This Cocoon of Mine

For years I have believed that we are only in transit to heaven. We are mostly spiritual beings, caught for a moment in a cocoon of the physical world before being released into the eternal. But our possessions wrap themselves around us, making us feel like this cocoon is permanent. It isn't. It is only a stopping point, a layover on our journey to the real world.

I needed to be reminded of that this past month when I walked through my house deciding what was worth enough to put in a storage shed and what was better off being sold or given away. It was a good exercise for me. She who thought she wasn't very sentimental started to feel attached to things. 

I felt grasping, clutching to my heart things I love. It hurts to let them go. It wasn't just possessions. There are friendships that will be changed by our move across the ocean. I wanted to hang on. Opening my hand to release them gave me an unexpected sense of insecurity. 

And then I realized that in holding on to my things, I'm only trying to create a cocoon of permanence around a life that isn't meant to be permanent at all. The false walls of my possessions give the personification that this life is reality. That antique dish given by my great-aunt feels like it should be part of my family forever. But in reality? It is only a thread of my cocoon making me feel like a citizen of earth. 

The thing is, I'm not. And I will be glad of that on the day this cocoon bursts open and lies in pieces at my feet. I won't miss all this 'stuff' that has wrapped their silky arms around me. I'll laugh the laugh of the free when I'm winging my way towards Home. In those moments, I'll be glad for each time I've purposely loosened my grip on temporal things. 

Opening my hand willingly to release some of this terrestrial webbing is an exercise good for my soul. I am mostly spiritual, after all, when adding Eternity into the equation. Every reminder I have of that will make me more earnest in my walk with God, offer me a more heavenly perspective, and make my cocoon feel more like a rest stop and less like home. 

The Fog will Lift

John came to me a month ago and showed me a video clip he, a pilot, came across.  It was the cockpit's view of a plane landing in dense fog. Not being a pilot myself, it made zero sense to me.  He must have noticed my confusion because he said of the video, "It's going. It is a plane landing in fog."  Only, there was no visible plane and no runway. Only fog whipping past the screen. It could have been anything in fog.  

"It is descending," John translated, making sense out of the clouds. 

A single light came into view and even to a non-pilot it was apparent that the plane was nearing a runway. Another light showed up and a few runway markings became visible. I still could see very little and felt thankful I wasn't a passenger of this ship descending into cloudy unknown. There were no buildings in sight. There was nothing but a few lights and a short strip of visible runway. But the pilot knew what he was doing. Between his collection of instruments and his skill, the plane landed gently right on target. 

The two of us felt like we could relate to the video clip for our future was as clear to us as the foggy view through the cockpit. Just a few weeks before, we were asked to consider returning to Ghana, West Africa as missionaries. Both of us have been there before as single young people and also as a married couple. The idea wasn't new. But was it God's will?

We were willing. That was about as much as we knew at the moment. 

Fortunately, God is already surrounding our future and knows what our destination looks like even when it is completely obscured by uncertainties. God unveils His will at precisely the right moment. Even while I believed that completely, I stifled feelings of impatience. It would have felt better to see what was happening and to know immediately what His will was. But not having the luxury of seeing farther than the step at hand, we trusted ourselves to His gentle guidance. One of His instruments of guidance is peace. We felt led by it, as though the first light on the runway came into view. We agreed to return to Ghana. 

But which need should we fill? One of them was close to our heart. It was in the North where we would live simply among a tribe similar to ones we lived among before. Living there would feel familiar and we would be actively sharing the Gospel message. The other need was in the South, shouldering the logistical side of things for the missionaries in the North. It would be an easier life (running water, electricity and bathrooms) but unfamiliar to us and possibly not as naturally fulfilling as preaching the Gospel. 

Our pros and cons lists were long for both alternatives. We continued to pray for guidance and His peace. Again it came. The second light was visible on the runway.

Lord willing, we will be moving to southern Ghana. Between now and our departure there are enough details to juggle to make the fog seem as dense as ever. We'd love to take in pre-field training in NC and visit family in IN and CO. John has a part-time job as a flight instructor and has students who want to get their license before we leave. He also is working on training in his replacement at the office. We have belongings to sort and things to pack.  The Big Blurry Question of our immediate future is how to fit all these pieces into the puzzle frame of the three months remaining before take-off.

