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5 on Friday: TV shows that make me laugh out loud

February 1, 2013

5 on Friday is a new weekly feature on the blog where I’ll share five things I’m reading, watching, listening to, enjoying, thinking about … you get the idea. This is the first.

Five TV shows that make me laugh out loud:

Duck Dynasty. We resisted jumping on this bandwagon for a while, but now we’re glad we joined up.
1600 Penn. Again, adding new shows to our weekly lineup is something I’m reluctant to do. What if it’s not as good as our favorites? No worries here. This is one of our new favorites.
Go On. Even though it tackles a serious subject–grief–each episode contains at least one element of ridiculousness that leaves me laughing.
The Office. Especially two recent episodes about lice and an espresso machine. Last season, I was ready to give up on this comedy. It would seem they have saved the best for last.
Parks and Recreation. Two words: Ron Swanson. That is all.

If not for Duck Dynasty on this list, we’d look like a one-network family. In truth, most of our comedy comes from NBC, but we do watch other networks.

What are your favorite shows for laughing?

A Sacramental Journey: Review of Sacramental Life by David A. DeSilva

January 30, 2013

If “liturgy” is a dirty word, this book is for you.

If liturgy is a way of life, this book is for you.

In my Christian journey, I fall somewhere in between on the liturgy scale. I was not raised in a liturgical (or non-liturgical) church, but somewhere along the way, I got the impression that being liturgical was a bad thing.

Recently, I’ve come to appreciate the beauty and meaning in the liturgy, and the Book of Common Prayer has become a companion to my (mostly) daily spiritual readings. The same friend who gifted a Book of Common Prayer to my husband and me also gave us this book, Sacramental Life by David A. DeSilva. In it, DeSilva explains and personalizes elements of the Book of Common Prayer for the everyday saint, offering daily application of the sacraments.

The author divides the book into four sections: baptism, the eucharist, marriage and death. What surprised me most is the application of all of these sacraments and rituals into all of life. Baptism, for example, is not merely a one-time event but something we live out in our daily walk. And death is not just a reason to grieve lost loved ones but a reminder of our mortality and a call to honor the examples of those who’ve gone before us.

Each chapter (there are 45) ends with an activity or thought-provoking question to cement the lesson. I will confess that I did not take as much time as I would have liked to reflect and/or complete the activity. But this is not a book that will gather much dust on my bookshelf. I will pick it up again soon.

And if you are at all curious about liturgy, Anglicanism and a deeper look at the sacraments, I’d encourage you to pick up Sacramental Life.

When everything speaks your one word

January 28, 2013

When I chose one word to focus on this year, I didn’t know exactly what I’d gotten myself into. I’d read some great posts about last year’s One Word experiences, and I looked forward to what God would show me through “release” this year.

I just didn’t expect it to happen so soon.

In January alone, the idea of release, freedom and letting go has been everywhere.

Here’s a roundup of what I’ve seen, read and experienced this month that relates to my one word.

