Not about Me

Darkness concealed my tears as I sat in the back of my church at a carols service a few days ago. Generations were packed under the tin roof as the narrator read the Christmas story while actors brought words to life. Little children and grandparents sang together as the orchestra filled the room with music, but I only knew a fourth of the "familiar" carols. The children sang their piece sweetly, the pastor spoke meaningful words, and still sadness threatened to overwhelm me. I was sitting near friends who had generously given up a seat for Jordan, MJ, and me to share, but even in the shadow of their kindness, I felt disoriented in the midst of the celebration and alone in the crowd.

For me, Christmas has always been about sweaters and decorating my own home, about cold weather and shopping, about food and family and friends, and of course, though sometimes as an afterthought, about Jesus. This year, I was too sick to decorate my house until the twenty-first, and I couldn't put all my imported decorations out because we move in just a few weeks to the fourth home we will occupy in a twelve month period, another home that is not "mine". I haven't been able to use the car or miraculously found myself in possession of wads of cash, so shopping was out. It is (hot) summer, and if I were to don a sweater, I would likely suffer from heatstroke and then become the punchline to a "Yankee" joke. I am far away from family and old friends, separated by an ocean's worth of distance; and Skype, though it is wonderful, it not sufficient to bridge 10,000 miles. Truly, I have been feeling so un-Christmasy without most of my usual celebration tools.

A couple of days after the carol service, I walked into a mall with Greg and began to feel much better as I was enveloped by commercialism. But, in the midst of my relief, a question arose in my mind. Why did the mall make me feel better? Following the question, the truth, strong and stark, charged into my mind. All the things that "feel" like Christmas to me don't really have anything to do with Christmas. Christmas isn't about all the wonderful traditions that my family has kept or about the weather or familiar carols in familiar church services. Christmas isn't about decorating, or having my own house or about spending money to buy gifts for people. It is about God coming to earth as a baby to bridge distance between fallen humanity and Himself. Christmas is about the Holy and Almighty Creator of heaven and earth spanning the gap between himself and sinful me.

I miss my family and familiar traditions terribly. I feel strange in a foreign country celebrating Christmas at my new church or at the beach or at the home of my kind friends who adopted us on Christmas day; but how I feel doesn't really matter very much because Christmas isn't actually about me. Christmas is all about Jesus, and this year, on the far side of the world, in the midst of my aching and disorientation, I celebrate Jesus' birth. May His truth and His peace reign on earth and in my heart today.

Redemption and Experiments Gone Wrong

I had nearly convinced myself and my small but loyal posse of girlfriends that I was a master chef (this is, by the way, the same sweet and supportive group that sees me as a writer and an architect, though I am not yet either), when a mishap of epic proportions occurred in my kitchen. I had finished the thanksgiving meal, complete with tasty turkey and apple pie made from scratch, and was attempting the practical act of redemption that is broth made from turkey bones.

I had been reading a fantastic book called Cold Tangerines wherein the author celebrates different aspects of life. The book inspires me, particularly a chapter where the author talks about redemption about how making soup from bones was a practical act of redemption, a metaphor for what God can do in our lives. I believe in redemption, especially as a Christian, and I was inspired to attempt redemption in my kitchen with my very own thirty dollar turkey carcass.

I cleaned the bones reasonably well and chucked them in a large pot to boil with water for a couple of hours. What could be easier than making broth from bones? I was thinking redemptive thoughts deep in the labyrinth of my own mind while my hands cleaned up. After I finished tidying, I sat down to watch a movie with Greg, while the stove boiled bones. I checked the pot every so often, as the house filled with the rich smell of homemade broth. When the movie finished, I put the whole pot in the fridge so that I could scrape the fat off the top when it cooled, because practical acts of redemption needn't add extra calories to my waist. With the broth, or what I supposed would be broth, safely cooling, I climbed into bed, my heart satisfied with the work of cooking my first whole thanksgiving meal, and my mind soothed by meditating on redemption.

The next morning, I awoke eager to subdivide the broth into usable portions to be frozen. I was envisioning the casseroles, gravy, and Asian ginger marinade that I would make from the treasure of a homemade soup base when I opened the pot. The fat was predictably solidified on the top, but what awaited me under the fat was something horrific. For reasons I don't understand, for reasons I can't comprehend, the turkey broth had turned to primordial ooze. In all my domestic pride and glory while I pondered deep and meaningful thoughts, I created turkey sludge!

I had many purposes for broth, but what to do with turkey ooze? I froze some just in case it would melt into broth, but mostly I laughed. I guess in hindsight the real accomplishments were being thankful on a day of thanksgiving and cooking a whole traditional meal without the guidance of mother or mother-in-law. Next thanksgiving I will leave redemption to God and experiments to scientists, who might have some use for expensive primordial turkey ooze.

Apple Pie and Good Neighbors

On the day we celebrated Thanksgiving, I had been baking apple pie from the seventy-year-old recipe that Lea Lea had given my mom. I was remembering the Saturdays of my early childhood while I pinched and peeled and rolled and chopped apples and dough in the present. At last I finished, and the beautiful pie, complete with the feather design my mother always cuts on the top, was deposited into the oven where it would turn to gold. As it baked, the cinnamonny aroma wafted through the house, maddening my children with butter and sugar fumes. Jordan somehow developed an affinity for apple pie when she was a toddler, and the fact that she only partakes of it twice a year has only served to amplify her love for the the most American of American desserts. While the pie was busy baking and while I was busy tidying up, the girls impatiently chanted, "apple pie! Apple pie!"


In spite of the energy and the deafening noise from the girls, the name on the recipe card took me back in time to when I was seven or so and living on Pocahontas street, where my parents had purchased their first house in Bellaire, Tx. I didn't have any grandparents within six hours drive of my house, but we had fantastic neighbors across the street who filled in the gap left by distance. Doc and Leatrice were members of what we in America call "the Greatest Generation." They had survived World War Two and then worked for forty years before retiring to a quiet life of gardening, companionship, and neighborhood gossip.

Doc and Lea were friendly and kind to my mother, who was a homemaker in a new place, and they liked my father as well; but they took a special interest in me, especially Doc. When I met him, Doc was already an old man. He had taught high school, and now he spent most of his time in a brown jumpsuit gardening. He wasn't very busy and he loved children, so was perfectly content to spend his Saturday mornings with me. I'm not sure how the tradition began, but every week, my mom would dress me up, and then walk me across the street to Doc and Lea's little old, cigarette-smokey house with the fantastic gardens full of roses and vegetables. Doc's house was a happy place for me.

Doc always planned our mornings full of activities. He would wheel me around in his wheelbarrow to all of his different varieties of roses. Some were solid red, some were yellow, but my favorites were the yellow with the red tips. Carefully avoiding the thorns, he lifted me up to smell each fragrance and then, with his orange shears, he snipped a beautiful multicolored bouquet for me, wrapping the ends carefully in a wet paper towel and foil. After the bouquet was safely inside in the turquoise vase, Doc would wheel me around in his wheelbarrow to his veggie gardens so that I could help him with planting or harvesting his radishes or cucumbers. I loved to watch his okra plants grow from week to week, with the spiny stems that reached to the telephone wires. I liked the roses and veggies, but I guess my favorite activity was painting Doc's garage door with mud. That's right, mud. Doc would mix up a big pan of mud and then let me go to town painting his white aluminum garage door with a two-inch paintbrush full of mud for as long as it interested me. I think he must have found it amusing to see such a prim, quiet little girl painting with dirt.

After most of my energy was spent, I would go inside with Doc to see what sort of delicacies Lea Lea had created. Lea Lea had been a home economics teacher in the forties, when no one was trying to cut all the delicious calories out of home cooking, so she always had cookies and other beautiful things on hand to eat. Lea Lea could bake and sew like you wouldn't believe, and she was happy to share her expertise and her possessions. I have some of the costume jewelry from the forties that she gave my mom. I have her recipes, also given to my mom. I even have the beautiful suit she made for herself in 1946, when Doc brought her black velvet from when he fought in France in World War Two. After my mom gave it to me a few years ago, I altered it to fit my girdle-less athletic (possibly boney) frame. Would you believe that when I altered it, I let out 2 inches in the waist, and took in two in the bust? Lea Lea was amazing in every way, but most amazing to me as an adult for sharing her husband and her home every saturday morning with a little kid from across the street.

After I had eaten my fill of Lea Lea's fantastic culinary creations in the kitchen, I would sit on the turquoise, textured carpet in the living room with Doc and look at the "bug Bible" while Doc lit a cigarette to relax. The book was called the "bug Bible" because of it's thickness and content. Doc would tell me all about all whichever bug we opened to that day, what it was, where it lived, and whether he had seen it. After the bug bible while he finished his late-morning smoke, he gave me quarters, nickels, dimes, and pennies for the offering plate at church the next day.

Doc was patient and kind and interested in everything I had to say, everything a grandfather should be. I remember well his kind smile and his gentle manner. I never was ready to leave his house when my mom came back to get me, but I had to go home so he could watch "The Rifleman," while he rested in his fuzzy,brown recliner, recovering from a full morning's activity. He always remembered my bouquet and asked me to come back next week. I always did, and we repeated this sweet ritual every saturday for four or five years.

