Does God Has Chicken Legs Too?

I hated looking in the mirror at my miserably skinny legs when I was a child. I felt incredibly self-conscious about them, but nothing I could do would improve what healthy diet and the third world genes of my parents had given me. I had "chicken legs" so badly that I earned the nickname "KFC". Not only did I hate the mirror's truthful reflection of my legs, but I found fault with most of the rest of the image my mirror presented as well. I would have given anything to have exchanged my dark locks for golden blond hair like my barbie doll, or my caramel skin for the porcelain-white skin of my friends. As a preteen, I became self-conscious about my ethnic nose, which had grown ahead of the rest of my body. By my teens, I added to my ever-growing list of insecurities my full cheeks, my figure (or the lack thereof), my strength of personality, and my intellect. If I could have, I would have waved a magic wand over myself in order to become a sweet, perky, petite, five-foot-tall, blond chick with a tiny little nose--someone quiet who didn't stand out. In the absence of the existence of such a wand, a tall, slender, ethnic girl with a loud voice, waist-length, wavy, dark hair, and an outspoken streak the size of Texas stared back at me defiantly from my mirror.

Somewhere between childhood and young adulthood, many of us women begin to believe the lies that magazines, diet-product companies, peers, and billboards sell, wounding lies about beauty and worth that penetrate to the core of who we are. After we grow up, we continue to compare ourselves to our friends, to our parents, to air-brushed images, to anything, really, that perpetuates the the insecurities that we have developed during our growing-up years. Criticizing ourselves becomes a common denominator in conversations in our heads and between our friends.

By the time I was a wife end a mother, the insecurities of my childhood had become so native that I did not even recognize them as being foreign until, at twenty-six, I began to see the same characteristics that I had found so objectionable in myself, in my daughters. In them, however, I saw beauty, not flaw. Jordan has my ethnic nose and my tan skin. Meryl owns my slender legs, and my dark hair. Seeing bits of myself in my girls shone light on what I had believed about myself-- lies that I did not want to pass on. And so, my search to understand truth to teach myself and Jordan, Meryl, and later Micah Jade began.

I'm a unapologetic, hard-core Christian, so the search for truth should always send me straight to the Bible ( which also means that I should not have let myself be let astray a little at a time by so many contrary ideas). The Bible is my source for truth that transcends time and location, my anchor in the ever-changing waves of culture. What I found there as I researched was truth I already knew; but I suppose there is a huge difference between knowing truth and believing it in a way that you live it out. These are the things I began to teach my girls from the time Jordan was three and Meryl was eighteen months old, truths that have begun to form the way they see themselves and to reform the way I see myself.

1. You are made in the image of God; you are his masterpiece. At the beginning of time, God created everything we see, the sun and the moon, the land and the water, the plants and the animals, and most importantly, human-kind. Where the rest of creation was made from the imagination of God, man and woman were made to reflect his image. Everything God made, he pronounced as "good". God has not made any two women are exactly alike; we have different shapes and skin colors and hair colors, different noses and eyes and heights. We are each unique and made in a way that reflects unique aspects of the beauty and creativity of God. Each of our bodies is God's individual work of art, perfect apart from the approval of our own eyes or the eyes of our fellow creatures. We are each beautiful because we are made by God.

2. God's good work extends not only to our bodies, but also to our inner person. Psalm 139 talks about how God knows each of us. He knows what we think and what we will say before we speak it because he "created our inmost being"--our personality or our spirit--whether we are creative or concrete, number or word-oriented, sensitive or strong. Everything that we naturally are as women was carefully made by God on purpose. Whether we are loud or quiet, melancholy or charismatic, chiefs or Indians by nature, our inmost being is God's work, and he calls all his workmanship "good". (I don't mean that we can excuse bad behavior by personality, just that God made our personalities too.)

3. Man looks at the outward appearance, but God looks at the heart. God has made our physical selves beautiful in his sight, but what really matters more than our bodies is what is inside our hearts. We post-modern, Western humans put far too much importance on physical beauty, on what our peers think of us and how we come across, while God places prime importance on what is inside our hearts. Physical beauty cannot mask ugliness inside, nor can what society sees as "ugliness" mask true inner beauty. God sees to the hearts of each of us. Growing in kindness is far more important than perfect hair,new dresses, and the right toenail polish. Who we are becoming on the inside is infinitely more important than external beauty, which necessarily fades with the passing of time.

4. If you are a Christian, you are God's house, so take care of yourself. By having faith in Jesus, Christians trust that God takes away the wrong things that we do so that we can have a close relationship with God. We believe that the Spirit of God is with us everywhere we go. By believing and trusting in Him, we become his "temple". As Christians, every bit of us belongs to God, so we have to take care of ourselves like we would take care of his house. This means that we don't spend time in self-destructive behaviors of any sort because when we tear down ourselves, we tear down the dwelling place of God. We don't spend time around others who would tear us down or physically harm us. We eat healthy food and exercise in good stewardship of our bodies so that we can spread God's love on earth for as long as God chooses to give us life here. We don't neglect our physical selves, but show our bodies appropriate care. Being the temple of God is a privilege, and we should treat ourselves with respect due to the residence of the Spirit of God

For a large middle chunk of my life, I believed powerful lies that held me captive, but I will not live in the shadows of them any longer, nor will I pass them on to the ones I love. Lies that are deep inside us can not be fought by the latest self-esteem curriculum, or by the changing currents in psychology reflected in the magazines. No, deep and wide and ingrained lies are not fought and destroyed except by the power of knowing Truth, truth that is older than time, truth that brings freedom and joy to places where there was once pain and slavery.

I teach my girls the truth in the hope that, long before they are thirty-two, they will see themselves as I am beginning to see myself. I am beautiful, not because I fit a societal norm of beauty in either the USA or Oz, not because I have had my stretch marks or wrinkles or breasts fixed (I haven't), not because my husband thinks I am sexy (he does). I am beautiful because I am made in God's image, because I am one of God's unique masterpieces as a woman. I will never be sweet and, though I am at peace, I am rarely quiet, but God intends the force and honesty that he created in me for his good purposes; somehow, God needs all types of personalities, both soft and strong. I will pay attention to who I am becoming on the inside because that is more important to God that physical beauty, which fades with time. I will take care of my physical self like I am taking care of God's property (which I am), so that I can enjoy God's dwelling with me for as long as I am around on earth.

My legs aren't any thicker from the appropriating and teaching of all this truth, but between truth and cycling, on most days I'm coming to terms with them. I have really begun to believe that God has created all of me to reflect His image, even my legs, and so, I have reluctantly concluded that God must have chicken legs too.

Here are my Bible references, in case anyone is interested--

1, Genesis 1: 26-27, 31 ²⁶ Then God said, "Let us make man in our image, in our likeness, and let them rule over the fish of the sea and the birds of the air, over the livestock, over all the earth, and over all the creatures that move along the ground." ²⁷ So God created man in his own image, in the image of God he created him; male and female he created them. ³¹ God saw all that he had made, and it was very good. And there was evening, and there was morning—the sixth day.

2. Psalm 139: 1-4, 13-16 ¹ O LORD, you have searched me and you know me. ² You know when I sit and when I rise; you perceive my thoughts from afar. ³ You discern my going out and my lying down; you are familiar with all my ways. ⁴ Before a word is on my tongue you know it completely, O LORD. ¹³ For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother's womb. ¹⁴ I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well. ¹⁵ My frame was not hidden from you when I was made in the secret place.When I was woven together in the depths of the earth, ¹⁶ your eyes saw my unformed body. All the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be.

3. 1 Samuel 16:7 The LORD does not look at the things man looks at. Man looks at the outward appearance, but the LORD looks at the heart.

4. 1 Cor 6:19-20 ¹⁹Do you not know that your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit, who is in you, whom you have received from God? You are not your own; ²⁰you were bought at a price. Therefore honor God with your body.

Unsolicited Advice for Mothers-in-Law

Long have I threatened to transform my experience with my mother-in-law into a book about how to be a good-mother-in-law, but, in the absence (at least for now) of publishing companies beating down my proverbial door, I suppose a blog entry will have to suffice. The mother-in-law / daughter-in-law relationship is, by far, the most difficult of family relationships. While the impending visit of a woman's mother inspires smiles and empathetic warmth from friends, the visit of a mother-in-law creates entirely different sentiments among a woman's circle of rapport. If you should ever need any sympathy at the playground on a bad day, if you search for common ground in relating to new friends, if you need wisdom and new battle strategies for the ongoing war against your husband's mother, just shrug your shoulders, scowl and mention an upcoming visit from your husbands mother-- "Well, my mother-in-law. . ." At the conclusion of this phrase, you will garner as much support and empathy and strategy as you could hope for, precisely because so many women experience the turmoil of a tempestuous relationship with the mother of their beloved and can thus empathize with fellow sufferers.