I knew one action I was going to take this year was to release the hold I’ve had on my novel writing. In the past, I’ve casually mentioned and almost apologized for writing a novel. I haven’t taken it seriously, and this year, I knew that I would have to if I wanted anyone else to. So, I started talking about it. I told some family members. I talked to some friends about what the story is. And then I got tagged in a blog hop that “forced” me to reveal more about the project. Yeah, it’s scary, but it’s also been neat. Because when you trust people with something that’s important to you, you’re often surprised by the reaction. So far, so good.
This blog, by Jen Hatmaker, has challenged me to release my kids to be kids and not worry so much about the trouble they’re getting into or what might happen if they’re out of my sight for a few seconds. I’m a combination control freak/worry wart, so these words were challenging and encouraging at the same time.
And this video of seniors snow tubing is a visual of what it means to release. Not only does this make me smile, it makes me want to take more risks.
I allowed Facebook to show my age. I turn 35 this year. My age isn’t something I’ve been comfortable talking about in recent years. This year I’m adopting the motto: 35 and unashamed!
Phil and I visited a Catholic adoration chapel and shrine in the Chicago suburbs. I have some preconceived notions about Catholicism, at times, and yet my heart was stirred by the silence and beauty of this place. Letting go sometimes means opening yourself up to expressions of faith different from your own.
While we were home in Illinois, we also visited a couple of gravesites: my paternal grandfather’s, which I have not been to since he died in 2000, and a former co-worker who died two years ago. I haven’t yet known many people close to me who have died, so visiting gravesites hasn’t been important to me. But in a way, it provides closure and takes a little bit of the sting away from death.
Psalm 118:5, “I called to the Lord in my distress; the Lord answered by setting me free.”
Psalm 4:1, “Answer me when I call, O God, defender of my cause; you set me free when I am hard-pressed; have mercy on me and hear my prayer.”
Isaiah 43:18-19, “Do not call to mind the former things, or ponder things of the past. Behold, I will do something new, now it will spring forth; Will you not be aware of it? I will even make a roadway in the wilderness, rivers in the desert.” To me, I heard, let go of what was. Look for what is and is to come.
From Sacramental Life (which I review on this blog on Wednesday) in a chapter called “Living like you’ll live forever”: “As we give ourselves away for the good of others like people who have an endless supply of life …” This has reformed my thinking about giving of myself and my time and my strength. In Christ, those things are renewed, endlessly, till eternity. I often think of myself as limited.
Also from Sacramental Life: “As we place Christ’s affirmation above all others, we find ourselves walking … in greater freedom from the fear of human disapproval of our faithful choices.” This resonates with me as my husband and I continue to follow God’s lead for ministry. It doesn’t make sense to some, and I sometimes find myself apologizing for living 800 miles away from family or feeling bad that we aren’t in a position to support our family without help. These words free me to follow Christ, seek His approval and leave the attitudes of others to Him.
And then there’s this:

Looking forward to what the next month will bring when it comes to “release.”

A slave's story, part one: sold and trafficked

January 24, 2013

The following account is fiction, but the circumstances are real. Anna’s story represents girls worldwide who are sold into slavery. This is part 1 of 4. Details have been provided by The Exodus Road. Any errors are mine.

Anna pulled her thin coat tight around her frail form as she braced herself for the walk to the bakery. She quietly descended the three flights of stairs from their humble apartment to the street below, still rubbing the sleep from her eyes, wishing she could have stayed snuggled beneath the layers of worn blankets with her sisters. Her heart ached to leave them, but if she didn’t they might not have anything to eat by the end of the week.

Working at the bakery was not what Anna wanted from life. Nothing about her life was as she wanted it. Who, if they could choose, would want to be the oldest of four daughters to a single mother who worked as a prostitute to make ends meet? Her biggest regret was having to leave school two years ago, when she was just 13, to add to their meager income. Anna loved her mother, but she wished life could be different. For all of them.

The streets of St. Petersburg were nearly vacant as she made the familiar trip to the bakery. She knew she should be thankful she had a job, but Anna was tired. She rose early every morning to make bread and spent her afternoons and evenings caring for her sisters while their mother did her job. The thought of it always made Anna sick to her stomach. She didn’t know the details of her mother’s work, but she knew enough.

She could walk this route practically in her sleep. Nothing ever changed. Just like their lives. Anna wondered if she would end up an old woman, having cared for her sisters and mother all her life. Or if she would even live that long.

At the sound of footsteps, Anna looked up to avoid bumping into a stranger. As she passed the older woman bundled in layers of clothes against the cold, Anna noticed a sign in a shop window not far from the bakery.

1,000 USD per month

Nannies needed to work in America

Travel expenses included

Apply inside

Anna read the words twice to make sure she understood. A strange feeling came over her: hope. Was this her sign? Anna turned and walked toward the bakery so as not to be late, but she couldn’t get the idea out of her mind. She could get paid to watch children, something she was already doing. She could send home whatever extra she had for her mother and sisters. Their life could be different. Better.

All morning, Anna worked with fervor, hoping to finish her work and leave a little early so she could stop by the store where she’d seen the sign. Her insides churned with fear and excitement, but she’d already made up her mind. She would go to America to make a better life for her family.

By the time she arrived home later that day, it was done. Anna had given her notice at the bakery and would leave in two days for her new life. Her sisters cried. Her mother hugged her tightly and whispered into her ear, “I’m proud of you. Make a better life for yourself.” Leaving was going to be the hardest thing Anna had ever done.

