you are backed into a corner. When someone asks, "Do you think Gay will be up to the game today?" casually respond, "I heard it was just a stomach bug. Can't imagine that will keep him out."

Now, on to the essentials. The following facts should get you through if used sparingly.

The rival teams are the New Orleans Saints and the Indianapolis Colts.
The venue for the game is South Florida, more specifically, the Sun Life Stadium in Miami
Super Bowl games are always designated by Roman numerals. XLIV stands for 44.
The Colts had to beat Baltimore and the New York Jets to get to the Super Bowl. The Saints had to win against Arizona and Minnesota.
The Super Bowl is a face off between teams from two divisions of professional football. The Colts are part of the AFC. The Saints are part of the NFC. The winner of the Super Bowl is the top team in the NFL. If this makes any sense, you are definitely BNTB (Beyond Needing This Blog).
Head Coaches: Sean Payton (Saints), Jim Caldwell (Colts)
Quarterbacks: Drew Brees (Saints), Peyton Manning (Colts)*
Big Names: Marques Colston (receiver for the Saints--This means he tries to catch the ball and run with it. Apparently, he's pretty good at it.), Peyton Manning (This is a familiar name. If I've heard of the guy, he must be decent.)

*Take note of the Saints coach and the Colts quarterback. "Payton" and "Peyton" might trip you up if you're not vigilant.

It seems that the half-time show and commercials are also a big part of Super Bowl mania. The Who are headlining the half-time show. (British band--You probably know more than I do.) The buzz regarding commercials is all about Tim Tebow and his pro-life advertisement. Tebow won some sort of trophy and is an up-and-coming football star. More importantly, he is a man of faith. I must admit that I am mostly watching the Super Bowl to see his controversial ad.

Regarding who to root for, I would suggest casing the joint. Tally the number of Colts fans vs. the number of Saints fans. Choose the side with the greatest number. Or take a few minutes to assess the group before committing yourself. Pick the two or three people most likely to know something (the ones glued to the television set). Go with their opinion. A final possibility is to just root for the Saints. After all, aren't saints supposed to be noteworthy for their faith and virtue. Surely there is something holy about cheering for saints on a Sunday.

I should sign off for now. I need to prepare my sticky notes and brush up on a few more facts before the game. Then again, maybe I should just be honest and admit that I'm in it for the friends and the food. Certainly I'm not alone.

Contagious Kindness

2010-02-04T13:21:00.000-08:00

     "The fact is," said Rabbit, "you're stuck."
     "It all comes," said Pooh crossly, "of not having front doors big enough."
     "It all comes," said Rabbit sternly, "of eating too much.... Well, well, I shall go and fetch Christopher Robin."
     Christopher Robin lived at the other end of the Forest, and when he came back with Rabbit, and saw the front half of Pooh, he said, "Silly old Bear," in such a loving voice that everybody felt quite hopeful again.

From "Pooh Goes Visiting" in Winnie the Pooh by A.A. Milne

Image located at http://pictures-of-cartoon.blogspot.com/2007_03_01_archive.html

Carry Me

2010-02-02T08:35:00.000-08:00

I thought I would post a couple recent pictures of the boys. They are growing and changing so quickly. Some days I give them an extra squeeze just to stock up against the time when they are too big for such things.

Caleb has outgrown naps and his favorite Toddler Tunes video. He can dress himself and bathe himself (mostly) and eat ice cream without wearing most of it. Nathan is stringing full sentences together and marching into Sunday School without crying or clinging. These are welcome advances. On the other hand, they both tend to regress at night. Caleb wants milk at bedtime and then inevitably has an accident at 3am. Nathan wakes frequently and inexplicably.

You may remember Nathan's night terrors from nearly a year ago. Thankfully, we seem to be past the screaming and flailing and irrational terror that characterized his waking then. We do, however, still struggle with nighttime fears.

As I was putting Nathan to bed last night he said around the thumb in his mouth, "Scary animals get me!" I told him that God is always with us and that he is big and strong. We can ask him to keep us safe. I asked Nathan if he wanted to pray and ask God to take care of him. He closed his eyes and said, "God... BIG and strooooong...please carry me. Amen."

I love the theology of children.

Yes, God, you are big and strong. Please carry me today. Carry me through the things I fear. Carry me when I am impatient and irritable and at my worst. Carry me when the boys look to me to understand you. Carry me when I need rest and peace. Carry me close to your heart where I belong. Amen.

A Hiatus

2010-02-02T08:33:00.000-08:00

Hello again. I'm back from an unplanned three-month hiatus. There wasn't a reason for the long silence. I just got distracted by life and its many demands. Friends often ask how we are adjusting to being back in the States. I never have a good answer to that question because part of adjusting (or readjusting) is disequilibrium. Whenever I move to a new place or adjust to a new/old culture, I lose my sense of balance for a while. It takes a few months before I can move beyond just living and be able to process the experience or write about it. Maybe this explains my inability to blog over the past few months. In any case, I hope to return to writing and keeping in touch with all of you. I've missed you.

An Empty Harvest

2009-10-05T13:00:00.000-07:00

Last night I chatted on Skype with my closest friend from Vietnam. She only had a few minutes because she was busy overseeing relief efforts for those affected by typhoon Ketsana. The typhoon hit central Vietnam late last week destroying homes, flooding towns and fields, and ravaging the rice crop that most of Vietnam's people depend upon for their livelihood. Harvest time is quickly approaching, but Vietnam's rural poor will have nothing to reap from their flooded fields.

My friend wrote in a recent e-mail, "Over 44 communities where we have been working have been impacted by this storm. Most of these communities are totally dependent upon agriculture – they don’t have stores or markets – everyone has farms and they eat what they produce. However, they have lost all of their crops in what they describe as the worst storms they have ever experienced."

She adds later in the e-mail, "The areas are completely isolated as all of the bridges have collapsed. There is no transportation and no electricity. The little food that is left in the area is being sold for astronomical prices. While the situation is terrible now, it is catastrophic in the long term... With all of the crops gone they will face long term food shortages. Most will be forced to borrow at crippling interest rates (10% per month) in order not to starve."

My friend and her husband have worked with Food for the Hungry in Vietnam for more than a decade. They partner closely with local churches and church leaders. They train the churches to serve and support their communities and encourage them to undertake development projects with the resources they have available. These poor, rural churches have built homes, dug latrines, and even laid roads that connect villages to major highways and allow them to market their crops more effectively.

Now, these churches are trying to reach out to their communities with nothing to give. My friend writes, "The churches are doing all that they can to help. No one else that has been able to get there yet. As much as possible we would like to help the churches as they seek to serve. We would really appreciate your prayers- that God would provide for them and that He would use this storm to further His work in these areas."

I have never used this site to solicit help for Vietnam, but I am compelled to do so now. My friend and her husband are using their own savings to help churches provide immediate relief for their communities. They have a network of people in place who can reach those worst hit by the storm. Now they need to get rice and other staples into their hands. If you would like to help, please visit Food for the Hungry's donation page for Vietnam (click here).

Also, please pray for these churches and church leaders. Pray that they will demonstrate the love of Christ in their communities and that they will know how to offer hope to people who have lost everything.

*The Food for the Hungry donation page says that donations are for "Friends helping with Special Southeast Asia Relief." Any donations made on this site will go directly to our friends in Vietnam.

Just Look!

2009-09-02T07:04:00.000-07:00

The other day I was working on something at the desk while Daniel played with Caleb behind me. Caleb was commissioning Daniel to draw various Cars characters on the Lightning McQueen magnetic sketch pad (the next generation of the old Etch-a-Sketch). Daniel could hardly finish one picture before Caleb swept it away with the magic eraser bar and placed his order for the next one. As Caleb was about to swipe away McQueen himself. I heard Daniel exclaim, "Just look at it first!"

My ears pricked up. Poor Daniel. He had worked hard on his Lightning McQueen, even to the point of fake headlights and detailing. It was all lost on Caleb who was already planning Mater and Sally and Flo and Ramone and Red and Lizzy and Doc and....

I stifled a chuckle at Daniel's dilemma, but was suddenly reminded of a conversation I had recently. A friend was talking about how much fun they have traveling and doing things with their older children. I was green with envy. The few activities that I can edge in between naps and meals and bedtime are almost always plagued by whining, potty accidents, fatigue, hunger, bickering, or downright resistance. (Usually from the boys.) Most days I just stay home and maintain routine for the sake of sanity and simplicity. As my friend was describing walking tours in England and a planned backpacking trip through Europe, I found myself longing for our boys to be older--more mature and less needy. I started having visions of camping and biking trips, deep conversations about something other than Blues Clues or Barney, visits to museums, cross-country road trips, and junkets to explore all the fascinating places in Southeast Asia.

As I recalled this conversation and my subsequent discontent, I couldn't help but replay Daniel's words. "Just look!"

How often does God want to take me by the shoulders and say that same thing. Just look. Take time to see what I've made for you before you swipe it away and move on to the next thing. It's for you. Enjoy it. At least pause and look at it.

Coincidentally (or providentially), I read this prayer this morning in The Valley of Vision, "...thou hast of thy pleasure created life, and communicated happiness; thou hast made me what I am, and given me what I have; in thee I live and move and have my being; thy providence has set the bounds of my habitation, and wisely administers all my affairs. I thank thee for thy riches to me..."

Train my heart toward gratefulness, Father. Help me not to tolerate the antics of my children, but to pause and enjoy all the things that will be lost when their childhood has passed. Make me content with the blessings and challenges of this stage even while I look forward to watching my boys grow and learn and change. Help me to look--to stop and see that you are good.

The Whining Chair

2009-08-28T08:56:00.000-07:00

I designated a chair in our basement/playroom as the whining chair this morning since whining has been a theme this week. Caleb spent the better part of the morning sitting there. After his last exodus from the chair he started complaining yet again. I said to him, "Caleb, if you want to whine you have to do it in the chair," thinking, of course, that this would stem the complaints. Instead, he gathered a couple toys, clambered into the chair and whined softly to himself while driving his motorbike up and over the chair back. Maybe we all need a whining chair now and then.

Interesting News Piece on Vietnam

2009-08-21T18:50:00.000-07:00

Click here for an interesting news piece on Vietnam. A friend sent us this clip several weeks ago and I am just now getting around to watching it. Believe it or not, the footage of traffic and flooding made me a little "homesick" for Ho Chi Minh City.

The Pusher

2009-08-18T18:50:00.000-07:00

We just got back from Michigan where we celebrated my grandma's 75th birthday. We also had a chance to see many of you at the "homecoming" open house my parents hosted. It's always good to catch up. Thank you to everyone who came.

I borrowed a book from my mom and started reading it this morning while Caleb slept and Nathan lay on our bed with his thumb in his mouth watching a Baby Einstein video. It isn't really a book book. It's more like a devotional. It's a collection of Puritan prayers called The Valley of Vision. This morning I read a prayer addressed to the Trinity. The following caught my attention:

O Holy Spirit, I thank thee that in fullness of grace thou hast exhibited Jesus as my salvation, implanted faith within me, subdued my stubborn heart, made me one with him for ever...thou art willing to help my infirmities, to show me my need, to supply words, to pray within me, to strengthen me that I faint not in supplication.

Maybe I was not properly pensive this morning, but this made me chuckle. A story immediately flashed to mind. I spent a year teaching at a school near Beijing, China before I graduated from college. Food and housing were provided by the school as well as transportation once each week into the city and a small (VERY small) stipend for other expenses. I learned early on that there were certain things that my budget couldn't cover--like taxis. To accommodate, my roommate and I figured out how to use the bus system.

It is difficult to describe a Chinese bus (circa 1998) for anyone who has not lived overseas. Imagine a metal box with worn tires and black exhaust. Now fill the box with so many bodies that seated passengers are forced to lean out from open windows and those standing jockey for breathing space. Buses such as these require three staff--a driver, a caller (who shouts from a window to attract passengers and to warn off other motorists), and a pusher on the ground. The pusher has the most strenuous job. It's his duty to ensure that every willing passenger (and an occasional passerby) are wedged, crammed, shoved, shimmied, and otherwise helped onto the bus. His job is made doubly difficult by safety standards which won't allow the bus to move if the doors are not properly closed.

A fellow American teacher was waiting patiently at a bus stop for just such a bus. When the contraption pulled up to the stop already bursting at the joints, she balked and said she would wait for the next one. The pusher would have none of it. He grunted and led her by the elbow to the step which was the only space left. She stood as far inside as she could get. Unfortunately, the pusher miscalculated. American derrieres are not as compact as their Chinese counterparts and the safety doors could not close. The driver furiously kept pressing the lever and the doors opened and closed again and again on the same obstruction. My friend made a valiant attempt to flee, but before she could maneuver she felt two hands firmly planted on her bottom. The pusher gave it his best and finally the doors wheezed shut.

This was the image that came to mind when I read Puritan prayers this morning. I must say that I'm thankful the Holy Spirit is just as determined as that Chinese bus pusher. There are days when I need a good shove from behind--a little help to get on the bus.

Up and Running

2009-08-08T11:10:00.000-07:00

Phew! Our shipment arrived from Vietnam and (several new parts later) Daniel finally has my computer back up and running. Now I have no excuse for neglecting to write except, of course, a grassy lawn, sunny days, and two little boys.

I thought I would include some pictures below of our new home. We feel so blessed to be living here. Our unit is part of a complex that is reserved for missionaries temporarily living back in the States. When we arrived, it was fully furnished and decorated. There were dishes in the cabinets and a few staples in the refrigerator. The couple who take care of our unit and function as landlords even found a fun cowboy quilt for Caleb's bed. It was a nice touch especially given his latest Toy Story phase (for a while he dragged his Buzz and Woody dolls everywhere). I didn't get pictures of the boy's room because they were napping, but here is the rest of the house.

Front entrance/Living room

Kitchen/Dining room

Basement/Family Room
(This was before all of the boys' toys arrived. Imagine a LOT more clutter.)

Our Bedroom

There is one extra bedroom and the room that the boys are sharing. There is also a laundry/storage room in the basement, but I can't imagine you would find that very interesting. As always, our home is open to friends passing through. We would love to have you visit.

Off the Road Again

2009-07-09T13:14:00.000-07:00

Hello again. It's been six weeks since my last blog post. I hope I haven't lost some of you in the long silence. I've been so busy packing boxes and suitcases, shipping some belongings, storing others, clearing out our house in Vietnam, flying to the United States, staying with family in California then with family in Michigan, moving into our new home in Wheaton, unpacking, and getting the boys settled into a new routine that I haven't even thought about blogging (or Facebook or even e-mail). Now, I am back online and eager to sweep the dust off my blog.

We loved seeing our families and had fun watching the boys get to know their grandparents and aunts and uncles and cousins. Caleb is convinced now that ever new kid he meets is a cousin. (You'd think we were from Kentucky or something.) Just this afternoon we took a walk to a neighborhood playground and then around the Wheaton College campus. Along the way Caleb saw several clusters of kids and insisted that they were all family. I suppose he will get things straightened out eventually.