In this day and age, if an older, non-related man took an interest in my children, I would build icy walls around my family to keep them safe, because the knowledge of evil is a powerful protection against child predators and good neighbors alike; but I'm glad that I didn't grow up in a world like what I know today. I treasure my Saturday-morning memories with Doc and Lea Lea; they loved me, and I love them still. The memories still come flooding back happily with the sight of home-grown roses, the apple pie recipe, the velvet suit, or the jewelry Lea gave my mother, now resting in my jewelry box. Doc and Lea Lea were fantastic neighbors. They opened their modest home and their generous hearts to a little, quiet girl with faraway grandparents, and they shared what they had--roses, vegetables, mud, cookies, and their bug bible, small things at the time, but now priceless memories to me.

Wads of Cash in the Creek

Think of the thriftiest person you know. No, it's not the person of whom you are thinking, it's ME (or, it is I for all you grammar cops out there). My wardrobe is at least one third "vintage," and I only buy what I call "authentic retail" when it is on a very, very good sale, usually when things are under ten dollars. I ask for my money back at the end of movies that have any glitches in the sound or picture. I own a 500 dollar leather seven-seater sofa and a twenty dollar dining table with several free chairs. I am unabashedly frugal, some would say cheap; so when it was time to buy a turkey for thanksgiving, I was appropriately appalled to shuck out 30 dollars for a seven and a half pound turkey. I would have gladly paid ten dollars, but paying thirty nearly gave me hives.

Aussies seem to earn and allocate money very differently than Americans, so comparing prices on things is mostly a useless endeavor. I have been in Australia for ten months, already, so I would think that some of the sticker shock should be wearing off by now, and it is, except when I look at real estate or turkeys. The prices of houses and delicious birds for baking are just astronomical! I haven't bought a house, so I can't legitimately complain about housing, but the very cheapest turkey ( I checked around) set me back thirty dollars. How is that possible?

I was cycling today with Micah Jade in the trailer to get the girls from school when a brilliant stroke of cheapness hit me. In the creek, there are plenty of wild bush turkeys. Sure they look like over-grown flightless buzzards, but the real questions I began to ask are, "How do they taste and would anyone miss one?" As I peddled along the Kedron Brook, I wrestled with all sorts of great ideas surrounding the acquisition of the turkeys I see every day.

Perhaps I could come down at dawn with a tennis racket and a black trash bag on my bike. There would be very few people around, so maybe I can just whack one and then wrestle it into a bag to bike it back up to my house in my bike basket. Wouldn't the feathers make a great centerpiece? I wonder how much meat is under all those feathers? Oh! Reality check--We have no tennis racket. Would Greg's golf club work? If so, which iron? Surely Greg wouldn't miss one club for an hour in the morning.

Or, if that didn't work, maybe I could set a loop trap like Bear Gryllis does on Man Vs Wild. I've probably watched that show enough to figure it out. Then I will wait in the creek over night until I hear the tasty turkey struggling. Would a turkey fit in one of my shopping bags? Would anyone see me? Would it make much noise? Should I bring a shovel to knock it out? Even if I get away with it, would my children tell all my friends at school? Are any of my friends environmental activists?

What about at dusk? Maybe one attacks me and then I have to respond in self-defense. No one could blame an innocent jogger for killing a turkey that attacked her, surely. And if it was already dead, wouldn't it be more sanitary for me to take it home to be disposed of properly, instead of leave it near the bike path? I would merely be doing society a service by taking a delicious dead animal out of a public place (and into my oven).

In real life, of course, none of these bizarre ideas actually fly (yes, I do recognize that my turkey fantasies are odd at best). I couldn't really stomach hacking at a turkey with Greg's golf club, or strangling it like a special forces soldier with my shoe lace, or acting out the whole self-defence thing (I am enough drama without making up lies about wildlife). I guess I am destined to buy thirty-dollar frozen turkeys for as long as I live in Australia, but I think I will always look at bush turkeys differently from now on. Before my shocking experience in the freezer section, I saw bush turkeys as merely a beautiful native bird, but now those bush turkeys will henceforth appear to me as great, big wads of cash strutting in the creek, (probably) tasty, but just a little bit out of my realm of possibility.

Thankful

Thanksgiving is my very favorite holiday of all. I love the food, the gathering with friends and family, and the concept of setting aside a day just to be thankful. This year, I will celebrate Thanksgiving away from my country and from both Greg's and my parents, siblings, and family friends with history. Lest I descend into a pit of self-pity and sadness by typing or even talking about the things and people I miss, I shall remember the spirit of the holiday and commence being thankful in public through my blog.

I'm thankful . . .

That friendship and generosity are universal,

For the warmth and friendliness of the Australian people, and Queenslanders in specific,

For the opportunity to live in a culture that values people over tasks (because I need to learn this),

For adventures on foreign shores, experienced as a family,

For my parents who taught me independence in preparation for leaving their nest,

For Greg's parents who taught him to be brave and unafraid,

That both sets of parents cried and then released us when we decided to chase dreams abroad,

For my brother Jonathan, who used almost all of his vacation time just to come see us,

For Greg's brothers who adopted me as a little sister long ago,

For my nephews and my sister-in-laws whose wonderful blogs allow me to enjoy their discoveries even from far away,

For Jordan, who is strong and bold and athletic,

For Meryl who is sensitive and imaginative and relational,

For Micah Jade who insists on being called "little dugong,"

For the opportunity that my children have to grow up at least for a time in a culture that lets children be children longer,

For the opportunities of serving my family in which I am learning to be less selfish,

For a cozy house that keeps out the rain and the heat,

For the opportunity to move to another house where the landlord is (hopefully) much less nutty,

For a home that is being built, not from bricks, but from love and service,

For a husband who knows me. . .and loves me anyway,

For the opportunity to evaluate what of our faith is cultural and what is truth,

That the church of God is larger than denominations and familiar traditions,

For my church here, Mitchelton Presbyterian Church, which has a playgroup and a women's group that have helped me settle in,

For the my health and the strength to cycle 50 miles a week or more,

For the bike path and all the trees, flowers, grasses, and critters that we enjoy on it,

For my bike and bike trailer, which were a fantastic gift from someone who loves me lots,

For the girls' bikes which we found on the side of the road in Sydney,

And Greg's dad who doctored them up on his last visit here ,

For the opportunity to be outside appreciating nature every day in a fantastic climate,

For the bush turkeys, ducks, fish, turtles, and cows that we see every day on our ride to school,

For the endlessness of the ocean, which is nearly ever-present in Australia,

For sand that is white and blindingly bright,

For beautiful beaches that are only an hour from my home,

For rainbows at the beach and rainbows at our house,

For bright sunshine most days,

and sunglasses to protect my eyes,

For the sound of rain on our tin roof,

And that fresh smell just before it rains,

For the tradition of morning tea, during which friends take time to relax and socialize every day,

For a comfortable living room with an hypoallergenic and dustmite proof sofa,

and a dining table around which to gather each night (which I bought for only 20$ off ebay),

For the opportunity to serve my family through cooking and baking and planning,

For my recipe books that made the journey across the ocean,

And a fantastic convection oven in my kitchen,

For the freshest ingredients I have ever encountered outside my own garden,

For the linens that came in my shipment,which have made my house look homey,

For my girlfriends in Texas and across the USA who haven't forgotten me,

For my history, both triumphs and mistakes, which has made me who I am today,

For new friends in Brisbane that have adopted us, especially for the holidays,

For our new babysitter Emma, who is already loved by my girls,

For American friends with whom to share this incredible experience in Brisbane,

For the Gallaghers, who were a roadsign to us in Austin, pointing and encouraging us to their homeland, Australia,

For their parents, who adopted us for a time and eased our transition,

For (now) old friends in Sydney, who taught me how to shop and live in practical ways in Oz,

For skype, so that I can still see the faces of friends and family that I love,

For Jordan's and Meryl's school where they are loved and protected and challenged,

For the movies where I can temporarily escape to a familiar American world when I feel overwhelmed,

For American tv shows on television (for the same reason),

For new wildlife of all sizes, mostly with pouches, to enjoy,

and new trees and flowers and plants which flower almost continuously,

For mango trees and avocado trees and lemon trees and lime trees which I have never enjoyed up-close before,

For the opportunity to hang out my laundry, and thus enjoy the rhythm of the sun,

For my washing machine, which beats washing clothes in the bathtub any day,

And my dryer to use on towels and rainy days,

For music in my home and music in my heart,

For the opportunity to surf for the first time on ocean water that is clear and blue,

For our tent in which we are making new memories,

For the laughter and craziness of little children,

For the opportunity to train and love, encourage and discipline them,

For the chance to live life at a slower pace,

For the miracle of modern medicine through which God heals my family members when they are sick,

For lonliness which turns my heart toward God, who never disappoints me,

For new friendships and new memories with our friends here,

For my husband who is a not like me at all, but values the same things I value, especially in parenting,

For Greg's job, especially in a difficult economy,

For the internet and the opportunity to write and share my experience with people who care about me,

For life lessons that could never be learned elsewhere.