When the day came, Anna left the little apartment in tears. “I will write to you,” she promised. “And I will send money.” She pulled herself from her family’s embrace, picked up her bag and walked to the address the man in the store had given her. He’d said her chaperone would meet her there and arrange the travel plans. Anna’s head was already full of dreams. She’d heard about America and could hardly believe she would see it for herself.

A bus was already waiting when she arrived at the meeting point.

“You’re late,” the stocky, bald man grumbled as Anna approached.

She mumbled her apology.

“Don’t let it happen again,” he said. Anna didn’t like the warning in his eyes or his tone.

“Passport?” he demanded. Anna fumbled through her bag to find the required document. He took it and pointed to the bus. “Get on.”

“But, my passport?”

“I said, ‘Get on.'”

Anna lowered her gaze and walked to the door of the bus. She supposed she shouldn’t question the man. He was arranging their flight to America, after all. She boarded the bus and smiled at the four girls already seated. None of them met her gaze, but that didn’t dampen Anna’s hopes for a friend. How long had it been since she’d had a chance to spend time with girls her age?

The excitement she felt as they left St. Petersburg had turned to worry. She’d lost track of how much time they’d been on the bus and how long it had been since they’d had something to eat. Nothing more than some stale bread and enough water to keep their mouths from drying out. The sickness in Anna’s stomach was part hunger, part fear. And she wondered if she’d made a mistake. She blinked away tears lest any of the others think her homesick and not up to the challenge ahead.

When another day passed and they hadn’t set foot on a plane, Anna’s fears grew. The man who had arranged their travel wouldn’t answer their questions. When Anna awoke this morning, the signs on the road were in a new language. Maybe Chinese, she thought, but she didn’t know for sure. The bus stopped and their driver was now speaking with an Asian man. She saw the man hand over what looked like their passports and a stack of money. The Asian man boarded the bus and began driving, leaving their countryman behind.

Anna saw fear on the other girls’ faces. It matched her own.

What had they gotten themselves into?

Stay tuned for part 2 of Anna’s story. Find other adaptations on this story through The Exodus Road’s Facebook page or searching on Twitter for #blog4rescue.

And there’s still time–about a week–to join more than 100 others who have ordered a “Rescue is Coming” T-shirt, the proceeds from which will fund investigations aimed at rescuing women and children from sex slavery.

One book you don't want to miss: Review of Sleeping in Eden by Nicole Baart

January 23, 2013

When it comes to books, I hate to play favorites because there’s a lot of good stuff out there. And I’m really excited to share with you some great new books over the next few months.

I don’t want to take anything away from other authors I love who write great fiction, but one book I read this month might be the best book I read all year. And if you can only read one fiction book this year, read this one. (But I’m sad if you can only read ONE book in a year. Aim for at least two!)

Sleeping in Eden by Nicole Baart is the kind of book I won’t easily or quickly forget. (And the cover tells a story all its own. Beautiful!) I’ve described her stories as gritty before, and this one qualifies.

Here’s the book summary:

On a chilly morning in the Northwest Iowa town of Blackhawk, Dr. Lucas Hudson is filling in for the vacationing coroner on a seemingly open-and-shut suicide case. His own life is crumbling around him, but when he unearths the body of a woman buried in the barn floor beneath the hanging corpse, he realizes this terrible discovery could change everything. Lucas is almost certain the remains belong to Angela Sparks, the missing daughter of the man whose lifeless body dangles from a rope above. When Angela went missing years earlier, he and his wife never really believed she was just another teenage runaway. Fueled by passion, Lucas resolves to uncover the details of Angela’s suspected death, to bring some closure to their small community and to his wife. But his obsession may not be able to fix what is broken, and Lucas may be chasing shadows…

Years before Lucas ever set foot in Blackhawk, Meg Painter met Dylan Reid. It was the summer before high school and the two quickly became inseparable. Although Jess, Meg’s older neighbor, was the safe choice, she couldn’t let go of Dylan and the history they shared no matter how hard she tried. Caught in a web of jealousy and deceit that spiraled out of control, Meg’s choices in the past ultimately collide with Lucas’s investigation in the present, weaving together a taut story of unspoken secrets and the raw, complex passions of innocence lost.