"God's got it all settled already," a friend told me, hearing unrest in my voice. I would like concrete dates cemented into my schedule.

I drew in a deep breath. My friend is right. All I need to do now is seek His guidance and wait for the lifting of the fog. 

How to Repair Beef Short Ribs

A number of years ago I was introduced to a book called "How to Repair Food." It was loaded with suggestions on fixing culinary mistakes. I thought it was cute at the time, but this past Monday I wished I had a copy of my own.

It was Memorial Day which meant John had the day off work. That alone was worth celebrating so I pulled out beef short ribs that I hoarded in my freezer for the last year and a half. Part of storing them so long was because I hated to not have them anymore and part of it was not knowing exactly how to prepare them. But anyone can follow a recipe and slam out some good cooking, right?

In this case, wrong. Very wrong.

I read about Texan-style preparation in which you smoke the ribs for hours. That sounded amazing but not having a good way of smoking ribs, I perused recipes until I came across one that looked delicious and fail-proof. It said to bake the ribs for two hours and grill them for twenty minutes, brushing them with your sauce every five minutes.

I had serious questions when I pulled the ribs from the oven after over two hours of baking. They seemed pretty tough but I hoped a little grilling might do the trick. It didn't. These ribs seemed unfazed by nearly three hours of heat. They were a challenge to my Cutco, not to mention my teeth.

The ribs reminded me of the kebab I purchased by leaning out of a bus window in Africa. The first bite took five miles of hard, determined chewing before I finally gave up and spit the thing discreetly into a tissue. I have never forgotten my five-mile-kebab and have laughed over it many times. Suddenly, thanks to tough short ribs, the humor was gone.

"Well, this might only be a three-mile bite," I said obnoxiously around a chunk of disappointment. But that might have been a too generous description.

Not surprisingly, there were leftovers. "Now what?" I asked, stabbing the hunk with vengeance. I imagined it getting tougher as it cooled and ending up as a teething toy for the neighbor dogs. 

But the phrase "How to Repair Food" came to mind. I didn't know what the cookbook would say, but I figured there had to be a way to salvage these. . .things. 

I think it was the leftover pineapple that sparked the saving inspiration. Alongside the meat, I had grilled fresh pineapple rings which had been marinated in honey and melted butter. They were amazing and if I hadn't been so disappointed over my carefully hoarded ribs being nearly inedible, I would have enjoyed them immensely. 

Together with the sauce and the ribs, I added the pineapple and put it all in the Crockpot on Low. My initial instincts were to keep them there for the next week, roughly, but curiosity won and I lifted the lid after a single afternoon.

It had worked.  The leftover ribs were all I had dreamed of originally -maybe even better, thanks to the pineapple. 

There really is a way to repair short ribs. In that case, anyone wanna come for dinner? (Hint: Ask for leftovers.)

The Skunk Question

One question bothering me lately is: "What is God going to do with skunks when Christ returns?"  I can't imagine sharing divine real estate with little beggars who can't even stand their own scent.  Maybe God will "un-curse" skunks for eternity and give them Japanese Cherry Blossom to blast around instead of the wretched stuff they offer now.

I know I am particularly sensitive to this issue because of our basement.  It reeks.  Unfortunately, bad things don't always stay in our basement and the scent leaked upwards to permeate the rest of our house.  If it was a stench that lasted a few days and slowly got better, I think I might have wrinkled my nose and dealt with it.  But the stink ebbed and flowed like the tide, getting strong at bedtime and increasing to become horrible in the early hours of the morning.  We were awakened with it at 3:30 am and opened the window to air out our bedroom. The great outdoors smelled refreshingly clean.

"It smells fine outside," we said, disturbed that our house stank worse than a PA countryside.  That is when theorizing began.  "Are we sure it is a skunk?  Maybe there is a weird phenomenon going on underground and a gas is leaking up into our basement. Like methane, for example."