Thanksgiving for me has always been about familiar traditions and familiar people, but I hope that it will be more than that as we celebrate in Australia. I still have a turkey to roast and an apple pie to make, but this year, thanksgiving will be celebrated mostly in my heart, because giving thanks is not about food and tradition, it is about calling blessings what they are and appreciating all the gifts in my life no matter where in the world I am.

Sunshine, Rain, and Rainbows

My home is now in "sunny Queensland," and sunny it is. The light here is blindingly bright, and clouds do not often veil the sun's power. Where we live, the center of our solar system is larger and more radiant and hotter than I have ever seen it anywhere else. The light in Brisbane is more brilliant than in the searing desert or on a snowy mountain on a clear, cold day. So intense is the resplendence, that on a cloudless day, which is almost every day, all the dimension is extracted from the layers of landscape that unfold before me as I drive or cycle up and down the hills. Through my squinting eyes, forest green, grass green, lime green, and seafoam green blend into a muddy green mixture, not unlike the appearance of our green play doughs after Micah Jade, who is 2.5, has "put them away".


But, just before the rain, when the clouds roll in, and the force of the sun is diluted, haze softens the landscape and all the subtle shades of green come alive. Aware of the coming rain, the gum trees release a thick, earthy, minty smell into the haze. That powerful aroma clears your head so that you can see the charcoal green of the mountains, the lime green of the bamboo palms, the brilliant green of the grass, and the grey green of the gum trees. The smell and the haze and the greens are startlingly beautiful, and made more so by the rarity of rainy days during winter and spring.

Last week, after a sunny day, the clouds began to tumble into clear blue expanse of sky over my house. We had just arrived back at our house from school on day when I had the car. The girls were riding bikes under the carport and on the flat part of the pavement in our driveway. Jordan, Meryl, and Micah Jade circled around and around, like little compulsive hamsters in a wheel, burning off the extra energy accumulated by sitting and behaving well (as far as I know) all day at school. As they chased one another, the rain foreshadowed by the haze began to gently descend.


The rain fell slowly at first, allowing us time to wait a few minutes outside, cooling off in the first few drops. As we pondered going inside, Greg walked down the hill from the bus stop and in through our front gate. After interrupting driveway traffic for hugs from three hot little girls, he noticed what I had missed while enjoying my little girls biking like neurotic rodents.


Blazing across the sky, a rainbow, big and wide and bright, paraded from the hills in front of us across the heavens to the valley behind our house. This rainbow was spectacular, floating above the haze, framed by the fantastic greens all around, by the blue of the sunshiny half sky, and by the gray of the rain clouds invading the other half of the visible atmosphere. The girls ooh-ed and ah-ed, even my crusty, little toddler. Greg waited in the rain, and I stood by him for a moment, appreciating all the bold color surrounding us in every direction.

In my life, rainbows usually grace the front of lunchboxes and my little pony houses. I see them on drawings on the fridge and the white board. They can be waxy crayon creations on paper or marker stains that I dread extracting from the white walls of our rental house. My usual experiences with rainbows are beautiful in their own way, but nothing like a real rainbow. A real rainbow is infinitely superior to the representation, just as a real ice cream is measurelessly tastier than a billboard picture by the side of the road. This real rainbow was staggering and earthshaking for me, a happy reminder that while the sun's shining on my everyday world is bright and lovely, rain brings cool refreshment and even sometimes a rainbow, blazing with rare and vivid color across the heavens of suburbia.


Rainbows never really show up in pictures well, so use my words and your own imagination to generate the image. Little girls that ride bikes in compulsive circles, do, however, take a great picture.

A Stinky Hippie on my Supple Sofa

Herb the stinky hippie sat on my supple, Italian leather sofa, testing it out while he thoughtfully pondered buying it. As he reclined, he revealed the source of his pungency. The stains on his shirt's armpits proved that he was too pure to bow to many pretentious social conventions, conventions like deodorant, (but he did have 1800 dollars cash, which was why he had been invited inside my home). Now don't get me wrong. I would love to save the planet, and I own second hand furniture and a herb and vegetable garden to prove it; but I would rather be poisoned by the aluminum in my deodorant than alienate everyone I do know and everyone I might ever want to meet. I wish I could sugar-coat the truth better, but there is simply no other way to describe the smell of dear old Herb than to say that he reeked to high heaven with unadulterated body odor.

The sofa on which Herb reclined, had been more than a sofa to me. It was a chocolate-brown, soft, leather symbol of Greg's and my independence and comfort. It was the first brand-new set of furniture that we bought when we moved into our very own house. Our tax return one year had facilitated the purchase of my prize possession, fashioned from Natuzzi leather, at once both cozy and costly. This fantastic set of sofas was not just beautiful, it was even practical, having survived reflux in three Mizell infants unscathed. In my mind, the addition of that sofa transformed my living room from a large living space to a warm and inviting haven, and I loved that sofa both for its comfort and for its meaning.

When Greg and I pondered our move to Oz, it was impossible to make the decision without counting the cost. Shipping everything we owned was not a financial possibility, because shipping something as large as that set of sofas to Australia (and then back when we moved again) would require paying for it twice. Even storing it would cost more than buying it all again in both places. When we had finally made the decision that we would chase new dreams abroad in Oz, I cried as the realization that we would have to sell that sofa set dropped on me like a ton of bricks. Those tears shined a spotlight on my heart, revealing the over-valuing of my possessions, namely the Natuzzi sofa set, which had been flourishing within me for several years.

Now, there is nothing wrong with enjoying something that is beautiful. I believe that beauty is quite simply a gift from God. There is no problem with making my home a warm and inviting place that is comfortable and lovely for our family and for visitors; and in fact making my home a loving and pleasant place to be is very important to me. But, loving furniture so much that its potential sale brings me to tears is just plain wrong. Affection toward sofas is at best misdirected, and at worst materialism. Even this morning I was talking to my daughter about how loving things crowds out the love for God and others in our hearts. Materialism is ugly in a six-year-old and terrifying in a grown woman like me. My sofa was the symbol of pride in possessions to me, and it took moving overseas for me to see truth.

Herb was, no doubt, the beneficiary of my hard lesson. He was looking for a sofa for his new holiday home in New Mexico, and he needed something nice--something like my leather sofa set. Herb was wealthy, friendly, and honest, and I am glad to have met him. (Herb eventually bought the sofa for 1700 dollars. I would have sold it to him for 100 more, but Greg felt sorry that he had to deal with such a merciless swindler as me, and so Greg gave him a discount.) Sure he stunk terribly and used our bathroom with the door open, but God had a higher purpose in bringing him into my life than just our (and your) entertainment. As my symbolic sofa bounced down the road, destined for a new life in a new state, tears gathered in my eyes again. The experience of selling my sofa to Herb was the scalpel that sliced away my sofa and thus separated me from a thick layer of my own materialism.

It's funny how my life turns out. We started over in Australia almost ten months ago, with a shipment of about 10% of what had been our possessions--no furniture. On a tiny budget, we bought a whole new set of used furniture for our house from eBay and Craigslist. We even bought a used Natuzzi sofa. Just like the last one, it is comfortable and it makes our living room warm and inviting, but I hope this time, that I will be able to appreciate the couch without turning it into an idol.

Through the sale of my first sofa to Herb, I learned (and am still learning) that the beauty of my home does not depend on owning a fine sofa. My home is not a physical location; my home is an idea, a concept that moves where my family moves. Home is built (or torn down) by my own hands and my own heart toward my little girls and my husband. My security is not found in the springs and timber, in the stuffing and leather of possessions that make me more comfortable. My security and my hope is in God, who apparently had to move me overseas so that my love for Him and for others could become more pure, unhindered, or maybe hindered less, by the idol of materialism represented by my supple sofa.

I am sad to say that I have no pictures of the first sofa or of Herb who now owns it. This is a picture of the sofa that we bought in Sydney with my oldest and youngest little girls enjoying it.

Worms and the Shameless Fairy Princess

"I may have worms in my bottom," Meryl said as she looked deeply into the shocked eyes of her mild-mannered, originally South African Prep (Kindergarten) teacher. (The phrase was pronounced "Aye my hev wums een moy bo-tome," for my American friends who haven't heard Meryl's beautifully perfect Australian accent recently) In our parent-teacher-student conferences, we had already discussed strengths and were moving on to areas in her life that need attention or improvement. Meryl had been working on concentration and focus and needed to give her teacher serious hope that her habitual imaginative distraction was not her fault, so she articulated what she had gathered by eaves-dropping on a recent conversation between Greg and I. I recommended to Greg that we de-worm her as a last hope of tying her imagination to reality enough for her to get herself dressed, fed, and shod in the morning, with reasonably fresh breath, on a really fantastically focused morning.

The honesty and shamelessness with which Meryl shocked me are the norm here. My friends relate many facts of motherhood in conversation without any of the extra meaning, that is, modesty or shame, that might be assigned to the same topics in Texas. For instance, recently when my kids had lice, I felt compelled to let the other mums know, since Meryl is quite affectionate, and probably shared the city of critters on her head with many of her friends as she smothered them with love and cuddles. I was so torn about telling the mums, because in Texas, lice means something negative about your kid, your parenting, and your family's hygiene, and maybe even your family's social status. Whether I am in Texas or in a foreign country, I would rather risk loss than break a principle in which I believe. In the end, my honesty won out over my fear of losing friends, and I told my new friends about the civilization under siege at our house.