Baart creates characters I feel like I know with a depth of emotion that makes them not just realistic, but real. I can see Lucas and feel Meg. And even though we’re given a clue about where the story is heading, I couldn’t predict what the characters would do.

For me, that’s a great story.

Sleeping in Eden does not offer easy answers to life’s toughest questions, but it is a story that leaves the reader with hope.

And that’s what I’ve come to love about Baart’s work. She doesn’t duck tough circumstances. Her characters almost always find themselves in the midst of a personal nightmare. An unplanned pregnancy. A family member’s suicide. A crumbling marriage. Grief. And through the stories, they tackle the big stuff: revenge and forgiveness, perception and identity, passivity and passion, love and acceptance.

Sleeping in Eden releases in April, but I couldn’t wait to tell you about it. Put this one on your must-read list.

In exchange for my review, I received an advance digital copy of the book from the publisher through NetGalley.

My next big thing (which is the same as my current big thing)

January 21, 2013

Thanks to Alison McLennan for this gentle shove out of my comfort zone and straight into the blog hop “My Next Big Thing.” You are doing God’s work, friend.

What is the working title of your book or project?

A Measure of Faith. Though I recently started toying with Generations of Grace.

Where did the idea come from for your book or project?

Almost 15 years ago, my mom and I put together a scrapbook for my grandfather’s 75^th birthday, and through that project I learned things about him I never knew. Like he was a gymnast in college. And he had some amazing war stories. I started talking to him about his life after that and I put his life story together in a “book” of sorts. Two years ago, I decided to take those stories, and some of my own, and weave them into a novel.

What genre does it fall under, if any?

I’m going to say inspirational fiction, which seems really vague.

If applicable, whom would you choose to play your characters in a movie?

I like Amy Davidson for the granddaughter, Penny.

Her boyfriend, Jake, would be a little like Michael Angarano.

For Frank, the grandfather, Robert Duvall comes close.

His wife, Mary, would be Gena Rowlands.

What is a one-sentence synopsis of your manuscript or project?

Ditto on the hating this part, but I know I need to do it. One sentence? That’s tough.

A college student on the verge of dropping out of school and breaking off a confusing relationship with her boyfriend discovers some surprising details about her family and learns that her grandfather’s past offers hope for her future.

Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?

I’m not interested in self-publishing at this time, so when I finish, I’m going to aim for traditional publication through an agent.

How long did it take you to finish the first draft of your manuscript?

I’ve been working on it, off and on, for a year and a half, and my goal is to finish it in the first half of this year.

What other books or stories would you compare this story to within the genre?

I haven’t read it, (I should, though) but the description of Tricia Goyer’s Remembering You would be similar. Truth be told, I need to read more WWII fiction so I know what’s out there.

Who or what inspired you to write this book or story?

See my previous answer about my grandfather’s life. Also have to give credit to my husband who is always telling people I’m writing a novel. Sometimes I want to “shush” him, but if he’s telling people I’m doing it, I better do it!

What else about this story might pique the reader’s interest?

Some scenes will take place during World War II on the island of Okinawa.

And to follow in my fellow writer/blog hop sisters’ footsteps, I will give you an excerpt, even though it feels a little bit like standing naked on my front porch. Please be kind. This is from what I’m calling the prologue to the book.

May 1945

Frank Jones uttered a mild curse as his truck bounced across a sorry excuse for a road.

“Sorry, Mom,” he said to the emptiness of the truck. Cursing wasn’t part of Frank’s usual vocabulary, but there was nothing usual about this time of his life. Sometimes he imagined the roads he traveled were winding, country roads and he was cruising in his car with his best girl by his side instead of hauling bombs in the back of an Army truck on an island in the South Pacific.

Another bump reminded him this was no joy ride.

Only a few more miles to Kedena, Frank reminded himself, scouting the trees for familiar landmarks in the pale swaths of light from the truck’s headlights. He’d made this run from the motor pool area to the air strip dozens of times, and even in the dark, he could find his way without too much trouble.

The truck climbed a slow hill and the air strip came into sight in the valley below. Frank breathed a sigh of relief at the thought of another mission almost completed. One more mission closer to home, he thought.

He smiled as he pushed the truck onward toward the air field.