It's been fascinating to watch the boys take in so many new experiences. When we stepped out of the San Francisco airport into the parking garage, Caleb tugged my arm and said with wide eyes "Look, Mom, a car store!" We had to instruct him not to take his shoes off at the door going into church and not to strip down to his underpants to eat spaghetti. (We were a little lax about clothing living in the tropics.) Nathan loves riding in his carseat (for which we are very thankful!). He watches out the window and shouts "Uck! Uck!" every time we pass a pickup or an SUV or semi-truck or minivan or camper or car or motorbike. It's nice when he nods off.

After all the hours spent in the air or on the road, we are relieved to be in our new home. Well, at least three of us are relieved. Caleb is more reluctant. I think he may actually hate change even more than I do. Our first night here he cried and clung to me saying, "This isn't our home. I want to go HOME to Vietnam." He misses his bed with animal sheets (which are currently somewhere in the port of Los Angeles) and was only partly consoled by the cowboy bed a friend had prepared here. I'm hoping that the many perks of living back in the States (playgrounds, a library, green grass and trees, cooler weather, ice cream, popsicles by the box) will soon sweeten the deal and make this new home more acceptable. In the meantime, I'm praying for patience.

Enough for now. I will write again soon. It was good to see many of you over these past few weeks. We will surely keep in touch.

Blessings, Heather

Inertia

2009-05-27T01:57:00.000-07:00

In Vietnam we get around by motorbike or by taxi. Nathan has never been buckled into a carseat, and Caleb hasn't experienced that pleasure since we visited the States when he was eighteen months old. The boys typically just sit on our laps while we brace for the madness that is Saigon traffic. I should probably add that with Nathan "sitting" is a loose concept. It usually involves Daniel and I taking turns wrestling him into some half-bent position while he lunges for the window buttons or blows zerbers on the back of the vinyl seat. Caleb used to be just as bad, but he's mellowed some with age.

It's standard to drive by the "gun it and brake" method here, so we're used to a bit of jolting and lurching whenever we're in a taxi. Last Sunday morning, Caleb took a very minor tumble. He scooted back on the seat complaining that the car was pushing him around.

"That's inertia." I explained feeling rather proud of myself. Daniel raised an eyebrow and I didn't confess that I'd been channel surfing recently and landed on a Discovery Channel episode about the mechanics of the seatbelt. Let him think he married up.

I explained to Caleb that when something is still it wants to stay still and when something is moving it wants to stay moving--very much like a little boy I know. Caleb was quiet for a moment.

"Mom," he said, "I don't like inertia. Can you just turn it off."

Hmmm, wouldn't that be the long sought solution to life's many stresses! I laugh about Caleb liking to stay put when put and to go when going, but I am equally controlled by inertia. The apple rolled down the tree trunk and nestled against the roots with this one. Neither of us like change. We ignore it, we complain about it, we resist it...then it happens. Always, it happens. In the end we gain momentum in another direction and forget all about our complaints and resistance and downright orneriness.

Oh, my sweet, stubborn boy! I don't believe we're going to flip the switch on inertia anytime soon. Maybe we should just try rolling with it.

Blundering

2009-05-21T18:53:00.000-07:00

I'm sorry for the long pause between blog posts. I've been busy packing and cleaning and getting ready to move countries. We really should be used to this routine by now. It seems that every few years we go through the same process. Disassemble the entire house into four piles: trash, stash, ship, or carry. Since shipping is expensive, stashing requires space, and carrying is heavy, we inevitably have to jettison belongings along the way. In most cases, I enjoy the purge. It is no sacrifice to toss frayed and sweat-stained t-shirts, ratty linens, or piles of tacky wooden wall hangings, beaded purses, and gaudy fabric we've collected along the way. Other things, though, are harder to leave by the wayside.

Yesterday morning I piled all of our baby stuff into the back of a minivan taxi and took it to a crisis pregnancy shelter that a friend of mine helps run. For weeks I have been boxing up baby clothes, washing blankets and playthings, and gradually taking items out of daily use to add to the growing pile. Every time I would pack a onesie or a baby outfit I would think, “Oh, this is what Caleb wore on the plane when we brought him back to Vietnam.” “Awww, these are the onesies Aunt Jill brought to Singapore for Nathan.” “Oh look, the trendy little overalls James and Katie sent us.” Aside from the few practical things I bought for the boys, all of the clothing reminded me of someone—my mom, my aunts, my grandma, the ladies at church who gave us a shower, friends from college, Daniel's mom and sister, and on and on. All of it was past being useful, but all of it was still very dear.

Being a good nomad, I stiffened myself to the task and mercilessly culled and boxed everything that lacked a practical purpose (well, almost everything). I consoled myself with the thought of encouraging unwed mothers and providing for babies rescued from abortion or abandonment. I imagined the women enjoying the gifts as much as I had when they were first given to us. I pictured Vietnamese babies being shown off at church wearing Caleb's overalls or Nathan's onesies. I've lived in Vietnam long enough that I should have known better. Things are never as romantic as I like to make them.

When we arrived at the shelter, three of the babies were asleep sprawled on a bamboo floor mat with their caregivers. The women jumped up and invited us into a one-room home with beds in two corners for the mothers and a row of cots for infants. The back door opened to an outdoor kitchen and latrine. One of the mothers, a mentally handicapped girl who was found pregnant and living outside of the local market, sprang forward with her baby and thrust him into my arms. I reacted just in time to keep his head from lolling backward and was instantly reminded of a small detail I had overlooked. Vietnamese infants and toddlers typically don't wear diapers. As soon as the baby was dropped in my arms, I felt something warm oozing down my elbow and seeping through my shirt. I began to pray for the best, but the stench confirmed the worst. I found one of the caregivers and tried to pass the baby off nonchalantly. She whisked him away to be hosed down outside, and I was led to a tap where I could wash up amidst a pile of breakfast dishes piled on the ground.

As I washed my hands and rubbed dishsoap into my shirt, it began to dawn on me that onesies, overalls, footed pajamas, even pants and shorts weren't all that useful to moms whose babies don't wear diapers. The infants were dressed only in worn cotton t-shirts. They had cloths tucked under their bottoms inside the cots, and the moms or caregivers held similar cloths on their laps when they rocked or fed the babies. The toddlers wore two-piece outfits similar to pajamas. Periodically they would be herded into a corner and helped to do their business in a small bucket.

I began to realize that the items which were so precious to me were of very little value, except maybe as a novelty, to the women living and working in the shelter. As this realization sunk in, my face felt warm. I really should have known better. It was too late to pile the boxes back into the taxi, but I couldn't shake the sense of regret and embarrassment—embarrassment at the inappropriateness of my gift and regret at the wastefulness of it.

Whether we're willing to admit it or not, this is sometimes the unfortunate reality in cross-cultural work. We take what we treasure (our time, effort, relationships at home, abilities, titles, and roles), box it all up, and give it away. We do so at great cost to ourselves, but not always for the real or lasting benefit of others. We are outsiders and often do not understand the situation or the need until after we've made our various well-intentioned but misguided attempts to help. I chuckled recently at a story about women in a remote African tribe receiving t-shirts from an American church. The ladies in the church had seen photos of the tribal women naked from the waist up and were concerned for their modesty. Upon receiving the shirts, the tribal women were perplexed. They didn't wear the shirts at all until one enterprising mom led the way by cutting holes in the appropriate places so she could continue breastfeeding her child. Problem solved! Because I didn't raise money for the t-shirts, or collect them, or travel half-way around the world to distribute them, this story is funny. When I think about moms at the shelter trying to figure out what to do with that cute, striped onesie Nathan wore in his first days home from the hospital, I'm less inclined to laugh.

A well-made sacrifice is bittersweet. There is a strange comfort in grieving the loss of something that has clearly served others. We want to believe that we are helping. The difficulty is that sometimes we are just participating. I made Mexican food earlier this week. In Vietnam, making Mexican food means making salsa and rolling out tortillas from scratch. Caleb loves it when I give him a ball of dough and let him bang the rolling pin around trying to make his own tortillas. At best, he gets them started for me. At worst, I have to begin again when he is distracted. In either case, I spend the time between dinner and baths cleaning flour from every crevice in the kitchen. In spite of the extra effort it requires, I love watching Caleb “help.” I enjoy sharing the time and experience with him. This really seems to be the best metaphor for life and service in general. We are invited to participate in something grand, the redemption of the world, not because of our expertise but because of God's kindness.

Sometimes a sacrifice is valuable just because it is a sacrifice. It reminds us that this world is not our home and encourages us to hold material things lightly. When we sacrifice (even something as ultimately insignificant as used baby stuff), we share in some small way in the suffering of Christ who sacrificed everything for us. In the same way, service can be valuable just because it is service. We learn to put our own interests behind the interests of others. While we should seek to be wise in how we care for others and discerning in how we use the resources we've been given, we can't let ourselves be paralyzed by the fear of making mistakes. Nor should we be held back by the possibility that the cost will be greater than our calculations. We learn generosity by giving. We learn to love by loving. We are still learning even when we blunder and struggle.

In the end, God will accomplish what he has set out to accomplish. I can hope to play a small part in that, but what he really wants is for me to participate in the process—to love him and to love my neighbor—leaving the rest in his hands.

Well, this is a long post to make up for a long silence. Hopefully I will find a few spare minutes to write more soon.

Heather

Loving Our Brother

2009-05-01T18:06:00.000-07:00

The conversation went something like this...

Caleb: "I just want to love my brother."

Me: "No, Caleb, not right now."

Caleb: "But I just waaaaaant to!"

Me: "No. No loving your brother today."

I'm guessing this will require some explanation. Let me give you a picture of what "loving his brother" looks like. It starts with a relatively innocent kiss on the cheek which progresses into a loud, slobbery smack. This is accompanied by a hug around the neck. The hug morphs into a strangle-hold and then a take-down. Occasionally hair pulling or face patting (aka. slapping) is also involved. The simple display of affection inevitably degenerates into a shrieking, arm-flailing, laughing, sometimes crying, tangled heap of boys. It always ends with me rescuing Nathan (or occasionally, Caleb) from the knot. Needless to say, Caleb is temporarily prohibited from loving his brother. He can take it up again when Nathan is big enough to love back (or when we have carpeted floors).

Travel Tales

2009-04-16T18:07:00.000-07:00

Traveling with little ones almost always yields a good travel story or two. The boys did really well on all four flights in spite of one rough take-off and two sets of painful ears on the last descent. (Chalk that one up to the virus we brought back with us.) Caleb only called the stewardess three or four times before the button with the little person on it lost its appeal. Nathan chose the first leg to walk up and down (and up and down and up and down) the aisle. This was fortunate since it was the leg with the most Vietnamese people. I felt like secret service trailing the president. Nathan marched past his adoring throng stopping at this seat or that to shake a hand, play patty cake, get pinched, or exchange some babble. He was in his element.

We decided before this trip that Caleb was big enough to start carrying his own backpack. Given that he is a pint-sized control freak, it was a good move. He loved being in charge of his own bag. He carried it through the airports, put it on one conveyor belt after another, and unpacked it and repacked it on the plane. Unfortunately, on our return journey, security had been stepped up at the Bangkok airport. Something in Caleb's Lightning McQueen backpack must have looked suspicious because the guy watching the x-ray screen signalled to the hand checker and he pulled it aside for inspection. Caleb stood very patiently while the security checker carefully emptied the contents of the bag onto a stainless steel table--two monster trucks, a Volkswagon bus, a toy airplane, a pack of gummy candy, two storybooks, and Bear--nothing of any use to a terrorist. We repacked the bag and went on our way. After we got home we heard the news about the protestors in the streets of Bangkok. The pieces fell into place. I can't imagine Caleb being mistaken for a terrorist, but a protestor...well, that makes more sense.

Before I sign off for today, I can't resist sharing one more travel story that is actually not our own. I heard it from friends who recently traveled with three small children. Their five-year-old son was carrying a plastic water bottle with which he had formed some mysterious attachment. His mom suggested that he should toss it, but in true five-year-old fashion, he protested. She agreed that he could keep it only as long as the security checkers didn't mind. They proceeded to make their way toward their gate and lined up at the security checkpoint. The little boy danced back and forth on both feet holding his backpack with the contraband water bottle tucked inside. He put the bag on the conveyor belt and marched through the metal detector. On the other side he proudly collected his bag, turned toward his mom who was still unloading items onto the belt, cupped his hands to his mouth, and shouted, "Mom, they didn't find it!!!"

We're Back

2009-04-14T23:30:00.000-07:00

Thank you to all who have been praying for Nathan's sleep, especially during our two-week trip to Thailand. He slept beautifully while we were away. In fact, we all got caught up on sleep. Sharing a hotel room with two little boys does put a crimp in one's night life. (Considering that our "night life" usually involves t.v., books, or the computer, it wasn't much of a sacrifice.) We turned the lights out around 7:30 each evening and had little choice but to join the boys in going to bed. A couple nights we were daring and stayed up until ten watching McGyver episodes in the bathroom. We plugged the portable DVD player into the hairdryer outlet and sat on the floor trying to avoid the day's pile of foul diapers in one corner and the invisible ring of near misses around the toilet.

It is always good to reconnect with friends and colleagues who are working throughout Southeast Asia. We share stories, ideas, encouragement, and (inevitably) germs. Every year we leave with a new virus of some sort. We are spending this week mending from that.

I will write more soon, but for now the laundry is beckoning. I hope you all had a very meaningful Easter celebration.

Blessings,
Heather

Flying the Coop

2009-03-29T06:07:00.000-07:00

We are leaving for Thailand in the morning for a few days of vacation and ten days of meetings. I am hoping (and praying) that time in the sunshine and swimming pool will help Nathan sleep. Otherwise two weeks in a hotel room could be less like heaven and more like...well, let's just say we'll all be miserable.

Before I sign off for two weeks, I want to tell you about Caleb's Sunday school class this morning. It was classic. I was listening in because there is no nursery for babies or toddlers, and Nathan has outgrown sitting quietly on our laps. The teacher was telling the Easter story and framed it as two things that happened--one very sad thing and one very good thing. Immediately one of the boys raised his hand, holding it at the elbow and hopping up and down. "Ooooh ooh ooh...I know the good thing!" he insisted. The teacher paused, and he snatched his opportunity. "We get chocolate!" he grinned. The teacher quickly moved on but not before he won a few snickers from the two or three of us restraining our toddlers in the corner.

The teacher went on to tell the kids about the cross and the terrible death of Christ. She talked about Jesus being shut in a tomb guarded by soldiers. One little boy was listening wide-eyed. The teacher reached for the next picture, but he could no longer contain himself. Horror stricken, he shouted, "NO! God can not die!" His eyes grew large and his voice quivered with the force of his certainty and his fear.