I needn't have worried. As soon as I told my shameful secret, the other mums kindly and reassuringly stepped closer and began to commiserate. They told me all about their battles with lice and when their kids had it, and how to beat it with or without chemicals. They were like generals in a war on a covert enemy, planning surprise attacks, and sharing strategies and intelligence. They also preemptively warned me about thread worms (pin worms), how they affect concentration and sleep, and how to get rid of them; because here in Oz, having lice means you have bugs in your hair, having threadworms means there are worms in your "bum"; and poetry and music seem to own the exclusive copyrights on extra meaning. Simplicity in communication is beautiful to live.

I love Aussie honesty and straightforwardness, and when it stares me down through the thick lashes and deep, pensive, black eyes of my middle, most sensitive girl, I realize how very far away I am from what had been home, and how glad and torn I feel about living here. I am happy for my girls to lose shame as a cultural norm, but not quite ready for their only tie to my homeland to be me. Slowly but surely, my children are ceasing to be Americans in their thinking and manner and are beginning to be Aussies. The process is startling and intriguing to watch, and my conflicted feelings of joy and loss about their transformation give me insight into what my father must have experienced as he watched Jonathan and I grow up, children of a different culture in a new homeland. We were Indian flavored Americans, and I believe that my children are becoming American flavored Aussies.

Dust is settling now as Meryl's sixth birthday has passed us for the first and last time. At six, Meryl, the Fairy Princess, is thoughtful and sensitive and deep. She asks hard questions about faith and God and life. She has introduced the concept of romance to her prep class and has three boys that want to marry her at school, although I suspect that she is stringing them along as a sort of living collection. (At home she says she "could only marry Colby," her best friend from Texas.) She over-uses superlatives (like her mother), and the words "I" and "never" (again-- familiar). She is beautiful, but learning that true beauty is developed on the inside as kindness. She is a born story-teller, and her imagination takes her to places that only exist in the magic of her mind, places that less sensitive souls would call lies. She is unique and ethereal and happy, full of dreams and usually covered in glitter and lip gloss.

I hope Greg and I will be able to train and encourage and protect her for whatever destiny God holds for her. I hope we will be able to live out and thus teach her Christian values like redemption, sacrifice, and truth, and American values like rugged independence, to add to the cultural beauty of collaboration and community trust that I find so refreshing here in Oz. I know that one day she will clothe herself and brush her own teeth, and when she does, she will know the truth about the tooth fairy and Father Christmas. When she outgrows old dreams, I hope her creativity produces new sorts of big dreams keep her company on her journey. We may not always live in Australia; she may end up an American, an Australian, an Ameristralian, or an Auserican. Whatever her eventual nationality, I hope that the gorgeous Australian fragrance of honesty and shamelessness, the one that made her confess the perceived source of her distraction to her teacher, will hang about thoughtful, sensitive, imaginative Meryl, wherever she goes.

Another One Bites the Dust

Long ago, yesterday was (apparently) set as a day of destiny, a day when young, teenage, Brisbanian, Aussie boys were meant to meet what is known in my homeland as "Texas Justice." No, Dr. Phil wasn't in town. They met Texas Justice in the form of a tall, dark, intense, protective, foreign mum, namely ME. I had already run down one teenage boy in the morning, but my Friday adventures were far from over.

Right after school, my little troupe of lively girls had been put on bike and packed into my trailer at school. We had to cross the street, to get to the other side, just like in the joke. We have crossed this street every day without any problems, but like I said, this day was a day of destiny. On this afternoon, we were walking alongside some teenagers from the local high school. There was one huge boy. He outweighed me by at least half my weight. He stood at least 6 inches taller than my thin athletic frame. He was flirting with a group of girls and simultaneously trying to chuck a nearby friend off of the bike his friend was riding, while also kicking a smaller miserable-looking boy. This ragged crowd crossed the street with no problems, but when we got to the other side, Jordan began to get in the way as she peddled past. No one moved aside. Perhaps being considerate had not been taught at home or school to this motley crowd. At any rate, this huge boy was wandering back and forth across the footpath, creating mischief. I wouldn't have intervened, normally, but he started reeling toward my little girl, his carelessness threatening to knock her off her bike and into a thorny fence.

Now you must know a little background before I go on with the story. I sing, and thus have a set of power lungs that came in handy during this episode. Now, if you haven't heard me sing, maybe you are thinking, "Oh yes, lullabies, humming, sweet melodies, etc." If you were thinking along those lines, let me humbly correct you. I was the lead gospel soloist in our choir at church during University for a time, and I sang loud and lively gospel solos in front of thousands of people about once a month, or once every other month, for a couple of years. (Now, when you are a Christian and have a set of lungs like I think I have, sometimes the temptation is to think about how you can "use your talent for God" and also fulfill your own selfish dreams of grandeur, perhaps by becoming a Christian diva--because *sarcastically* God really needs one more shallow Christian diva like I was back then, like I may even tend to be now, claiming to represent Him. Of course, God never intended me to be a diva of any sort!) As I have matured, I have come to peace with the fact that my voice is meant for God's and for my family's enjoyment. These days the voice has been tabled from gospel solos and put to better use singing lullabies and harmonies over beloved Cd's in my home, but my lungs still remember volume, even after years of hibernation. In this story they are about to be brandished in a time of great need.

Another interesting bit of information you should know is that with all the cycling, Greg bought me a "camelback" water tank that resides in a little backpack. Cycling three hours a day three times a week puts me in serious need of further hydration, and the camelback allows me to drink water as I go, without stopping. I thought the camelback was quite normal, but my Aussie friends have never seen anything like it. Young and old can't take their eyes of me when I drink from it. They seem to view it as anything from a dummy (pacifier) to a scuba tank. As if I wasn't odd enough with my huge personality, since I have been in Brisbane the camelback has added new dimension to my "originality". It would be enough to often be confused while cycling with the postman, to be sweaty all the time, and to be scantily clad in the heat. To top it all off, I also have this strange looking life-support-ish alien tank on my back with a tube running to my mouth most of the time, very odd and bordering on scary to my friends here in Oz.

So, back to my story. The big blond hoodlum was reeling toward my little innocent girl on her bike. He was only a foot away when I sprang into action. I stood on my peddles pumping to catch up to him. I was all of seven feet tall. My muscles were bulging with sweat and exertion, and I'm sure the veins in my neck were swollen as my eyes bugged out of my head. With the alien lifeform on my back, magnifying my already tall frame, and with my long hair streaming out madly behind me, I spit out my scuba-tube camelback bite valve, and started to bellow at him with my huge lungs, "MOOOOOOOOOVE OUUUUUUUUT of the WAAAAAAAAAAY!" The sound of my voice was so loud that it even shocked my own ears as it reverberated inside my head.

I had already run down one teenage boy on my bike that day, and the experience had made me even braver than I was before. I was sure that I could run this huge guy down, and attempt a citizen's arrest (hopefully they have this in Australia) if he wanted to knock Jordan down. Fortunately, for him, the deafening sound of my voice blew him back from the path. He turned toward me, his eyes as large as saucers, the color draining from his already pale face as my sound waves burst his eardrums and blew his yellow hair back from his face. As he staggered backward, marvelling at the magnitude of the sound from my super-human lungs, my little girl peddled to safety and all 350 lbs of bike, trailer, and me, complete with the freaky alien on my back, flew by him.

I thought of the boy that I had run over (read the previous entry for details) earlier in the day, and then this latest poor, deaf teenage casualty of my expatriate adventures, pensively after the fact. Now, I know I am not mild-mannered, but Friday revealed the fierce beast that lives inside me, the maniacally odd, hilarious one that defends my kids. As I think over yesterday, fits of laughter keep washing over me; I keep laughing harder and harder, until the tears roll down my smiley, freckled cheeks.

I think I'll have to add to my earlier description of myself, after this latest incident. As much as I would like to be, I not yet deep or thoughtful. I am not yet noble or wise. I am a frightening, loud Texan alien in a foreign country. I run over teenage boys with my bike and scare the living daylights out of them with my superhuman voice. After I have accomplished these terrible feats, I laugh. I laugh uncontrollably at how crazy I am, at how good life can be; and I thank God for the gifts of humor and anonymity.

Running Down a Teenager with my Bike

In the moments before the accident, his beady eyes shone with mischief as his prepubescent 'stache waved in the breeze. His two best mates were nearby, watching, and his heart was full of bravado under the influence of peer pressure. His vehicle of choice was an undersized pink and yellow razor-scooter-thing, and he knew he was fast. He exuded pride, the pride that only comes from too much testosterone flowing through a medium-sized body and a tiny brain. He whizzed from behind us when Jordan and I were peddling across the street. He bravely cut between Jordan's and my bike and then confidently cut me off, crossing in front of my bike, while I was at a pretty good speed. In the instant when time slowed before the collision, terror pumped that familiar mom-adrenaline through my veins. I was sure that I would flip my bike and the trailer with the littler girls if I hit him head on; so I braked, so as not to hit his body. As the majority of him passed before me, I avoided the worst possible collision and instead, 350 pounds of bike and trailer and Mizell women of all sizes ran over his skinny legs and his goofy little undersized scooter.

