A Life in Pictures: City Bumpkin

My son loves balloons. As in, loooooves ballons. When we arrived in the United States after 25 hours on an airplane, he was as happy as a bird with a French fry because someone was waiting in the lobby with balloons.

This past weekend, we took him to the park AND we gave him balloons. Could life BE any better?

Our annual pumpkin carving event was a success. This year we honored our beloved Detroit Tigers (who ended up going down in flames). Oh well. There's always next year.

 

And that's my life ... in pictures.

Cursive: R.I.P.

If you can read this lovely hand-stamped greeting card, by subtleacts, thank a teacher. (Isn't it cute?!)

As someone who primarily writes in cursive, this saddens me.

Goodbye, old friend.

Daring to Trust

Field of Poppies, by Raceytay. As far as the eye can see ...

Admittedly, my heart is heavy today.

This morning I learned that the city where my son lived prior to his adoption is six feet under water. There is flooding throughout the country. In the 2 weeks that my husband and I spent in Thailand, we fell in love with the people and places, sites and sounds. We had mixed emotions about leaving the country behind to return home.

This morning in Sunday School, I taught a great group of teenage girls the importance of trusting as opposed to worrying. And now the test of my sincerity falls into  my own lap. (Isn't that usually how it works?)

Problem: Sometimes worry is the easy and indulgent choice.

Response: The correct solution to worry is always trust in God.

Our trust in God cannot be linked to getting what we want when we want it. It must be linked to the wisdom of God and wanting what He wants in His time. He knows infinitely better than we do what is best for our lives.

And so, by choice, I trust.

SPARK #11: The Richest Man in the Cemetery

These Bike Hand Warmers, by warmYourself will make a perfect autumn/fall/winter/spring accessory.

Life is short. Eternity is not.

Today--in light of Steve Jobs' death yesterday--I've been reading some of the things he wrote and said through the years. Whether or not I agree with various points he made, his insights are unique.

Tonight's SPARK challenge is simple. Respond to this statement, made by Steve Jobs on May 25, 1993, for CNNMoney/Fortune:

"Being the richest man in the cemetery doesn’t matter to me … Going to bed at night saying we’ve done something wonderful… that’s what matters to me."

My thoughts are many. Tonight, my words are few.

Please feel free to respond to tonight's SPARK in a post on YOUR blog and link up below!

Marriage and Expiration Dates

I am fairly confident that  Irene Suchocki is my favorite photographer. Seriously. Here, she photographs heart-shaped lights in the streets of Paris.

My husband sent me the following article on Sunday afternoon. Thankfully, he explained that he intended the article to be shared here on the blog. [Whew!] ...

The title of the article, published by ABC News: MEXICO CITY CONSIDERS TEMPORARY MARRIAGE LICENSES

According to Reuters, proponents of temporary marriage licenses believe that divorce--and all of the hassles and headaches that come with it--could be avoided if temporary marriage licenses were made optional. Couples could always renew the license if things are going well. But for those marriages that "aren't working out," the couple could easily and quietly walk away on expiration day.

Dear Mexico, REALLY?

See, here's the thing. Expiration dates are tacked onto objects that are expected to fail, i.e., milk, medicine, chemicals. Items that are expected to last--i.e, furniture, clothing, buildings--don't usually come with shelf lives or warranties. Why? Not because these objects are incapable of falling apart, but because we build them to last.

The problem with divorce (resulting in headaches and hassles) isn't primarily the process of divorce--it's the fact that divorce is happening at all. In my mind, the scenario goes like this:

Everyone is getting the flu. Instead of teaching people the steps to take to stay healthy, let's give everyone easier access to the illness so that getting sick is less complicated.

The problem, in my opinion, is that we are more concerned about the hassles of paperwork than we are the prevalence of divorce. Where we should be building fortresses around the institution of marriage, we are creating exit strategies.