It struck me later that I forget to be horrified at the idea of a world without God. My emotions have been stunted by time and busyness and familiarity. I am no longer shocked and shaken by the death of Christ. I am not so relieved by his ressurection that I breathe more slowly and settle back into my seat. It's an old story and one I know well, too well. As I approach Easter, I want to take time to listen to the story again but with fresh ears--the ears of a child.

I wish you all a very meaningful Easter celebration. I will write again after we return to Vietnam.

Terrors and Temporary Insanity

2009-03-27T00:00:00.000-07:00

Every night at 7pm (give or take maybe 30 seconds), Nathan goes to sleep for the night. The routine is simple. We pick him up and give him his blanket. He holds it to his face, plugs his thumb in his mouth, and waits for us to put him in his crib. Within minutes of hitting the mattress he is typically sound asleep. Staying asleep, on the other hand, has never been the boy's forte. On a good night he wakes up at ten and two wanting milk. Then he starts the day when the sun rises at five or six. This is a good night. (I don't actually remember the last time this happened.) Usually he is up every two or three hours, and occasionally he wants to start his day as early as four. I heard recently about something called "sleep debt." If such a thing exists, I am clearly in the red!

I didn't think matters could get much worse until a week or so ago. Every now and then over the course of the past six months Nathan has woken up completely frantic and inconsolable. It didn't happen very often and there didn't seem to be any reason for it, so I decided not to worry. Then it started happening several times a week, then every night, and now multiple times a night. I finally took him to the doctor yesterday. Nathan, of course, decided it was a good opportunity to entertain the entire waiting room by handing out books from the book rack and giggling hysterically. One mother with an obviously sick baby asked, "What is the matter with him?" I wasn't entirely certain what the question implied, but I answered, "Apparently nothing at the moment."

In the examining room, Nathan explored the alphabet floor mat for all of ten seconds before he discovered a little stool. He scooted it closer to the examining table and made every effort to climb up. When I decided this wasn't the best plan, he complied by crouching down under the head of the table and pulling a lever of some sort. At one point, Nathan very sweetly gave the doctor a book he had purloined from somewhere. The doctor, looking bemused, asked, "So, what is the matter with him?"

"This may sound silly," I replied, "but he won't sleep."

The doctor just smiled and I wished for a moment that the floor would open up to swallow me and my troublesome child (or maybe just the child). After a thorough discussion and a not-very-thorough examination. Nathan was diagnosed with "insomnia." Ironically the cause for his insomnia is "sleep terrors." I googled it after I got home, and found the following grocery list of symptoms (click here for the original article if you are remotely interested):

Uncontrollable crying
Sweating, shaking, and fast breathing
A terrified, confused, and glassy-eyed appearance
Thrashing around, screaming, kicking, or staring
Child may not realize anyone is with him
Child may not appear to recognize you
Child may try to push you away, especially when you try to restrain him

Check... check.... check... Sounds like an accurate diagnosis. The bad news is that we can do nothing for him, except do nothing. Since Nathan isn't actually awake when he is having these "terrors," it isn't helpful to hold him or to try to comfort him. In fact, it makes the situation worse. The good news is that he is in the deepest part of sleep when this happens and has no recollection of it in the morning. This is why I say "insomnia" is ironic. Maybe the diagnosis was actually for Nathan's parents.

While I was googling "sleep terrors," I wandered to a page or two about sleep deprivation. Who knew missing sleep could result in such things as slurred speech, inability to form complete thoughts or think creatively, blurred vision, and even (according to one college student in a Psychology 101 research paper) "temporary insanity." Ah, finally an explanation for all my woes! My child is terrified and I am temporarily insane. For now I'm clinging to the "temporary" part of all that.

Going Shipping with Sails

2009-03-21T02:03:00.000-07:00

We found out this past week that Daniel was accepted to the PhD program at Wheaton College. This means that we will take a three-year hiatus from Vietnam instead of just one year. I'm excited for the boys to get to know our family and to experience playgrounds and libraries and grass between their toes. I'm also a little sad to pack up and say goodbye to life here, but some sadnesses are a good thing.

There is much to do before we will be ready to leave, but I feel like we've already started the process of wrapping up, packing up, and saying goodbye. My biggest concern at the moment is getting Caleb ready for the move. He is a complete control freak (not unlike his mother), and I've learned in recent months that it is best to prepare him well for any new thing. We've been talking a lot about going to the States and flying over the ocean. I explained to him yesterday that soon we will need to put his books and toys into boxes so that we can ship them to America.

This morning as I was getting out of the shower, I heard Daniel and Caleb talking in the next room. Caleb was saying, "Daddy, we have to put the toys and books in boxes so we can get a ship... And go shipping... And it's a big ship with sails."

Apparently I still have some explaining to do.

Lollipops

2009-03-19T23:59:00.000-07:00

Mmmm, a belated Valentine's Day surprise.

An Optimist

2009-03-19T00:25:00.000-07:00

Caleb brought me the remains of a fly yesterday--one of the big, tropical ones that drones like a helicopter and thunks against windows with nearly enough force to shatter the pane. There wasn't much left to it since the ants had gotten to it first. By the time it landed on my desk it was little more than the shell of a fly with legs and wings long gone. Caleb dropped it next to my arm and stood there grinning waiting for me to notice.

"Ewwwww," I exclaimed. "Caleb, do you really have to haul dead things around the house."

"It's not dead, Mom," he insisted. "The fly is just cold."

To prove his point he blew a little puff of air making the fly-shell tremble. "See. It shivered."

Blowing off Some Stink

2009-03-10T21:10:00.000-07:00

I know many of you are weary of the dregs of winter and ready for more than a few feeble hours of sunshine in your week. I really shouldn't complain about having the opposite problem, but some days the sun and heat and haze are unrelenting. There are comforts with cold...a fleece blanket, steamy cup of tea, wool sweater and socks, soft scarves and mittens. I'm sure these comforts have lost some of their charm, but they do remain. There is nothing to do for heat but suffer it. One can only remove so many articles of clothing before decency becomes an issue, and these days the fans and even the air conditioners just seem to churn the heavy air instead of cooling it.

I find myself, more often than not, in a funk. I wake up ornery and it only gets worse as the temperature rises. I grumble to Daniel and snap at the boys. I can't bear the thought of another dirty diaper, another potty training mishap, another pile of laundry, or the next meal that must be cooked in a hot, airless kitchen. My perspective is off. There is no end in sight, even though rain is predicted later in the week.

When my brothers and I were small, my mom had a solution for these gray, grumpy days. If we were bickering, or restless, or bored, we were invariably sent outside to "blow some stink off." It didn't really matter what we did--throw dirty snow at each other, climb onto the roof and tumble off into icy snowbanks, pound a whole carton of nails into the tree trunks, or tramp through the woods following deer paths and giggling at all the piles of perfectly round droppings. I'm not sure what my mom did with the reprieve, but when we came back indoors, the "stink" had usually dissipated and we were all a little happier.

This morning I had no choice but to blow some stink off. I hauled out our cheap exercise machine that sounds like a flock of geese migrating, found a pair of jersey shorts and an old maternity shirt, put Nathan down for his nap, and sent Caleb outside to torment the pond life. For the first five minutes I groused, "I hate this. Hate this. Hate this..." in time with each step. Then I forgot to grouse. Forgot to be so ornery. I listened to Rich Mullins and watched Caleb outside the window raking up little mounds of algae. I hit the twenty-minute mark and thought I could go longer, except that Nathan was screaming and Caleb was insisting he needed the rubber bath duck for some mysterious purpose.

Ah well, back to life and all its demands--hopefully with a little less stink in the air.

Hot Days

2009-03-10T01:36:00.000-07:00

We know it's hot when even our Vietnamese friends grumble about the weather. These days the heat and humidity are insufferable. We try to avoid running the air conditioners during the day because there is never enough electricity to go around, and the rates get higher with increased use. Instead, we plan activities that involve sitting in front of the fan or moving from the path of one fan to the next. It requires some creativity.

In the past week or so, we have...

gone spelunking...

built a block city...

sailed the high seas in our pirate ship...

run a marathon...

and done some serious excavating...all without leaving the house.

Our Tells

2009-02-25T19:27:00.000-08:00

When we meet Vietnamese people who have returned to Vietnam after living in the States or in Europe for a period of time, we immediately recognize a strangeness in them. Sometimes it is their manner of speaking or the clothes they wear. Other times it is the way they carry themselves, the obvious fear they manifest when crossing streets, or squeamishness about eating street food. Like in a poker game, these returned Vietnamese have their own unique give-aways. Whatever their "tell" we know instantly that they have lived elsewhere.

I was reflecting on this recently and began to wonder what our "tells" will be when we return to the States next summer. Will we march out in front of traffic expecting cars and trucks to weave around us? Will we slurp our noodles and eat with our bowls to our chins? Will we speak softly, lace our conversation with gentle humor, hold a friend's upper arm to express affection, or nod our heads to say hello and goodbye?

Some of Caleb's tells are already apparent. Yesterday we were playing with his cars, and I was explaining to him that in the United States we will have a car of our own. I pointed to the various seats and said, "Daddy will drive, and Caleb and Nathan will sit in back." Caleb pointed to the trunk of a Matchbox sedan and said, "And the driver can sleep in here."

"No," I replied, "In America we won't go in taxis, so we won't need a driver."

Caleb was perplexed. A few minutes later he came up with a solution, "We can get a red van for Daddy and a white taxi for the driver." My parents have offered to loan us their red mini-van, and the taxis we normally take in Vietnam are white and green, so this suggestion had its merits. In any case, Caleb seemed so relieved to find a good use for the taxi driver, that I decided to let it go. No need to point out that there won't be a fleet of unemployed drivers traveling back with us. He'll figure these things out in time.

Photo: Caleb with his cars, June 2007

Madame Zebedee

2009-02-24T23:43:00.000-08:00

Surely I am not the only parent who feels pressured to ensure that my boys achieve their maximum potential. According to the books and websites, this can be accomplished by reading stacks of the best children's literature, playing specially orchestrated classical music, buying only the safest and most age-appropriate toys, measuring the boys' development regularly according to averages and standards, removing the television to the darkest and most heavily cobwebbed corner of the house, fitting them with fifty-dollar walking shoes, feeding them organic this and fortified that, filling every moment with something edifying, etc., etc., etc. It seems that I must do all of this to give my kids the best chance at the best future.

I imagine the ideal home looking something like Mr. Roger's house except that there would be elaborate schedules on the wall for one child's dance and art classes and another child's soccer practice and karate lessons. The rooms would all be bright and colorful with an array of comprehensible input displayed thoughtfully on the walls (think phonetic charts and alphabet posters). The house would be filled with Montessori-style stations equipped with all sorts of hands-on learning activities. Poor Mr. Roger's would not be there at all because he is, of course, from television. Every young parent knows that television is anathema. An exception is made in the case of Baby Einstein products or other such developmental tools, but only when the parent is participating in the experience and enthusiastically labeling every object on the screen. "Junior, that is an apple." "Look, see the train!" "Ohhh, the baby is sleeping." And on, and on.

Contrast this with our home. We are squashed in the back of a dirty alley in a two bedroom Vietnamese-style house. For outdoor activities, we have a postage stamp garden and an algae-choked fish pond. We did have an inflatable wading pool for the boys, but the alley cats clawed holes in it and urinated on it. I grew weary of patching and cleaning the thing and stealthily disposed of it when the boys weren't looking. Thanks to loving grandparents willing to pay dearly at the post office, we have lots of toys and books, but the t.v. is still central in our house. Art projects are sparse. Caleb tolerates coloring but only as long as I let him pick all the paper off the crayons and leave little waxy bits all over the floor. Painting is better, but it requires a full shower afterward--for both of us.

All excuses aside, I do sometimes feel insecure and inadequate as a parent. We made a decision years ago to pursue a life that isn't likely to result in the perfect house or private lessons for our boys. We are reasonably comfortable, but we live simply and without many of the "perks" we would have in the States--libraries, playgrounds, sports, play groups, and so on. Occasionally, I regret not having these things but for the most part I'm okay with it. Because I am generally content with our life, I was blindsided recently by fears that we are not providing enough for our boys. I suddenly found myself asking and not being able to answer the question, "Have we put them at a disadvantage by choosing the path we've chosen?"

I was still asking myself this question when I happened upon the story of Madame Zebedee in Mathew chapter 20. You probably remember the conscientious mother of the apostles, James and John. In the passage, she worked up the muster to ask Jesus a favor. Her seemingly simple request was that her sons would be allowed to sit on either side of Jesus when he came into power. Surely her baby boys were worth such an honor. She must have imagined a life of influence, prestige, and rich reward for them. She may have even thought this a just request since she knew following Jesus in the short-term hadn't amounted to much. Their sacrifices would earn them the position. Little did she understand what she was really asking.

Jesus' response to Madame Zebedee and later to his squabbling disciples was that whoever desires greatness must become a servant and whoever aims to be first should be a slave. He turns our natural ambitions on their head. We want our children to lead the pack, to be successful, to achieve their full potential. Jesus, in effect, says, "Teach your child to go last, to serve, to love others more than he loves himself."

This only makes sense when we believe (and continually remind ourselves) that there is more to life than the 70 or 80-plus years we hope to spend on earth. Elsewhere in the gospels Jesus says that a seed must fall into the ground and die to bear fruit. A man must lose his life to find it. Knowing that the bulk of life is yet to come, frees us from the impulse to get all we can out of this short time.

I remember going through a salad bar once in Bangkok and having to fight the impulse to stare as a woman filled her bowl. She carefully picked unbroken lettuce leaves from the garnish and layered them around the inside of her dish to expand its capacity. Then she skillfully scooped and ladled and piled creating a wobbly mountain of salad. She arranged cubes of red Jello on top of potato salad which was already balancing on a stack of watermelon slices and poured Ranch dressing over it all. She maneuvered the concoction back to her table and dug in. I made my way back to our own table and tried not to gawk over Daniel's shoulder. In places where people have long made do with too little, the tendency is to take whatever one can get. It's a human thing. We grasp at what we fear losing or what we think we need. The gospel liberates us from this. Wealth, power, and prestige become salad toppings in light of eternity.

Upon first reading Matthew 20, I was comforted. Teaching our children to be humble, to work hard for the benefit of others, to love, and to serve is not contingent upon having the perfect home with a large back yard, library access, or the best educational toys. It is not necessarily learned in groups or classes or private lessons. We are not at a disadvantage by living at the back of a dirty alley on the other side of the world.

I was ready to let one long sigh of relief until I read the passage again, and then one more time. How are such things taught? If there is no curriculum, no early development class, no group, or tutor to pass these things on, how do we teach them? How do we help our children to become genuinely humble and not just insecure, concerned for the good of others and not just their good opinion, passionate about Christ's kingdom and undeterred by lesser visions of success. I'm not sure I've fully answered this, but the most obvious solution seems to be that we must live it. We must put ourselves last and others first. We must give the best of what we have and not the excess. We must model for our children humility and service and love.