The blare of the air raid siren interrupted his thoughts of home, and Frank immediately killed the truck’s lights, as he’d been trained to do. At almost the same time, the air field disappeared.

Frank swore again, not bothering to apologize to his mother this time.

Black darkness swarmed the truck like flies on roadkill. Frank pressed on. There was no way he was going to be caught in the jungles of Okinawa with a bomb in his truck during an air raid. He intended to deliver the bomb as he’d been instructed. His memory served him well as he inched along the road to the air field.

An MP blocked his path at the entrance.

“Are you deaf, boy? We’re in the middle of an air raid. Get that truck out of here!” the MP shouted at Frank.

“Where am I supposed to take it?” Frank shouted back.

The MP suggested something obscene to which Frank saluted and backed the truck up. His options were limited, especially in the dark. He followed the road around the air strip hoping he wouldn’t end up in the water.

Around the north side of the air strip, Frank was stopped by another MP, who told him to turn around and head back the way he came. The drone of the air raid sirens added to Frank’s growing frustration. He’d never hear a plane coming and if a bomb dropped within (how many feet?) of him, he’d be dead before he knew what hit him. He turned the truck around in wide spot in the road and prayed he’d make it back to the gate in one piece.

“I thought I told you to leave solider!” the MP yelled as Frank approached the gate.

“You did,” Frank said. “And now I’m back. And I’m not leaving until you find someone to unload this bomb.”

“You’re out of line soldier,” the MP warned.

“I know,” Frank said. “But I don’t have any plans to die today, so you either find someone to unload this bomb and I’ll get off your air field or I’m going to drive this truck right onto the air field, park it and run like hell until the sirens go off. Your choice.”

He couldn’t explain where the courage came from, but Frank didn’t move a muscle while the MP considered whether he was bluffing. After a few seconds that seemed like hours, the MP opened the gate and radioed a crew to come unload the bomb.

Frank was a follow the rules kind of guy, but in war, rules were made to be broken.

They unloaded the bomb and sent Frank on his way with directions that would lead him back to the motor pool area even without lights. As Frank pulled out of the air field and back onto the road, the sirens stopped. He flipped on the truck lights and pushed the truck as fast as it could go through the jungle back to the motor pool.

He wasn’t prepared for what he found when he arrived.

Though the air raid presumably had been aimed at the airfield, bombs had fallen on the motor pool area. The same place Frank and his bombs could have been if he hadn’t stood his ground at the air field.

By the grace of God, he had missed an appointment with death.

Frank opened the truck’s door and fell to his knees in gratitude.

If war was good for anything, it was to deepen a man’s faith in God.

February 2007

Frank woke from a dream about that night with the sound of air raid sirens ringing in his ears and the smell of charred everything tickling his nose.

Except the sound was coming from just outside the bedroom door, and the smell was real.

As the ear-piercing beep of the smoke alarm jarred him awake, Frank thought: Did I forget to change the battery?

Then he smelled it: smoke, rising to the second-floor bedroom he shared with his wife, Mary, for five decades. Mary was awake now, too, confusion written on her face. Frank scrambled out of bed faster than his 82-year-old body intended, creaking and groaning with every movement. He grabbed Mary’s robe, draping it over her shoulders as he led her down the stairs. Smoke filled their nostrils as they reached the foot of the stairs. The front door was only 15 feet away. He knew they had to move fast, but his body wouldn’t cooperate. His eyes watered and phlegm built in the back of his throat.

In second that felt like an eternity, they were outside the house, the frigid February air shocking him like an ice cube down the back of his shirt on a hot summer day. Mary, regaining her wits, frantically ran to the neighbor’s house to call 911. Frank turned back toward the house. How bad could it be? he thought.

The last thing he heard before stepping back inside his burning home was his wife calling his name from the sidewalk.

Now it’s my turn to tag some people.

Abby Frye, Real Life Wonder Woman

Carol Cool, I’m No Superstar

Lisa DeLay, blog

Are you game, ladies?

When you can't go to SE Asia, you can buy (and wear) a T-shirt

January 17, 2013

This week, two bloggers with The Exodus Road blogging crew wrapped up a trip to Southeast Asia, where they met and saw those involved in the modern-day slave trade of sex trafficking.