The reality of marriage is that two imperfect human beings are choosing to live as one. That will never be an easy process as long as human beings are flawed. As soon as we slap expiration dates on marriages we make failed marriages a greater, more acceptable phenomena.

And then ... nobody wins.

According to the article, the proposed legislation will be voted on in Mexico by year's end. Let's see what happens.

Thank You and Good Night

Photo by Sara Frankl

Tonight, while I am carefully ticking through my to-do list and lamenting the end of the weekend, a friend of mine is preparing to meet her Maker.

I say, "friend" loosely. The Internet Age has made friends of total strangers. (Crazy dangerous and wholly wonderful.) In reality, I have only met Sara--shared coffee, chatted over chocolate chip cookies, compared life goals--via her blog.

But Sara is no less a friend. And Sara has been no less of an influence.

After years of battling a chronic illness, Sara will soon be released from her pain. I can only imagine that those who love her in person must be sorrowing and rejoicing in equal proportions. I know I am.

Something Sara said more than once will stay with me a long time. If I'm fortunate, it will stay with me forever. Her instruction (nearly 3 years ago) were simple and Herculean.

Be intentional in all things.

In Sara's words:

Here's the thing: I really do believe that everything we do, no matter how small, carries with it an impact. The decisions we make about who we want to be, how we want to live and how we treat others affects more than just our immediate surroundings. If I come in contact with someone I either leave them feeling better about themselves or worse, but I never leave them unaffected.

Well-said, Sara. For that and so much more, thank you ...

A Type of Death Worse Than Dying

Pat Robertson's response to the question about marriage and Alzheimer's is worse than the disease itself.

A few years ago, I witnessed the sad, slow decline of my grandpa.

It was particularly painful to watch because my grandpa was the life of the room. The term patriarch was created for men like him. He could hold your attention with a story he had already told you a dozen times. He loved everything in his life ferociously. Yet, at the end, he became smaller, simpler, and sad.

It was hard watching him suffer and eventually succumb to the disease that wracked his mind and body.

What made the largest impact on my life during this time of prolonged, painful descent was the way my grandpa was cared for by my grandma. With love and respect, Grandma prepared Grandpa's meals and selected his clothes and tended to his most basic and personal needs.

It was during this time that the meaning of marriage was crystallized in my mind.

Being married only a short time by comparison, I began to understand that marriage does not exist primarily for the perks that it affords. Among many things, marriage provides companionship, offers stability, and generates comfort.

But marriage--by its definition and design--exists to provide a context for persistent self-sacrifice for the good of the other.

The marriage vows were not created primarily to promise loyalty during the for better, for richer, in health years. Those kinds of promises have all the substance of the prodigal son and his buddies during the good years. The marriage vows were made for the storms, the catastrophes, the wildernesses.

I saw my grandma love more fully, more tenderly, more completely when my grandpa was dying than I ever saw when he was well. It is not that my grandma did anything different when Grandpa was healthy. It was that she was just as loyal, just as faithful, and just as supportive when he was sick that made the difference for me. Love unrewarded is the truest love of all.

Pat Robertson's belief that a husband can dump his Alzheimer's-stricken wife and start again is disgusting.

I am grateful for a grandma who stood by my grandfather and said with her life:

I promise to be true to you in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health. I will love you and honor you all the days of my life ...

Unmeasured Strength: from a 9/11 Survivor

Lauren Manning, from laurenmanning.com

I'm fairly certain I've never written 2 posts in 1 day on this blog. But today is a good day for an exception. Moments ago, I received the following words in an e-mail from Lauren Manning ...

I was running half an hour late on September 11, 2001, when I pushed through the doors of One World Trade Center – soon to become known to all as the north tower – and turned toward the elevators that would take me to my 105th floor office at Cantor Fitzgerald.

Just as I turned left, a tremor shook the 110-story tower, followed by a huge, whistling rush of air. There were only three full-height elevator shafts in the building, but they offered the jet fuel explosion an unimpeded path to the lobby, and a moment later, with a giant, screeching exhalation, a wall of flame exploded from the elevator banks and engulfed me.