Scratch that sigh of relief. This is a tall order! Like Madame Zebedee, I find myself going to Jesus. Instead of a pair of thrones, however, I think I will ask for grace--grace to love God and love others in full view of my children. This is enough.

Revisions

2009-02-17T19:35:00.000-08:00

Here are a couple favorite stories as retold by Caleb.

The Story of Joseph: Genesis 37-47

Me: "Caleb, what happened to Joseph?"

Caleb: "Jo-FUS brothers gave him to the camels."

Me: "Why did they do that? Were they jealous?"

Caleb: "Yea. Cuz Jo-FUS had a red, fast truck and he drived really fast."

Mike Mulligan and His Steam Shovel by Virginia Lee Burton

Caleb: "Mulligan digged the dirt and dumped the dirt."

Me: "Then what did Mike Mulligan do?"

Caleb: "Mulligan digged, "BING, BANG, CRASH, SLAAAM!" The dust settled in just one day."

Me: "What happened when Mike Mulligan was finished?"

Caleb: "Mulligan ran to his house and the horse shouted, 'Come back, Mulligan! Come back!' He opened the door and the fire engine and the garbage truck were in his house. The fire engine was REALLY BIG!"

(Two weeks ago, Caleb saw a boy at the grocery store buying a foot-long fire engine. He has been begging for one since and uses every opportunity to propagandize.)

Joseph clip art courtesy of phillipmartin.info
Mike Mulligan cover image courtesy of images.barnesandnoble.com

The Many Faces

2009-02-16T04:33:00.001-08:00

It has been a while since I last posted photos. These are a few of my latest favorites.

Chocolate Monster

2009-02-16T03:39:00.000-08:00

Caleb is a boy after my own heart. He LOVES chocolate! This morning we spread leftover frosting on digestive crackers and sprinkled the tops with colored candy stars. I'm sure that sounds awful, but digestive crackers are the closest thing we can find in Vietnam to graham crackers. They really aren't too bad, especially with fudge frosting.

A Valentine for Sarah Pierrepont

2009-02-14T04:23:00.000-08:00

Believe it or not, I like some of my college textbooks enough that I dragged them all the way to Vietnam, reserving for them precious space in the four suitcases we carried with us. One of these books is an anthology of early American literature. I was flipping through it recently and happened upon a scrap of paper tucked between the pages. On the paper I had written the name of a bridal shop, a phone number, address, and appointment time. My curiosity was piqued. What was I reading nearly a decade ago on the eve of marriage? What was worth marking for posterity with a Post-It?

I glanced down the page to the section break. The essay I had marked was a tribute to a young lady written by Jonathan Edwards in 1723. It was found scratched on a blank page in a book. Apparently even the venerable Edwards got distracted from his reading once in a while. The young lady who had captured his attention was Miss Sarah Pierrepont. Five years later she became Mrs. Jonathan Edwards. This is what Edwards had to say in praise of Sarah:

...if you present all the world before her, with the richest of its treasures, she disregards it and cares not for it, and is unmindful of any pain or affliction. She has a strange sweetness in her mind, and singular purity in her affections; is most just and conscientious in all her conduct... She is of a wonderful sweetness, calmness, and universal benevolence of mind; especially after this Great God has manifested Himself to her mind. (from Sarah Pierrepont by Jonathan Edwards, Norton's Anthology of American Literature, vol. 1, page 452)

Imagine what it would feel like to know someone had written this about you--written it never to be read on a random page of a random book just because he couldn't get you off his mind. As I read it again this evening, I was struck by the absence of any reference to Sarah's appearance or education or social position. Edwards was captivated by her character. He valued what was most valuable and what would only gain worth with age and maturity.

This left me wondering... If I were to scribble a description of Daniel on a blank leaf of a book, what would I write? What endears him to me? A blog is a far cry from a hidden page in a bedside book, so I will not make any lists here. It's worth pondering, though. What do we value in our loved ones? What makes them dear to us? Do we treasure the things that are truly of great worth? It's a question worth asking.

Photo: Christmas ornament in afternoon light, January 2009

Watch Out for the Boy!

2009-02-08T23:34:00.000-08:00

We sent Daniel's uncle some pictures a while back and he found it interesting that vehicles in Vietnam travel on the right side of the road...except when they don't. More often than not a handful of adventurous (or impatient) people disregard traffic law and drive anywhere they can wedge a motorbike--on sidewalks, between houses, against traffic, through parks, and over curbs. When you add sneaky motorbikes to the mix of sidewalk vendors, street kids, gawking tourists, and other random pedestrians, there isn't much space left to get from point A to point B. We try to take the boys out for walks, but it is a chore. We are forever grabbing Caleb's arm, picking him up, or shouting at him to watch out for the motorbikes. Lately, Daniel has been taking Caleb for walks in the alleys near our house and teaching him how to step out of the way when motorbikes drive by. "Watch out for the motorbike" is becoming something of a mantra in our family.

A couple evenings ago we decided to take the boys out for hamburgers and fries at a local restaurant called "Texas BBQ." (I know, Tex-mex in Vietnam?!? We live in a small and strange world.) After dinner we walked from the restaurant to a nearby grocery store to buy bread. A block or two from the restaurant, Caleb decided to race Daniel. They ran/jogged along the broken sidewalks dodging pedestrians and motorbikes. At some point Caleb decided he was tired of giving up the right of way. As he ran he shouted "Watch out for the boy! Watch out for the boy!" It was a good idea, but not very effective.

Blog Design

2009-02-03T22:31:00.000-08:00

Thanks for your patience as I've fiddled with the design of my blog. I'm still learning how blogging works and have been trying to find ways to make my blog more accessible and interesting. I have just finished the last face lift for a while. I've added a list of topics so you can skip to the parts that most interest you. For instance, if you came looking for cute stories about the boys or recent pictures of them, just click on "kids" under the list of topics. If you want to wade through my reactions to whatever I've been reading, click "literature." For more about Vietnam, click "Vietnam." You get the idea.

I've also added a list of blogs that I like to read and a link to a blogging network called "High Calling Blogs." If you are interested in reading more from people who love Christ and try to glorify him through their writing, feel free to click on the box. Thanks again for bearing with me. I think I'm finished tinkering for a while.

Random Reflections: Altars and Ancestors

2009-02-02T23:33:00.000-08:00

I usually try to have a point to my posts even if they are just anecdotes about the boys (then the point is just that they are cute or funny). Sometimes, though, I start to muse about life in Vietnam and never find my way to a point. I would like to say something profound that pulls the experiences into perspective, but I haven't gotten there yet. All this to say that if a post is titled "Random Reflections" it is really just that. Read it as if you were flipping through a newly developed pile of photos. I haven't put them in order yet, or even taken out the ones that are out-of-focus or unflattering. I thought I'd let you look over my shoulder while I'm still sorting.

*****

We have a room in our house for dead relatives. It is dusty and stacked with boxes. The altar is functioning temporarily as a storage shelf. It is a pleasant room with windows on both ends. One even overlooks the alley and the comings and goings of the neighborhood. In the event that we need to house some dead relatives, they will not be bored. There is always much to see.

Some houses keep a light on at night in their dead relatives room. I can see the red bulbs glowing here and there from the window in our upper stairwell. At holidays and death anniversary days our neighbors burn supplies. Fake U.S. dollar bills, paper shirts and ties, cardboard houses and motorbikes all go up in smoke. The economy in the afterlife depends heavily on prosperity in the present. It is a tidy circle. Each keeps the other fat and happy.

Some say ancestor worship is just an expression of loyalty, duty, love--like putting flowers at a grave. "Worshiping ancestors" is a misnomer. It is more like honoring them. Others take the practice more seriously, more superstitiously. They believe that dead relatives determine whether one is prosperous or poor, happy or discontent, healthy or unhealthy. In either case, reverence for ancestors is woven deeply into the fabric that is Vietnam. A teacher told us once that a person can not be Vietnamese without keeping an ancestor altar at home. Catholics, she insisted, simply place their shelf for Mary a few inches above their shelf for dead relatives. Voila! Dilemma solved. A Vietnamese colleague once speculated that if Protestants would just loosen their proverbial top button and let people keep their incense and altars and fake sacrifices, the religion would explode. After all, Jesus was a nice enough guy. Why must one forsake father and mother to follow him.

These assumptions and questions are hard for us, but they are even harder for our Vietnamese Christian friends. For them it is all more than observation. These are the things that their faith confronts. It leaves me wondering what in my own culture clashes with following Christ. Is it obvious and odious to me or do I shrug and dismiss it as just a normal part of being American? This is somehow harder to answer.

Chasing the Dragon

2009-01-27T00:39:00.000-08:00

Here is Caleb following the sound of the drums.

Searching up and down the street.

At last, the dragon! (Dragon dancers weave up and down the streets waiting to be invited into homes and businesses where they dance to bring good luck.)

Even dragons need a break. (Taking a brief rest in the alley.)

A Great Good

2009-01-26T19:18:00.000-08:00

I just finished reading again George Eliot's Middlemarch. There are no libraries of English language books in Vietnam and only a handful of bookstores that carry a shelf or two of western literature. A few secondhand shops in the tourist district carry battered copies of bestsellers, but reading a book based on back copy and cover design is too much like a blind date for my taste, especially when the copy is dog-eared and stinks of cigarettes. I'm not a risk taker. For that reason (and a few others), I've spent the past five and a half years reading mostly Victorian literature.

I've read almost everything by Dickens, Austen, Eliot, and the three Brontes, with a couple of more obscure authors thrown in for good measure. I am not a very disciplined reader. I don't read to examine a book. I read for pleasure and escape and sometimes for companionship. I find a lot of common ground with some of the Victorians. Dorothea Brooke of Middlemarch has always been a kindred spirit. Her controlling impulse is to do a great good, but her pursuit of that ambition is impossibly hampered by her own flaws and naivety as well as the foibles and cruelty of others. In the end, Eliot says of Dorothea,

"But the effect of her being on those around her was incalculably diffusive: for the growing good of the world is partly dependent on unhistoric acts; and [the fact] that things are not so ill with you and me as they might have been, is half owing to the number who lived faithfully a hidden life, and rest in unvisited tombs" (from the Wordsworth Classics edition of Middlemarch, page 688).

I find consolation in this notion that a great good can come out of a hidden life, one lived simply and faithfully with an eye toward loving God and loving others. Achieving a great good in one fell swoop is exciting to anticipate, but virtually impossible to accomplish. We are all too flawed, and the world is too messy, to do a complete renovation. Spot cleaning, starting with ourselves, is more in order.

When I am between novels, I empathize with the early pioneers crossing the Forty-Mile Desert--forced to abandon one river with only the assurance of another. During these stretches, I read non-fiction articles or essays or poetry until I get absorbed again in a story. Last night I read a sermon by Henry Drummond who was a Scottish teacher and evangelist during the late 1800s. The sermon, entitled "The City Without a Church," dovetailed nicely with finishing Middlemarch, though I didn't expect this when I picked it up. At one point, Drummond writes:

"There are thousands ready in their humble measure to offer some personal service for the good of men, but they do not know where to begin. Let me tell you where to begin... Begin where you are. Make that one corner, room, house, office as like heaven as you can. Begin? Begin with the paper on the walls, make that beautiful; with the air, keep it fresh; with the very drains, make them sweet; with the furniture, see that it be honest. Abolish whatsoever worketh abomination--in food, in drink, in luxury, in books, in art; whatsoever maketh a lie--in conversation, in social intercourse, in correspondence, in domestic life. This done, you have arranged for a heaven, but you have not got it. Heaven lies within, in kindness, in humbleness, in unselfishness, in faith, in love, in service. To get these in, get Christ in. Teach all in the house about Christ--what He did, and what He said, and how He lived, and how He died, and how He dwells in them, and how He makes all one. Teach it not as a doctrine, but as a discovery, and your own discovery. Live your own discovery" (Henry Drummond, "The City Without a Church," from the anthology The Greatest Thing in the World, pages 42-43).

The only way I know how to respond to this is to pray,

"Father, help me to begin doing good in the world by first bringing beauty and order to my home. Teach me frugality and generosity. Let everyone who enters our home feel loved and welcomed. Help me to be discerning about what I bring into this place whether it be what I watch on television or what I read on the Internet. Help me to speak truth, to avoid gossip, to reprimand the boys in love, and to choose good words that encourage. Most importantly, help me to know Christ better with each passing day. Make the gospels come alive as I read them again in the coming months. Make it my impulse to share each small discovery and to live these discoveries so that my children, and my husband, and my friends are reminded of Christ. Make me kind and humble and unselfish as Christ is all of these things. Teach me to live simply and faithfully, loving you and loving others. I pray all of these things knowing that you are able even while I am deeply flawed. In Christ's name, Amen."

Hunting Dragons

2009-01-26T18:52:00.001-08:00

We heard the beating of drums a few minutes ago. Daniel grabbed the camera and said "Hey Caleb, let's go see the dragon!" Caleb's eyes turned to saucers. He clung white-knuckled to the rocking chair and pleaded, "No dragons! No! No!" It took some convincing (and a lot of explaining), but he and Daniel are out on a dragon hunt. The drums are getting more and more distant, so they may or may not encounter the dragon today. I doubt that our reluctant knight will be disappointed if this one gets away.

Happy New Year!

2009-01-25T23:28:00.001-08:00

It is officially the first day of the lunar new year. Our neighbors are putting their home karaoke machine to good use. Apparently they are also busy toasting the new year. As the day progresses the singing gets less inhibited and more off-pitch.

They say that the way one spends the first day of the new year, determines how the rest of that year will go. Hmmm, this means that for the next 12 months I will cook meals, wash laundry, wipe noses, pick up toys, and take advantage of any lull to steal a few quiet moments at the computer. That sounds quite believable.

First Words

2009-01-25T23:11:00.001-08:00

Caleb's first word at around ten months was "Amen." He said it often and with great emphasis, sometimes at appropriate moments (like before a meal) and sometimes at inappropriate ones (like when I was talking with friends and he wanted to put an end to the conversation). In any case, it was a good first word, one we could be proud of.

Nathan's first word is "cool," as in "Whoa, that car is way cool." I'm blaming it on his older brother.

Imagination Gone Wild

2009-01-25T22:57:00.000-08:00

I read somewhere that at three years old, children sometimes have trouble finding the line between imagination and reality. I'm not sure if this is true, but Caleb does seem to have a hard time knowing when to let his imagination roam and when to reign it in. I was not paying much attention to him at dinner last night until I heard little splashing noises coming from that side of the table. Caleb had piled pieces of chicken and carrot on his plate and poured water to one side of it creating a muddy pond. When I asked what in the world he was doing he looked at me like it should be completely obvious and answered, "The beaver is just building a dam."

