20 Signs You've Been in the ICU Waiting Room Too Long

This week has been a journey that I'm sure will shape the rest of my life. I've spent the past 6 days in San Diego with family as my uncle has battled for his life in the ICU. Praise God that he is a miracle working God who hears the prayers of His people. And although I've been reflecting deeply and will continue to do so, over dinner last night, we all had a good laugh over the signs of being too long in the ICU waiting room...

1. You answer the "volunteer" phone and give instructions to other families from nurses.
2. You know every other visitor by name.
3. You escort visitors to the door of their patient.
4. You know the exact time of day the air conditioning will kick in.
5. Your idea of entertainment is visiting the cafeteria.
6. You've actually pondered every piece of art on the hospital grounds.
7. The people at the coffee cart know you by name and suggest a punch card.
8. You know what bathrooms have the shortest lines.
9. You know what hallway has the best cell phone reception.
10. You get upset when your corner table is taken by newbies and thus start leaving behind "reserved" signs.
11. You can tell volunteers which therapy dog is the best behaved.
12. The sweet old lady at the front desk will no longer validate your parking.
13. You've actually seen the same special on the cafeteria menu more than once.
14. You've begun purchasing magazines in Spanish from the gift shop because you've read all the English ones.
15. You know what all the secret hospital codes spoken over the intercom mean.
16. You know no longer get nervous at the announcement of "infant code Adam," because it will inevitably be resolved 30 second later.
17. You know where the best parking spots are located.
18. You see the hospital on the news from the waiting room television.
19. Your idea of celebratory drinks is another round of coffee.
20. You train a new visitors on ICU Waiting Room protocol when you are released to the 5th floor.

Thank you God for life!

Sharing the Love For Quinn: A trip to the CF Clinic | branching out

Sharing the Love For Quinn: A trip to the CF Clinic | branching out
A story you should know...you can help by attending Quinn's benefit concert on October 6th at George Fox University with musician Tyrone Wells. Tickets are available online at http://www.georgefox.edu/alumni/index.html. Can't attend? Spread the word by re-posting.

Offering up the Scales

Every week at kid's church we transition from singing to our lesson with offering. As soon as the offering buckets come out, I watch small hands shoot into the air, as young, excited voices squeal, "Pick me! Pick me!" After careful selection, one boy and one girl will join me in the front each waiting to be handed a bucket. When I say "Go!" they'll weave back and forth in each aisle making sure every child has the chance to give in the offering if they'd like. They race back to the front, and I ask for a drum roll as the buckets are carefully placed on the scale. A stampede of expectation fills the room as the scales tilt to the right then tilt back to the left before coming to a final stop.

"It looks like the boys took it for speed today, but the girls took it for weight." A cheer goes up from the pint-sized crowd, and then I ask the final question: "But does it really matter who was faster at gathering offering today or who gave more?"

I wait for their reply in unison. "No."

"That's right. No. It all goes to the same place, and God isn't worried about how much you give. He's looking at your heart."

He's looking at my heart. I've been contemplating balance in my life lately, and just today, a mentor from my time in college pulled me into his office and started drawing pictures of scales. As he explained a larger picture of balance, I couldn't stop thinking about offering in kid's church.

There are certain places in my life where I have a heart to give more. I pour in time and resource, but the bucket still feels so light. And although I tell God that these are the places I truly want to invest all of me, I know I'm called at the moment to a different bucket. The other bucket seems to be overflowing, but I often hold back thinking if I truly invest all of me in this bucket, I won't have anything left for the other seemingly more important container. There are times I want to invest more into the lighter container, but the second bucket demands resources that I can't give to the first. And I feel myself at constant odds with God questioning the buckets, wondering why in some areas of my life more is demanded while in others I'm released to less. If I was in charge the scales would be flipped.

God reminded me today that it all goes to the same place. If I am faithful to put what I have in the bucket, to give what is asked no matter how big that contribution must be or how small it has to be, God will take and multiply the rest.

Before we ever take the offering, I always ask the kids why we give. The responses vary, "To help poor people. Because it's good. etc." But I pass the microphone from kid to kid until I get the answer I seek--"Worship."

