Not about Me

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

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

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

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

Redemption and Experiments Gone Wrong

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

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

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

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

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

Apple Pie and Good Neighbors

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wads of Cash in the Creek

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thankful

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

I'm thankful . . .

That friendship and generosity are universal,

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

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

For adventures on foreign shores, experienced as a family,

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

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

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

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

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

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

For Jordan, who is strong and bold and athletic,

For Meryl who is sensitive and imaginative and relational,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For sand that is white and blindingly bright,

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

For rainbows at the beach and rainbows at our house,

For bright sunshine most days,

and sunglasses to protect my eyes,

For the sound of rain on our tin roof,

And that fresh smell just before it rains,

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

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

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

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

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

And a fantastic convection oven in my kitchen,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And my dryer to use on towels and rainy days,

For music in my home and music in my heart,

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

For our tent in which we are making new memories,

For the laughter and craziness of little children,

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

For the chance to live life at a slower pace,

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

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

For new friendships and new memories with our friends here,

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

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

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

For life lessons that could never be learned elsewhere.

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

Sunshine, Rain, and Rainbows

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


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

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


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


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

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


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

A Stinky Hippie on my Supple Sofa

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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