Its tentacles latched on with crushing force. I was spun around, and battled to escape the building and run toward a strip of grass across the street to drop and roll. The desire to yield to the blackness that rose around me was overwhelming, but then my mind was filled with a vision of my 10 month old son, Tyler, and I decided to live. To me, it was a clear and conscious decision.

I had been engulfed by the fires that would bring down the twin towers of the World Trade Center, so injured that almost no one held out any hope for me. I spent almost two months in a drug-induced coma before I opened my eyes. Yet in the weeks and months that followed, I battled back from the edge of death to hold my child in my arms, and intertwine my husband’s fingers with what was left of my own.

The injury I suffered was perhaps more intimate than any other; it was all- encompassing, from the outside in. But with each step of my recovery, I learned that the shell encasing me was not my real beauty. Our real reflection is the inner mirror that tells us the truth of who we really are. The body I saw when I looked into that mirror was the body that had fought the battle while I slept and refused to die before I awoke— the one that had invested itself with strength, guarded my soul, and brought me home to my family. There could not be a more perfect body on Earth.

The scars that cover me are proof of man’s capacity for hatred and evil. But these scars speak only of our physical fragility, not the boundless strength in our hearts. The shadows of the burning towers have been overpowered by the twin beacons of faith and love that guided me forward and led me home. Faith in God, faith in love, and faith in myself have vanquished the emptiness I felt when I thought that I would never see Tyler again or never have a second child.

I am grateful to my family and my caregivers, who stood by me and never wavered; most of all to my son, Tyler, who inspired me to fight. I am thankful for the friends and the good people around the world who opened their hearts to me and offered their support in writing or in person. They lifted my spirits during my hardest days, and their good will signals the goodness that lies within all of us.

I will never forget the friends and colleagues who were killed on September 11, 2001. As I wrote Unmeasured Strength, I thought of them constantly. Every breath I share with my own family is in part a tribute to their memory, and to the memory of all the innocents who died on that day.

We are all in debt to the men and women of our armed services who have fought the battle both before and after September 11 so that others will not be harmed by terror or tyranny. I send my most profound wishes for a healthy recovery to all those warriors who have been wounded, and to the loved ones of those who died in the performance of their duty, know that we hold them in the highest respect, and we honor the mission for which they sacrificed their lives.

All of us have been wounded in some way, whether by violence, disease, or other personal tragedy. But though we can never pretend that we have not been touched by adversity, we can refuse to be held by it. Whether you open your eyes after a single night or seven long weeks, from that moment of it is up to you. The only way forward is to gather your courage and take that lonely first step— the step of commitment, the step that will be remembered for generations.

What will you choose to do, with the time God has given you?
Every day you have a choice. Make it count.



During the past several weeks, Lauren has been invited to share her story on The View, The Today Show, and in many magazines and newspapers. We appreciate her willingness to share these words with us!
©2011 by Lauren Manning, from Unmeasured Strength, published by henry Holt and Company, LLC.

Turn Again to Life

I love this Blue Triptych Tree Collage by Sascalia. It reminds me of the perfect, blue skies of 9/11/01.

I wept today.

I wept for families I have never met whose pain cannot be quenched with time. I wept with the readers of the names at Ground Zero, whose emotion could be felt these hundreds of miles away. I wept with a country who, for now and always, looks over its shoulder with incertitude.

For my family, our personal connection to 9/11 made it safely out of the Pentagon. She had been receiving an award in a different part of the building and was spared the awful brunt of the day's attack.

But in so many ways--by love of country, by gift of service, by pledge of loyalty--we are affected, every one of us.

Today, I am reflecting on Psalm 46--read by the President in his address this morning--



"The LORD of hosts is with us; the God of Jacob is our fortress."

Because of that, we turn again to life.

SPARK #7: Against Forgetting

This retro flower tree,  by Sascalia makes me think of fall. (And I love fall with all my heart.)