And, yet there are still a few mothers-in-laws who do not fit the terrible (but generally true) stereotype that mothers-in-law have earned for themselves over millennia, mothers-in-law that defy reasonable expectation. Though it will not gain friends for me to say it, my mother-in-law shines like a diamond among mothers of husbands. So extraordinary is she that, now that I live in Australia, my close friends back in Texas regularly borrow her and then remind me of just how lucky I am.



And yet, it is not luck. She is the admiring mother of three boys, the youngest of which has been surrendered to me. I have a very strong personality (this may be well be understatement); I have strong opinions; and I am not afraid of conflict. If ever someone was prone to a tempestuous relationship with a MIL, it is I. And yet, our relationship, though imperfect, is one characterized by the tone she set early on--one of mutual respect and affection. Much of the warmth and openness of our relationship is the fruit of the seeds she has industriously and intentionally sown into our twelve-year relationship as the wiser and more mature woman. (She would never say that, because she is very humble, but it is true. She would also never dare to give direct and unsolicited advice written from her own life and experience to her poorly-behaved peers or anyone else who will read it, but, luckily enough for you, I do not share her reserve). I am the unashamed beneficiary of a wise and kind mother in law. These are the things she does that make loving her so easy.



1. She looks for the good, and encourages me in it. My MIL thinks I am a good cook, a loving wife, thoughtful parent, and a dedicated bargain shopper, and she makes a point of complimenting at least these four aspects of my life when she talks to me or visits. I am quite sure I do things she doesn't particularly like as well, but when I think of her opinion of me, I hear, in my mind, her approval in specific and consistent areas. Although I don't require her approval, it is a nice gift from the mother of my husband, and my perception of her approval makes it easy for me to enjoy being around her.



2. She respects my opinions, and yes, quirks. I am nothing if not opinionated and quirky. I have specific reasons for nearly all of the things I do, and although my MIL may not always agree with my reasons, she does her best to respect my preferences. I remember her discipline in this aspect of our relationship most clearly when the world's most important baby was born--that would be Jordan, my oldest. Jordan was never allowed to cry at all--not for the first nine months, and although my MIL watched in wonder as I wore my self out, my MIL kept her immense store of wisdom from three such experiences from utterance and ensured that my unreasonable rules for my colicky infant were followed to the letter in my house and in hers. Now that my children are older, though she has her own style of managing them, she makes a point of respecting my thoughts and ground-rules and of enforcing them to the best of her understanding and ability.


3. She takes an interest in my interests. Some interests, like cooking and gardening are shared interests, but some of my life is interesting to my MIL only because she is purposeful. Since I have only one crazy little brother, and no sisters, my friends have always been a huge part of my life. My MIL has kept track not only of my brother, but of about fifteen different close friends of mine for the past twelve years. I thought it was nice of her, but I really noticed her care when I heard her talking with my sisters-in-law. They also have similar sets of friends, and she knows all of their friends too. That means that my mother-in-law is mentally keeping track of not only my crazy brother and the sisters of my two sisters-in-law, but at least forty vicarious girlfriends in their thirties that are special to her only because they are special to the wives of her sons. Astounding!


4. When she visits my home, or when I visit hers, she asks how she can help, and then she does ONLY that. Sometimes, with MIL's, help is not always help; it can be passive criticism. I think my MIL understands this very well, and so she has articulated time and time again, "Well, Elissa, I would love to help you. You just think about what I can do to help, and let me know (this is said with a warm smile)." She does not start in on my messy house if she has come to play with the girls outside. She does not sweep my dirty floor if I have asked for help with cooking dinner. If she thinks of something else she might do to help, she asks first, and then respects my answer, especially if it is a "no," because she is truly interested in doing whatever would be helpful to me.

5. Most importantly, when my husband began to make me family, his mother followed suit, and she determined to love me like she loves her own son. It must be very difficult indeed to add someone to your family when her selection has been out of your control, but the value of loving such a one cannot be overstated. My mother in law loves me like I am her own daughter. I know because she has told me time and again in cards and in words and, most importantly, in actions like the ones described above. Because she loves me, she has become my very close friend and confidant, my ally in the occasional marital conflict with her son, and my sounding board for every endeavor I attempt, intellectual, emotional, spiritual. Because she loves me, I take her opinions to heart. Because she loves me, I listen to her advice on parenting or her gentle criticism, or her counterpoint to whatever my flavor-of-the-month-opinion happens to be.

When someone loves you, when all the things they do are a result of that love and when the things they don't do are restrained by love, it is easy to respond in kind, even if that person is your mother-in-law. Power to change a relationship (or to start a relationship, or start a relationship anew) is not found in demanding one's own way, but in surrendering to serve the other person in love. So, mothers-in-law out there, and mothers-in-law-to-be (like me) take seriously the lessons my mother-in-law teaches with her life, and dare to love first. Real, sincere, honest-to-goodness, true love is almost irresistible, even in the hands of the mother of one's husband. Love is the key that unlocks potentially difficult relationships because love alone covers over the multitude of sins that are part of being human. Though healthy boundaries and pop psychology will fail you, love never will; and, if the life of my mother-in-law is any proof, real love really can conquer all--even a the heart of a quirky, overly-opinionated wife of a beloved youngest son. Thanks for loving me first, Ferne.

1 Corinthians 13:4-8 Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails.

1 Peter 4:8 Above all, love each other deeply, because love covers over a multitude of sins.

Replacing Counterfit Romance

I watch rubbish. I'll admit it. In spite of my husband's gentle protestations and overt head-shakings, I have been watching reality t.v. at it's craziest. I hate the reality t.v. show "the Bachelor" because it takes women back at least a thousand years to the idea of a harem, but, to my surprise, I love "the Bachelorette"--the same concept reversed. The bachelorette, Alli, is direct and sweet and cute--very likable. She travels the world looking for love with any one of a bunch of guys that have to beat each other out to win her affections. "The Bachelorette" centers around a woman's idea of romance--travel, fantastic once-in-a-lifetime experiences, great food, and all the emotions (from the guys) out on display for her enjoyment and evaluation. But, in watching all of the wonderful places Alli travels with her slick and polished suitors, I have found myself thinking a lot about romance--about what it is, and what it is not.

Alli's t.v. romance involves a bunch of elite experiences and beautiful backgrounds. If you took away Alli and her male harem, though, I would still enjoy seeing New York, Iceland, Las Vegas, and Turkey, and exotic islands of various types as interesting international destinations. I would still enjoy a tour of a luxurious penthouse suite, the taste of a Maine lobster dinner, the feel of a natural volcanic hot baths, a behind-the-scenes look at a Broadway musical. Those places and experiences are beautiful and interesting, but they are simply experiences that money can buy. They cannot be a component of real romance because if romance can be bought, then it can end when money runs out.

Although Greg is slowly draining the extraneous drama out of me, day by day and month by month, and year by year (by the way, thank you, honey!), I guess I do still enjoy a little vicarious interpersonal drama--another important component of t.v. romance. It is interesting to see what cute Alli thinks and why, and what the guys on the show are thinking and doing and saying to her and to each other; but beating out a romantic competitor and bearing your heart when you are first getting to know someone is not true love or real romance, any more than a great place or "one of" experience is.

No, ladies, real romance is far larger and far better than lines of slick suitors, ritzy restaurants, and dazzling destinations, (and I ought to know. . .um, at least about the destinations.) Real romance something entirely different and more important than heart-warming drama. It is what we as wives often miss in the midst of pining for expensive gifts and experiences, evaluating of our own needs and love languages, or "communicating " our feelings ( AKA complaining). It is what we overlook while we are working, or chasing naughty toddlers covered in sticky substances or dealing with all the little everyday crises that make up the kind of real life that television producers aren't interested in. It is what we wives take for granted and can't live without.