"That's right, kids." I'll say. All we have belongs to God and we give back as worship to Him.

And God doesn't discriminate between the buckets, because it all goes to the same place when it comes out of the same heart.

Arguments with Perfect

I can't tell you how many times in relationship I've had to admit to being wrong. Whether I'm in a business meeting conceding to someone's idea, working issues out with family members, or learning to communicate more aptly with a friend, there have been several moments of "You were right, and I was wrong."

However, in most of these conversations, there is a middle ground. The other party involved has something they can give on, something they can do better, something deeper to understand. Neither side is perfect, and here is the beauty of learning and growing in human relationship.

However, recently, I've found myself frustrated in these conversations with God. When I'm dissatisfied, when I feel our relationship could be better or my voice should be heard more, God is not in the wrong. He truly has nothing to change, no character flaw, and no imperfection he's bringing to the relationship. There is no room for "I was wrong in this, but you were wrong in that." And I must reconcile myself to the fact that my mind has to be changed, my view enlarged, my position altered. And that kind of trust both terrifies me and excites me as I realize His best laid plans look very different from mine.

And I find myself at another crossroads. I can continuing to be frustrated, or I can trust, change my mind, and ask to see those attitudes that need to be shifted. How do you argue with Perfect but to ask for grace.

Running Lesson #4: In My Own Backyard

First, for those of you who are under the impression that I'm an extremely dedicated runner, I will start this post with the honest confession that I took all of last week off from my customary tri-weekly jogs. I don't have a super good excuse, but feel the need to be honest.

This evening, I took off for a little jaunt partially because I need to get on track if I'm going to finish the half-marathon I've signed up for in July and partially because I've run out of scapegoats for Mark Franklin's daily inquiry, "Dot, how was your run today."

Advised on a new route, I took off on the back roads behind my house. Running amidst cow fields, horse pastures, and wooded hills, I felt like I could put one foot in front of the other indefinitely this evening. The sun sunk low in the sky and the breeze carried the fresh scent of a babbling brook through the air. In the midst of what is shaping up to be a rather busy week, I was at peace.

For the past year-and-a-half, as long as I've lived with the Franklin's, the lovely cow fields, the Thoroughbred horses, and the babbling brook have all been sitting there waiting to greet me, but I never ventured far enough to discover them. Though only steps out of my own front door, I never had the eyes to see or the will to venture forth and discover the undiscovered.

I travel a lot for work. Every time I'm sent to a new city, I do a little research first on things to explore. At times, I'll find a good restaurant. Or maybe I'll visit some historical landmark. Maybe I'll wander through untamed countryside. I'm always amazed at how I, being a stranger, often visit places locals have never been. They know about these places. They've read in magazines or heard about how great such and such place is from someone else, but have yet to experience those things sitting right in their own back yard.

Sometimes I wonder in my own city, in my own sphere of influence, what things am I missing in my own backyard? Maybe it's the girl walking down NE 82nd. I've never stopped a moment to observe the way she walks and the scant clothes hanging off her frame, but If I did, I might look at her with eyes of compassion. Maybe it's the homeless man who's always standing on the freeway off-ramp, but I've never met his gaze as he stares at me through my windshield, cardboard sign in his hand. Maybe it's the child sitting in kid's church for the 10th Sunday in a row, and I've never seen him before and have no idea what his name is or why he frowns while the other children smile. Maybe it's the promise or the greatness in a friend I've become so familiar with that I've boxed them into my idea of what their life is or should be. Maybe it's my job that in the day to day of showing up at the same office every morning I've forgotten to look for the opportunities and growing experiences each day brings.

Whatever the undiscovered landscape may be, I fully embrace the exploration of my own backyard.

Here's to you Buzzard

You were a spiritual father to me and one of the reasons I am serving God today. Thank you for believing in me when I didn't believe in myself and seeing in me things I didn't see. I pray to pass that gift to others. You taught me the song, "When I get to heaven gonna walk with Jesus," and now you are walking the golden streets with Him. Somewhere in heaven, there must be a big day camp field. I can't wait to get there and sing camp songs with you. Here's to you, Buzzard:


“Hey, Dale, do you have a minute?”