Obama-Mania in Vietnam

2009-01-20T05:40:00.000-08:00

A new tea shop is opening a few doors down from us. Daniel came home chuckling about it, and I had to take Caleb out to see for myself.

Did you catch that? Here is a better view of the sign announcing the grand opening...

Let me translate...

"Obama Bubble Milk-Tea
Grand Opening
Special Promotion: 10% Discount for the First Two Weeks"

From sea to shining sea, to the far reaches of Southeast Asia, to three doors down, President Obama is being hailed with hope. Maybe in the future he will lend his name to a library or a highway or a battleship. I suppose a back-alley tea shop in Ho Chi Minh City is as good a place as any to start.

Tet Is in the Air

2009-01-19T05:38:00.000-08:00

We woke this morning to a strange hush. There were no motorbike horns beeping, no vendors hawking bread or soup, no clamor from students eating fried eggs and rice on the strip of concrete outside our gate. The alley was strangely empty except for garbage collectors picking up an overflow of trash generated during the pre-Tet cleaning frenzy and a few stray kids kicking a rubber ball around.

Tet, the lunar new year, is definitely upon us. The closure of schools and businesses and the mass exodus of urbanites to their home towns and villages are sure signs. The Mai flowers are also in bloom, and homes are wearing fresh paint on their window shutters. Vietnam is decked in her holiday best.

Tet is certainly in the air...and still a week to go.

Blessings

2009-01-18T15:35:00.001-08:00

Sweaty and grimy from playing outside with torn shorts and all. I love little boys! I say to Caleb countless times a week, "Caleb, did you know you are a blessing from the Lord?" He responds very matter-of-factly, "Yea."

Wouldn't it be nice if we always could accept as a matter of course that we are precious and loved. It makes it so much easier to put aside our petty insecurities and love others. I overheard Caleb say to Nathan yesterday, "Nathan, did you know you are a blessing from the Lord?" Nathan just wriggled to escape from Caleb's hug/strangle hold. Boys!

Inspiration

2009-01-18T01:30:00.000-08:00

I was reading through old journal entries this afternoon and stumbled across this. It was written just a few months after our arrival in Vietnam.

**********

September 2003

"...As I was steeping my coffee this morning--Vietnamese style with the stainless steel filter and fine grounds--I noticed a strange marketing slogan across the front of the coffee package. The coffee is from a Vietnamese maker, but for whatever reason, the slogan is in broken English. It reads “Give you Source Inspiration of New Creation.”

I’ve struggled lately to find a source of inspiration of any sort. That’s probably why this caught my attention. The words “Inspiration of New Creation” stood out like blinking neon lights along a dark stretch of highway. It was the promise of the new creation that first motivated Daniel and me to untangle ourselves from the mad rush toward career and a home and prospective wealth. It was what prompted us to come to this humid little corner of the world... The new creation is what we look toward and what gives us hope in a world that is so dark and cracking and filthy. When I forget the promise of Christ’s return and the restoration of everything good, I can’t look past the things here that are dirty and worn. The stench of urine in the alley outside our door, the rats that wake us at night, the damp and polluted air pressing in upon us. Lately I’ve been so lost in the haze around me that I’ve missed the approaching sunset. This world will soon end. It is our privilege to prepare ourselves and others for the next.

Father, please give us the strength to persevere to the end. Keep us faithful and give us courage. Help me to treasure time in your Word and to fiercely protect my time in prayer. I have not done so lately, and I’ve missed it. I need to remind myself of your promises and let my heart be guided by you. Help me to do so faithfully..."

**********

Five years later this is still my daily experience and still my prayer. When my expectation of God's faithfulness fades to shadow, the ugliness and meanness in the world around me become glaring. It is as if I am carrying only a pocket light. As long as I keep the feeble beam forward, I can walk by it. I am always tempted, though, to train the light on the skittering at my feet or a scratching on the ceiling. When I do, I stumble. I get lost and disoriented. Practically speaking, I get tired of the noise and pollution and poverty of the city. I grumble and complain and pity myself. I want to quit, to resign myself to an easier--or at least more comfortable--life.

When I once again remind myself of God's promises and reflect on all the ways he has been faithful to me, I begin to see my way forward. This is why reading the Bible and praying have become more to me than just rituals or obligations. Vietnamese coffee may claim to be a source of inspiration (and caffeine certainly doesn't hurt), but in the end I'm most inspired when I'm reminded of the coming new creation--a world where there is no suffering, no death, no evil or ugliness. The anticipation of all God has promised sets even today right. Reading God's Word and praying are the best ways to keep these promises before me. They give me much needed "Source Inspiration of New Creation."

Watching Motorbikes

2009-01-12T19:44:00.001-08:00

We live across the alley from a university, so our house is surrounded by people selling soup, fruit, beverages, funny little meatballs on a stick, and so on. The boys like to watch students coming and going, and I like to watch the boys. Isn't this smile contagious.

To Market, to Market...

2009-01-12T17:54:00.000-08:00

Caleb and I walked to the market the other day to buy fruit. On our way home we passed a flower vendor, and I stopped to pick up a bunch of china roses for the table. While I was fumbling in my pocket for small bills (the whole bunch was 15,000 dong or just under a dollar), Caleb started playing with the little white nets protecting the chrysanthemum heads. I pulled him away before he decapitated most of the merchandise and apologized. Vendors are usually very protective of their goods. Once when Caleb fingered a bunch of grapes, the vendor scowled and looked like she was a hairsbreadth away from smacking him. I intervened in time, but I avoid that stall now when I have Caleb with me. His fingers are just too itchy.

I was relieved, then, when the flower vendor laughed and plucked a shabby looking chrysanthemum stem for Caleb to take home. He is very proud of his flower. We put it in a bud vase and he carried it around the house for a day or so. The flower watched tv with Caleb, sat on the table while he ate lunch, waited on the shelf while he napped, and even went into the bath with him before bedtime. For all that wear, the hideous thing is still looking surprisingly healthy. Maybe chrysanthemums were created for three-year-olds.

Resolutions

2009-01-12T05:00:00.000-08:00

The boys are doing better at keeping my resolutions than I am. Oh well, maybe if they burn up some excess energy, then I will have enough left over to exercise at the end of the day.

Beauty

2009-01-06T17:10:00.000-08:00

Have I mentioned that I hate haircuts? I especially dread the ordeal in Vietnam where I have to explain what I want and spend an hour or two chit-chatting in a second language. I made the mistake again of using the word for "layers" and ended up with another bad shag. I must strike that word from my vocabulary. Instead I need to learn how to say, "Could you please do that clever snip-snip technique where you cut out a few strands at a time in just the right places and my hair miraculously has volume and texture instead of hanging flat and limp against my face as it was created to do." If anyone can translate that, I'd be forever grateful.

Given my distaste for beauty treatments, you would think that I would choose a hairstyle that doesn't require frequent cuts or a salon that is familiar, but no. My hair looks stringy and unkempt when it is long, and I've yet to find a salon I can visit more than two or three times before I have to cut and run. The staff at one place kept pestering me to teach them English. At another place they pressured me into manicures and massages and even conned me into an expensive hair treatment by starting it before I could refuse. Instead of holding my ground, I generally skulk away in search of a salon where I can get a simple haircut without being bullied into styles and products and services that I don't want or need. Does such a place exist in the world?

This is all complicated by the fact that I am still a redneck at heart. I try to put on a sophisticated face, but beneath it all I will always be fresh from the woods. I would so much rather be sitting under my favorite tree by the beaver pond than prostrate in a salon with a twenty-something Vietnamese girl massaging each arm, another at my feet, and a fourth shampooing my hair. In the woods I am myself. In a salon chair, I am not. All the moisture travels from my mouth to my palms. I stammer and trip over things and find myself completely at the mercy of the stylist.

"Could you please just trim it a little?" I ask timidly.

"Trim?" the stylist asks with one raised eyebrow and a heavy undertone of skepticism. "When was the last time you had this cut?"

"This," I think to myself. "Is it really that bad?"

The stylist runs his fingers through my hair, frowning and clucking. I crumble.

"Well," I hear myself saying, "what do you think...?"

I should know by now never to hand over the keys so easily. I always get taken for a ride. I go in for a trim and come out Florence Henderson. Will I never learn?

At least this time the staff let me off gently when it came to services and sales pitches. I only had to smell three or four products and refuse a manicure a handful of times. The arm-massage girl prattled on about the importance of keeping up one's appearance. She insisted that being beautiful makes a woman happy. The stylist chimed in and claimed that he had never met a woman who couldn't be made beautiful with the right effort. I momentarily wondered what he was implying, but decided not to open that door. I made a feeble comment about how inner beauty is what really matters. They didn't seem to hear me, so I rallied my courage and insisted more eloquently that beauty of the soul ("innards" in Vietnamese) is what makes us truly joyful and that outward beauty will only fade. Undaunted, the arm-massage girl smiled and said, "Isn't it best to have both while we can?"

In the end, I managed to walk out with my shag and an extra fee for shampooing and blow drying that was unavoidable. I came home and shed the obligatory post-haircut tears, then made dinner for the guys. Life must go on. After all, inner beauty is what matters, right.

Borrowing

2009-01-02T19:52:00.000-08:00

I started counting this morning and realized that I am currently keeping four journals: two for writing projects (prose and poetry), one for reflections on what I am reading in the Bible, and now this online journal of daily happenings. It's definitely not the most streamlined approach and the blog tends to get short shrift. To remedy that I've decided to borrow bits and pieces from the other journals that will give you a behind the scenes look at our life. If poetry is not your thing or random thoughts on Leviticus don't get your tractor going, then you have my permission to skip these posts. I should also add a disclaimer: most of this stuff is a work in progress. Please forgive the rough edges.

Here is a poem that I've been tinkering with for the past couple years. The final verses fell into place after Nathan was sick on New Year's Eve. (He's fully recovered, by the way.) I had several loads of vomit-stained laundry on my hands and lots of time to think while hanging it out to dry. The poem is not in its final form (are they ever?), but the ideas are mostly in place.

Clean Linen

I worked at a desk
In an office with a door.
I wore black and a scent
From a bottle called "Clean Linen."

I read Living
And thought about laying
Cloth napkins at dinner
Or place settings for four.

Now I live and work and read
At home.
Mike Mulligan mostly,
Or that curious George.

I stand at a counter
In a kitchen with cool tile,
Barefoot and scented
Of soap and soured milk.

Weary, I wash
And think about drying
This day's linens
From a string in the sun.

"On summer days,"
My mom once said,
"There's nothing nicer
Than a sheet in the breeze."

A skeptic, I shrug.
Duty-bound,
I bundle my burden
And trudge toward the line.

I question sometimes
The quality
Of a battle ever-fought,
Seemingly never won.

But I groan with the rest
Of grubby creation
And raise my cases
Against the wind.

I hear the snap
Of a breeze-snagged sheet
Drawn taut
Before the sun.

I watch it glow
The glory of God its radiance,
A fine linen
Bright and pure.

I marvel
At this quiet overthrow,
Old made new,
Redemption in a microcosm.

I stand still and straight,
Amazed, admiring
A motley, flag-waving tribute
To virtue--unbought, unbottled.

January 2009
Copyright Heather Owens

Explanation: I wrestle sometimes with the value of time spent on so many mundane tasks: dishes, laundry, diapers, etc., etc. Occasionally I miss operating in a world of words and thoughts and theory. I've come to realize, though, that caring for a family is actually thoughts and theory in the trenches. I am forced to live what I believe, and in return, I am privileged to experience the hand of God in the minutia of the everyday. As I was hanging damp bed sheets the other day, I couldn't help but enjoy their coolness and the clean scent of laundry soap clearing the house of less pleasant odors. I was reminded of the pure, white robes that we will someday be given and the verses in Revelation about the bride of Christ wearing "a fine linen, pure and bright"--the cloth's beauty comprised of the righteousness of God's people. Washing laundry, caring for a sick child, cleaning up messes--these are small acts, but important. I have the honor of redeeming things on a small scale (the laundry and dishes day in and day out) and am reminded of God's constant work of redemption in the world. Someday all creation will be made new and never soiled again--what a thing to look forward to. The battle will be at an end. Until then, I have work to do.

Christmas Slideshow

2008-12-29T03:17:00.000-08:00

In case you didn't catch it, I added a bunch of photos from Christmas. The slide show plays automatically on the right. I'll have to see about adding captions in the future.

Snow in Saigon

2008-12-29T00:49:00.000-08:00

A few years ago Daniel's sister gave me these snowflake ornaments for Christmas. I like to hang them in the window to catch the afternoon light and to remind me of Michigan winters.

A Holiday Hiatus

2008-12-28T06:36:00.000-08:00

I'm sorry for the long pause between blog posts. I have been busy with all the normal holiday activities--cooking, eating, wrapping, unwrapping, making messes, cleaning them up, waking early, going to bed late, and so on, and so on. We had a nice Christmas in spite of illness. Daniel and Caleb came down with dengue fever a week ago and are both still recovering. Things should be back to normal in another day or two. I'll write more then. I hope that you had a blessed Christmas and that you are enjoying these last days before the new year.

Heather (for all of us)

Caleb's Commentary

2008-12-16T19:18:00.000-08:00

Caleb and I went to the supermarket yesterday. He is fun to take along because he gives a running commentary on everything we pass in the taxi. (We don't own a car and I'm not ready to let the boys ride on Daniel's motorbike. Just call me paranoid.) Most days, life in Vietnam is simply life. We're so used to it, that things don't seem strange anymore. Yesterday, Caleb's commentary reminded me that we are indeed in a place very different from where we grew up. How many three-year-olds in the States make the following observations on the way to the local grocery store?

"Grass, Mama, grass!!!" (A few scrubby clumps poking through the broken concrete outside our gate.)

"Look, flowers and fruits and eggs and peoples." (While passing the outdoor market at the end of our alley.)

"Mom, look...a dragon!" (Adorning the gates of the Buddhist temple at the end of our street.)

"There's a baby on that motorbike." (Held in his mom's arms.)

"Look, flowers are on the bus!" (Wedged behind the front bumper and roped to the dashboard in an attempt to solicit good luck and avoid fender benders.)

"A puppy!" (Again on a motorbike.)

"That's a loud motorbike." (After some maniac sped by us with his engine roaring.)

"Santa Claus!" (A plastic, automated Santa parked at the entrance to the supermarket--some things truly are universal.)

"Cimmanom"

2008-12-13T23:03:00.000-08:00

I must confess that I often let Caleb finish his breakfast in the living room. He is NOT a morning person and life is much less stressful if I let him get going in front of a cartoon (usually just one...or maybe two). These days we've been putting cinnamon (or "cimmanom" as Caleb would say) on toast, sliced apples, pancakes, carrots, chicken, oranges... (the latter few are the boys' invention). We can't seem to get enough of it. Apparently, Nathan is equally a fan. He found Caleb's unfinished pancake on the floor, polished it off, and then proceeded to lick all of the cinnamon off the plate. That's my boy! Honestly I would do the same if I didn't have an adult sense of propriety (aka. fear of walking around with cinnamon all over my face).