Real romance happens, not on t.v. or on rare, exotic holidays, but in the familiar, mundane parts of everyday life. You can see it in the faithfulness of a man working day after day, year after year, some years at a job he doesn't like, to pay the bills and buy the groceries. It is the in diligence of working toward diplomas and degrees and certifications now instead of later so that he won't miss time with you and the kids when they are older--when the kids will remember his absence more distinctly. It's found in the perseverence of working long hours in an unstable economy to make sure that he has value when the company decides to restructure. It's in playing sports more infrequently than he would like to and using family money for family things instead of the latest and greatest new golf club or technological gadget. It's in forcing himself to talk and let you into his world when his word quota had been used up at work six hours ago. It's in living out kindness and gentleness toward you and the kids when he has had to aggressively direct difficult and disagreeable people all day. It's in doing dishes and putting kids to bed when all he wants to do is sit and relax in front of a sports show with a cold drink. It's in still being attracted to his own wife after mulitple kids have made their marks on her body and baby weight has overstayed its welcome.

I have never been on a reality t.v. show, and, truth be told, my life might not be that interesting to watch, but I know what romance is. My mother and mother-in-law have lived it for more than seventy-five years combined. I have watched my friends and mentors partake of its grace. I live in the light of its beauty every single day. Real romance is the thousand little sacrificial gifts that a man who loves you gives you every day without even thinking about it. So, wives of good men, in the midst of the mundane, refuse to buy what they sell on t.v., and instead make the time to see what is likely before you. Maybe you'll find, like I did, that real romance is closer than you think.

Girl with the Turquoise Hair and the Woman at Peace

I will remember that night, about a decade and a half ago, in Cafe Europa especially, because of the girl with the turquoise hair. She strode confidently into the cafe with her boyfriend. She was about the same age as I was then, maybe a little older. She was dressed in full 90's grunge, in mostly dark colors, her favorite knee-high black Doc Martins partially unlaced on her slender legs. She wore a little makeup, but not much; though the thing I noticed most in her appearance was her hair. She had bravely dyed it black and bobbed right about ear length, and, in the front, one single lock of turquoise hair on either side framed her face. She stood there, waiting at the counter to order. She didn't look around. She didn't fidget. She didn't care what anyone thought of her clothes, her hair, her choice of hot chocolate instead of coffee, her skinny waif of a boyfriend. She stood in peace while the world whirled around her, and to me, she was beautiful.


On the same night the girl with the turquoise hair was ordering hot chocolate, in the same cafe, six or seven teenage girls pondered life together over dessert at a corner table, and I was one of them. My friends and I were trying to be grown up. We had gone to see some independent flick, maybe something like Cold Comfort Farm. I was a part of the good girl / intellectual crowd. I was the type that attempts to develop a taste for coffee, the one who evaluates her own paradigms thoughtfully, and dreams about her distant future before hurrying off to make curfew. I'm pretty sure I was drinking cafe' glace', which is a poser's drink any day, as "liking coffee" doesn't really count when it's poured over a mug packed with ice cream. I remember my friends and I talking about where we would each go to university, about which of our guy friends would ask each of us to the next school dance, about the teachers we had crushes on, and how to date them after graduation(--well, maybe that was just me--what was the school thinking in hiring so many cute 23-year old men?). We shared our theories about faith and marriage, and imagined where we would live in five or six years when we were officially "grown up". We were old enough to drive cars, but not very old. I count my high school years among my happiest growing-up-years. I had good, loyal friends, friends that still know me and love me, friends that were a really positive support group for me as I broke away from my parents and toward being my own person.


Like many in their late teen years, I was struggling toward what I wanted to be, living my life in contradictions. I was loud and opinionated, but still unsure of myself. I appreciated the kindness of others, but was not habitually kind, especially to those weaker than myself. I loved sports, but worried about my makeup as much as my skill on the court. My faith in the God was real but still shallow and untested, resting on the foundations of my parents' faith. I was consumed with what everyone else thought of me, though determined to blaze my own trails.

Since seeing the girl in the Cafe Europa, I have grown up. I have been to university. I'm married with kids, and I have even moved overseas from where "home" was. I have been busy with all the good little bits that make up life, but even as a grown up, I hadn't out grown the like of turquoise hair, or the fear of what people would think of me if I had it. I have always found good reasons to keep my hair in its natural state. I thought I needed to look more traditional at Texas A & M, the conservative state university I attended, if I was going to be a proper Christian, or if I was going to attract the right kind of "Mr. Right". After university and marriage, I needed turquoise-less hair if I was going to get a good job. After kids, I was sure that people with turquoise hair couldn't make "normal" friends like I wanted to make. And the list goes on, each "reason" lived out under the yoke of slavery to the opinions of others.

. . .until Australia. If you know me, or if you have read much of my blog, you will probably know that one of my favorite parts of living in Oz has been the growth. Living here is refining who I am on the inside, revealing what in me is false, what is culturally American, and what is conviction. Solitude, which I have heretofore avoided, has become my friend, and meditation and gratitude are very slowly growing into disciplines in my life. Though the inside of me is growing deeper, on the outside, I am perpetually an opinionated and uber-honest American who wears biking clothing and cycles around my suburb, sweating profusely while attempting to corral a herd of kids that bear my image. Oh, and I am unemployed--at least not employed at a job that pays cash. So, I guess if there was ever a time when I could gather the courage to dye my hair turquoise, it would be the time when I am starting my life over as an unemployed alien, without motorized transportation, living in a foreign country among people I have never known before--in a word--NOW.

So I did it. The first iteration of my being "the girl with the turquoise hair" was more like being the girl with sea foam green hair, and my streak has variated between that and royal blue. Greg kept chuckling and smirking and shaking his head--every single time my hair was pulled back. He called my turquoise streak my Avatar hair, and wondered both silently and out loud what I could have been thinking. My girls were delighted because they suspected I might be turning into a mermaid, and were pretty sure they could keep me like a pet in the bathtub, if ever my transformation became complete. After the dye job had been perfected, I smiled every time I looked in the mirror, for a while. I kept my turquoise for a few months and enjoyed it thoroughly, especially since I had waited so long to do it, but in the end, the hair itself was anti-climactic. I dyed it back to the midnight auburn it has always been. I guess it wasn't really the hair that I liked on the girl in the Cafe.

No, it wasn't her hair made her special, and I saw that clearly in my mind's eye after I had reproduced a part of the picture in my memory on myself in the present. It wasn't blue dye, but courage that mattered, and growing that sort of courage marks the beginning of an era in me--the era in which my life begins to be lived, not in slavery to the opinions of others, but at peace with myself and God, who made my intrinsic strengths and bents and is making the inside of me more beautiful as I let Him. So, on the far side of the world, on a good day, (though not every day,) I am learning to stand still, to cease fidgeting, to stop looking around to see what people think of my hair, my hot chocolate, my kids, my convictions. Let the world whirl and even storm around me. I have already been the girl with the turquoise hair, and bit by bit, slowly, in fits and starts, I am becoming the woman with the courage to stand at peace.

Fighting Terrorism at Home and Abroad--Toddlers

George Bush has become one of the most polarizing figures in the years since 911, but no matter what you think of his goals or methods in " the Global War on Terror," no one can deny he spent most of his time as the President of the United States, especially after 911, fighting terrorism at home and abroad. Although I enjoy considerably greater popularity abroad than old "W", as we call him in Texas, I do have a lot in common with the forty-third president of the USA. I too am from Texas, and I too have spent the last eight years fighting terrorism at home and abroad with what we Texans call "Texas Justice." I guess the main difference between W and I (besides my incredibly high popularity rating abroad) is that the opponents in my war are much fiercer than the jihadists that threaten western society. If my opponent went head to head with Osama Bin Ladin, I think the Global war on Terror could be ended in about fifteen minutes. Who is this fierce opponent, you ask? What could strike fear into a hate-hardened, fanatical, would-be martyr in a thousand-year religious war? Good question! Read on.

A few days ago I went to the grocery store. I had the car, so I took Micah Jade, my constant companion, with me to acquire the groceries that our family would need in the following week. Micah Jade wore in a cute, little, pink dress, her short, honey-colored curls framing her smiley impish face. She looked adorable; I should emphasize the word "looked". As I was checking out, Micah Jade began to play on the chrome grocery gate. I was busy trying to pay, so I did not notice her mischief until she began to bang the gate against its post again and again. Clank! Clank! Clank! I turned to correct her, calmly requiring that she cease and desist the loud banging. For a moment, she looked like she was going consent, but only for a moment.

As I turned back around to the credit card machine, I heard MJ say, abruptly, in a forceful voice, not unlike the voice of Cookie Monster, "NOOO, ya don't tell MEEEE what to DOOOOOO!" The challenge was thrown down, right there in the grocery store. MJ was confident that I was not going to make her mind with an audience of fifty people. Like the jihadists, her main weapon of choice is not force, but fear. At two and a half, she had weighed the shop and the people and had sized me up, in an instant determining that I was not brave enough to take her rebellious self down.