In the instant after I ran him down, anger at the danger to which his carelessness had exposed myself and my girls consumed me, and I stopped my heavy self, bike, and trailer to address this little hooligan. I had a lot to say about his manners and his mother, but I never got the chance. I must have been pretty scary because he picked his miserable self and his pink scooter up and ran like the wind. (He looked remarkably like the deer that ran straight into the side of our car in west Texas. It was so stunned at its own stupidity that it picked itself up immediately and then fled until shock set in.)

The anger lasted all of five minutes until the reality of what had just transpired dawned on me, and I began to laugh uncontrollably, not just chuckles, but belly laughs that made me cry. Every time I remembered running over this kid, I started laughing again. I laughed on my bike, in front of friends at school, and all afternoon. All during the day, people looked at me like I would look at someone who is criminally insane, someone who hears voices. I just couldn't stop laughing. I was laughing so hard that I couldn't stop to fully explain what had happened, which made me look all the more crazy, which made me laugh harder and harder.

I want to be an insightful woman, one who thinks noble thoughts, one who helps people and contributes to society, but today is proof positive that I am not that woman yet. The truth is that I am really a brown alien with a funny Texas accent in a foreign country. I run over teenage boys with my bike and then laugh hysterically about it all day long like a mad woman. Maybe tomorrow I will be able to stop chuckling long enough to work on being deep. Today I just hope teenage boys will have the sense to stay out of my way (and that the kid's mother will not find my blog).

On Writing. . .

I wore a tiny canary-yellow costume, high heels, pearls, and a feather boa, as I recall. I thought of myself as an athlete and a vocalist, not a dancer of any sort, certainly not one who would wear a sleeveless yellow leotard. I was totally self-conscious on stage dancing in that tiny little get-up, but somehow I got through singing and dancing that number in "Guys and Dolls" for a few nights in high school. Writing my blog feels a lot like dancing in front of hundreds of people in yellow leotard with a feather boa. I feel uncomfortable and exposed and a little bit indulgent, but right now, in spite of the discomfort, I am compelled to write.

The beauty of Australia inspires me to take up the pen (or really the keyboard), as a way to process it and as a way to share it with those I have left on distant shores. This place has a hold on me that is difficult to describe. I love the presence of the ocean, and the smell of the minty gum tree canopy. I love the forests of mangroves and palms that sway in the coastal breezes. I live for the sunsets and driving into the hills, for standing under purple trees and smelling lazy brooks. I love the feel of my muscles hardening as I glow, cycling up and down the steep hills with my little helmeted girls in tow. I never realized I was so outdoorsy until I came here. The magnitude of the splendor here cannot be expressed in online photo albums and facebook posts. The harsh ruggedness of the land and the straightforwardness and generosity of the people are like nothing I have ever experienced before.


Every day in different ways, Australia becomes more a part of me. Living here is such a gorgeous experience, both visually and emotionally that not writing would be like keeping a 75% off sale at the Gap secret. It is not yet my second homeland, but Australia is fast becoming my home. Being here is bringing out beauty in me. The process I am undergoing feels like the process of turning a raw chunk of wood into a piece of furniture. Bits have to be removed and reworked. The process of refining what I am cannot be accomplished without the pain of loneliness and the sensations of loss that have been my companions in this journey. In furniture making wood must be cut and sanded and oiled to bring the potential to fruition. In my life, the further I am into this experience, the more I see the useless bits removed and beauty revealed, not physical beauty, of course, but strength and character that might otherwise remain hidden under layers of materialism, misplaced value, or insecurity. I guess hardship that refines could happen anywhere, but for me, it is happening here. When I leave, a piece of my heart will remain here, and I will take a piece of Australia with me wherever I go. I write to catalogue this process.

I write for Greg, who is my constant companion on this adventure in Australia; I write as an offering to him, a thanks for all the hard work that he does, that he has done nearly since we have been married, so that I have the opportunity be a full-time wife and mom, devoting myself, to loving him and nurturing our home and training our girls for whatever their destinies may be, to the exclusion of a paying job for the time being. I don't write about Greg very often because he is a fairly private person and because I believe marriage is sacred; but I do mention him from time to time because he is and has been my rock. He will show up in my writing as he draws me back to truth and reason. He is the mirror to my life in which I see myself as I am. Through his eyes, I see the beauty and the darkness that coexist in me and I know that he loves me in spite of my flaws. In a world that devalues manly men, men of strength, integrity and courage, in a world that has placed Homer Simpson on its throne as a distorted, goofy, pseudo-ideal of a "good" man, in this one space, let me turn the tide and give honor to true masculinity in the form of my own quiet husband, peaceful and temperate, imperfect, but still my hero.


Here in Oz, and wherever I may be, my family is and will be one of my most important priorities. This blog exists in part so that my girls will read how this pilgrimage was a blessing and a chance for us as a family to grow as we experience new ways to live. I write for Jordan, Meryl, and Micah Jade, so that when they are grown, and when my hair is streaked with gray, my girls will be able to look back through my eyes and see in my writing, reflections of my love for them as a young mother, a mother who prayed for them and cycled with them and baked birthday cakes and laughed and dreamed. I write so that they will have a record of the beach and the bikes and the blessings that are our Australian experience. I write about our everyday life so that when they are older, they will know as I am discovering, that there is no greater adventure than family life, whether it is lived out in Texas or in a foreign country.



I write before God to give him the credit he deserves in my life. I believe that God is totally good and He is the source of everything that is good in my life. I write about nature as a way of praising and enjoying his creativity, and I write about my family as a way of thanking him for the gift of people to cherish. Daily, I feel his approval as I love the people He has given me in practical ways, ways like like cooking, cleaning, disciplining, teaching, listening. The total goodness of God reveals my inadequacies and shortcomings, but He is not finished with me yet. God has a plan to bring good things out of my life, and He is accomplishing that plan through my being in Australia. I hope that each day, as I acknowledge Him in ways big and small, that he will reflect more and more brightly in my life, the love that he has for my family and for this world.


I really have so many reasons to write-- for the beauty of Australia, for my friends and family, to thank God, but as much as any other reason, I started this blog as a way of chasing dreams. I have wanted to write for the past 10 years or so, but I have been a terrible perfectionist. I never could muster the courage to start until now. If I am honest, I must confess that I hope to some day write books, books that inspire people and call them to believe--books that talk about meaning and tell the truth about God and love and identity. It feels scary to write that big hope out, but that's the honest truth. I really like the concept of a blog because blogging, as opposed to journaling with pen and paper, means that I can take a few friends with me. As I continue to blog, with people who care about me cheering me on, I practice a skill I tabled more than a decade ago when the perfectionist in me won, for a time. Every time I sit down to articulate my ideas and thoughts, I prove to myself that the world will not collapse if I own a few mistakes in my thinking, living, or writing. I still get nervous every time I get ready to press the publish button, but every time that I click that little button anyway, a little bit more of that inhibited perfectionist that has ruled my thoughts and killed my enjoyment for so long dies. If I wasn't fighting perfectionism, I would be aiming for the total annihilation of my enemy, but as my adversary demands perfection, I will have to be content with the near-destruction of my old adversary--perfectionism-- through writing. To those of you who read, thanks for taking this important journey with me. It's nice to have company while I write about the beauty and meaning of my here and now, and in writing, chase the far-off dreams of someday.

A Tribute to Girlfriendship

At some point during the dating stage of my relationship with Greg, I ceased my attempts at fashioning him into a girlfriend. He is simply too furry and calm and manly to be treated like a woman. Greg doesn't care about bargains at charity shops, quirky jewelry, hairdos, artistic independent films, or Godiva chocolate truffles. Even after 12 years together, he still thinks my moments of avant-garde fashion are unintentional faux pas, and lovingly suggests other alternatives in style. Greg categorically refuses to eat any food that might once have been served at a wedding or baby shower. Greg made a great boyfriend, and now a perfectly complimentary husband (and best friend), but sweet Greg was and is just too masculine to be a girlfriend.

Loyal girlfriends are to friends what an eagle is to a sparrow--the same sort of thing generally, but with all the important qualities amplified. A loyal girlfriend listens when she could criticize. She keep a confidence when it would make a juicy morsel of gossip. She doesn't compare or compete, but instead rejoices with the successes of her friend. She is honest, but kind, and her opinion can be trusted to set you back on course when you get sidetracked. She puts the interests of her friend above her own, and always wants the best for you. She "butts in" if her friend is too embarrassed to ask for help but desperately needs it, and will go to great lengths to see your needs met. She occasionally bring meals or cards or calls just to see if you are okay. She respects differences of opinion and isn't threatened by strength. She encourages you in matters both large and small; (In my case small encouragement in large matters has sometimes meant telling me that I still LOOK like I am in single-digit sizes, and that my huge size 11 feet are just "a good foundation for your height.") She will lovingly tease about idiosyncrasies that just won't wear off and kindly bear with weakness that lingers while character is developing in its place. The best kind of girlfriend will applaud you and rebuke you in love and inspire you to be more than you are.