“Sure, Dot. Come here so I can poke you. Would that make you a poke-a-Dot?”
I laugh as my boss playfully reaches out his finger and jabs my arm. His face vanishes underneath a grin that would put the Cheshire cat to shame as he explodes through the door of the camp office onto the sidewalk.

“Walk with me.”

He revs like a speed boat jetting in the direction of Day Camp, where he is scheduled to lead songs in five minutes. The ground disappears under his worn tennis shoes. I’m left staring at the back of his staff t-shirt and the khaki cargo shorts. His name tag, which reads “Buzzard” is swinging from his neck; grasped in his worn hands are a guitar case and Bible. I take a few jogging strides and fall into step beside him.

“What’s up, Kiddo?” he asks eyebrows lifting and smile furrows deepening on his brow.

“Umm, I have a situation I am not quite sure how to deal with. Some counselors said they saw two of my junior counselors making out in a movie theater. I know I’m not their parent, but I'm not a big fan of 14-year-old staff members making out while they’re here at camp. Well, I don’t really want them making out period. How in the world do I handle this one?”

Dale pauses a moment and scratches the back of his head, once covered in locks of sandy blond hair. He strokes the spreading bald spot encased by tufts of gray.

“Well, have you thought about… can you hang on one sec?” We have already reached the Main Camp field in an impressive thirty seconds. Dale spies two boys on housekeeping staff swinging from an old rope tied to a stout oak tree. “Hey, boys, what are you doing?” shouts Dale.

“We are looking for Mike,” comes the sheepish reply.

“Well, why don’t you look over by his office? I don’t want to see you just standing around.”

I give him a moment to let his frustrations pass before continuing. “So, I was wondering what I should do about these two kids.”

“What do you think you should do?”

“I don’t know. That’s why I am asking you! I know that this goes a lot deeper than camp. I mean someone needs to sit down and talk with them about appropriate relationships. I don’t want to be their parent. But, really, making out in a movie theater? I’m not quite sure what step to take.”

“Well Dot, I think your next step is a house call. Get them on the phone and see if you can go for coffee. This absolutely affects their ministry at camp, and you need to be caring enough to talk to these two teens about their decisions.”

“But, I don’t want to. That’s scary.”

“You can do it, girl. I trust you.”

“Alright, I guess. Thanks, Dale.” I watch the man next to me. As the executive director of Canyonview Camp, Dale has seen everything Christian camping can bring. He has been at Canyonview for over thirty years. If you name it he’s done it. From counseling cabins full of boys, leading biking and boating trips, life guarding, pouring concrete, moving dirt with the backhoe, teaching Bible studies, helping in the kitchen, reporting child abuse, hiring and firing staff, getting business men to donate money, answering phones, giving advice about teenage hormones—there isn’t much in the way of Christian camping that Dale doesn’t know about.

Even after so many years of dedication, he’s still as spry as he was in his twenties when he gave up military life to command a troop of counselors, support staff, and hundreds of children on their adventures at summer camp. He may be in his fifties now, but he’s just as strong as ever. The man will hoist a fifty-pound hay bale over his shoulder as if it weighed no more than his two year old grandson.

We are approaching Day Camp now. The covered foot bridge spanning the creek comes into full view. “Any boys yet?” comes the familiar question.

“No, not yet.”

“How does a girl as cute as you not have a boyfriend yet? That just amazes me. But you’re picky.”

“Yep, picky and proud of it.”

“Good, that’s what I like to hear.” Dale turns to look at me, his eyes full of father like adore. He reaches his arm across my shoulders and pulls me into a firm side hug. “You know what, I appreciate you. I really do. And I’m proud of you, Kiddo.” I smile up at him as he releases me, and we clomp over the bridge.

As the Day Camp field comes into view, we are greeted by the shriek of a screaming first grade boy with a bloodied right knee.

“What did you do this poor boy?” Dale inquires jokingly of the counselor leading the camper towards the staff room.