But what MJ didn't know was that I had been fighting terrorism at home for half a decade before she even came along. I had tamed two terrorists, even before she existed. She thought she could take the battle abroad to the grocery store and win it there, because she thought I would be afraid of what that store full of strangers would think of me and of her, but little MJ had made a serious miscalculation.


In an instant I snatched her naughtiness up and over my shoulder, and in the time that it took me to flip her over my shoulder, she commenced shrieking like a banshee. I frantically punched in my pin number in the credit card machine, flung the groceries into the cart, and hastily bid the cashier goodbye, as MJ, still screaming, began to kick the air in front of me. All 100 eyes were upon us, and the people within six meters of us began to put their fingers into their ears to protect their hearing. As we walked out of the store, the horror of the situation overcame me and I began to laugh out loud, my mad cackling adding to the audio-mayhem created by MJ's super-human lungs. All the way to the car, she continued to belt out high-pitched screams, the kind of screams that Jamie Lee Curtis screamed in those 80's Wes Craven films.


I held my naughty, air-kicking toddler over my shoulder and I pushed the trolley to my car in the parking lot with one hand, walking with ease through the channel through people and cars that we had cut with our sound waves. When we reached the car, MJ received a well-needed disciplining, and a short speech on obedience before I buckled her in her car seat and closed her in the car alone. Her rebellion lasted about a minute more, but she was only able to deafen herself, since the car could now contain her voice. After that, she found her thumb, and calmed herself down on the five minute ride home. By the time we arrived home, she was back to Dr. Jekyll, and her Mr. Hyde personality stowed away for another day. She was smiling and laughing like the cute little toddler she appears to be.

Toddlers are amazing creatures. They paint with poo and eat dog food, at least MJ does. They routinely bite and hit beloved family members and close friends, even while kissing and cuddling. They are unashamed to be naked in public, and occasionally refuse to brush their teeth, despite having dog-food-breath (again MJ). The average toddler will proudly proclaim his toilet habits and demand lollies for not making a mess in his own pants. I love to watch toddlers as they discover the world. Each one is as unique as a snowflake, flawlessly designed to hold within herself every bit of potential wrapped up in a single life. Toddlers are equal parts sweetness and raw ambition, both adorable and insufferable, simultaneously. Toddlers are so much more exciting to me than infants; but, in my experience with my children and the children of my family members and friends, I have continually found that toddlers are terrorists almost by definition. They are hell-bent on imposing their vision of reality on the world and will use fear to accomplish their sinister goal, (though a world where the loving rule of a parent is replaced by the anarchy of toddler is a scary place, especially for the toddler herself.)


The prevailing wind of popular parent psychology, the stuff you read in the magazines and most popular books, seems to declare that if you just wait out the toddler years and accommodate or ignore tantrums thrown in selfishness for a few years, that a sweet school-age child will emerge, magically reformed and reasonable, just by aging; but I don't believe it for a second. I guess I know too many people that have never outgrown selfishness, people who have never learned to care for the good of others or to submit to any authority outside themselves. No, character is not reformed by time, but by consistent and kind intervention, starting during the toddler years.


The cost of refusing to confront terrorism in someone I love is too great to postpone or ignore. A little child who pouts when she doesn't get her way can be funny and outrageously cute, but a pouting adult is intolerable. In life, we don't always get to drink from the pink cup. Sometimes we are lucky to have a cup at all, even a blue one or (horror of horrors!) an orange one. Often in life, we don't get another ice cream cup if we throw ours on the ground--on purpose. Sadly, in real life, throwing tantrums sometimes means the loss of a relationship, and as adults, we all experience the lasting consequences of our own poor choices, even when we are sorry afterwards. Though toddlers don't yet know it, a life, well-lived, is not about making the world conform to one's self, but in loving others, in living out honesty, thankfulness and kindness. For me, the most important parts of parenting (though also the most difficult parts) are teaching global truths in the mundane moments of everyday life.

It is such a huge task to be responsible for the developmental years of someone I love, and I guess that is why I think a lot about what I am working toward, while I am in the thick of grocery store tantrums and playground assaults on friends. I'm sure I'm not a perfect parent. Anyone who knows me could tell you that. I get frustrated sometimes, and often I am not as consistent as I should be, but I know what I am working toward and what is not important to me. I am not interested in having the best behaved children on the playground. I don't aim to make friends of my children; (Why would anyone want to have friends that are two or six or eight years old?) I may not always find agreement in parenting with my peers, with the current mags, or with my children's school; but if I am parenting for the good of my children, worrying about those things is not worth my time. No, I care most about my girls, about encouraging their inherent strengths, and about confronting and disciplining ugliness in their hearts every single time that I see it, so that they grow integrity and character instead of selfishness, pride, and deceit. I care about building their trust in my love and protection until the time when they can see clearly to make their own wise choices, until the time when they are ready to take from me, the responsibility for their lives.

I don't know how much progress George Bush made in the "Global War on Terror" during his eight years as president. I guess time will tell, but no matter what happens on a global scale, in my own little corner of the world, even after the eight years I have already served, I know that I will continue to fight my micro-war on terror both at home and abroad in the hopes that one day soon, I will make enough progress with MJ for the folks at the grocery store not to have to endure the ear-piercing shrieks of a terrible tantrum from my toddler. I'll keep on bringing "Texas Justice" to MJ, like I have to Jordan and Meryl before her, because it is in the best interest of building her character that I win my authority-war with her. Judging from my battles with other temporary terrorists in my family, I think I probably only have eight months or so left between now and the time when I can declare a tentative victory. In the time between now and victory, though, if any of you counter-terrorism-agent-types need help in breaking Osama, please shoot me a facebook message. My resolve is sure, my cause is just, and thus, MJ's days as a terrorist are numbered.

Surrendering to the Rain

The air was hot with sunshine and heavy with humidity, and biking to school on this particular day had felt a lot like riding through a warm sponge. The kids were safely in their classes after morning drop-off, and I had stopped to talk to my friend before tackling what I though would be another parching drive home. We were deep in conversation, talking about things that mattered, about the baby she is expecting soon and about our faraway families, about our kids and our hopes. It was the kind of conversation that I'll probably look back on as being important in our friendship, one that was honest and caring on both sides. It was the type of connection in friendship that makes time seem to slow for a few minutes.

Suddenly, without any consideration for our friendship moment, a cool wind blew in, and the clouds, which were approaching above the gentle, green mountains to the south, loomed large and charcoal gray. My friend and I were both car-less, and the storm was coming fast. We said our goodbyes and both took off. She hoofed it to the train station, harbouring the hope that she would be sitting under the shelter on the platform during the downpour, and I buckled little MJ into the trailer and started my 4k ride back to my house.

Since I have been biking, and outdoors so much more, I am noticing how I am much more affected by the weather than I used to be. I tend to dread biking on super-hot days, or rainy days because of how the heat or rain interferes with my plans to be comfortable. If I let my moods be determined by how I feel about the weather and how it affects my bike ride, (which usually consumes about an hour and a half or more each day), the weather could totally and completely predict my mood. But, I said, "If."

I peddled hard against the wind up the hill to the train station, and past the tracks down the big hill on Blaker street, towing Micah Jade behind me, but I couldn't outrun the rain. In my mind, I guess I'm Lance Armstrong, but my body? Well, my body is just me, no traces of Lance anywhere that I can find. I'm just not fast enough to outrun weather. The rain came down through the warm air and splashed in big cool drops on my hot skin. I had traveled about 1.5 k when I finally came to terms with the fact that there was just no way for me to make it home dry. So there I was, biking in the rain with a habitually ornery toddler in tow. I stopped to tell her that the rain was going to cool us off, and that we would be home soon. Surprisingly MJ, who has no qualms about screaming in the trailer all the way home, or really anywhere, seemed, after receiving my explanation, surprisingly willing to bounce along behind me in the rain without a single sound.

The explanation I had given to MJ soaked into me as well, and as I wrapped my mind around the fact that I would be riding in the rain, the expectation of comfort washed off of me with the heat. I rode the narrow streets with little, wooden postwar houses on stilts and the rain poured down on me. I crossed the big road, and then passed the other elementary school on my way to the greenbelt. Everywhere I looked, the rain drops were drop-drop-dropping on the hot, black bitumen (asphalt) of the road, and on the warm, gray sidewalk in front of me. The air that had been yellow with Sunshine and humidity was now cool blue-gray with rain.