Not long ago, I stood before a classroom of writing students and asked them to share their memories of September 11th. I wasn't prepared for what came next ...

What I anticipated was a recounting of terror-filled moments and media anecdotes. I could almost hear the rumbling of voices talking over voices--"Pick me! I have something to share!"

This was a classroom of talkers, after all, who could make the contents of a phone book sound exciting.

But what I received in response to my question was a room full of glassy-eyed, blank expressions. I could have asked them to translate the Estonian phrase, "Made sa vaatad" and I would have witnessed the same reaction.

I learned quickly that these students knew nothing of 9/11 except what they had read in textbooks or discovered on YouTube.

It doesn't take long, I learned, for generations to be separated by major life events. Today's 15-year-olds know little--if anything--of that horrific day. No doubt they look at 9/11 the way I view Vietnam or the fall of the Iron Curtain. I can respect it in the way I know it was important--the way I know freedom is important or forgiveness.

But it's all conceptual.

And since that day in that classroom, I have grappled with ways that I can share history with those who come after me. Maybe my account will be imperfect. Maybe the details I share will not be relevant to the world at large. But they will be details that make the events more real to those I love.

9/11, after all, is a day that shouldn't be forgotten.

SPARK #7: What do you remember about 9/11? 100 to 200 words.

Here is what I remember.

Memoirs of a Paper Queen

If I were queen, I would only use Pyrex, like this piece from Modred12. I love it.

Do you remember where you were 14 years ago today? I do.

Let's see if this helps. It was 14 years ago today that Princess Diana was killed in that tragic car accident in a Paris tunnel.

It was a Sunday.

For me, the school year was just beginning, and I was sitting in Sunday School that morning listening to my peers whisper about her death. I was annoyed because--while I had learned about the accident the night before--I thought she was still alive. One of the boys in my class was a little too eager to clarify for me that the princess of people's hearts had died.

I was devastated. I owned a book of paper dolls featuring Princess Diana. (FYI: It came with a paper tiara. Open the paper slits, fold the tabs, and adjust to fit. Go from commoner child to dazzling princess in seconds.)

Anyway.

Something that has always intrigued me during the past 14 years is the way that Diana is remembered. She was a humanitarian, style icon, and international personality. She is still considered the UK's favorite royal. But listen for it. Whenever people discuss Diana--whether they are reporters or historians--their voices change when they remember Diana as ... mother.

Argue it all you want. But I am convinced that--on the list of prized accomplishments--motherhood is still queen.

Seems like only yesterday--

SPARK #4: Game Change

Rare, red vinyl pair of original Herman Miller, Charles Eames shell chairs by thevintagesupplyco. These chairs make sitting an art.

The house is quiet. In the battle of sleep vs. my son, sleep has prevailed. It's funny to think that the silence feels strange when only a few weeks ago, silence was the norm. So much can change in an instant ...

SPARK #4: Write about a change you have experienced in your life that has been impactful. 100 to 200 words.

And one more thing before I go:

Through the years, I've heard various of my friends complain that they don't have enough time to keep up with journals, baby books, scrap books, etc.--with or without children, life is busy. I get that.

But here is my encouragement to you. Even if you only take one day a week to document something important--a page in a journal or scrapbook, for instance--you will still have 52 pages at the end of a year. And that is not a shabby goal.

Perfectionism is too often the enemy of accomplishment.

I was reminded today--via the story of a sweet mother of 7 who is battling cancer--that life is short.

Go ahead--write something down.

Biebs and Lunch Room Wisdom

Check out this vintage wooden rolling pin with cherry pie red handles by ApollinaireVintage!

It is difficult to deny that the Internet is an accurate temperature gauge of our culture.

Today, I stumbled on an ABC news article that listed the 50 most popular women, per Google search results. Perhaps not surprising, the most popular woman on the list was Lady Gaga, followed by 24 actresses, 16 music artists, 3 politicians, 2 models, 2 socialites, and 1 television personality.