As they return to life in the States, they’ll be sharing stories of what they’ve seen. You can read some of them here and see pictures from the trip here.

Not all of us can go to Southeast Asia (though some of us are dreaming of the day when that might be possible) and see the work for ourselves. Not all of us want to go.

And that’s okay.

What’s not okay is that people are suffering. And they think they’re alone. And we can help them.

Here’s one way:

http://teespring.com/rescue

This campaign has been live for less than 24 hours and already met its goal. So from now until January 30, if you buy one of these cool T-shirts, you’ll get one and help fund a sex trafficking investigation in Southeast Asia.

And every time you wear the shirt, you will proclaim truth.

Rescue is coming.

Three little words. A lot of power.

Sometimes bringing hope is as simple as wearing a T-shirt.

A western for women: Review of Anna Finch and the Hired Gun by Kathleen Y'Barbo

January 16, 2013

Since the first time I watched Tombstone, I’ve been a fan of westerns, a genre and setting for stories that I once thought was reserved for men–you know, gun-toting, hard-working, manly men.

That movie, and others, including some John Wayne classics, reformed me.

And books like Anna Finch and the Hired Gun by Kathleen Y’Barbo are making me a fan of written westerns.

Anna Finch is an adventurous and unconventional woman who aspires to be a journalist when her father just wants her to get married. Unwilling to settle, Anna pursues her own interests, which lands her in the company of Wyatt Earp and Doc Holliday. She’s also often in the company of Jeb Sanders, a Pinkerton detective her father hired to keep an eye on her.

The plot is somewhat predictable but the story is fun–a light read to pass the time–and I’d look for another book from Y’Barbo in the future. As a writer, I’m curious about where authors get the inspiration for their stories, and Y’Barbo’s explanation of how this story came about is interesting.

I was left with a desire to rewatch Tombstone, and I couldn’t get Val Kilmer’s Doc Holliday out of my head.

Overall, if you like the Old West and you’re in the mood for a quick, light, fun read, then check this one out.

Here’s a sneak peek.

[youtube=http://youtu.be/v4QKFHr80t4]

When PB & J tastes like manna (and other nomadic thoughts)

January 14, 2013

I’ve heard lots of words fill in the space after “Home is …” and today, after two long driving journeys in two weeks, my mind is as blank as that space and I have no words to fill it.

It was good to be home–the place where we grew up, made memories, continue to make memories, bump into people we haven’t seen in years, and are welcomed with open arms by family and friends.

And it’s good to be home–the place where our stuff lives, the only house in which our kids remember living, our non-native state that still causes our breath to catch when we first glimpse its mountainous views, the place where good and bad memories duke it out for dominance, our legal address, where we are missed and embraced and yet sometimes still treated like strangers.

We’ve made the 800-mile drive between Illinois and Pennsylvania at least a dozen times and this was the hardest for me.

For starters, I hate the driving. Although I like seeing new places and having adventures, I become anxious about the journey–that in-between state of not being here or there.

The journey is unpredictable. I never know if our daughter is going to be car sick or how many times we’ll have to stop to pee or if we’ll be slowed by construction or an accident or rain or snow.

And it can be dangerous. The car might break down. Or slide on the ice into a concrete median and cross three lanes of traffic, totalling your future in-laws’ car and lengthening your cross-country trip by hours. (Yeah, that happened once.)

It’s tiring. How can riding in a car for so long be so draining? We play car games and answer the kids’ questions and toss food back at them (kind of like feeding zoo animals) and listen to talk radio and read. And it’s exhausting, especially if we try to do it all in one day.

But the journey is worth it if the destination is.

Driving home to Illinois hasn’t always seemed worth it. There have been seasons we’ve needed some separation from our families and the trip felt like duty, more for the kids than for my husband and me. But the two weeks we just spent there were TOTALLY worth it this time around (Read the highlights here.) We missed Christmas with our families so we were extra eager to get there and do whatever it took (we drove through the night on New Year’s Eve).

The return trip home to Pennsylvania has often been a welcome relief. A chance to get back to normal and into the routines that fill our days.

Not so this time around.