While I continued my journey, the rain came down so hard and in such intensity that the water rushed through the vents on my helmet into my hair. By the time I reached what is my favorite part of my ride in any weather, I was completely drenched and totally refreshed. As I rode past the duck pond, I heard the memory of my children yelling, "sorry duckies, no bread right now. Maybe later." The ducks quacked noisily above the pitter-patter, and turtles poked their heads out of the water to see what the commotion was all about. The bull rushes swayed in the gentle breeze, bowing to the rain, and at the dam, cheerful muddy water peacefully trickled over into the creek, making its way from my house to the Pacific. The mountains that encircle my neighborhood rose protectively before me, the rain quenching the dry, green thirst of their gum trees. As I made the last turn toward my home, I listened to the wind; I listened to the trees dancing happily around me, to the ducks and the bull rushes, to the constant, rhythmic peddling of my bike, to the sound of the raindrops on my skin and on the road; and I cherished the memory of the morning when I surrendered to the rain.

Hospitals and Home

The bright, white lights overhead began to spin, and the room swirled pieces of Greg, real estate agent, and unfamiliar house as I lost consciousness. I was sitting on the kitchen counter of a rent house we were inspecting, when I blacked out. Greg caught me just in time to save me from a head-first collision with the hard, gray tiles underfoot. I came to, in a cold sweat, on the floor, feeling disoriented and wondering what in the world had happened. When I looked up, I saw Greg's kind eyes filled with worry, and I tried, for his sake, to answer his first aid questions coherently.

Greg sped the kids to our friends' house and rushed me to the big public hospital close to his work. I spent the next two days on painkillers, recovering from a mystery illness. Greg stayed with me as much as he could, but he had three little girls and work to balance with my hospital stay, so I mainly rested while he ran himself ragged taking care of both his responsibilities and mine. Doctors came and went from my curtain with puzzled faces until finally, a young female doctor and her supervisor pegged my diagnosis, and, after my sixth round of antibiotics, the pain and infection in my kidneys started to subside. After the mystery was solved, "Froggie" the nurse (yes, he did look like a big frog) wheeled me to the long-stay emergency unit. As the pain in my body abated, my mind cleared enough for me to hear the conversations around me in my new, shared room.

The nurse walked in and I heard him address the elderly Indian man in the bed next to me, "Good morning. It's time for a bath!" "No," the man calmly answered in a thick accent. Apparently, judging by the aroma of the man, he was not used to morning baths, or maybe regular baths at all. He was in pain, and being sent home anyway, but not before he scented his sheets and the room he shared with me and two other patients with the pungent smell of curry and body odor.

The Indian man was old and frail, and I liked him at once. He didn't speak much English, not enough to really describe his pains adequately, but certainly enough to evade a bath. When the social worker came to see about how to get him home, she discovered that he had no one to pick him up, so she offered him bus fare. He wasn't satisfied with the offer and began to bargain with her, third-world style. I think she was caught completely off-guard by eastern bartering techniques, so eventually, the little Indian man went home in just the cab that he wanted. ( I think his bargaining chip was the threat of staying long enough to scent not just the long-stay emergency ward, but the whole first floor.) I wondered why he had no one to pick him up, and what kind of home received him from his cab.

After the Indian man left, and after the linens were changed and disinfected, a woman came to stay for a few hours. The middle-aged, soft-spoken woman had been battered by her husband after she drank too much the night before. The kind staff at the hospital had bandaged her cuts, but nothing they could do in the emergency room could heal a heart damaged by 18 years of marriage to an abusive bully, or a mind distressed by the alcohol she used to escape from him. She laid in the bed, weighing, out-loud with the social worker on duty, her options upon leaving. She didn't want to go home to her husband, but the prospect of starting again at a women's shelter, without the help of the family who had disowned years before, frightened her. She was trapped between two terrible options, and she didn't know where to go when she went "home". I fell asleep before she left, so I don't know what option she chose, whether she decided that home would be the terror she knew, or the fright of the unfamiliar.

After the Indian man and the battered woman left, it was my turn. I didn't feel completely well, but I was going home anyway. I called Greg from the hospital phone and twenty minutes later, our white Prado bounced into the drive as and he and a carload of little girls excitedly awaited "mommy". I stiffly walked down the sterile, still, green halls to the fresh, windy air of the circle drive and slowly climbed into the car while the noise of elation and the smell of crackers and lip gloss enveloped me.

I sometimes I take for granted what I have in Greg and in my girls, but I shouldn't. I have a man who will catch me before I hit the floor, a man who can carry both his responsibilities and mine, a man with kind eyes who would never hurt me. I have a home filled with estrogen and drama, with costumes and crumbs, with three little glittery girls that missed me desperately while I was gone. I was still pretty sick when I left; I was still in a lot of pain; but unlike some of my roommates at the hospital, I had family to meet me in the windy circle drive and love to welcome me back to my life. Let me never forget the blessings of my home.

February Resolution Rebellion and Grace

I hate New Year's resolutions, and thus, in my February Resolution Rebellion, I hereby resolve no longer make them, mostly because I cannot keep any type of resolution for any length of time. I have quit exercise regimens, diets, organizational schemes, and all the other normal resolutions that everyone else makes and then fails to keep. Since I am a recovering perfectionist, though, not only do I fail at keeping my own unrealistic expectations for the year, but then, after I failing, I replay my failures and avoid attempting worthwhile projects and goals altogether for the rest of the year.


Since I have resolved no longer to make resolutions, and since I am a type-A kind of a girl, I think I will write out some of my flexible goals for the year, knowing that if I fail one day, I can just keep working toward something worthwhile. The goals, therefore, are about moving directionally, and less about finishing accomplishments.


Elissa's 2010 directional goals

1. to make this year the "year of the friend." I have always loved those charts with birth years at Chinese restaurants, mostly because I love the tiny pictures (I might not like it so well if I was a rat instead of a horse). The Chinese feel perfectly free to define each birth year by different sets of characteristics. If my last year had to be categorized, it have been "the year of constant and earthshaking change." As far as I can tell, this year, I will not live in four different houses (last year's record), and I will neither move across an ocean or across a continent; so, this year, I intend to make relationships my priority.

Having been in Oz for a year, and in Brisbane for six months, I am nearing mastery on most of the small tasks that consumed the majority of my time during my "year of change". I am over the initial loneliness and the culture shock ( though I still have my moments). I can now locate cocoa powder and Copha (a Crisco substitute for you Yanks), and I have very few problems driving on the left side of the road--Greg would beg to differ, but he makes me nervous and I drive poorly when he is in the car. Being mostly settled in culture and location, it is now time to focus on building lasting friendships, because having friends with whom to share life makes the good things better and the hard stuff easier.

I guess I have been thinking about investing more in my friendships here because Greg and I are planning a trip back to the states. In ten months I will again set foot on American soil to enjoy time with my family and my old friends. In my home-comimg fantasies, everyone I love is waiting outside of customs with signs and tears; they have all been waiting and pining outside the airport for years in my absence (w0uldn't it be nice to be missed that much?) But, in reality, all my friends stateside are normal and healthy enough not to let their lives stop just because I have moved away. The friendships that count stateside are lifetime friendships, whose love will weather the separation. If I were to spend this year pining for "home," family, and my dear old friends in a fantasy world that does not exist, many months would be wasted, and I would be very sorry to return Oz this time next year, having squandered time that could have been invested in relationships here. No, instead, I am determined to make this year count. I belong here, for the time being, in Australia, so making good friends here is really just another way of making Australia my home.

2. to refrain from being perpetually busy with good things--to be un-busy. I think women in general and Christian women in particular are powerfully afflicted with business. I, myself, have been busy for most of my adult life, trying to cram too much stuff into too little time, trying to do all the things that might go undone if I didn't attempt them. I suppose some women can maintain busy schedules without neglecting their families, but I am not one of those women. No, when I get too busy, I am not kind or attentive enough to the people that matter most to me, and that is just plain wrong.


I recognize that in some seasons, busyness is unavoidable, but generally, I have a choice about whether or not I am going to place stress on myself by trying to book too much in, even, or maybe especially "good" activities like volunteering at school or helping at church. I want this year to be about relationships, and that means leaving "blank" time to chat over a cuppa (cup of coffee or tea), or days where nothing is scheduled so that I can have friends over. Unbusyness means saying "No" even when I feel obligated to answer otherwise. Unbusyness clears my schedule and my mind so that I have time for people.