My loyal girlfriend hold a special place in my heart, maybe the place that would be held by a sister, if I had a sister. My friends have played an integrally important part of developing my character throughout each stage in my life. My girlfriends have been with me through my quiet phase in elementary school (hard to imagine, I know), the middle school mushroom haircut, high school romances and proms, boyfriends and breakups, the trials of architecture schools. They have joined my journey through my engagement and the planning of my wedding, wedding-day nervousness, my pregnancy and the resulting stretchmarks, birth, finding my way as a wife and later a mother. They have supported me as my kids started school, as I planned a move to Oz, and as I adjusted to a new way of life in a foreign country. My girlfriends have taught me foreign languages like tact, patience, meditation, organization, and Aussie English, languages I would never have learned on my own. (I'm not saying I am fluent, especially at organizing or being tactful, just that I would know even less without their tutoring.)

I guess starting the process of making new friends in another new place has made me very mindful of how much I have to be thankful for in the friendships of my past. My truest friends know every bit of who I am, my flaws and failures and my strengths and aptitudes as a woman; and they love me still. (and I love them too.) They have loved my children like their own flesh and blood, and have accepted my husband as a brother. They have fought for my marriage, even if it meant fighting me. In times of great need and transition, in times of trial and heartache, my friends have been the hands of God on earth, binding up my heart and carrying me on when I couldn't move. I know what it is to have true and loyal friends, and I am so thankful.

So, my girlfriends, thank you, thank you, thank you for what you have been to me. In the drought of lonely days that still overtakes me from time to time as I begin again in a new world, I carry the hope of your friendship with me like a camel carries water in the desert. The memories of your care give me hope that love and generosity, honesty and loyalty are spoken by kindred spirits everywhere and that the sparks of kindness from new acquaintances can be fanned into the flames of true friendship as I pay forward to others the debt of love that I owe to you. Thanks again to each of you. Thanks for the memories, and thanks for the hope.

Extraordinary Splendor and Common Beauty

We were driving in our common white car down the common gray street, down from the top of the first hill when Greg first spotted something spectacular. Greg, who is our family's resident king of understatement calmly announced, "When we get to the top of the next hill, you girls can see something nice out the windows to the left." Down the hill we cruised, and up, up, up the next we climbed, waiting to see the promised "nice something" out our windows.


When we reached the top, the golden light of a gorgeous sunset temporarily stopped time, and the little girls in the back gasped and clapped their little hands in delight. The intense red sky faded to bright flame-orange and then to violet as it rose above the old, worn, charcoal mountains that lay beyond the school in front of us. The sun had already climbed down out of sight to rest for the evening, but her glory lived on in the ribbons of gold clouds parading across the sky. The dazzling cloud-ripples floated up above us like a range of higher, ethereal summits.


The little valley full of wooden, post-war houses that fell away from our gray street to our left had seemed ordinary enough in broad daylight; but at dusk this evening, the houses that populated the little valley seemed to float amid the soft, purple haze left over from the sunset. Each home-island emanated soft, yellow light from within as families gathered for an evening meal.


Greg's eyes met mine for an instant, and together, we savored the cries of delight from the back seat, the beauty of the leftover sunshine behind the mountains, and the peace of the violet valley with the little dreamy, glowing houses. The happiness of sharing such splendor hung heavily around us, thick like the sweetness of perfume. This was a moment of deep beauty, a moment that you drink in and savor, like a glass of cold lemonade on a blazing hot day.


As the extraordinary majesty of that Australian sunset washed over us on the top of the hill, I turned toward my husband and my little, awestruck girls, still captivated in the back seat. The sunset had surprised me, not only with its intrinsic beauty, but by illuminating the glory hidden right there in my ordinary white car, glory I sometimes overlook. It is easy to see a spectacular sunset, but often I miss noticing the blessings of being a family. As I gazed at the Greg and the girls, overwhelming thankfulness consumed my heart, thankfulness not just for the perfect majesty of vivid sunsets, but gratitude for the grandeur of everyday family life. I am so thankful for dirty dishes and diapers and discipline, for the loud rapture of children marvelling, and most of all, for the common beauty of familiar, faithful love that shares the happiness of home and the splendor of sunsets.

The "Blackface Skit"

The firestorm around "the blackface skit" on a recently aired variety show here in Australia has me very interested in the Aussie take on race-relations and "political correctness." According to the polls in major newspapers (http://www.dailytelegraph.com.au/news/readers-hey-hey-skit-not-racist/story-e6freuy9-1225784417114), Australians seem to think that Americans in general and Harry Connick Jr. in specific are far too sensitive in being offended by the "blackface skit."

I watched the skit, and I watched Harry Connick Jr. speak about how we as Americans have come so far towards equality and toward "not making black people look like [stereotyped] buffoons." I must say that I agreed entirely with his assessment of the skit. I too found it objectionable and offensive. Harry Connick did not call anyone a racist, not the group that "sang," not the show, not the Australian public. He was gracious and kind, but he expressed his objection to ridiculing black skin through "blackface." He did not object to poking fun at Michael Jackson, not at the Jackson five, but at black skin. Harry Connick Jr. was here to promote his new album, and it would have been easier to let the skit pass without commenting than to speak up. He showed tremendous courage and exposed himself to great criticism and financial loss by speaking up for what he considered truth and right. Good job Harry! I will buy your next album, not because I love jazz, but to support your courage.

I am not a fantastic student of history or politics in America, but a piece of the history of social justice for minority races in the United States of America is my story. It is the story of my mother as an American of Mexican descent and the story of my father as an (now naturalized) immigrant from India. The story of justice for minority races in America runs through my veins and reverberates through the privilege of opportunity I have known. Because I own a little piece of that history, I feel compelled to speak up with my "inside scoop." I hope that my anecdotal perspective will add a little understanding as to why we as Americans are sensitive to joking about skin color.

In modern-day America, there are still at least a couple of generations that grew up in a segregated society, a society where the color of your skin determined your value to society, your perceived intelligence, your opportunities for education, your wages, and your social status. At this point in history, with all the opportunity I have owned by birthright, the way that my mother grew up is nearly unimaginable to me.

Near the Mexican border, segregation divided schools into "white" and "Mexican". My grandmother wisely taught my mother English before Spanish so that my mother could pass for white and be educated in the white school. The white school provided a far superior education to what she would have experienced in the Mexican school. Race discrimination was alive and well in Texas in the 1950's, but because of my my grandmother's shrewdness and my mother's diligence and determination, my mother became one of the first in her family to finish university and live above poverty.

My father arrived from India in the USA around 1970, thirsty for opportunity, and just in time to benefit from the civil rights movement. He studied to at a state university and has practiced as an architect for the last 25 years. He came with a few hundred dollars in his pocket and he has worked hard for decades to be able to own his own beautiful piece of suburbia, and even, a few years ago, a black, shiny Mercedes Benz. Discrimination based on his accent or his skin were not permitted by law, and he has experienced little illegal discrimination in a post-civil rights America. He has excelled on a more level playing field than had ever existed for minorities before. I regularly hear him say, in his soft Indian accent, with overwhelming gratitude, "only in America, only in America would my story be possible."

For the black community, even more than for immigrants or the Mexican community, I think racism and segregation have gouged a terribly deep scar. For hundreds of years people were brought from Africa against their will. They were treated as property. They were bought and sold, bred, and abused. When the civil war ended in 1867, they were freed from being slaves, but left to live as a parallel society, with a lower set of standards in justice and education, just to name a couple dimensions of inequality. After hundreds of years in captivity, freedom left blacks in a post-civil war society, neither African nor fully American, in terms of their rights and privileges as citizens. Nearly a hundred years passed before the courage of the civil rights movement peacefully began the process of righting the wrongs left by more than 300 years of injustice based on skin color.

Because Aussies have no history of slavery, the story of African-Americans may not resonate with most, but if you go back only a generation, Aussies shudder to think that children of the "stolen generations" were taken from their Aboriginal families because of their mixed (white) blood. Australia's good heart is appalled by the injustice and inhumanity of taking mixed children away from their own Aboriginal Australian parents, who were considered an inferior race and culture. Aussies, with few exceptions, treat the stolen generations with respect and kindness and sympathy. Aussies would not stand to see others, especially those in another country, ridicule the color of the skin of their "stolen generations" because of the injustices that they have suffered.

Americans feel the same protection towards our African-American population that Aussies feel towards their stolen generations. In some ways, the sentiment of protection may even be stronger since the injustice went on for a much greater length of time and involved much greater segments of our society both as the abuser and as the abused. As Americans, we tolerate poking fun at what people do as individuals or even quirky things that communities do as sub-cultures of Americans. We cannot, however, abide the ridicule of the color of skin. The wounds of skin-based injustice are too fresh to be funny to us. We have come too far as a society, toward equality and justice for all Americans, and we refuse to go backwards, even in jest.

So, to my American friends, do not be so quick to see universal racism in Australia. Aussies as a culture, are irreverent and funny and self-deprecating. Aussies tend to make fun of everything they like and everything they dislike. Irreverent humor is the Aussie way of life, and it brings a casual freshness that I love to my daily relationships and interactions. Because of their humor, Aussies are not easily offended, which is why many do not understand the great offense caused by the skit. I don't believe that the "blackface" skit was meant as it has been interpreted in the greater global context. Although the skit will cause a great many Americans offense, I do not think it was meant as a racial slur.

