patriotism

Have you seen the phenomenon that is Nestle Toll House ready-to-bake cookie dough bars? I'm sure you have. I live in Africa... so this was all news to me. Kitty bought a package of it yesterday. Last night, I offered to bake them. "I'll read the package and figure out how to do it."

"You literally just break them apart," Kitty explained with a smile, "stick them on a baking tray, and put them in the oven."

"This..." I said as I sat up on the couch with a look of utter amazement on my face. "This is why I love America."

where you are

A few weeks ago we spent a few days with a great friend. She is a talented musician and an anointed worship leader. Over dinner one night, we talked about songwriting and she shared with us some great advice she was given years ago by Amy Grant. (I know---how amazing is that?!)

"Write from where you are."

Simply, yet so profound. I immediately started thinking about how that principle applies to writing---to all forms of communication and expression, really.

When I write from some false position of arrivedness or from the high of my former "glory days", the value of my words are diminished. But when I write with transparency and authenticity, from where I really am, my words bear genuine influence. When I can honestly see and share what's happening in my life, instead of denying it (both to myself and others), then I'm more able to grasp what God is actually trying to show and teach me.

What do you consider the most challenging part of "writing from where you are"? Where would you say you are right now?

exactly

Niel and I spot an eyeglass place that advertises "Glasses in One Hour". I go up to the woman at the counter to confirm. "How does this work? Can I really get glasses in an hour?" "Yes ma'am. You get an eye exam, pick the frames, and then there's an hour turn-around time until you can pick up your glasses."

Sweet. I need new glasses, and with us in a different place every two days, the process is a little trickier for me. One hour sounds perfect.

An hour goes by as I fill out paperwork, get my eyes examined, and try on 109 different pairs of glasses. I finally pick what I like, and the friendly counter-woman starts entering everything into her computer.

"Actually... we don't have lenses with your prescription in stock," she tells me.

"Umm... ok. What does that mean then?"

"We'll have to order them."

"How long will that take?"

"Two weeks."

My eyes widen. Trying to make light of the situation even though I'm pretty frustrated, I say, "So it's really like 'Glasses in Two Weeks', huh?"

Her face remains stoic. She cocks her head to the side and says, "Well, the moment we get the lenses in, we'll make them. And that will only take one hour."

Husband decides to take this one. "Aaaah. I see... So it's really like 'Glasses in Two Weeks Plus One Hour'..."

Counter-woman looks pleased. "Exactly!" she replies with a smile.

lessons in parenting

I hear the steady squeak of the rocking chair in the next room. The whirring of the fan creates a steady hum. There's the occasional giggle coming from little Silas. But the most peaceful sound I hear is my friend's voice as she sings to her two-year-old son. "Amazing grace, how sweet the sound that saved a wretch like me..." I picture Silas cuddled in her lap as she rocks. I imagine him looking straight up at her face, his eyes locked with hers, as she soothes him with her beautiful, melodic voice. The singing soothes even me, a room away, as I lay on the couch just listening. I can only imagine the tidal wave of peace it causes to gush over Silas' toddler heart.

I've learned much about the childbirth process in the past few days that I've spent with my nine-months-along friend. Some incredible further-proof-there-is-a-God miraculous aspects of it, as well as horrific I-can't-believe-no-one-tells-you-this-stuff utterly crazy aspects of it. But I've also discovered so much about parenting. I've seen modeled before my eyes the wonder of a patient, graceful, communicative mom. I've been taking mental notes; I can only hope to someday be half the mom that Kitty is.

I can't wait for Junior to arrive, for so many different reasons. I am humbled and overwhelmed to finally meet my precious namesake. I can't wait to hold and carry her in the oh-so-chic baby sling that was handmade just for me. And I'm eager to watch and learn as Kitty becomes an incredible mother of two.

I've got 26 more days here, and I know the lessons have only begun. I'm paying close attention.

everything and nothing

"Wanna go to the park?" Becca asks. "Sure!" I scurry to my room to put on my shoes. I'm barefoot. Well, Alece-barefoot: I've got only my socks on, which is barefoot enough for me. We head outside and walk a few blocks. The sky is gorgeous. It's after 7:00 but it's still sunny. Now I remember what I love about American summers.

The park is small, but quaint. It's right by the Milwaukee River. We walk straight to the swingset; I swing so high it actually scares me. I challenge Becca to jump off her swing, but really hope she doesn't do it. She slows to a mediocre speed and leaps off dramatically. I giggle.

We end up on the merry-go-round. I wish the playground version wasn't called the same thing as the large, ride-a-horse-up-and-down-while-listening-to-creepy- carnival-music version. But it is.

I lay down on my back and look up at the sky; Becca gives us a good shove and hops on. The swirly sky makes my stomach do a somersault; I shut my eyes tightly and let out a lighthearted groan. Becca laughs at me. With my eyes shut, my tummy settles down.

We talk about everything and nothing, both of us laying on the merry-go-round, Becca peering at the clouds and sunset palette, me peering at the insides of my eyelids. Round and round we go, literally and figuratively, until the go-round comes to a stop; we debate over the actual timing of its stoppage. Becca gives us another push; we spin and talk and laugh some more.

It stops again, but we barely notice this time. Contentedly, we lie there. Our conversation is peppered with silence. Not the awkward kind, but the good kind that's indicative of only the best of friendships.

The mosquitoes are out in full force. Now I remember what I hate about American summers. I've swatted, squashed, and shooed about a dozen already. I smack one on Becca's arm. There was a skeeter, I promise! We decide we should head home.

We pick some dandelions as we walk. (I think there should be a different name for the soft, picturesque, gone-with-the-wind ones, so that you automatically know I'm not talking about the bright yellow jobs that older brothers do goofy things with.) We blow them and watch as they split into dozens of delicate pieces and float through the air like little parachuting men. Somehow this turns ugly, and we're blowing dandelions into each other's faces.

Suddenly we're hurling each other around in an all-out wrestling match of sorts. We're out of breath with laughter. That is the best out-of-breath-ness there is.

As the moon comes up, we head back inside.

I love everything-and-nothing friends.