A Stinky Hippie on my Supple Sofa

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Worms and the Shameless Fairy Princess

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

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

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

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

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

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

Another One Bites the Dust

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Running Down a Teenager with my Bike

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

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

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

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

On Writing. . .

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

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


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

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


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



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


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

A Tribute to Girlfriendship

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

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

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

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

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

Extraordinary Splendor and Common Beauty

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


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


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


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


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