To my Aussie friends, our offence at your jest is not overly sensitive. We call ourselves the land of "liberty and justice for all;" we mean that phrase (from our pledge of allegiance) especially toward those among us who had long been deprived of full equality because of their skin color. I hope I live to see the day when our societal wounds around slavery, segregation, and civil rights are finally fully healed. Until that day, when justice and equality are complete and injustice based on skin color passes away from our living memory as Americans, we'll laugh alongside you if you joke about our quirks; but jokes about color will cut us too deeply, exposing the shame of a history we have long struggled to set right.

Have You Ever Gone Hungry?

"How can I possibly succeed at my side of our division of labor, if I haven't bought food to cook for all the people I love?" I wondered out loud toward Greg. It was a dramatic question; I had loaded it, and was ready to injure myself with his answer or mine. A couple of weeks ago, I was getting worked up about my dreaded grocery lists. I gave voice to my worries that we would not have food for dinner since I had not forced the stars and lists and car and trading hours of the stores to align properly. I was defeated by my own lack of organization.

Since we have been in Australia, we have owned one car. Before we left the USA, I knew having one car would be challenging for me, and that Greg would usually need the car traveling back and forth between the projects he manages at work. I knew before we came, in theory, what my life would be with one car, and I committed to it beforehand. In actual practice, figuring out public transportation and biking and routes and kids is part of my adventure, and generally, I like solving the four dimensional puzzle of going places. Most of the time, I enjoy my new, car-lite life, but sometimes I struggle with the organizational powers required to make everything run smoothly in our little castle.

Having one car has forced me to be much more organized than I ever have been in taking care of my family, and much more organized than I like to be. My natural gifts are creative, not organizational, to put it quite mildly. For our family's day to day life to rest on my organizational "aptitude" feels quite precarious at times. I sometimes suspect that Greg and I might need another wife to keep us organized; but, not being bigamists, I guess we'll have to do without. For better or worse, and by our mutual choice, I am the CEO who runs the daily life of our home.

In spite of my deficiencies, I seem, usually, to be able to plan for appointments, so that they are on days when I have the car and can thus keep them. I don't find it too difficult to keep nappies and wipes and snacks with me, clipped to the back of my bike trailer. I don't usually struggle with being organized enough to eat at certain times so that I don't run out of the energy that will peddle MJ and I back up the big hill to my house. I love to cook; I like to plan meals. All the aforementioned organizational tasks in my life I accomplish with relative ease; but separating the items I need for individual meals out to individual store lists--butcher, baker, candlestick-maker? This task baffles and tortures my dreamy, creative brain. The actual separating of groceries into lists feels to me like swimming in honey, and I feel like I may drown at any time while my pen rests in in my hand with a pad of paper before it. Will I transfer all the right items to the right store lists from the menus? Did I get everything listed? Will I find almonds at the grocery store or the fruit and veg? Should I list it twice so I don't forget? How many packs of diapers? Will I come in under budget? Are we out of toilet paper? What if I forget something and I don't have the car to go get it later in the week? The questions hang on me like a pack of little screaming dirty kids (not my kids--really bad, annoying ones).

That's where I was, mentally, when I stood in the kitchen, discouraged and hopeless, my head hanging down, pen and unfinished lists in hand. Greg just walked over, and gave me a hug. He looked in my eyes and said, "Have you ever gone hungry since we have been married?" The truth, as usual, pierced through my neurotic perfectionism.

Greg's kind, honest reminder soothed my tortured mind, and silenced all the screaming questions on my list. I don't have to perfect my lists to be a good wife and mother. I don't run this family alone. Greg knows me, even, maybe especially, my myriad weaknesses. He has known and loved me since I was 19, and far crazier and more disorganized than I am now. Incredibly, he has loved me for more than a third of my life, through 90 lbs of baby-weight gained and lost, through depression and bad hair color, through colicky infants and stretch-marks and unhealed insecurities. He has helped me wage an intense and enduring war against my own perfectionism, and he would help win this day's battle too. His love has been sure and steady and calm and true; and love doesn't mind picking up a few things at the grocery store to tide us over until I can face all my dreaded lists. Thanks honey. You're the best, and I hope you know that you are my hero.

Sarah and the Three-headed, Fire-breathing Monster

When I am on holiday, shopping at a common grocery store in a foreign country is a great adventure and a fun experiment; but when I began my life as an American expat in Australia, shopping at a common grocery store was like facing a fire-breathing, three-headed monster that stood between me and feeding my family. I couldn't find things I knew must be there like baking soda, cocoa, and creamed cheese, while other (apparently American) items such as cornmeal and crisco are mysteriously "mislabeled." Walking in and looking at all the unfamiliar products and brand names overwhelmed me, and the task of grocery shopping, which I had once enjoyed, became daunting and discouraging. I felt like the three-headed, fire-breathing monster of grocery shopping might consume me, that is, until I met Sarah.

I was sitting in a pew at our new church in Sydney when Sarah found me before the service. I was carrying the weight of my own cultural and practical ignorance, and feeling strange and alone and foreign. Sarah perkily introduced herself and said, "Oh, my friend Nerida (mutual friend that I had met in Austin) sent me an email about you. I have been waiting to meet you! If you need anything, please give me a call. I'm on maternity leave for three more months, and I'd be glad to help you in any way I can." Her introduction and friendliness breathed hope over me, hope that I would have a friend, and hope that there would be at least one Australian that would help me if I needed it.

By nature and practice, I am very straightforward and terribly honest. When I lived in Texas, I often felt immersed the confusion of Southern "politeness," and I regularly had trouble discerning what people meant by what they said. When I arrived in Sydney, our pastor's wife Susan gave me a short tutorial on Aussie cultural communication, "Australians are very straightforward and up-front. They tend to mean what they say, and say what they mean." By my American-who-lives-in-the-South communication decoding key, Sarah was glad to meet me, but might not really be interested in helping me with a mundane task like grocery shopping. By Susan's Aussie decoding key, Sarah really did mean that I could call her and ask for help. The question about which decoding key to use paralyzed me for a couple of days. Finally, after searching the grocery store on four different trips for cocoa and being at a loss as to what to pack in my children's peanut-free school lunches, I decided to use Susan's key on Sarah's introduction and offer, and I risked calling to ask Sarah for help.

In Sydney, every day, the shops close by about five so that everyone can go home to their families. On Thursday, however, shops stay open until the very late hour of nine o'clock; and many people shop on Thursday nights for the week's groceries. Sarah first shopped with me on a Thursday night in February. She willingly braved my terrible driving and helped me find the mall that contained all the stores I sought (In Oz, grocery stores are also at malls with all the other shops). Sarah tutored me on products and brand names. She helped me find foods that would suit our tight budget, and shared delicious recipes for things I had never cooked before, like roasted shoulder of lamb. She showed me what to buy at the grocery store, the butcher, and the fruit and veg shop. While we shopped, we talked about babies and sleep, post-partum depression, husbands, and our mums and dads. We both came home refreshed as new but true friends, and with all our week's shopping done. We had such a great time that night, that Sarah's husband Dave and my husband Greg thought it would be good for us to go every week.

So, nearly every week on Thursdays, for the time we lived in Sydney, Sarah and I headed out on the everyday adventure of food and friendship. If you looked at us on paper, we might not have made good friends. Sarah has an important job as a risk manager at a major bank in one of the world's most metropolitan cities. I am a displaced Texan homemaker. But week by week, we found common ground in our faith, in our love for our families, and in our appreciation of new experiences. I could ask Sarah any questions about my new homeland without her making me feel silly, and she loved sharing in all my new discoveries. We shared our histories and dreamed about our futures, and neither of us was threatened by the strengths of the other.

You see, when you face a three-headed, fire-breathing monster of any kind, even if the monster is only a supermarket, having a friend with you makes the difference between triumph and defeat. When I was overwhelmed and sad and lonely, a strong new friend found me. Sarah kindly carried me until I found my equilibrium in Australia. I don't think Sarah ever knew it, but she single-handedly slew the very first threatening monster I encountered in Oz as she bravely held out the hope of her friendship while guiding me through the supermarket.

Adrenaline, Ferocious Love, and Entrusting

A few weeks ago, on the way to school, the girls and I took a wrong turn and had to cross under the bridge where the scary men live. Given my childhood fear of under-bridge trolls and adult fear of potentially aggressive drunk men, I was pretty terrified. I had nearly all that was precious with me in my girls, and my usual hero Greg was miles away at work. I felt the power from an adrenaline surge rising.

I remember the first time that the protective surge of adrenaline rose in me. I was 23, and Jordan was 4 months old. We were in a truck stop paying for gas somewhere between Dallas and Houston. Jordan always loved truckers, and was cooing happily at a very large plaid-ish one who was getting dangerously close. He was talking sweetly to her, but the adrenaline assured me that he was interested in acquiring my colicky infant. I remember how the plan flashed in my consciousness in the blink of an eye. If he touched the handle on her carrier, I would grab the beer from the ice barrel, and BAM! With one swift blow to the head, he would fall before me, and truckers everywhere would know not to get too close to my little bald, moon-faced baby girl. Fortunately, that trucker had enough sense to recognize a hormone-crazed new mother and he backed away without incident.