It sounded like a good theory to me in predawn drowsiness, but when I called my dad later that day to ask his opinion, he only said, "If it walks like a duck and looks like a duck, it probably is a duck."  That is a nice idea if this were ducks we are dealing with.

But I bought into his logic and took the children's to a friend's house for the morning to escape the smell.  We walked into her house only to be horrified when she said, "I can smell the skunk on you guys."

That was where my tolerance ended.  If it were just a rank outdoors to deal with, I would suffer in silence (well...possibly in relative silence).  And if it were only a stinky house, I might have been able to bite my tongue.  But stinky humans?  I called the landlord as soon as I got home.

I think it was when I saw him walk down our basement stairs with a pellet gun that I felt a surge of gladness I'm not the man of the house.  For the next hour he and his son snooped around in our crawl space and shone their flashlights into dark corners to try to find the skunk. They found none.  Not even under the back porch where they lifted a few floorboards to look underneath.

My brother was coming for the weekend, and I felt my privilege of hosting him was hanging on a slender thread about to be broken by a skunk dying in my house.  I decided to appeal to his sense of adventure with the following texts:

Me:  You won't want to miss out.  The landlord has a baited trap under our back porch.
Jordan:  Oh sweet!  This will be an exciting night!
Me:  Exactly.  Especially since your window is right above the porch.
Jordan:  Oh boy! Do you have a zip line to the nearest tree in case we get fumed?

It was a valid question.  A midnight blast from the skunk under our back porch would instantly render our house unbearable.

Me: Well, we've been discussing our options. Either we all end up on Dawn's living room floor or the nearest Comfort Inn.
Jordan:  If I hear a metallic click and the sound of a hairspray bottle losing its pressure, I'm completely abandoning ship!
Me:  Lol! So are we.  In fact, I told John that if this thing lets loose I am going back to IN with you for a week!

Turns out we didn't catch a skunk at all.  Through airing out the house for days, the scent slowly dissipated until it is moderately stinking up our basement but not wafting through the rest of the house.

"Too bad, really." I lamented aloud.  I was thinking of the trip to IN that was no longer pending.  Plus, I wouldn't have minded a trophy picture in my photo album. I saw the looks they trained on me and explained, "Hey, if I smelled like a skunk for a few days, I might as well have a picture of the culprit."

Jordan raised his eyebrows in disbelief. "I'd suggest you just print a skunk picture off of Google."

Yeah, he's probably right.  Must have inherited some of his dad's logic.

Fingerprint Drawing

If your children enjoy artsy things, they might have fun with Fingerprint Drawing.  My just-turned-five year old has spent up to two hours at a time making pictures for me or his Grandmas.  He's basically been living outside in this gorgeous weather, but I'm keeping it in mind for rainy days.

Years ago, my mom gave me a multicolored ink pad and a fingerprint drawing idea book:

Surprisingly, the ink pad still works great, though there are a couple of colors that have been dirtied by little fingers.  

Tyler loves making aquariums full of fish:  

and divers, complete with snorkels and flippers:

He has had an entire generation of butterflies captured by little people with butterfly nets.  

The other picture he loves to create is a farm, making the animals and the farmer (always with a hat and a pitchfork) with his fingerprints and coloring the rest in with crayons:  

When he went to work with his Dad, this was one of the projects he chose to take with him.  I understand his fascination:

Six Signs Saying Spring has finally Sprung

Tulips.  

Ours surprised themselves (and us) by blooming this year --they bloom roughly every other year and this was officially their year off.

The Dandelion Deluge. 

I looked out  my window when I was washing dishes (frantically! for by way of motivating me, a friend was racing me with her dishes in her house...) and saw my little people walking across the lawn, holding hands. 

I stood there saying, "Awww..." because Tyler slowed his step to help his sister up onto the porch.  He handed her his fistful of dandelions when they reached the door and said, 

"Tell Mommy, 'Here, these are for you!'"  

They entered the kitchen and right on cue, she said, "Here, these are for you!"  

"I actually picked them," Tyler told me confidentially, obviously pleased with their gift.

"And then I gave them to her to give to you."

It was one of those precious moments as a mom when I got to watch my son 

be the perfect gentleman to his sister.