“He fell down on a rock," replies the frazzled counselor.

“Let me see your muscles,” Dale says to the injured child. The boy, hesitant to forget his tears, slowly displays a scrawny looking bicep. Dale reaches down to squeeze his flexed arm. “Looking good Muscles,” he says. One last big sniffle, a little snob, and the boy's tears are gone. We continue on our fast paced adventure.

The Day Camp Director has spotted us now. Dale takes a quick moment to look at his watch.

The young man looks at him nervously. “I wasn’t sure if you were going to show up.”

“What, I’m only one minute late,” says Dale.

The Day Camp Director introduces the Executive Director to the tarp of children who are gazing up with awe at the man in the staff shirt.

“Hey kids, this is Buzzard, and he is here to help us sing some songs.”

Dale takes center stage and whips out a guitar from the case he has been carrying. Checking to see if the instrument is in tune, he addresses his captive audience. “Hey kids, do you know what a buzzard is? A buzzard is a big, old, ugly, balding bird that eats dead stuff.” He points to the top of his shiny head. Campers and staff alike can’t help but laugh.

As I walk away, the melodic notes of guitar chords and child-like voices resonate through the field. I remember when I was the child sitting on the tarp staring up at the man. I reach the bridge; the sound of his tenor voice echoes in my ears. I look back. His eyes are cast towards Heaven as sings “Oh God, you are my God. . . I will learn to walk in your ways, and step by step you’ll lead me, and I will follow you all of my days.”

Northern California Day 9: Flying Southwest, Again

Well, I'm sitting in the Sacramento airport waiting for my flight that is now delayed 2 hours and 20 minutes. So far, flying Southwest has been a strike out.

I went to church this morning in Sacramento. Ironically, the sermon notes down to the power point were from a sermon Pastor Frank taught some months ago. It was kind of cool to be so far from home but to see the impact City Bible has had on other churches. I just love my church.

The fair today was great. I'm so ready to come home, but it was kind of sad to say goodbye to friends I've met on the road. We've all been together pretty much 24-7 for the past week. The admissions world has some top-notch people. One counselor and I are taking the same flight back to Portland. We're both glad of the company concerning the delay.

Thank you to all who have followed my great Northern California adventure. I'll be home soon...I hope.

Northern California Day 8: One More Night

I'm sitting in front of the TV at my hotel and have just finished eating my weight in Thai take out. Today was a great fair, with a lot of good interest. I even met a student who knows one of our interns. Saint Mary's College is a beautiful old campus that looks like it may have been a Spanish monastery at one point. It's hidden amongst the hills of Moraga, California. I almost enrolled for a second bachelor's degree today.

I'm now in Sacramento and in my last hotel of the trip. One more college fair tomorrow and then, fly me home Southwest Airlines!

Northern California Day 7: Best Day Yet

First, I'll start by saying, I'm not sure what day of the week it is...Friday, I think. I've just checked into my fourth hotel of this trip with one more to go, but fairs don't begin until 1pm tomorrow. I'm looking forward to a relaxing morning.

Today was my favorite day yet. For the lunch break, I drove into San Francisco to meet an old college friend who happens to work in the restaurant biz. We met up at one of his favorite lunch spots called the Naked Lunch. Can I tell you, brie sandwiches with thinly sliced apples and arugula really should be served more often. And, whoever thought to lace coconut milk with lime over the rocks has my highest regards.

We finished up lunch with cake and cappuccino from a nearby cafe. San Francisco is truly magical.

After I said goodbye, I pointed my rental car north towards the Golden Gate Bridge. Though on a time crunch, I was able to park right next to the bridge and walk about a fifth of the way across. What a magnificent piece of architecture surrounded by a dramatic landscape. There really is a lot of beauty down here.

However, my favorite part of the day was the morning session of the fair. We were at CSU East Bay's Hayward campus. Hundred of students in the same situation as my Stitches kids came through. It was my privileged to ask them one simple question, "What do you want to be when you grow up." They responded with some big dreams.

