My Achilles Heel

     According to Greek mythology, Achilles was not born invincible, but was instead prophesied that he would die in battle. To prevent this, his mother dipped him in the river Styx which was said to be the source of great power. She had to have a grip of some point, and held him by one heel, leaving one weak point on his otherwise invincible body.  The mythology further states that Achilles was shot and killed by a poisoned arrow in his heel.  Thus the phrase describing someone's "Achilles heel."
     I am (obviously) far from invincible, but I understand the pain of an Achilles tendon injury. Last week there I was merrily playing volleyball when suddenly I pushed off my right leg to feel and hear it pop and down I went.  Doctor says the tendon is ruptured and I require surgery to fix it. The good news/bad news is that I can't have surgery for another 7-8 months because I'm pregnant.  The plan is now that I'll have the surgery soon after the birth and really be laid up for a while. So where does that leave me? Wearing a walking boot, trying to stay healthy, counting down the days for more than one reason. This is not the pregnancy that I had planned, but lucky for me my God does have a plan. As my OB/GYN joked, "that'll teach you for trying to exercise and stay healthy."

      Thank you to all my friends who are praying for me.  I'm going to need continued prayers over the next months.
     

Big Brother Gets it Right

        Anybody that has children knows that the friendship level can swing widely from one extreme to the next in less than the blink of an eye. Children who were happily playing together are suddenly screaming bloody murder with cries of "Mom, he...!" mixed in for good measure. Such are my two boys. One moment they're best friends and the next Mom has to step in for a calming effect and send them to their respective rooms once the rounds of apologies have been completed. Then Mom gets to go and talk to each offender individually about his particular role in the spat.  My oldest loves his little brother but being the oldest also likes his alone time. He is also quite the more clean of the two and often resents the way Landon strews toys all around and frequently breaks them in his exuberance. My youngest being the youngest thinks that alone time is a penalty and strives to be with Nathan every second they're both awake. He also, as aforementioned, is happy with is room being knee-deep in toys and clothes and doesn't get the concept of privacy. You see trouble brewing between the vastly different personalities? Then join the club.
        Relationships had gotten to the point where any approach by Landon was greeted with "Go away, I don't want you around." Such as response was, as you can well imagine, not tolerated in this household. One afternoon it was bad enough that after I sent Landon to take his nap, Nathan and I sat down and had a good long talk. We discussed how Mommy and Daddy gave Nathan his name because it means "gift from God" and that Landon is still a precious gift even though his name means something different. Each and every child is a precious gift from the Father. I also pulled out Landon's baby album and pointed out how many pictures had Nathan excited to be around his baby brother. (and there were numerous pictures of Nathan hanging out with his brother.) Then we prayed for his attitude towards his brother to change.  I've also talked to Landon extensively about giving Nathan some alone time. That was a hard concept for the kid to swallow!
         I wish I could say it's been perfect since then, but that would be a complete lie. And it would mean that my kids aren't growing through challenges.  Nathan is much better about asking Landon to leave his alone rather than shoving him into the hallway and locking the door. Landon, with some coaching, now leaves Nathan's room when asked and the whining is diminishing. The other day I could not have been more proud of my oldest son. The second night of VBS we ended up moving Nathan up to an older class (the downside of holding him back from kindergarden a year is the constant struggle to identify which age group he needs to be in.) Landon was heartbroken that he was no longer going to have his brother in his class with him. While I was busy trying to take care of necessary communications with other adults I was unable to comfort my youngest son. Never fear, Nathan took care of that. I looked over to see Nathan with Landon's head cupped in his hands and his forehead touching his little brother's while reassuring words came out of his mouth. My thoughts ran between "Awwww" to "WHERE'SMYCAMERA?WHERE'SMYCAMERA?INEEDMYCAMERA!!!!" Alas, the moment was too fleeting to dig my phone out of my pocket and capture the photo, but it is ofrever captured in my memory. Reassurance that as they grow, so will their relationship. Hope that maybe I'm leading them in the right direction. Reminders that little hearts are big enough to share God's love.