Wow.  If this is what dandelions do to 5-year-old boys, I love dandelions.  

Plus, I love my dandelion bouquets.

Produce Patches.  

Fields are white everywhere but not unto harvest.  They are full of plastic.

Roadside stands opening soon!

I've never read this in statistics anywhere, but I wouldn't be surprised if we live in the Roadside Stand Capital of the States.  Which is a privilege, considering we won't be having a garden this year.

 Flowering trees.  

Flowering trees are easily one of my favorite Spring Things.
This one is in our very own yard.  

  

Fun at the Park.

Spring has been a bit delayed this year, but it is finally warm enough to thoroughly enjoy a park.  We took advantage of it this week and want to definitely go again soon...

maybe with some friends.

So tell me, what are your favorite signs of Spring?

National Take Your Son/Daughter to Work Day

(Every fourth Thursday in April)

Going to work with Daddy was no small thing. Excitement levels were running in dangerous proportions a day in advance which is when he packed his 'work bag.'  He had several hours of coloring, his favorite Flight magazine to look at, and a multi-colored ink pad to make fingerprint pictures for Mommy.  

On Thursday morning he came downstairs in a new-to-him shirt with as many buttons as Daddy's.  He had tucked it in carefully and critiqued the combing job I gave to his hair.   He asked for cologne.  And then he was ready and felt like a million bucks.   

I loved it.  

While waiting to leave, he perched carefully on the edge of the recliner in order not to mess up his hair.  I sat across from him and smiled.  This was a big day for all of us.

In his best effort to sound as grown-up as possible, he struck up a conversation, "So, how was your time with dad in the dark?"  

I stifled the great belly laugh that welled up in me, straightened my face to an appropriate sobriety and said, "It was great!  I slept well and then came downstairs to read my Bible and pray.  I prayed that you would have a really good time with Daddy at work today."

That was all it took.  He flung his head back, all grown-up facades cast away, and laughed with the abandon of a five-year-old who is sitting on extreme but suppressed excitement.  Then he sobered up again and nodded politely and said, "That's good."

And then John came down.  Tyler had waited to eat until Daddy did.  He zipped his jacket only partially like Daddy had his.  He smiled, satisfied that his button-down shirt and tan trousers looked man-enough to be appropriate for an office.  

When I kissed both of my guys good-bye I wasn't sure which one of them was enjoying this the most:  the shiny-eyed one with his bag or the smiling-eyed one with his boy.  And then they left.

An hour into their day at the office, I sent John a text asking how it was going.  His reply was to send this picture:  

We only live a few minutes from the office, so I told John that I could easily pick Tyler up any time things go downhill.  But what grown-up five-year-old wants to have his mom pick him up from the office?  That is like, so schoolboy-ish.  John understood that.  So mid-morning when his coloring and artwork were done and his scrap paper properly disposed of by the paper shredder, Tyler grew restless and John, still grinning broadly, brought him home. 

Tyler had a brown paper bag in his hand.  "Hey, what it is in your bag?" I asked.

And then came the heart-warming story of how George, the CEO, called Tyler into his office.  "He asked if I could step into his office for a minute, so I stepped into his office and he said 'Thank you for coming to work with your dad.'  He gave me this bag and then he told me 'Thank you for coming with your dad' the second time."

Tyler emptied his treasures onto the table.  There were business cards, a logo-embellished, leather-bound tablet with a calculator inside the cover (this doubles beautifully as an iPhone when you are five), a pen with a matching key chain/flashlight, a pack of gum, a bookmark, and a card thanking him for coming to work with his dad.  

I could have cried.  Going to work with John would have been fantastic without the bag from George, but that element changed Tyler's experience from fantastic to Never Ever Will Be Forgotten.  

John was grinning. "On the way to work Tyler told me 'Dad, this is melting my heart.'"  

Yeah, it melts mine, too. 

I say three cheers for the National Holiday People for hitting on a great idea.  And three cheers for Dads like John and workplaces like Westfield and executives like George.  And, of course, three cheers for five-year-old boys with their shiny eyes and bags of treasures.

The combination is unbeatable on the fourth Thursday in April.  You might want to mark your calendar for next year.