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.