Hunger Games, a Promotion, and Memories

          Saturday was a day full of fun things and unexpected memories. First I read Mockingjay, the conclusion to the Hunger Games trilogy. Reading it brought up memories of my time in the formerly Communist Russia. About watching the way people were affected psychologically, how they lived and survived, how these behaviors remained even after the downfall of that totalitarian government.   Suzanne Collins, Mockingjay's author, describes a fictional world that has lived for 74 years under a dictatorial government. She describes in vivid details both the excess and frivolity of those in the Capital, the wanton disregard for the rest of the country by the government, and the desperate struggle to survive of the lower class people.  It brought to mind many of the teachers I worked with talking about the food shortages during the Soviet Union, of standing in line for hours in the bitter cold only to walk into stores with bare shelves. It reminded me how creative writing was one of the hardest tasks for my bright students to engage in, since fitting in was necessary for survival during the old times. Being different was certain to engage the interest and questioning of the authorities. Collins describes the families grieving over the loss of their children in the gladiatorial Hunger Games which reminds me of a statue in Moscow's Museum of the Great Patriotic War.  Immediately I am mentally standing in the Hall of Remembrance and Sorrow before  the white marble statue depicting a mother mourning over the body of her son who died in military action. Presented are both the dignity and respect of one who gave his life for his country and the grief of a mother who's son will never come home.  The difference is of course that honor is being paid to those who defended their country from the encroaching Nazi Germany while in the book previous lives are thrown around for the amusement of a fickle population.
          When I finish a book, and especially a series, I am always a little bit sad that it is over.  I hate both saying goodbye to characters that, although fictional, have become my friends for several hours and leaving the world in which they live.  I find myself wanting to know what happens after the last period and how the story continues for these people.  After finishing the Hunger Games trilogy, I felt an array of emotions. Swirling together with the sadness over finishing and a slight disappointment over the ending were the memories of my time in my beloved Russia.  Again I am forced to realize that I left a part of my heart in Russia and it will never return to me.  I cannot tell you why Russia, why I love it so. I can only tell you that it is there and it will never stop. The people, so long downtrodden and denied hope, both stoic and loving, proud and generous, such a unique mixture of what should be opposites, are forever in my heart.
          Barely had I time to reflect on all of this before it was time to get ready. I managed to corral my boys through the bath and into dress clothes to head to the promotion ceremony of a friend in the army.  As always, I feel gratefulness and pride during the playing of the national anthem. Ever since my time in Russia, I have become misty-eyed when I see our beautiful flag and hear the song reminding us about the hard-earned fight to become "the land of the free." Today, emotionally a little raw over Mockingjay, in an aircraft hanger celebrating the promotion of one of those brave who help preserve our freedom, tears fell as I leaned over and switched my youngest son's left hand to right and showed him where his heart is.
          He made one star general. I love the ceremony and tradition of the military. Not just because I love flags flying, sharp dress uniforms, and highly polished shoes. Not that I don't enjoy the parades... I love the patriotism, commitment, and the personal sacrifice that our men and women in uniform display. To me, they are heroes. Christ stated, "There is no greater love than to lay down one's life for one's friends." Jn. 15:13 (NLT)  Our military is an unbroken line over 200 years old who have been willing to give their lives to defend the freedoms we often take for granted.  My friend is a strong Christian and was able I give his testimony.  He is one who stands with all the pomp and circumstance of an elite promotion and not only quotes, but lives "with great privilege comes great responsibility." He truly understands the obligations required of his new post. It was an honor to be there and celebrate this day with him, his supportive wife, and his family who have all had to make sacrifices.
          As I watched his wife and grown children fasten his general stars on, I remember my own brother's swearing in ceremony.  It started at midnight eleven years ago, but many details are permanently fixed in my brain, colorful as the pictures that I frantically took. The pride in seeing take his oath of office and mom and dad pin his butter bars on.  Of realizing that he went through four years of intense and often torturous training for the honor of standing on that stage and promising to make further sacrifices to defend this great country.  Of realizing that years of prayers had just been answered. The ear-to-ear grin on the face of my normally quiet and reserved brother, a smile not often seen the last few years. Of being the crazy sister who was so determined to record everything on film for posterity that she stood in three-inch heels on a metal folding chair in order to get the best shot. The faces on the people in the chairs around me, ladies in sequined dresses and officers with shiny metal and ribbons on their chest and shoulders, not one looked truly askance at my actions because they understood the pride.

         There I sat, on a metal folding chair, proud of the perseverance and sacrifice of both the general and his wife. The memories came flowing back. And a few tears. But this time I didn't stand on my chair.

A generous Lt. Col spent several minutes allowing the boys to tour the helicopter. It made their month!

The boys are tiny compared to the Blackhawk.

It wasn't hard to get them to smile for the camera. :)

Farewell New Orleans

     Approximately twelve years ago I was in Russia and received one of the worst emails of my life. My dad has taken a new job and we were moving. From Montana, the "Last Best Place." to New Orleans. From Montana to Nola. I knew that dad's company was being sold and there was a possibility of moving, I just never expected that far!
     Now my parents are again moving, in reverse this time. Going from the South to the Northwest. Although not devastated, I find myself a little sad. I don't know when the next time I'll get to visit New Orleans will be. I will miss it and the free hotel. :) So one last time my husband carted the kids and me down to that grand old city. Once more I traipsed through Jackson square, chowed down on red beans at rice at the Acme Oyster Bar, and inhaled powdered sugar at Cafe du Monde. I didn't get to do everything on the list, but I got to do enough. It was the perfect day to say goodbye, raining lightly and a comfortable 60 degrees; a polar opposite of my introduction, a token that the city has come full circle to me.

     It was a roasting hot July day in 2001 and the humidity was full swing in a city I wanted no part of. Dad had dragged mom and me to the French Quarter in his eagerness to show off the "new" home. After wearing much of my powdered beignet, I debated whether the precious remnant of ice water would be better served poured down my gullet or my forehead and back. I was so hot and miserable that I daubed water on my flimsy napkin and wiped any exposed areas of skin, caring nothing about the wadded napkin remnants comically clinging to my face. Draped over the table to increase surface area under the ceiling fan, I remember hearing dad say "let's go walking" and distinctly thinking "are you NUTS!?!" let me remind you that Montana only has several days of 100+ temperatures every year and the humidity stays well under 30%.  I felt like a wilted flower. It took a bit before my body adjusted and I stopped comparing opening the front door to that of a blast furnace.