3. To keep reading through the Bible. I am a hard-core Christian, the kind that believes that God has a plan for the universe, the earth, and our individual lives in particular, the kind that believes in redemption and miracles and that God might actually care to know me personally(and everyone else too). I see the Bible, not as a rule book, but as a (very long) memo from God to me, and reading it as a way to know and experience all that God is.


About ten years ago, I started to read through the bible on one of those horrible "Through-the-Bible-in-a-Year" reading plans. I have quit the plan about six times in six of the last years feeling terribly defeated. I think it is intellectually dishonest to say I believe the Bible without having read all of it, but I honestly cannot keep up with a super-intense reading plan while changing diapers, cooking dinners, and generally trying to be a loving wife and mother. I know those plans work for some super-structured folks, but the "one-year-plan" has far too little grace in it for an artsy girl like me.



So, I am coming up with the "ten-ish-year-Bible-reading-plan." I'm about halfway through the Good Book, so maybe this year I will make it through the hard-to-understand books to the books I like most, the ones where Jesus does away with rule-keeping legalism (like trying to read a very deep two thousand page book in a year) and rewards those who come in faith. If I finish the Bible this year, I will be stoked, but I am calling my plan the "ten-ish-year-plan" just in case I need a little more grace, like I usually do.


At the end of the year, I hope I will have spent my time wisely, investing in the people that live their lives around me. I hope I will have friends in Australia that I will miss and that will miss me when I go to the states for the holidays. I hope I live the year set free from busyness, leaving most of the busywork around Mitchelton for people that get can manage busyness and family commitments. I hope I will know the character of God better because I have finished his memo by the end of the year, but, these are my "directional goals" not resolutions. Maybe this year, unlike years past, when I fail, I can just keep on plugging without giving up. Maybe this year will finally be the year when I get a firm handle on handing out grace to the person I know who needs it most--myself.

Jordan the Strong, My First Heart-Doubling

Jordan had just finished a 7 km ride and was getting off her bike at school when two big boys approached her ominously. Each of them was a head taller than she was, and they smirked at each other knowingly as they walked toward Jordan. I watched from a distance, ready to intervene in if needed, but I hung back for the time to see how Jordan would go, flying solo. As they neared, one of the big boys said something short and pointed to my little girl. She was thirsty and tired from a long ride, but you wouldn't have known by her reaction to him. Jordan sized them both up quickly, looked at them doubtfully through a furrowed brow, then said something even shorter. After that, she quickly cut her eyes away from them, as if they were not worth looking at, turned her back to them, flipped her honey-colored hair, and strutted away with her little sweaty head held high. They looked at each other, shrugged, and walked the other direction. I called Jordan over to me and asked what had transpired. She didn't look shaken in the least, but I was curious.

"What did they say to you, Jojo?" I inquired.

"They said, 'Why do YOU ride a BOY's bike?'" recalled Jordan.

"And what did you tell them?" I asked.

"I told them, 'Because I DO!'" Jordan answered, laughing like it was a stupid question, as she recalled her answer.

Not only does Jordan not back down when challenged, but she occasionally partakes in administering justice. During a parent-teacher conference recently, I heard this very interesting story about Jordan. During one of her class's weekly garden visits, there was a boy in her class who acquired a prickly stick and then visited several "friends" in the class, prickling and poking them mercilessly, evading the teacher and classroom helper cleverly. Jordan watched for a minute, taking in the injustice, then chased the perpetrator down, took the stick from him, and beat him with it, while yelling down at him, "How do you like that? Do you want me to poke you with this stick like you're doing to everyone else? You stop that!" He was dumbfounded and scared straight during the rest of the time in the garden that day. After hearing the story, I enquired of the teacher as to whether I should correct Jordan for being aggressive. Sandy laughed and told me that she and the rest of the class watched in amazement and nearly broke into applause--Jordan wasn't the bully, she restrained the bully. Listening to Sandy, I found myself cherishing the moment, enjoying the retelling of just but aggressive wonders performed by this fierce girl-child who now inhabits my house.

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Jordan's confidence is astounding during the sort of confrontations that would have sent me running for the hills or at least for a teacher when I was a little girl. That's just Jordan. She is unfazed and unafraid, even in the face of larger, stronger boys and class bullies. She is bold and strong like I never was as a child, like I still struggle to be as an adult. She has the focus and determination that I carry within my genes (those that love me would label these traits "OCD tendencies"), combined with the easy confidence and athleticism that I fell in love with in Greg. She has my mother-in-law's cheerfulness and my father's eyes, and I think everything about her emanates beauty.

I love the competitive look Jordan gets at her swim races, the tendency to paint herself like a native if left alone with markers or chalk, the silly monkey dance she shamelessly performs on command, the way she paints carefully with watercolors so that the seahorses don't smudge. I enjoy the out-of-tune violin practices we endure every morning at 6:29 and her brave BMX bike racing with her friend Zach, most recently accomplished while wearing her pearl earrings underneath her helmet. I love so many things about my little girl, but most of all, I love Jordan because she is mine.

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Before I had children, I had always thought of birthdays in terms of my own birthday, an end in itself, a special celebration of my life on the most important day of the year--a little narcissistic, I know. But, with the birth of Jordan, eight years ago, suddenly, my birthday was no longer the most important day of the year. Each of the birthdays of my daughters is cause for celebration, not only for them, but for me as their mother. I have begun to see their birthdays not only the marker of their age or the annual call to furious baking, but as the anniversaries of the day of their entrance into my life. Each time another daughter was born to me, I am quite sure that the size of my heart, and it's capacity to love at least doubled. Jordan was the first in this process for me, and so each year, the anniversary of her birth marks not just the first doubling of my heart, but the beginning of the era of parenthood, an era that is marked not by fulfilling my own dreams, but facilitating those of my children.

So, this January, as I have thought about the eight years that have passed since my heart first doubled in order to hold more love for Jordan, I celebrate the unique person that is Jordan Kira Mizell, the one whose name means "descender from the throne of God", the child that came charging into my life, dividing forever the time into before and after her birth day. I am absolutely in awe of the strength in the fierce child, and it is my privilege and honor to love and protect, to guide and discipline and prepare the woman that is growing a little more every day, replacing the beautiful little girl I now know.

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Happy Eighth Birthday, Jordan. Your Mama thinks you are a wonder.

"Caterpillars" in the Kitchen and the Grossest Day Ever.

One morning we awoke to a plethora of caterpillars crawling on the kitchen floor in all directions. They were white like milk and very energetic, like they had some where to go, some secret mission that motivated them to move quickly. Meryl accidentally stepped on one, rendering him a greasy spot on the timber floor, and she would have been appalled about having caused such a dreadful death if not for the number of "extra" ones. Micah Jade immediately picked up one and commenced cradling him lovingly, calling him, "little guy" in affectionate tones. She stroked him tenderly with her little finger as she wandered about, unable to turn her eyes away from such a rare treasure. My big girls, still missing their dog, found the caterpillars delightful, and began plans to round them all up to take to the "nature table," where they would be the subject of observation and experiments, and the food of their beloved lizards. Since, earlier in spring, the silk worms had not fared very well, perhaps these worms would be a new chance to watch something develop. Wouldn't it be nice to see a set of moths emerge in a few weeks? We were all so enthralled for about two minutes.


I have noticed that in summer in Australia, there are a lot of commercials for different types of sprays that kill flying insects. In every commercial, flies, along with roaches and mossies (mosquitoes) are portrayed as nasty and sloppy bugs that have evil intentions toward families. Flies also seem to have New York accents in the commercials here-which I find curious. (I have never seen a commercial that portrayed flies as evil in the USA). I haven't bought any spray because it didn't seem necessary. Why would I want to spray a substance into the air which kills everything it touches? Would I want my family to breathe something like that in? Would I want that sort of toxicity falling on my benchtops in my kitchen (countertops for Americans) where I prepare food for people I love? Wouldn't it be better to just live with a few flies?


In fact, considering the level of environmental consciousness and general mindfulness about conservation, I was quite surprised that there was even a market for such a product--that was before I found the caterpillars in my kitchen. As they crawled, we observed where the concentration of critters was highest--near the trash can! All at once realization dropped into my mind like a ton of manure--MAGGOTS! Micah Jade is carrying a maggot around, talking tenderly to a nasty fly larva while she strokes his squirmy germiness! AHHHHHHH!