And, in case you didn't do the math, the above list only contains 49 individuals.

17-year-old Justin Bieber was ranked number 7 on this list of the 50 Most Popular Women. (I've written and deleted 4 different comments in response to this fact--they were all a tad too snarky.)

Why does this list matter and what does it mean?

I often receive e-mail from readers asking me why women in this culture who prize their families are looked down upon or treated as "less worthy" by society at large. My answer, given this type of article, is simple.

When Miley Cyrus and Kim Kardashian, or Pamela Anderson and Marilyn Monroe are listed as the most popular women in our culture--based on what people are actively thinking about and voluntarily choosing to spend their time and attention pursuing--it should tell us this: choosing to honor home and family in this generation has all the significance of salmon swimming upstream.

Ours is a culture that values acting and singing above everything else.

Thankfully--as we learned in the elementary school lunch room--it is not the loudest voice in the room that matters most.

Once Upon a Time, You Were Born

Check out "Home" by merriweathercouncil, hand stitched in vibrant mid-tone blue cotton floss

Dear Nephew,

Today you were born. But we'll get to that in a moment.

As a writer, I am fascinated by the presence of weather in setting the scene for a story.

(Let it be known now that I am a writer and I will entertain you with stories as a child, whether or not you want me to. I already have a story that will hold your attention better than pigs and a wolf. Wait and see.)

Anyway. I digress.

Sunshine often illustrates happiness, and rain promises drama. Wind signifies change. You get the point. You should know that it was not Snoopy who first coined the phrase, "It was a dark and stormy night," but rather, it was novelist Edward Bulwer-Lytton.

It was a dark and stormy day today, hours before your birth. A few of your family members huddled in the waiting to room to await news--any news--that you were on your way. When your mother kindly allowed us to spend some time in the labor and delivery room, we listened to your heartbeat and laughed at your hiccups. We watched the monitor like it was the best kind of movie or television show (in reality, it looked like a perpetual view of the Rocky Mountains--they were beautiful). And we watched your dad say goofy things on a video camera.

And now I wonder what your future holds. We already enjoy you more than you can imagine. We will celebrate in your happiness and share in your change. We will ride the waves of drama that life promises. And we will love you for the duration of your life.

You already have a fan club as intense as any musical group or movie star.

As Edward Bulwer-Lytton wrote in Paul Clifford:

"It was a dark and stormy night; the rain fell in torrents—except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a violent gust of wind which swept up the streets. . ."

Those words could easily be the beginning to your own autobiography. We anticipate what will fill the pages of your story.

Love you, child.

Oh Baby!

Photo by Horia Varlan

I've got nothing.

I'm serious. My sister-in-law is having contractions and I'm running around like every bumbling father in television who learns his wife is in labor. My brother ate supper while walking circles in the living room. The dogs are on the floor, chewing through their bones like they have power saws for jaws.

I have snacks. I have a bag packed. I'm ready to do this thing . . . vicariously, of course.

Of course, my sister is sitting on the couch, calmly looking at her laptop. She's better off than we are.

No one ever told me that--when the mother goes into labor--everyone else in the family does, too.

I'm having contractions every two minutes.

Female Without Apology

Photo by nezumichuu

I am putting today's hospitality post on hold. I just finished reading an article that has effectively raised my blood pressure several points. And you are the lucky recipient of today's soap box response.

TODAY Moms posted an article entitled, No 'He' or 'She' at Gender-free Preschool. This article, written by Jenny Kales, begins with these words:

Does your young daughter play with cars? Does your preschool-aged son pretend to cook with mom? Many parents these days reject traditional (and often, rigid) gender roles for their kids, happily buying trucks and trains for girls and encouraging boys to explore toy kitchens.

Read the full article here.