     People familiar only with Bourbon St. and Mardi Gras often refer to Nola with epitaphs resembling Sodom and Gomorroh, Sin City, and the like.  I can't tell you how many times I heard things like "New Orleans?! That's such an evil place. I would never go there." The truth is that you will go where God calls you. The truth is that, although there is great darkness, the city also has many who walk in the Light of God. The truth is that  a wonderful seminary is down there. It has refused considerations of moving, knowing that where there is evil and hurting, and people who are lost, there is a need for the children of God. The truth is that many strong churches exist in the city, who faithfully preach the word of God, who reach out to the lost. I made many good friends, who reached out to me when I was hurting and in need.

     This final trip down could only have been better if my brothers were able to make it. They both have those job-things that wouldn't allow them to take the time off. :(  My sister-in-law brought her kids down to join the party. What a party with four stair-stepped kids from 8 to 4! We had a girl's shopping trip, a visit to the childrens' museum, and an afternoon through the sprinklers. There weren't many quiet moments with the kids running amuck, but it was wonderful!

      New Orleans to me is a mixture of things I never want to forget and times I try not to remember. It was a great place to date--good cheap food, free entertainment. I had my first oysters there and learned to love shrimp. Also lobster, crab, crawfish, you know the expensive stuff? I don't miss the traffic. From both the city itself and my personal experience with it, Nola is a place that reminds me of the goodness and faithfulness of my Savior. It reminds of his power to redeem, restore, to heal. That was something worth experiencing and worth remembering.

Goodbye New Orleans. I will always love you.

*I tried uploading some pictures, but after blogger was being a pain and wouldn't let me arrange them and making me want to pull my hair out, I decided to save that for a different day.

Return of our Truck

All in all, I'd say that it's been a pretty rough year to be a vehicle in our household. First there was the traumatic death of our beloved George last fall. And then, there was the truck.
     The day was absolutely gorgeous, sun shining, moderate temperature, and I was having a good day with my patients. That was until our maintenance man appeared with a woman that I learned to be the facility's brand-new bus driver. It was her first day on the job. The maintenance man asked me if I drove the '01 Dodge and when I answered the affirmative, he dropped the bomb. "She just backed the bus into it." Yep, you read that right. A handicap accessible, 30 passenger bus had just creamed the passenger side of my truck. Parked truck. (we were later told by the body shop that it was within 1% of totalling out the 12 year-old vehicle.) I finished getting the patient back into bed before meeting them outside to inspect the damage and meet with the Sheriff for the accident report.
     The reaction of anger never really surfaced, praise God. I was upset, but I prayed that He would allow me to extend the grace that I would want in the same situation. After both the driver and I met with the administrator to call their insurance company, she even thanked me for being so nice about it all. I hope that day I was able to demonstrate the love that I have been given. And it's just a truck. (Don't tell my husband I said that! ;) And it didn't hurt to realize that it happened with a bus that was fully insured, thus leaving me with no out of pocket expenses.
     Another thought constantly running through my mind: how to tell Ryan. He did take it pretty well, after an initial minute of panic. Glad that I was able to get hold of him before he got home and found that in the driveway.   My company handled everything very well. It was just a pain in the neck to deal with all of the adjustors, insurance agents (mine and theirs), rental company, etc. If you've been through a wreck you know how time-consuming it is.
     Today we got our truck back. Black and sparkling. Dent-free. :) Happy husband. I was impressed with the body shop, as we weren't happy with a small detail on the door initially and they kept the truck longer to work on that spot. I was sad, however, to hand over the keys to the rental Impala. Those babies will move! Not that I was ever speeding in it or anything...
     So it's done. It's consumed time, thoughts, prayers, time. It's not big, or earth-shattering. Just a simple matter really. But once again, God demonstrated his faithfulness. Now I can throw the boys' bikes it the bed to go meet my running group in the morning. Actually, pray for that one. I've never taken the kids before the work schedules necessitate it tomorrow. There are a lot of scenarios that end with unhappy children and/or mother. Ryan's as bit skeptical. I'm pragmatic with as double shot of optimistic if that's possible.
"My God will met all your needs according to the riches of his glory in Christ Jesus." Phil 4:19

Most of the truck length

Pretty deep

That's better  

No more pilates

This morning I cuddled my son. He had curled up on the pilates mat while I was fixing him breakfast. He was supposed to be getting dressed for school. Instead he lay there telling me with a cute grin how soft it was. If I hustled him along, I could finish the last ten minutes of my workout before taking him to the bus. Instead I sat down and pulled him into my lap. He still fits, but there will soon be a day when he will no longer fit or want to snuggle in his mommy's lap. So today I put off the inevitable, the workouts, and the hustle, and spent a few minutes cuddling my son.