Greg, our resident brave one, was called in as reinforcement and together we swept up the aggressive little nasties. He took out the crawly trash bag and removed the can to the patio outside where it could be washed. I had to pry the maggot from the loving fingers of two-year-old Micah Jade, which was terrible for both of us, especially because he was squished in the skirmish. I think the big girls acquired a few to feed the lizards with a dustpan, but I was to traumatized to bother correcting them.

As a mom, I handle gross stuff pretty well. After all, when engineers and architects breed, they produce kids that are both mechanical and creative, and that makes for some terrible household catastrophes. I've cleaned completely disassembled (again) toys, "special" cornflakes stored in the sock drawer, mud body paint and mud sculptures, dead, dried lizards, oatmeal sculptures, spaghetti throw-up, poo paintings, pretend toilet soup, and the list goes on, but nothing could compare to the "caterpillars" on the floor. This may well be the most disgusting mess ever to occur in my family (although I hear Australia has leeches, so there is hope for a story even worse than this one at some point). So, until the unfortunate day when we encounter something worse, this day will live in infamy as the grossest day ever in my household. . .and I think I am finally ready to buy toxic fly spray!

Nine Ideas about Wifery and Marriage

I am afflicted with what my friends and I call an "expert" personality. If I have researched something more than the average population, I consider myself a sort of an expert. The rational side of my brain knows I'm really not an expert, but that side is not strong enough to fight the other side well enough to win and reduce my mental self-labeling to "novice." Thus, I am an self-proclaimed "expert" on organic gardening, on home-cooking, and on building a good marriage, well, at least building a mostly happy good marriage that lasts for at least nine years (I sure wish I could remove all the qualifiers that come before and after "good marriage"--maybe in 41 years).


Greg and I have just celebrated our 9 year wedding anniversary, and, in spite of starting over four different times in four different places, in spite of being on a tight budget for most of those years, in spite of having little kids join us early in our marriage and periods of struggle with each other where we were committed but not particularly happy, we love marriage and would recommend marriage (to a person of character) to people we care about. In those nine years, I have learned not to speak for Greg, but for my part, I think I will make a list of the nine most important practical things I can do as the wife to be improve my own marriage. Then, I can look back and remember if I run into trouble later. Maybe you'll find my list helpful too.


1. Treat my spouse better than anyone else on the planet. It's easy to be really kind to my friends, because they have the option of bailing on me when I'm am not. Sometimes, we tend to show our spouse the worst possible behavior because they promised to stay with us for "better or for worse." Being ugly to your spouse can feel safe because of their commitment to the marriage, but if I want the "better" for my marriage instead of "worse", I really need to concentrate not on what is feels safest for me, but what is kindest to him. That means being kind and considerate on bad days and good, and sharing struggles without taking out frustrations on the person that loves me most in the world.


2. Always assume the best about my spouse. I married a good man, not a perfect man, but a really good man, one who generally does the right thing and has my best interest at heart. When I am disappointed by something, I do well to remember what I know to be true about him. If he is late, it is not likely to be because he likes to stay at work, but because he had to deal with some really unpleasant situation that would be worse by tomorrow. If I can't have the car on Wednesday, it isn't because he doesn't care about me, but because the financial security of our life depends on him doing his job well. Some days, even if it is inconvenient to me, he needs the car to do aspects of his job, so that our family has a secure income. If he wants to go away for the weekend with friends, it isn't because he doesn't like family time, but because he likes to fish and relax (very occasionally) without us. I just keep reminding myself of the character of the man, and referencing truth spite of occasional disappointment or unmet expectation.

3. No longer "I" but "we". Recently, when we were looking at our budget, Greg referred to the money "we" make. That word "we" moved me to tears. I have never contributed in a meaningful financial way to our marriage, and we both know it, but we share a life and so he used "we" instead of "I". Marriage means doing what is best for the marriage and for your spouse, and not doing what is best or most satisfying for yourself. It means sharing the burden and the credit. "We" means refusing to be selfish, refusing to demand your own way, "or else." For me, it means postponing a career in a field that I love so I can love the people in my life up-close; for Greg, it means curbing hobbies and talking a lot more than he would like to (the man has some hermitish and monkish tendencies); but for both, the end result is the same--a nourished marriage with history that can sustain us when times get rough for one or both.

4. Don't dwell on annoying characteristics. We all have annoying characteristics, but if we hold a magnifying glass to the annoying characteristics of others, even others we love, they get bigger. When I am really annoyed, I force myself to think about the best characteristics of my hubby. My mother-in-law does this very effectively in all aspects of her life, and the result of years of practice is a life that is very positive and encouraging to others and to one's self. (This sort of mother-in-law is very easy to get along with, as you can imagine.) I should also mention some good advice a good friend gave me early on--don't tell my friends or my parents negative things about my spouse, because they love me and can't forgive him like I can. If I share my annoyances or grievances about my spouse outside my marriage, I undermine both my spouse and my marriage in the eyes of people that would otherwise support both because they love me.


5. Make my marriage bed important. Sexual Intimacy in marriage is a FREQUENT MUST. That means when I feel like it and when I don't but my husband does, because sex to a husband is like flowers and chocolates and a day at the spa are to a wife. There are seasons when making intimacy a priority is very, very difficult, like when you have morning sickness, little babies, or, obscure medical conditions (we've lived through each); but, in every season, sex is important to a husband, and thus must be important to a wife, since marriage means doing what is best for both. Sex draws a husband and wife together in some magical otherworldly way that I don't understand. Frequent sex with me also helps protect my husband from the various forces of evil homewreckers (hiss, boo, hiss, scowl, *knuckles cracking*, teeth clenched) elsewhere.

6. Ask for what I want, kindly, and say yes as much as humanly possible to my spouse when he asks. I looked for a good man who could read my thoughts, but alas, there are none, so I married the next best thing--a good man who is not a mind reader. Since my husband doesn't have ESP, I cannot reasonably expect him to know what I want. When one side of my mind starts the phrase, "if he loved me he would know. . ." I take that unhealthy, emotionally stunted version of myself and lock her away in away in the dungeon of my mind until she submits to the rational side of my brain which I am trying to strengthen (but not enough to win the "novice/expert" battle). I have to ask for what I want, and I also want him to feel safe enough to ask for what he wants. When we work together to grant the request of one, both win.


7. Stop keeping score. Whoever keeps the best score always loses, period. Marriage is not about getting life divided up equally, but loving someone else sacrificially and having their interest and the interest of the marriage at heart. Instead of keeping score, I think it is much better for me to try to think of ways to make my spouse's life fuller or happier. The response I get from him is always worth the sacrifice. Sometimes sacrificial love also means "going first" and giving more when my husband's tank is empty. That's okay. We are a team, and often the giving will be reversed.


8. Make home a happy fortress. Home should be a refuge, somewhere my spouse feels safe. For me that means greeting him when he comes home without handing him a child or a list of things to do. It means always being on his side and in his corner, especially when he is down or having a hard time in some area. It means never insulting him in public or making him feel like he isn't good enough. It means respecting him at least as much as his secretary and coworkers. It means training the children to be tame so that he doesn't leave the quiet of the car and enter chaos at home after work (still working on this one). It means good, home-cooked meals and offering him a drink when he is relaxing with the news or facebook before or after dinner. It means important issues that must be addressed must be relegated to a non-stressful time, a time when they can be addressed in full--not when we are tired or hungry at five thirty.


9. Make my husband the "project manager" of our life. I think this is a distinctly Christian concept, and although it sounds funny, it works. We lead in our areas of expertise--I am mainly in charge of kids and homework and their instruction and discipline. I am in charge of insurance and cooking and the grocery budget. Greg handles work, retirement and money matters generally, along with the car and camping equipment. We discuss our thoughts on the other's domain, but mostly, we leave it to the spouse in charge of that area and trust that we are both responsible and capable. Over all this underwork, though, Greg stands as a sort of umbrella. He is the project manager of our family, and though he rarely jumps into my arenas, I reserve his right to. It doesn't mean that either he or I think he is more valuable to our marriage or to God, etc., it's just a structure we maintain so as to have one-headed direction (because anything with two heads is a monster, as my mom says). I married a man who loves me and has my best interest at heart, and I trust him to listen to my ideas and make the final calls. He does a great job; he always has.


I wish I did all of these things well all of the time, but I don't. After nine years of marriage, I can safely say that I have come light years from where I started, and that I have light years still to travel before I become what I envision as a really good wife. Many of my readers have been married far longer than I have, so I would love to hear your recommendations on how to strengthen and build a marriage, especially as a wife. I plan to be married to Greg for the rest of my life, and I know he would appreciate any good advice anyone has to give me.