It is not just humans that can cause a threat. When Meryl was two-and-a-half, we were feeding ducks at a lake when an aggressive swan came running up to claim our bread. He was honking and he looked wild with hunger. In a flash, the moldy bag of bread was transformed into a weapon that I swung back and forth before us clearing a a swath of safety. The swan's neck met the bread, and with one swift hard blow, he knew he was defeated. He waddled off in shame, and I yelled irrationally after him as my friends and their kids watched in shock and horror. Soon after the "bread bag incident" the aforementioned swan disappeared, but my family's lawyer (AKA father-in-law) says that I can "neither confirm nor deny" that I had anything to do with his disappearance.

As a woman, I am strong and bold and honest. As a mother, I am (reasonably) firm and (relatively) structured. As a mother whose children are threatened, I am wilder and more ferocious than a tiger in India. Like every good mother I know, a threat to my children brings out the grizzly power of what my friend Jennifer calls "Mama Bear." The force and magnitude of my love for my children frightens even me. I would go any distance and pay any cost to protect them. I would stand between them and a freight train, and I would gladly sacrifice my own life to keep them safe. (I feel a little freaky writing all of this out, but every good mother I know feels the same way. I think it is part of our "hard-wiring.")

As we peddled quickly toward the bridge a few weeks ago, a plan formed in my head. Unlike many mothers, when I hit "fight or flight mode," "flight" is mysteriously missing in me. On this particular day, if threatened, I would become a ninja (with no training whatsoever) and use my bike lock and chain as my weapon of choice. I pictured myself as a slightly older brown version of Cameron Diaz in Charlie's Angels, with less cool clothing, in a bike helmet, and against impaired enemies, but you get the picture. We bravely peddled on through, and the "dangerous" drunks just said a lazy "Good day." The bridge and adrenaline surge passed and I felt a little silly. Is it my skill or mental acuity or physical power that keeps us safe? Honestly, if the safety of my children depends on a nut like me, they are never going to be safe.

As the girls get older, and as I slowly grow more mature and less likely to attack innocent pond animals, I am learning to temper the power of protective adrenaline with trust. Every day, my authority over my children diminishes, and with it, the control that I possess over keeping them safe. Out of necessity, I am learning to entrust them to other people who also love them: their teachers, a few of my trusted friends, and my husband, Greg, who cares for them as much as I do, but in a masculine way. Most of all, when I am unable or absent, I am learning, at a snail's pace, to trust God with their care. I trust God to watch over them because God works everything for their and for my good; his resources are infinitely greater than a beer, bike lock, or a bag of moldy bread. Most of all I trust God to watch over my girls because I have to believe that that God loves Jordan, Meryl, and MJ more wildly and ferociously than I ever will.

Purple Trees and Reflections of Eden

When I was a very little girl, I had a preschool teacher that wouldn't let me color the trees purple. Mrs. Billings said, "We must color trees green because trees ARE green." Purple crayons were reserved for carebears, eggplants, and parts of rainbows. I think, in hindsight, that the imagination of poor Mrs. Billings must have have been seriously undernourished. She just couldn't find it within herself to believe in purple trees; but as a small, fanciful child, even after submitting to the "green tree rule," I still held out hope that somewhere, purple trees really did exist.

On our morning bike rides, we drive past dozens of wisteria-purple "Jacaranda" trees. I love living in a place where reality is just as vivid and colorful as my imagination. Australians seem to take the Jacaranda for granted. Many think the Jacaranda quite ordinary, but I think each one is a miracle. Every Jacaranda tree seems to me like something from the other side of the rainbow, something from the land of dragons and elfs, that has accidentally wandered over.

Imagine a tree as tall as a live oak (35 ft or 6.5 m tall). In your mind, where you would usually see the vivid green of spring foliage, replace it with purple blooms so thick that they cast a blue light under the shade of the tree. Riding along the bike path into the shade of a jacaranda is like riding suddenly from bright sunlight into bright moonlight and back again where the shade ends. Seeing them in bloom every morning is truly magical, and I am actually glad that I had to wait so long to see my first long-awaited purple tree. Honestly, if I had seen them earlier in life, I would be truly disappointed not to see unicorns grazing in the fields nearby.

I am clearly a tree-lover (I even love green trees), and there is a part of a verse about trees in the Garden of Eden that I have always loved. In Genesis three it reads, "Then the man and his wife heard the sound of the Lord God as he was walking in the garden in the cool of the day. . ." When I look at the t.v. or the Internet, I struggle to believe that a perfect place, created for mankind, ever existed. When I watch the news, I see only war, rumors of war, abuse, genocide, and hopelessness. There is just so much evil in our world. The holiness of Eden has been shattered into a million pieces like a smashed mirror.

The despair all around can be so thick, but when I step into the broad-day moonlight under a jacaranda tree, I begin to regain hope for the redemption of this old, broken-down world, and for my own heart. Every morning, the Jacaranda tree reminds me that I still see reflections of Eden when I look for them, and that if I listen hard as the wind gently brushes past the purple trees, I can still hear the sound of God as he moves through the cool of the day.

The Jacaranda is the lavender purple tree under which Jordan is standing with her bike. The hot pink tree in the foreground is a rhododendron, I think.

The Fortress of Family Dinners

When Greg and I were newly married, we really wanted to travel, but travelling was just not a possibility when two adults and a tiny but expensive baby split Greg's two-tears-out-of-college salary three ways. Oh, did I mention that I was also in graduate school? Well, needless to say, travelling was put on the back-burner for a while while we were learning to live family life on a tight budget. Instead of traveling, I decided to take us on a world tour of foods via my new, wedding-present cookbooks. Much to Greg's dismay, I also made up "recipes" when the urge to be creative struck.

Our food journey took Greg and I through the cuisine of the USA, Mexico, Italy, and Asia with many successes, and many different types of failures. Did you know that if you don't take your Cuisinart blender completely apart to clean it after making homemade guacamole, it will stink like rotten avocados for weeks? Did you know that 8 cloves of garlic in Thai Chicken Sate will keep vampires AND friends at a distance? Did you know you can burn green beans and peas? Did you know that chicken cooked in soy sauce and mango puree (one of my invented recipes) tastes worse than anything else I have ever tasted? All in all, the food tour was a great experience for me in learning to cook good food at a time when we didn't have extra money for going out to eat. Over time, the sampling of interesting homemade foods evolved into the habit of eating together as a family, although many nights were pretty crazy and loud and wordless in the early days of our family life, when Jordan and Meryl were small, screamy infants.

We have done family dinners most nights for the past 9 years, and by now, I am a fantastic home "chef," even if I do say so myself. Our dinners were a wonderful part of our day when we lived in Austin, but I think with all the changes we have experienced in moving to Australia, our family dinners are more important here than they ever were in Texas. There is a comfort to coming home and regaining your balance by repeating the same routine every evening. There is great hope in share your dreams with those who will cheer you on. There is a peace in processing the day out loud before an audience that loves you unconditionally and wants the best for you.

Our conversations vary from night to night, but some themes run continuously through our time together at this stage of life. Jordan talks about "beating the boys" in anything that can be made into a competition. Last month, we had to suppress laughter after hearing that she had defended her friends by literally whacking the boys with her lunchbox. Meryl is always planning her next birthday party, what she and her friends will do and wear, and who can be invited. The big girls dream out loud about true love and marriage and wedding dresses (which is surreal and unbelievable because they are nearly 6 and 7 and a half). Micah Jade, who is two, contributes most of the comedy, since she has a little trouble keeping up with the conversation. In the middle of serious conversation, she is very likely to bring up dolphins and dugongs (the Aussie version of the manatee). She also gives reports on the number of trucks she has seen in a day. (These reports are particularly colorful because she substitutes "f" for the "tr" sound.) We hear about Daddy's projects and his "work friends," and his bike rides, basketball games and bike wrecks. I tell them about all the new and interesting people I am meeting and what animals we saw in the bike way. We eat good home-cooked meals and bravely try new recipes together. I look forward to sharing the comfort of companionship every evening.

The way that my life turns never ceases to surprise me. Until last year, I had always thought that Greg and I had missed our chance to travel and find new adventures abroad when we had Jordan a year and a month after we were married. I never dreamed that the creativity developed in and guided by architecture school could be best spent on cooking family meals and finding ways to draw each member of the family into meaningful conversation. I never thought that our dinners as a family would be transported across the Pacific, worlds away from where it started. When I was 23 and burning broccoli in the early stages of my cooking experiments, I never imagined that those very experiments would evolve into treasured time together each night.

Now, in a place where so many things are still foreign to us, and where we sometimes feel alien or lonely, every evening, Greg, Jordan, Meryl, MJ and I return to the same table, to the same comfort of life together. We may talk about birthdays and dugongs and far-off weddings, but what we are building is far larger than than those things. Every night we build more of the strong fortress of our own family, so that when hard times come to each of us, as they will, we will have a place of strong refuge in being together.