Jesus on the Go

2008-12-13T22:59:00.000-08:00

In case you were wondering, Jesus gets around on the back of a flatbed truck driven by a Lego fireman. The truck even makes beeping noises when backing up. Safety first, you know.

Off the Cutting Floor

2008-12-12T23:15:00.000-08:00

I thought I would give you a behind the scenes peak into our attempts at a family Christmas photo. Here we are just starting out. Daniel is fiddling with the camera, trying to get it properly focused and ready to snap a picture in "delay and dash" mode. Caleb is at his most subdued. We were waiting for Nathan to wake up from his nap. In the meantime, the rest of us were getting increasingly tired and hungry for lunch. This was mistake number one.

Here is an early attempt. The focus is off and Nathan is only half-awake, but Caleb is still smiling. Maybe we should have quit while we were ahead.

Hmm, all four facing the camera and three out of the four smiling...not too bad. Unfortunately, the angle makes me tower over Daniel. Why didn't we figure this out before the boys started losing it?

Angle's better, but now I'm completely losing it. Did you catch the gritted teeth?

Here is the picture we finally decided would have to do. (At some point you lower your standard.) A little photo editing goes a long way!

Merry Christmas from All of Us!

How to Catch Santa Claus

2008-12-10T05:10:00.000-08:00

When you live in a country that has only just begun to celebrate Christmas (mostly for its commercial potential), it takes a little extra effort to generate holiday cheer. In my fervor to reintroduce the nativity set and the Advent calendar and the Christmas story, I somehow forgot about Santa Claus. He got lost in a flurry of holiday baking and decorating and online shopping. Now that the dust is settling, I've suddenly remembered him. I know it's hard to believe, but the portly old fellow slipped through the cracks.

I understand why some parents choose to ban Old Saint Nick. I also sympathize with parents who don't want their kid to be the third grade know-it-all who spoils the fun for everyone else. I probably should have stronger opinions, but somehow the grand Kris Kringle debate hasn't hit our household. Like I said, we live in the land of no-Christmas. If I want our boys to believe in Santa, it will take initiative--like buying a fake velvet suit and padding Daniel with pillows. It will also require creativity and storytelling genius. Unfortunately, I'm already too busy answering a million and one miscellaneous Christmas questions to add another topic to the pot. (Yes, Jesus had a dirty bottom. No, her name is not "Mary Christmas." Yes, the lights are pretty--DON'T bite them!) For better or worse, Santa is destined to be lost in the shuffle.

Forgetting Santa does make me a little sad since he featured so large in my childhood Christmases. We had a plastic Santa with a light bulb for innards on our front porch every year. I loved coming home to his friendly wave and glowing pink cheeks. He was our Christmas beacon. Santa also decked out our Christmas tree. Every year the branches were hung with a collection of dancing Santas that my mom originally bought because they were toddler friendly. Most of them had been well-chewed.

My favorite memories, though, are the schemes my dad came up with for catching Santa red-mittened in the act of distributing our loot. My dad went to great lengths to encourage our belief in the jolly, old elf, including braving frigid Christmas Eve temperatures to pass under our windows with a red light and jingle bells. Every year he came up with a new plan to prove once and for all that Santa was the real deal. Our chimney was clearly not large enough for a cat, much less a man of Santa's stature, so our schemes usually centered around other points of entry. One Christmas my dad taped a nail pointy-side-out in the frame of the front door. When we woke the next morning we found a piece of wool from Santa's coat snagged on the tip. Zonkers! It worked!!!

Another year my dad scavenged a pair of jumbo-sized snow boots. Just before we went to bed on Christmas Eve, he took a brand new bag of flour from the pantry and shook it out all over the front porch. We were lost. How could flour possibly trap the big guy? When we woke up the next morning the carpets were covered with massive, Santa boot prints. The path from the front door to the Christmas tree was especially well-traveled. Ha! Santa thought he was just walking though snow. Little did he know he was leaving incontrovertible proof of his own existence. We were a bit puzzled, however, when my mom seemed less excited about Santa's flour trail. My dad spent most of Christmas morning cleaning it up.

Ah, these are fun memories. Maybe someday we will get around to promoting Santa Claus with our own kids. Let's just hope I muster the energy soon. Before we know it, Santa will be a lost "Claus."

Five Sure-Fire Ways to Douse the Christmas Spirit

2008-12-07T21:47:00.000-08:00

Here are some suggestions for those of you who are feeling a little too intoxicated with the Christmas spirit. If you need to tone things down a bit, unplug the twinkly lights, turn off the Christmas music, lay off the egg nog, and read on.

Five Sure-Fire Ways to Douse the Christmas Spirit

1. Take your kids Christmas shopping for each other. We tried this yesterday and it was a perfect show stopper. We took a twenty dollar taxi ride to the other side of the city where many of the other foreigners live. We were attending a morning worship service in the home of a friend. After the service we grabbed burgers at a Korean fast food chain that could almost be mistaken for McDonald's except that in place of Big Macs they sell Lotteria Burgers with Bulgogi sauce. Three doors down from the burger place was a toy store. Since I wasn't planning another twenty dollar taxi trip in the near future, I decided to postpone naps a little longer in order to find a gift for Nathan.

Red flags should be flying. Postpone naps to take a tired baby and an ornery preschooler toy shopping... I know, I know, sometimes we get what we ask for. We were in the shop all of fifteen minutes. By the time we left, Nathan was screaming because he had pinched his fingers in a display and Caleb was demanding loudly, "Caleb have Nathan's tractor! No presents for Nathan. I want them all!!!" It was a beautiful moment--one I will cherish always.

2. Try relaxing to Christmas music during karaoke night at the cafe next door. "O Holy Night" and "Big Big Girl" make a spectacular medley.

3. Sip hot cocoa with sweat dripping down the back of your neck. (On the other hand, it's very nice iced with a big dollop of whipped cream on top. Who needs marshmallows anyway.)

4. Decide you've had enough fiddle-faddling around and start potty training in earnest during the holiday season. Spend every spare minute keeping puddles away from the Christmas lights.

And the top spirit douser for the season...

5. Try to get a family Christmas photo for the newsletter. We attempted the press-the-button-and-run method. After thirty or forty shots Daniel was sweaty and ready to call it quits, Caleb was crying and refusing to cooperate, Nathan was staring wide-eyed at all the chaos, and I felt like I'd just finished my arms and abs workout trying to keep both boys in order. We still don't have a Christmas picture.

Anticipating Christmas

2008-12-06T23:44:00.000-08:00

The advent season is all about anticipation. It is the one time of year when we celebrate waiting. No, I don't mean waiting in long lines at department stores or waiting to cut off a red mini-van and a green sedan in an attempt to snag the last parking spot within a half-mile of the mall. I'm not talking about waiting for all the good things that come on Christmas morning: piles of presents, sugary pastries, and candy-filled stockings. (Though the pastries are especially worth waiting for.)

Each year we wait symbolically for the baby Jesus to make his grand entry into replica mangers placed carefully below high voltage stars. We sing the songs the angels sang and read the familiar story many times over. We try not to think too long or too hard about Mary and her ordeal in the barn. Like the shepherds, we always find the baby born, wrapped, and glowing. This is how babies should be found.

If Christmas is all about celebrating God's gift of his son, then Advent is about anticipating that gift. We wait expectantly, eagerly. Three weekends ago we put up our tree and twinkly lights and Christmas decorations. Caleb helped me unwrap each of the nativity pieces. The paper has been wound and unwound so many times that it is soft, almost like fabric. He was remarkably careful for a three-year-old. Each time he uncovered a new piece he would squeal with delight, "Mama, it's a shepherd!" "Look, Mama, it's the angel!" "Ohhhhh, it's a chicken!!!" He took the whole entourage to bed with him for several nights (the figurines are made of plastic), and we could hear him making up songs for each character. My favorite went something like this...

The shepherd came.
Oh-whoa, Baby Jesus,
Baby Jesus you peed in your bed.
Oh-whoa, Baby Jesus.

(I love Caleb's enthusiasm...and his theology. Yes, Jesus was fully God AND fully man. None of this "No crying he makes" business.)

As we anticipate Christmas, I find myself thinking about Christ's next coming. After all, isn't Advent a concentrated version of the Christian life. We are waiting for Christ to return again and for God to "wipe away every tear" and for "death to be no more" (Revelation 21). In the meantime, we celebrate; we obey; we try to remain faithful. This is why Advent and Christmas are so important to our family. It is a once-a-year reminder of what we're all about...waiting. Caleb obviously doesn't need any encouragement to enjoy the season, but I've been trying to find ways to help the rest of us anticipate Christ during Advent. What does your family do to celebrate and remember? I'd love to get some fresh ideas.

Six Quirky Things

2008-12-02T21:40:00.000-08:00

I was "tagged" this morning. In the blogging world this means that I've been asked by a friend to write about a specific topic. The topic is "six quirky things about myself." Hmmm...only six? Let's see...

#1. I have two great fears in life--talking on the telephone and driving on the highway. Actually, I have the same problem with both. I don't know how to get on and I don't know how to get off. Believe it or not, I plan out phone conversations. The closer I am to the person, the rougher the plan. For instance, if I'm calling my mom I may only think of a handful of things I want to tell her. On the other hand, if I'm calling friends to invite them to dinner, I'll think through the conversation in advance with a contingency plan for the answering machine. I'm really thrown for a loop when someone calls me.

Driving in highway traffic is just as terrifying. I grip the wheel at ten and two praying desperately that God will part the sea as I come careening down the entrance ramp. Getting off is even worse. I ended up in Indiana one time trying to get from Wheaton to O'Hare airport mostly because all of the exits looked too intimidating. I will go to great lengths to avoid driving on major highways (including spending an extra hour stopped at red lights every two blocks). When I know I can't avoid highway driving, I get an ulcer anticipating it. It's the thing I fear most about returning to the United States someday. Blast Roosevelt and Eisenhower and their interstate highway system!

#2. I dread hair cuts. You never know what you're going to walk out with. I normally carry a ball cap in my bag so that I don't have to run from door to door secret-agent style. It always takes me a week or so to reconcile myself to a haircut, even when it's just a trim.

#3. I have a forked tongue. (Yes, forked, kind of like a snake.) I was tongue-tied when I was born and still have a little slit in my tongue to show for it.

#4. I am completely inept at anything involving numbers. I haven't balanced a checkbook in over a decade. When I was working and had to choose an investment plan for my retirement funds, I played "eany meany miny moe" with the informational brochure. Daniel has tried to explain our budget multiple times. In the end we decided that putting all the household money in an envelope each month was the best solution. When it's gone, it's gone. I can live with that.

#5. I love butter. REAL butter. A little bread is okay too.

#6. I am a compulsive hand washer. When I am cooking, I usually wash my hands about 300 times. The routine goes something like this: Crack an egg, wash my hands. Beat the egg, wash my hands. Toss the shell, wash my hands... You get the idea. Needless to say, my hands are perpetually dry, red, and cracked. I have to go on vacation and spend a week eating out for them to rehydrate.

Phew! I think that covers it. I'm not sure how "tagging" works, so those of you who also write blogs are off the hook for now.

Cultivating a Grateful Heart

2008-11-27T23:31:00.000-08:00

All day yesterday I compiled a mental list of things I'm thankful for. I rattled off family and home and food and all the other easy answers, but then I was stumped. It just didn't seem like enough. All day long I felt like I was in the the Peanuts episode when Patti invites herself and a few friends over to Charlie Brown's for Thanksgiving. They gather around a tablecloth-covered ping pong table expecting turkey and all the trimmings, but all Chuck and his indomitable dog can muster is some popcorn, buttered toast, and jelly beans. I wanted to feast yesterday, but I was served up a snack. My ability to be grateful fizzled on me.

Do you ever feel that way? Do you ever find yourself dreading being asked what you're thankful for or trying desperately to remember something unique and impressive? The only things you can come up with sound about as exciting as cardboard. Maybe I'm the only one tempted to invent a story. "Well, this year I'm thankful for the extra income from that lottery ticket I found stuck with chewing gum to the sidewalk. It's been so touching to see orphans fed and the homeless sheltered and pets adopted. I just can't stop grinning at all the goodness."

Feeding orphans or sheltering the homeless or even adopting pets are legitimate things to be thankful for, as are family and home and food. It's just that being thankful for things isn't very satisfying. All the good gifts in the world are really just popcorn and buttered toast if we forget the Giver. Cultivating a grateful heart involves more than just remembering to pause and appreciate our loved ones or our comforts. A grateful heart embraces God who gives us these things. What's more difficult is that a grateful heart embraces God even when he seems to be withholding our gifts or, harder yet, taking them away. Just over a year ago I was lying in a hospital in Singapore, five months pregnant, waiting to see if we could postpone delivery long enough for our baby to live. Every year during this holiday season, my parents and Daniel's parents struggle with having us so far away. I'm sure they are grateful for their children and grandchildren, but they don't often get to enjoy those blessings. Just this morning Daniel received an e-mail from a family friend whose husband passed away. There are times when a grateful heart must look beyond blessings to see a good God who never changes.

I am often reminded of the story of Abraham hiking toward the mountain to sacrifice his son, Isaac. What must have gone though his head! I imagine he counted every step. At each familiar turn in the path he remembered, "Ah, this is where we gathered berries last summer. This is where Isaac fell and got that scar on his left knee. This is the spot where he loves to come swimming..." Maybe he even thought to himself, "This is the last time... I may never see my child in this place again."

We can't know exactly what Abraham was thinking, but the book of Hebrews does give us a glimpse into his mind. Chapter 11 tell us that Abraham obeyed "by faith." In other words, he figured that God was so good and so powerful he would never go back on a promise even if it meant raising Isaac from the grave. We know the end of the story. We remember that just as Abraham was about to kill his son, God stopped him. Abraham had passed the test. He had demonstrated that he loved God even more than he treasured God's good gift. He obeyed and trusted God even when that gift was in jeopardy.

Few of us are ever put to this kind of test. In fact, instead of examining us, God proved his own love in Christ. For this I am deeply grateful. Hmmm, that is more satisfying. Maybe I am finally on the right track. Where do I go from here, though? If being thankful for all the good things God has given us only leads us part way toward being grateful for God himself, then how else do we cultivate a grateful heart? How do we look beyond blessings and see God? I'd love to hear your thoughts if you have any. In the meantime, I will give thanks to the Lord, for he is good and his steadfast love endures forever (2 Chronicles 7:3, paraphrased).

Happy First Birthday, Nathan!