Temptation, the Bird, and Near Social Suicide

The breeze is blowing, the sun is shining, and I am cruising on my bike. I am in a good place mentally while taking the kids to or from school, and then it happens--people begin to HONK at me, knocking me out of my "happy zone" with the force of their car horns. Every day, at least once during the drive to or from school, someone HONKs at me. They HONK when I am waiting to cross the street, they HONK as they pass. Their HONKing reverberates inside my helmetted head while I am industriously minding my own business. At first I looked to see who was HONKing, but very rarely did I recognize anyone. More distressing than even the honking was the fact that the HONKs were increasing in frequency. . .HONKs, and HONKs, More and more and more HONKS! HONKS! HONKS!

In Texas, when I am out and about on foot, and someone honks and yells at me, usually I look away in order to avoid the potential lewdness that may accompany the horn and vocal comotion. If I am feeling particularly feisty, I might yell (in Spanish) "Animal!" like some sort of exotic ice princess. (When I was a very little girl I heard my beautiful mother do this once or twice, and I thought it was a very dignified way to ward off unwanted attention.) I have friends and family members--don't worry, I won't name you-- who do not hesitate to flip the proverbial bird, their longest digit alone extended towards the sky defiantly when strangers offend them in any way. I don't partake of this vulgar hand signage, (well, maybe once or twice as a hormonally challenged teenager) but the everyday honking was pushing me to the brink.

Every time someone else honked at me, I looked down and tried to mind my own business, but with each incident, my Texan sensibilities became more and more ruffled because in Texas it is rude to honk at a lady. (Honking would be more appropriate toward those soliciting illegal business while walking up the street--not a mum with kids on a bike.) I was on the verge of employing the bird when I mentioned all this honking and my annoyance to a friend. She kindly laughed at me and told me that it was a compliment here to honk at "hot mamas." I quickly re-evaluated the situation and took a little satisfaction in being honked at in hindsight. While Rachel explained, our other friends listened into our conversation with interest.


Then, even as my image of myself was being polished in my mind's eye, my other friends joined into the conversation, shattering my magic mental mirror. They had seen me around and now each began to confess that she had been honking in friendly recognition, not just one friend, but several of them; and not all of my friends were there. My friends mostly live and work around the community where I ride, and they have been friendly and kind toward me every time they see me, greeting me when we are face to face. Apparently, they also honk a little hello to me and the kids as they pass us in their cars because that is polite here. Maybe I am occasionaly honked at because of my "hot-mama-hood" (I want so badly to believe this is true), but as I evaluate the escalation of honking, I must admit that it has followed the rate of friend-making in my community.

In evaluating this near-disaster in my social life, I think I may finally have matured in some measurable way. Although I was very close to sporting my middle finger toward what I thought were rude honkers, better sense and self-control prevailed, at least this time. I guess I also need to publicly thank my friend Rachel for decoding (yet again) mysterious Aussie social customs and saving me from totally alienating every last friend that I have made in Brisbane. Maybe next time I am bewildered or annoyed, I will ask a friend for help in interpreting the situation before I near the brink social suicide in the form of public vulgarity.

Dolores McNab and the Funny Girl

I am in possession of what I think is a quick wit and what I know is a huge mouth. I was having a very funny day a little over seven years ago, and there was no reason for me to interrupt my streak of hilarity at choir practice; so I made a joke about the new choir director liking desserts to my new friend. I think we were having a dessert party after practice the next week, and our new minister Fred was quite excited about it, so I suggested that he did look like he liked desserts. My new friend laughed and good-natured-ly agreed. Only later did I find out that my new friend was his wife! That's right, I made jokes about the new minister to his wife and, amazingly, that was the start of my friendship with Dolores McNab.

When we left for Australia, Dolores helped me with my estate sale and then promised me that she would come visit. I hoped she would. Last week she and Fred fulfilled her promise when they came to Brisbane just to see us. We saw them for a day, and we had a great time swimming in the hotel pool and sharing some really nice Italian food and Baskin & Robbins ice cream. We caught up, and then we Mizells drove back to our house while McNabs continued what was a long overdue holiday. Seeing my old friend reminded me of all the ideas I have absorbed from her, and I have been thinking about what Dolores's friendship has meant to me for the past week.

For a few years after that first fateful joke, Dolores sat beside me every Wednesday in choir practice. I occasionally had to take time off for pregnancies and babies, but Dolores was always there to welcome me back. We talked in the back of the Alto section, and I think Fred often gave her warning looks (I avoided eye contact), but talking to me was always more important to her than listening to the basses attempt their parts. Dolores and I worked together for a year with a small group of the college students at church. (I think, in hindsight, that God placed her there as supervision for me while I was attempting to mentor people with even less life experience than myself.) Over time Dolores became a friend and mentor that I would go to for advice or to bounce ideas off, but mostly, I watched and listened to a life well-lived, and unknowingly, I absorbed some of her ideas and attitudes.

If you look around at any church, it is easy to find older women who can teach you how to decorate your house, dress well, or how to follow all the unwritten social rules so that you can fit in well and represent your family respectably. There are a few who would be glad to hand you their neat and tidy set of legalistic rules about living a Christian life. There are plenty of women who can guide you to planning the perfect women's event with perfectly decorated tables. It is not difficult to find women who complain about their (perfectly good) husbands or throw their hands up in frustration about their out-of-control teenagers or young adult children. It is quite easy to find women who think of their faith as an accessory to their life, but very, very difficult indeed to locate someone who sees her faith in the Christian God of the Bible as a lens for viewing her life and family. Dolores is the rare kind of Christian woman, the kind that lets her faith permeate through every bit of her experience. That is the kind of woman I want to be some day, maybe when I am fiftyish (although I know what I am, and I might need more time).

When I was struggling with my own feelings of insignificance in staying home with little dirty kids and mountains of dirty laundry, Dolores leaned in and said that she had a very hard time with those feelings too. About 25 years ago, she told God, in her characteristically frank, no-frills style, "Well, God, I think the most important decision I will make today is whether to wash the whites or the colored clothes. I'm just going to do it to the best of my ability, to honor you in the small stuff." This is not a Prayer Book kind of a prayer, but if it was good enough for Dolores, it was good enough for me. I still pray that prayer when I have difficulty having a positive and thankful attitude.

When I was struggling with having two, and then three little girls, and when I was thinking very hard about what I wanted to teach them and how, so that they would know, even in a shallow culture that their heart mattered more than their appearance, Dolores jumped in again. She told me, "whenever anyone would compliment the beauty of one of my girls in presence of the others, without noticing the others, I just told the girls that people look at the outside, but God sees our hearts. What is on the inside is more important than the way you look." I absorbed this speech at least 5 years ago, and my girls get a similar reminder several times a week. They will for as long as they live with me.

I have watched Dolores behave in a respectful manner toward people in authority even when she fundamentally disagreed. I have observed her not caring or even noticing whether she met with the approval of people, even people that others considered important. I have noticed her serving others in the background without ever looking for recognition or praise. I have been nearby while she has loved and shepherded her girls through high school, university, marriage, and the motherhood of now three grandchildren. I enjoy hearing about how her girls still like to be together as adults. I have seen her marriage with Fred, one characterized by affection and friendship, by shared goals and mutual respect. I know what she has sown, and I see what she reaps; and I want a life like that.

I know Dolores isn't perfect. She would tell me she is still a work in progress and that God isn't finished with her yet. I know that's true, but I really appreciate how she took the time to share some of her life and wisdom with a loud, funny, uber-opinionated girl who needed a little guidance in the youngest stages of marriage and motherhood. Dolores's girls and her husband know how great she is, but seeing her on my side of the ocean, reminded me. Dolores would most definitely have censored this piece on my blog, if she could have, because she sincerely doesn't like the spotlight; but when a woman lives a good life, a life marked by consistent loyalty to God and the application of His truth to the minutia of the everyday, somebody really ought to say something. Today it's me. The legacy of Dolores' life and faith lives on, not only in her girls and in her marriage, but in mine. I don't look a bit like Dolores in any physical way, but I hope that one day that my life and faith will resemble hers, and that I will be able to bless my girls and maybe even someone else the way Dolores blessed me during the early chapters of my married life.

Proverb 31: 28-31 says--

Her children arise and call her blessed; her husband also and he praises her. Many women do noble things, but you surpass them all. Charm is deceptive and beauty is fleeting; but a woman who fears the Lord is to be praised. Give her the reward she has earned, and let her works bring her praise at the city gate.