Make no mistake, I understand the value of teaching children to be well-rounded contributors to society. My husband, who couldn't be more male if you fed him a testosterone-only diet, is a phenomenal cook. He can out-souffle me any day of the week. Go on a camping trip with him, and you'll eat a better breakfast created over an open flame than you'll ever get with me standing over a stove. My mother-in-law did me a great service by allowing (read: encouraging) my husband to love the kitchen.

But the issue of gender equality--as presented in this article as well as the recent, well-publicized decision of a family to keep its child's gender a secret--extends beyond creating children who are free to learn or create or experience. In my opinion, hiding gender does nothing to promote well-rounded additions to society.

I believe an obsession with stifling a child's gender--and attacking the subsequent realities that accompany it--actually demonstrates the worst kind of inequality. Taking a boy and a girl--each with his or her unique gender-specific qualities--and making those children blank slates is not a service.

Being indistinguishable is not the same as being equal. Gender is not responsible for the ills in our society. Men and women who make bad choices are responsibility for the problems. Take away the "men" and "women" and all you have are people who make bad choices.

The true way to celebrate our equal value as men and women is to celebrate the things that make us unique.

I will not apologize for being female. There are things I can't do and things I do well. There are things my husband excells in and things he needs me to help him accomplish. And many of those strengths and weaknesses drive a straight line back to our gender-specific roles. This compensation, this harmonization, this stabilization ... makes us equal in value and importance.

Make no mistake, I hope my boys learn to cook. I hope my daughters line up tanks and army people along the headboard of their bed just like I did with my brother growing up.

But I hope they remain unapologetic for how they were created.

Coming Soon: Your Friendly Neighborhood Superstore

Photo by Polycart

On the eve of my book launch, I am going to take it easy and share an interesting article I read earlier today on msnbc.com.

In short: "Two of the nation’s biggest and most prominent retailers, Target and Wal-Mart, are testing out smaller versions of their familiar megastores" (Allison Linn).

Read the article here. Imagine "stopping in" at a Wal-Mart or Target on the corner of your street, the way you might swing by a 7-Eleven on the way home from work. Convenient or annoying?

Either way, this is an interesting move.

Joplin: Home Is Where the Heart Is

Photo by nasikabatrachus

In lieu of tonight's hospitality column, I pause to reflect on the devastation in the Heartland.

Even when the house is falling apart, the home is as strong as ever--

Visit msnbc.com for breaking news, world news, and news about the economy

So moving. My prayers are with Bethany Lansaw tonight.

Happily Ever After?

Photo by AForestFrolic

In today's In Print, I beg your indulgence as I sink into my shameless roots as a creative writer. Truly, this story intrigues me.

Huguette M. Clark died today. On my growing list of personal fascinations, she's been at the top for at least a decade. (Right now, she is somewhere between Lady Gaga's shoes and Duchess Catherine's recent nuptials.)

Consider this opening sentence to a column on msnbc.com today:

NEW YORK — Huguette M. Clark, the mysterious copper heiress who became the subject of public fascination and police investigation after a century of life
as a recluse, died Tuesday morning at age 104, registered under a fake name at a hospital in New York City.

According to the New York Post:

Her 42-room Fifth Avenue apartment is unoccupied, and her lavish mansions in California and New Canaan, Conn., have been vacant for more than 50 years, costing her millions of dollars in maintenance and taxes.

Herein is the irony: One of the richest women in the country developed such a distrust of people, (including her family members) because she was convinced they wanted her money. So she spent decades hiding in a hospital, not talking to anyone except through a closed door. And whenever she discussed issues of importance, she did so in French so that no one would understand her.

In short, to keep others from enjoying her wealth, she quit enjoying it herself. So . . . what was the point?

Farewell, Huguette Clark. You've been fascinating.

Post-judgment-day Analysis

On this sunny, Sunday afternoon, here is what I'm thinking about:

And though Harold Camping and his followers got it wrong (and will continue to get it wrong), we can be confident of this: We are accountable to God for our choices. Let us live this week--and every week--for something bigger than ourselves.

1 Thessalonians 5--