2008-11-25T16:17:00.000-08:00

We celebrated Nathan's first birthday a few days early, then we stuck the leftover cake in the freezer and headed to Singapore. The plan was to have a second celebration on the actual day, but that went the way of most good intentions. The boys and I spent part of Nathan's birthday in the guest house lounge because we were locked out of our room. Three hours later Daniel finished his meeting and came back with the keys. That evening we dragged two tired boys to McDonald's where they took turns screaming and wriggling to get out of their seats. Nathan did pull it together long enough to enjoy some birthday ice cream. Needless to say, we don't have many pictures for posterity, though we are collecting quite a list of birthday misadventures. Nathan's first birthday will rank up there with the one Daniel spent taking the GRE or the birthday I spent stuck in a flood in Jakarta. Ah well, these things do make the day memorable.

The Pope and Other Things We're Thankful For

2008-11-16T22:54:00.000-08:00

We made hand turkeys this week and construction paper Pilgrim hats and a pumpkin that looks more like an orange box with a stem. We also started our annual Thanksgiving list of all the things we're grateful for. Last year I cut out colored leaves and we wrote an item on each leaf then taped it to the refrigerator. I was feeling less ambitious this year. Maybe the turkeys and Pilgrim's hat did me in. In any case, our "thankful list" is just two pieces of copier paper taped to the living room window.

I asked Caleb to contribute to the list and he suggested that I write down the obvious three: "Mama, Daddy, and Nathan." I added "Caleb" to be fair. Grandma and Papa S. and Grandma and Grandpa O. also made the cut. I asked Caleb if we were forgetting anything and he thought for a moment. I gave him a prompt: "Thank you, God, for..."

"The POPE!"

Let me explain. We have not secretly converted to Catholicism. I'm sure Pope Benedict XVI is a wonderful man and we can justly be thankful for him, but the Holy See was quite possibly the furthest thing from Caleb's mind. In our home, the "pope" is a plastic air pump that we use to inflate the boys' wading pool. Caleb dragged it out of the closet upstairs while I was preparing the room for a guest. Somehow he confused "pope" with "pump" and continues to use the two words interchangeably. Later that day, Caleb (with the help of some friends) made the discovery that jamming the pump handle down with just the right speed and force causes the nozzle to whistle loudly and fly across the room. He was thrilled!

Our guest arrived the evening after Caleb's pump discovery. He is a visiting professor whom Daniel had met only once. He is also British. This fact alone gives a person a veneer of sophistication that is intimidating to us Yankees. I'm always a little apprehensive when we have a house guest I've never met. Add to this the "British professor" factor and it is quite understandable that I was eager to make a good first impression. I had coached Caleb and instructed him to be very polite to Mr. Woods. He must have sensed my nervousness because he was on pins and needles waiting for Daniel to get home from the airport. As soon as the front gate swung open, Caleb bolted to the door shouting, "Shoot the pope, Mr. Woods! Come shoot the pope!"

I can't say that I am thankful for the pope (small "p"), but I am thankful for icebreakers. In the end we had a very nice week with Mr. Woods. By Wednesday night I was so at my ease, that I didn't even wince when Caleb climbed up next to our guest and announced with finger outstretched, "I have a booger, Mr. Woods." I'm not sure that Mr. Woods was equally pleased with that discovery, but he took it in stride. All things considered, maybe the pump/pope is not such a bad addition to our thankful list. Remind me to add "new friends" to the list as well.

The Eveready Moth

2008-11-11T23:48:00.000-08:00

Caleb and I fished a dead moth out of the garden pond yesterday. I laid him on the tiled ledge and Caleb examined all his parts commenting on his big eyes and furry legs. He blew on the moth's wings to make them flutter. The moth, of course, was beyond response. After a while, Caleb got still. He stared at the moth and then looked up at me and said with all the earnestness a three-year-old can muster, "Go get him some new batteries, Mama."

Flashbacks

2008-11-09T18:05:00.000-08:00

I thought I would report back on a couple previous blog posts. You may remember Caleb's gecko (see the October 7th post). Well, apparently booster-seat-buffet didn't agree with him. I thought he was just getting cocky, holding his ground and staring us down. It seems, though, that he had eaten himself into a stupor. His reflexes weren't what they used to be and he was stuck making the best of open ground.

His demise came prematurely. Daniel asked me to jot down an address in Vietnamese as he was leaving to pick someone up from the airport. I was struggling to remember all the little Vietnamese accent marks and grabbed a seat at the table to focus my efforts. I can only imagine what must have flashed across the poor gecko's mind as he saw my end (and thus his own end) looming large. In any event, he was too immobilized by weeks of cracker crumbs, dried up rice, and spilled pasta to avoid catastrophe. The gecko passed without a sound. I didn't even realize what had happened until after Daniel left and I was setting the table for dinner guests. I must confess that the only prayer offered in memoriam was a quick "good riddance."

We've also established a new name for the bulb aspirator. At bedtime last night, Caleb was crying and pleading with me to get him the "squishy rice nose." Needless to say, I was at a loss. Squishy rice nose...? I tried giving him the Mr. Potato head nose, but he only wailed at a higher pitch and managed a few big tears. I racked my brain to think of anything nose related and finally hit upon the bulb aspirator. I had cleaned the boys' room earlier and put the aspirator back in the drawer where it belonged. I found it again and handed it to Caleb. The wailing promptly gave way to a big grin. Phew!

I think that covers updates for the time being. A fight just broke out over the wooden shape sorter. I should probably go moderate.

The Daily Commandments

2008-11-06T00:44:00.000-08:00

I fear that I am a legalist at heart. I like rules. I like to keep them and I like to make them. I've tried to break myself of this habit but to no avail. I will never be a rebel.

These days I make rules right and left. With two boys, there is plenty of opportunity. Here are the latest additions around our house:

No building campfires in the living room.

No chewing television cords, phone cords, fan cords, or any other variety of cord.

No using Mom's pumpkin candle for a campfire.

No chewing Mom's sandals, shoes, slippers, sneakers, or any other variety of footwear.

No lighting a campfire on the patio.

No chewing holes in books or sucking on the covers till they disintegrate.

No putting keys or pens in Mom's coffee.

No sticking playdoh in your nose.

No sticking playdoh in your brother's nose.

No lighting campfires with candles.

No chewing on Mom.

Arggggh! No campfires, period! And no chewing either unless it involves Toasty O's or teething rings.

Praying in the Fray

2008-11-03T17:04:00.000-08:00

I read somewhere that Susanna Wesley would pull her apron over her head as a signal to her children (all 19 of them) that she was praying and was not to be disturbed. This was held up by the historian as evidence of personal devotion and a deep commitment to spirituality. That take on things is possible. On the other hand, I find it easier to imagine a scenario in which a frazzled Susanna reaches her saintly limit and cowers under her apron pleading with God for enough grace not to strangle little Johnny or Charlie. It is said that her children knew not to disturb their mother when she was praying. Of course they did. All children know when their mother has completely had it. Susanna employed her trusty apron. My mom brandished her wooden spanking spoon. I get a big red "V" on my forehead. No one wants to disturb Mom when she's reached such a pitch of desperation that she is relying on divine intervention to bolster self-restraint.

I'm probably not doing justice to Susanna Wesley, but these days history is anyone's ball game. We make of it what we can. I'm not necessarily advocating this approach, just taking advantage of it. Somehow it is comforting to imagine a mother who raised the likes of John and Charles Wesley needing to hide behind her apron to salvage a few quiet moments for reflection or prayer or a ten minute doze.

That said, I do admire Susanna's tenacity. She didn't retreat. Instead she found ways to worship in the thick of life. She did it behind her apron or while she taught her children their lessons. Worship was a part of her busy life not a diversion from it. Sometimes it seems that we treat worship like yoga. It is something we do to take a break from our day, to calm ourselves, and to prepare to jump back into the fray. It's as if God is reserved for quiet moments, scenic hilltops, and church auditoriums. We're lost without an overhead and guitars. We forget that God is with us. He is near, even when pea soup is scorching on the stove and the baby is screaming for attention.

Don't get me wrong, there are times when we do need to withdraw from all the noise of life. We need to carve out crevices for solitude and reflection and prayer. I'm just uncomfortable with a tendency I see in myself to think of retreat as the only way to meet God. I forget that he is in the midst of the fray as well.

Yesterday I read the Bible and prayed in a tent constructed from a bed sheet stretched between a couch and chair in our living room. It's a new tactic. I've discovered that if I put Nathan down for a nap and set Caleb's imagination going down some path, I can eek out a few moments to read and pray and otherwise collect my thoughts. Gone are the days of lengthy vigils in the campus prayer chapel or long, solitary walks in the woods. For a while I feared that this meant my days of sensing God's nearness were gone as well. It's hard to praise God while cleaning cereal off the floor for the hundredth time in a week or to pray with a three-year-old playing horsey on your leg. Most days I fail miserably at it. I am learning, though, to meet God in the thick of things. Yesterday this meant praying in a tent while Caleb sang campfire songs. Some days it means just remembering to thank God for the things that bring me joy or keep me sane--Nathan's slobbery kisses or Daniel washing the mountain of dishes I'd put off till the day of reckoning (aka. the morning of empty cupboards). I worship in the fray imperfectly, but I hope I am getting better at it.

Surely Susanna and I are not alone in our mad attempts to celebrate God and turn our attention toward him in the thick of life. Do you have any strategies of your own? If so, leave a comment below. I'd love to hear your suggestions.

The Ideal Oreo

2008-10-31T19:17:00.000-07:00

This is Caleb's take on the ideal Oreo cookie. I opened a new package of Oreos the other day and gave him a couple cookies as a treat. Then I got distracted by a pot of something boiling over in the kitchen and left the package next to Caleb on the floor. You can tell where this is going...

I was oblivious until I heard Daniel coming downstairs from his office. He got halfway down and exclaimed "Whoa, Caleb, where did you get those!" Caleb had very carefully removed the cream from every cookie and was just finishing off his pile of little white discs. He was completely ignoring the mountain of cookie covers. After all, the cookie is really just the vehicle for sugary, creamy goodness, I suppose.

Potluck Panic

2008-10-26T00:44:00.000-07:00

Ahhhh, Sunday afternoon... Both boys are napping and I'm recovering from the morning. For the past year we've been getting together with a group of other expatriates on Sundays. We used to go to a Vietnamese church every week, but then baby number two arrived and that became impractical. Caleb was too old for the "cry room" but not quite ready to be left alone in a non-English speaking Sunday School class. It ended up that neither Daniel nor I sat through a service. We went in every direction but the sanctuary.

For the most part we've been glad to change things up and to get to know a few more of the expatriates living in Vietnam. The group meets in one or two homes each week depending on who is available to host. We find out via e-mail where we will be. We also find out via e-mail about any special events or other announcements. It's not a bad system except that Daniel gets the e-mails and I don't. He often remembers to forward them to me, but there is an exception to every rule.

Yesterday morning Daniel innocently asked me if I'd gotten the latest church e-mail. Of course I hadn't, which meant that I didn't know there was a potluck scheduled for today. Keep in mind that we are in the last week of October. I don't know about you, but when I reach the last week of any month I am counting my pennies and praying that neither boy needs a new package of diapers in the next few days. I had just made my last major trip to the supermarket for the month and came home with 392.000 dong ($23.40) in my wallet. This was designated for fresh vegetables and extra milk if we run out. It didn't leave a lot of room for emergency potluck ingredients.

Normally when this happens (this was the third potluck I didn't know about until less than 24 hours in advance), we use the boys' naps as an excuse to ditch the meal. Today's festivities, however, were at the home of a very nice family who always go out of their way to make the place kid-friendly. We just couldn't ditch again.

I had no choice but to be creative. The request was that we bring a salad, so I rummaged the cupboards and laid ingredients out on the counter in categories: Mexican/Southwestern, Mediterranean, Asian, generic American, etc. The biggest pile hands-down was Mexican/Southwestern. I had beans, cilantro, peppers, half a packet of taco seasoning, and a few other random things that roughly qualified for the category. In the end I came up with a salad that was surprisingly...passable. I swore Daniel to secrecy and told him exactly what to say if questioned. "It's called Fiesta Salad. Very easy. Old family recipe."

If you're interested, here is the recipe. (I don't recommend that you follow it since it reveals more about my manner of cooking than the method of making Fiesta Salad.)

Fiesta Salad (aka. Heather's Potluck Surprise)

Salad Ingredients:

1 chicken breast, cooked and shredded (defrost in the microwave if necessary, just be careful not to let the ends turn white and rubbery)
2 green bell peppers (wrinkly is okay but avoid the mushy spots)
1 red bell pepper (ditto)
1.5 cans of beans (2 cans is optimal, but I had one in the back of the cupboard and half of another opened in the fridge. I used Canellini beans because white adds so much color to the dish. Not really--they were all I could find. Black beans or kidney beans would probably be better. If you're really pressed, throw in a combination of whatever you have on hand. Avoid baked beans and pork & beans unless you're feeling really adventurous. In that case, do whatever blows your hair back.)
1 cup of cooked couscous (This isn't really Mexican or Southwestern, but it was left over in the fridge from Caleb's lunch on Thursday and I needed something to add a little bulk to the salad.)
handful of chopped cilantro (Be generous but don't overdo it.)
smaller handful of chopped green onion (Use your nose. If you start wiping your eyes on your sleeve and wondering where the last of the Kleenex went, you've probably got more than enough.)

Chop the peppers and rinse the beans. (If you're in Vietnam remember to use bottled water for the final rinse. You never know who will come to an expat potluck. Some poor soul may not have adjusted to even low doses of the local water yet. Hotel bathrooms are nice, but no one wants to spend the bulk of their holiday there.) Mix all of the ingredients together in a large bowl.

Dressing Ingredients:

1/2 or 1/3 packet of taco mix (I'm not sure how much was actually in the packet. I found it crumpled up in the back of my spice cupboard. It was kind of hard and sticky, so there was probably more there than I first suspected. It was just concentrated.)
juice from two Asian limes (We get a lemon/lime cross breed here that is smaller than the green limes we use in the States. One green lime would probably do the trick.)
a slosh of vegetable oil (Just pour until it looks about right. Maybe 1/4 cup.)
enough sugar to keep you from flinching when you do the fingertip taste test.

Add all the dressing ingredients to a spill-proof container and shake over the sink (since "spill-proof" is almost always false advertising). Taste the dressing several times to get it right. It should make you think of taco salad--tangy and a little spicy. Pour the dressing over the salad ingredients and toss to coat.

Toppings:

coarse black pepper
shredded Cheddar cheese (Be sparing, cheese is expensive these days.)
a few sprigs of cilantro for a garnish (If the leaves are free of brown spots)

These toppings are optional. I added them mostly because I was out of main ingredients and the volume looked a little skimpy for a crowd.

What Goes Up Must Come Down

2008-10-24T18:41:00.001-07:00

We made it through the week without Daniel. He got home from Thailand around 8:30 last night. Caleb waited up for him and slept in this morning. Now he and Daniel are collaborating over plans for the box of Legos. Nathan is napping so I'm enjoying my coffee and some uninterrupted time in front of the blog interface.

