On Writing. . .

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

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


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

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


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



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


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

A Tribute to Girlfriendship

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

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

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

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

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

Extraordinary Splendor and Common Beauty

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


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


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


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


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

The "Blackface Skit"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Have You Ever Gone Hungry?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sarah and the Three-headed, Fire-breathing Monster

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

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

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

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

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

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

Adrenaline, Ferocious Love, and Entrusting

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

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

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

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

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

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