We’re stuck in a dead zone of sorts right now. Back to “normal” is nothing exceptional. My husband has a job he likes but it’s not what he wants to be doing with his life and it doesn’t meet our financial needs. We are lacking a level of love and community we’ve experienced at other times and places in our lives. We feel stuck. Neither here nor there with work, ministry, friendships, even our faith.

If you know the story of the Israelites and their desert wanderings, as recorded in Exodus and Numbers, our current state feels a little like that.

We are following God’s leading, but we feel like we’re walking in circles.

As I slapped together peanut butter and jelly sandwiches once again for dinner (our kids aren’t complaining!) I thought about God’s provision of manna. How the Israelites complained about needing food to eat in the desert and God provided. And they rejoiced. For a while. Then they complained again and longed for the food they ate as slaves. (Leeks! Onions! Fish! Cucumbers!)

God is giving us daily bread (and meat and fruit and cheese) from a variety of sources, and I thank Him for it.

And I complain because we are needy and dependent and may have to reapply for food stamps because we don’t know how long this season of underemployment will last.

I want to scream “WHERE ARE WE GOING, GOD?” and I’m waiting for the next terrible thing to happen. Life is not as good as it could be right now and the pessimist in me is afraid it will only get worse.

Maybe these are just the tired ramblings of a lost girl.

One thing I know: I am not alone on this journey.

Many are saying,

“Oh, that we might see better times!”

Lift up the light of your countenance upon us, O Lord.

This is my plea from the desert.

Saturday Smiles: Milestone year edition

January 12, 2013

Every year as the new year approaches, I take time to transfer birthdays from the previous year’s wall calendar to the next year’s calendar. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve paid more attention to people’s ages and anniversaries, especially as I’ve added friends and family as they’ve come into my life.

This year, as I wrote the names in the 2013 calendar, I noticed a trend: milestone birthdays. 5’s and 0’s are wild this year, and I’m not exactly sure why it stood out to me. Maybe because yours truly turns 35 or because family members who still get carded are turning 50 (you know who you are!) or my husband’s great-aunt will be 100 (woman of valor!).

One of the hardest things for me in the last four and a half years of living out of state from the rest of the family is the number of family birthdays and get-togethers and celebrations we’ve missed. If the birthdays or celebrations have fallen during one of our two to three visits per year, we do our best to make it.

So it was with great joy that we ended our most recent trip home with birthday celebration after birthday celebration after birthday celebration.

We cooked a meal for my mother-in-law on Thursday for her milestone birthday.

Today we celebrated our nephew’s first birthday …

… and ended the day with a birthday dinner at our favorite Mexican restaurant with my uncle, aunt and cousin for my uncle’s milestone birthday (which would be significant in its own right but is more meaningful because of what happened to him last year).

Our visit has been full of family, which is typical when we come home to visit, but for some reason this time, I’ve felt the love more deeply. Twice, we’ve been a party of 9 at a restaurant, and while I don’t tend to seek out large crowds, my heart has swelled with an emotion I can’t quite capture when so many people with a common bond of love have gathered around the same table.

Watching my husband be an uncle has been another love-inducing experience. It’s different, somehow, than watching him be a dad, and I love him more and differently than I did before this week.

I wish I could record and replay all the moments these weeks have brought us. Because it will be months before we have more of them. While I love the memories we make as a party of four, our lives become richer when we open them to others who love us.

Maybe I wouldn’t appreciate the moments as much if we were here all the time. Maybe it doesn’t do any good to wish we were here for all the milestones or wonder what our lives would be like if we didn’t live so far from family.

Maybe it’s just better to be thankful for the times we have.

For family dinners.

For three Christmas get-togethers and a van full of presents that show love.

For shared memories and laughs about days that have passed.

For unplanned lunches out with family we bump into at the store.

For catching up with friends and finding out we’ve changed and grown in a lot of the same ways.

For a place to be who we are despite who we’ve been.

We’re leaving again in the morning, and my heart will tear, as it always does when we leave one place for the other.

It will mend and break many times more. To paraphrase C.S. Lewis, if I want to love, I must risk pain and heartache because my only other option is to love nothing and let my heart turn cold and dark.

I refuse the latter.

Shoot. This was supposed to be a post about what makes me smile. Instead, I’m close to tears.

Sometimes the two aren’t all that far apart, I guess.