It was a reasonably uneventful week except for Nathan's fat lip and Caleb's new nose fixation. Our house is tiled throughout with hard ceramic tiles over concrete. It makes for easy clean-up but is treacherous for beginning walkers and toddlers who decide every piece of furniture must be climbed and, if possible, leaped from. A couple mornings ago Nathan was crawling across the living room and for no apparent reason did a face plant on the tile. It was not the first (or even the tenth) time this has happened so I picked him up as a matter of course and wasn't particularly impressed until I saw blood. To be totally honest, it hardly qualified as a "smudge" of blood on his chin, but for whatever reason when there is the faintest trace of blood anywhere on my child's body I immediately shift into ER mode and wonder if I still have a tube of lipstick somewhere to mark the patient's forehead for triage. As the adrenaline courses through my veins, stories about moms who lift cars off their children or carry them through burning buildings become completely believable. In the end, Nathan ended up with nothing more noteworthy than a swollen top lip. It is nearly healed already and didn't seem to phase him even at its worst. As soon as I'd kissed him and wiped the smudge off his chin he was back to tearing around the house on all fours.

Caleb's nose fetish, on the other hand, is an ongoing issue. He made the discovery this week that nostrils are a great place for storing small things like stickers and little balls of toilet paper. I blame Daniel. He was coming down with the flu before leaving for Bangkok and had a drippy nose. He got so tired of wiping it that I caught him bathing Caleb with wads of tissue stuffed up his nose. (A practical solution though not a very attractive one.) It's possible that Caleb's discovery was completely independent of Daniel's example, but it strikes me as a strange coincidence.

After carefully removing a sticker and a couple other random items from his nose, I gave Caleb the "do that again and I might have to call the doctor" lecture. Apparently he was willing to take his chances, because the lecture was completely ineffective. At dinner a clump of sticky rice somehow found its way up his right nostril. I had gone to get Nathan a washcloth. When I came back Caleb was desperately picking at it and, of course, making the problem worse. The clump did not remain a clump and while I was able to remove the foremost grains of rice, there were several that were beyond reach. I fumbled around in the drawer of baby toiletries trying to find something that would remove the rice with minimal risk of pushing it further back. Providentially, I stumbled upon the bulb aspirator. I never really used the thing when the boys were tiny babies because it made them cry and, honestly, the whole concept grossed me out. I must be getting less squeamish because I ran back to the table with a triumphant whoop and sucked out the offending bits in a flash.

Caleb didn't know what had hit him. He sneezed a couple times for good measure, shed big "what are you doing to me" tears, and then begged for the bulb aspirator. He spent the rest of the evening cleaning Bear's nose and telling him "It's okay, Bear. It'll just take a second..." He tried to repeat the procedure on his brother, but I had to draw the line somewhere.

The bulb aspirator went into the bath and into bed with Caleb that night. While Daniel was away Caleb migrated to my bed most nights dragging his bear and blanket and other paraphernalia with him. The night after the rice-in-the-nose episode he brought the bulb aspirator along. I didn't think much of it until I was startled from a doze by Caleb suctioning my nose. At that point, I had to crack down and institute the "no nose suctioning after bedtime" rule. So far he's followed it. During the waking hours we all have the cleanest noses in town.

Well, Nathan will be waking soon and it appears that both Caleb and Daniel have reached their Lego building limit. I should go join the fun.

While the Cat's Away

2008-10-21T18:02:00.000-07:00

Daniel is in Bangkok this week for some meetings, so the boys and I are holding down the fort. Last night at bedtime Caleb kept insisting he was "soooooo hungry" he had to have popcorn. We had just nicely settled down on either side of a big bowl when Nathan woke up and wanted to join the fun. Caleb was very excited about introducing his little brother to the joys of popcorn. To his credit, Nathan took to it like a true member of the family. (We are big popcorn fans.) As was to be expected, both boys woke up grouchy this morning. Oh well, sometimes it's worth it.

Skip to the Loo, My Darlin'

2008-10-20T23:04:00.000-07:00

One of my friends who happens to be British came by this morning with her two little girls. After they left, Caleb went to his room to nap singing "Skip, skip, skip to the loo!" I'm not sure that the original was intended to be a ditty about visiting the bathroom (aka. "loo"), but at this point I'm thankful for any encouragement Caleb gets in that direction. If only he really would skip to the loo instead of pitching a fit every time we suggest it.

A Few Photos

2008-10-17T07:06:00.001-07:00

Lately, Caleb has taken great pride in his role as big brother. He even tries to haul Nathan around using a backwards bear hug maneuver that makes me nervous and makes Nathan laugh. I'm not sure what inspired it or who initiated it, but I found Caleb watching tv with Nathan on his lap--a perfect photo opportunity.

One More

2008-10-17T06:58:00.000-07:00

I couldn't resist posting this picture. There is something so satisfying about a wide-open mouth. It's less of a triumph when he raspberries it all back at me.

Things that Make Me Squirm, Part II

2008-10-17T06:47:00.000-07:00

Aggressive geckos, skittering cockroaches, and fermented fish sauce are all squirm-worthy in their own right. I don't have to write paragraphs to explain why the sound of cockroaches under our bed at night makes my skin crawl. Other things, however, are less obvious. Small talk, for instance, seems innocent enough. Trying to get to know people is noble. What could possibly be wrong with being friendly?

The rub comes when friendliness means something entirely different to person A than it does to person B. In the States, initial gestures of friendship include comments about the weather or a favorite sports team or the latest reality tv show. If you really want to express appreciation for a person you might make some vague offer to get together in the future. "We should have you over for dinner sometime" is standard code for "You seem like a nice person. Let's keep our getting-to-know-each-other options open." As long as everyone understands the code, the system runs like a well-oiled machine.

Unfortunately for us, the system in Vietnam is completely different. The machine uses different parts in different places and we are left completely flumoxed (I've been waiting for an opportunity to use that word!). It's no secret that in Asia small talk begins with questions like: "How old are you?" "How much do you earn each month?" "What did you spend for that shirt?" "Have you put on a little weight lately?" For the most part we've learned to navigate these questions in ways that are politely evasive. We are no longer left gaping like grounded fish when friends try to get a conversation going. I'm proud of this hard-earned savvy, and I breeze into conversations feeling very good about myself until I hit an even more puzzling out-of-place part in the machine. I like to call it the "unwanted advice cog." No relationship is really off the ground in Vietnam until the initiator starts giving unsolicited advice. To a westerner bred in an environment where every man is responsible for his own decisions and a person with unformed opinions is wishy washy, advice that we haven't gone looking for is as much fun as an old-fashioned punch in the nose.

Let me illustrate the difficulty. A man we barely know came to our house recently to discuss some translation work Daniel had done for him. Before he left, he came into the living room to meet me and the boys. After a few pleasantries he said without further ado, "I want to give you two pieces of advice." I'm translating, but that was the gist of it. He is older than us and has some training in community health, so I suppose we should have been eager for the free tips. At the time I was too busy steeling myself for what was to follow.

His first piece of advice was that I should take the boys out into the alley to play every morning between 9:00 and 10:00 so that the sun is at the right angle for them to absorb vitamin D without getting burnt. This is not a bad idea except for the fact that we live next door to a university. From 6am until lunchtime our alley is filled with cliques of chattering girls, women in pajamas carrying bags of raw meat and vegetables home from the market, adolescent boys weaving in and out of the crowd on motorbikes, and stray dogs picking through garbage. I nodded politely and dismissed charge number one.

Charge number two had more sting. It so happened that Caleb was watching cartoons at the time. He had woken up grouchy from his nap and when that happens there is no hope for the situation but to push juice or milk at him and leave him staring zombie-like at the tv until he is a little more human. I know letting the boys watch tv is not ideal, but I have come to depend on it as an extra set of hands when I'm busy with one kid and need to distract the other one. (Nathan is not really into tv yet, but he is a sucker for the Baby Einstein videos.) I feel secretly guilty about all the tv watching that goes on in our house, but I've been too desperate for sanity to put my foot down. Needless to say, our visitor's second piece of advice touched a raw nerve when he explained in great detail the dangers of allowing the boys to watch more than one tv show per day. It didn't help that as the guy was talking Caleb was staring wide-eyed and open-mouthed at some ridiculous show about teenage spies. It's pretty hard to disagree when your kid is posing as the poster boy for a “turn off the tv” campaign. I'm sure the guy expected me to fly for the remote and turn the dreadful show off, but it was all I could do to smile politely and thank him for his concern.

When he finally left, I spent the next hour or so stewing over his comments and drumming up justifications. Eventually my anger dwindled and I calmed down enough to admit that even if the guy had been a bull in a china shop, the damage probably wouldn't have been so extensive if the china weren't so fragile. Isn't that why unsolicited advice is almost always so maddening? Nine times out of ten it draws attention to the very thing we already feel the most uncertain or embarrassed or guilty about. I can't think of anything that makes me squirm more uncomfortably than having someone else discuss my disheveled closets, or my perpetually unfinished writing projects, or my hodge-podge parenting methods.

I tend to chew on things like an old brown cow chewing her cud. At any given time I have several lumps tucked into each cheek. I can be cooking dinner, playing with the boys, or talking with Daniel and still be turning the bits over with my tongue. I was still pondering the situation above when Daniel and I somehow got into a conversation about what spiritual maturity looks like and how a person can know whether he or she is growing in faithfulness. Daniel mentioned the proverb about a fool not receiving instruction and suggested that humility and teachability could be markers. I agreed but tried to hide my discomfort. Was it possible that the Vietnamese were on to something with all their advice giving and receiving? I decided to take a look at Proverbs myself. The first verse I happened upon was this: “The way of a fool is right in his own eyes, but a wise man listens to advice.” (“Sure, sure,” I thought, “but the advice doesn't need to be so grossly out-of-place and insensitive!”) I read the next verse, “The vexation of a fool is known at once, but the prudent ignores an insult” Proverbs 12:15-16. Enough said.

I'm sure I will continue to squirm when I'm blind-sided by all the friendly tips that come my way. It's hard not to. I can hold out hope, though, that in time I will become a little more Vietnamese or, better yet, a little more wise. Maybe, just maybe, I will learn to clench my half-baked opinions less tightly and to defend my way of doing things less fiercely. Maybe.

Well, I should go make sense of the disaster that is our living room. We turned the tv off this morning. In a grand attempt to start fresh, we ate pancakes, built block castles, made a zoo with the Noah's Ark animals, read storybooks, played an alphabet game on the computer, cleaned out the wading pool, and turned the couch cushions into a fort. I made it to about 10:30 and was so completely exhausted that Caleb and I spent the next hour (while Nathan napped) watching Thomas the Tank Engine. Oh well, it was a valiant effort.

More Birthday News

2008-10-14T23:02:00.000-07:00

Here are a couple of the promised pictures. If you want to see more, check out the slide show on the right. In spite of the fact that it was so hot the chocolate frosting ran into the white and the red trim kept wanting to fall off, Caleb was happy with his cake. By the way, decorating a cake in the tropics is no easy matter. I could only do it in ten minute increments before the frosting got too soft and runny. Then I had to stuff the whole mess in the fridge for twenty minutes before I could start again. Fortunately, I've learned from experience to leave a whole day for such a process and the cake was finished well in time for the party. Caleb's reaction made the ordeal worthwhile. His excitement was contagious.

Unfortunately, that's not the only thing that was contagious. We caught Caleb on video tape licking the cake topper and sticking it back on top of the frosting. A day or so later Daniel and I both came down with Caleb's runny nose and watery eyes. My guess is that we're not the only ones.

Now that we are several days post-birthday, life is back to routine. I'm still getting used to having a three-year-old, but the transition obviously does not seem so momentous to Caleb. I said to him this morning with a hug and much enthusiasm, "Caleb, you're three years old!" He replied, "Yeah, I know that" and went back to watching his morning cartoon. I guess we're already on to bigger and better things.

Happy Birthday, Caleb!

2008-10-10T18:59:00.000-07:00

This post is dated October 10th on the blog, but it is already the morning of October 11th in Vietnam. Caleb is three today! He woke up around six this morning ready for the festivities and had opened the last of his presents by seven. Now he is playing with his new assortment of vehicles and toys and watching a Bob the Builder video. A few days ago I asked him what he wanted for his birthday breakfast. He didn't seem to have any ideas so I made a few suggestions (mostly in an attempt to avoid having M&Ms and ice cream on the menu). When I mentioned zucchini bread he said,"Ya, ya, ya, zucchini bread! That's a good plan." It may have been a good plan, but the piece of zucchini bread is sitting untouched next to his morning milk. I guess that's to be expected with all the excitement.

We were going to take Caleb to the swimming pool this morning but both he and Nathan have been running low fevers and seem to be coming down with a cough. It isn't slowing them down at all, but I'm not sure sharing our germs with a pool full of other kids is the best idea. Instead, some of our friends are coming by to have lunch and cake. They didn't seem worried by the germ swapping potential and are bringing their kids. Caleb will be sharing his Cars birthday with a pack of little girls. We'll see how that goes.

I should probably go finish cutting up the vegetables for lunch. I will post pictures of the big party later today.

Things That Make Me Squirm

2008-10-07T22:15:00.000-07:00

Though we have been living in Vietnam for over five years, there are still things that make me squirm. I will never get used to hearing cockroaches skittering under our bed in the night or alley cats fighting on our roof. I doubt that I will ever fully appreciate the smell of fermenting fish sauce or coffee the consistency of spent motor oil. On the other hand, there are other things that I've grown so accustomed to I scarcely notice them anymore. We have a small army of geckos that live on our walls and ceilings. They eat mosquitoes and spiders and moths so we figure they earn their keep. Normally they mind their own business and we forget they are around. Occasionally, though, they hide in door jams and make an awful "pop" when we shut the doors. Then they smell rotten for a day or so until the ants clean up the mess. Twice I've found a shivering or half-frigid gecko stranded in the refrigerator, and once an immature gecko lost his grip on the ceiling and landed on Daniel's head.

Usually these gecko mishaps are the exception to the rule, but lately I've been dueling with a particularly aggressive gecko who took up residence under Caleb's booster seat. Apparently he discovered an all-you-can-eat buffet of crumbs and spilled food and has forsaken bugs entirely. Every time Caleb climbs into his seat, the gecko dashes out and makes a break for the wall. After meals he waits for the all-clear then heads back to his hideout. No matter how well I try to clean under the chair, he still returns for the pickings.

I find the whole scenario a bit creepy, but Caleb doesn't seem to mind sharing his chair. He fondly refers to the little monster as "my gecko" and likes to look for him before climbing into his booster seat. The other day he found the unsuspecting gecko dining and tried to catch him. I came out of the kitchen in time to see the gecko hightailing it out from under the table with Caleb in hot pursuit crawling on all fours after him. Boys will be boys, I suppose. I just wish that geckos would be geckos and stick to snagging mosquitoes. Ah well, maybe given enough time I will resign myself to having a guest at meals.