I talked to a girl passionate about imigration and wanting to be a lawyer in order to make a difference for her people. One young gentleman says he's interested in counseling because people say he's good at it. He's a 16-year-old making a difference. Another young woman desires to become an actress but was looking at psychology additionally. There were pediatricians in the crowd, engineers, teachers, social workers, and a lot of teenagers reaching for the stars standing in the face of all of those who say they can't. They can, and they will. Every student I spoke with today had the GPA to back that up.

These students truly inspire awe in me. The room was electric as we spoke, and I could feel God shaping destinies right there in the East Bat gymnasium. People ask where the hope for America is. I say look no farther than the high-schoolers of Hayward, California. The next generation is going to do great things, and I am thankful to play even a tiny part.

Northern California Day 6: The Perfect Cappucino

I'm back at the hotel after a morning and evening fair. Thankfully, I believe the little bunny rabbits next door are gone.

I had some time to kill between the morning and evening session of today's fair, so where does an obsessed coffee snob head? Santa Cruz for the perfect cappuccino at the Verve. My sister Natalie and her boyfriend Eric, both ex-Starbucks employees, introduced me when we came to visit Monterrey in October. Smooth roast and perfectly frothed milk from top to bottom--no sweetener necessary. Worth every second of the road trip. Don't worry, I brought back a bag of beans.

Thank you Santa Cruz for sweet caffeination.

Northern Californai Day 5 Addition: Fail

Fair fail: George Fox University leads- 10. George Washington University leads- 100. True, Herbert Hoover lived two blocks from George Fox. However, every U.S. president has lived two blocks from George Washington.

Hotel fail: Opened the door to my room for the next four nights just to overhear the room next to me makin' whoopie. Thank God for tv's.

Northern Californai Day 5: Discovering Sonoma

Currently, I'm sitting in the garden at the Sunflower Caffe in Sonoma, California sipping some great coffee and emailing students. Although, I am thankful for more cubicle, nothing beats an open air office beneath a vine-laced trellis and a desk that seat beneath a tree next to a pond and fountain. Northern California is beautiful, and is the first place I've visited outside of Oregon that I could seriously see myself moving to.

There are bird chirping while jazz music plays softly in the background, and the waitress may be the friendliest person I've met on this trip thus far. I discovered the Sunflower Caffe when watching Diners Drive-Ins and Dives on the Food Network with the Franklins. I decided immediately to place it on my list of Northern California destinations and have not been dissappointed. What can be better than a duck sandwich for lunch (especially when you are a Beaver fan--they could make a killing in Corvallis)?

I wasn't sure what I was going to do between the necessary 11am hotel checkout and the 4:30 check in to the college fair. However, I just got a ton of work done, and am enjoying a lovely afternoon. Thank you Justin Hudec for letting me take your trip. Northern California, I love you! Now, off to walk around downtown Sonoma. Stay tuned...

Northern California Day 4: Quick Highlights

I'm super tired so tonight's entry is quick highlights...

1) Found amazing coffee at a place in Novato called Dr. Insomniacs. I won instant cool point with the barista for being from Portland. Every good barista knows impeccable coffee belongs to Portland, Oregon. Discovered a life changing baked good called a scuffin. You guessed it, a scone and muffin mix of pure deliciousness.

2) Had a Maria moment. Went and wandered the pastureland once more, but this time brought books. I almost found myself twirling around on the top of a hill in my nun garb while singing.

3) Went for a run, this time without the catcalls.

4) The food at tonight's fair was epic: bruschetta, grilled vegetables, meatballs, and all sorts of palatable goodies.

5) Had a junior lean way to close into my fair table for comfort and ask me, "So, are there lots of ladies at this school?" Apparently potential to get a girlfriend was on the top of his college compatibility list.

6) In and Out for dinner. And with that, I'm out...

Northern California Day 3: Pure Bliss

Few landscapes bring me more joy than the sight of gently rolling hills cloaked in green grass and sprinkled with deciduous trees. Such was the scene I happened upon in Novato, California this evening while hunting for dinner. I drove downtown to see a beautiful green peak blocking half the sky, and drove neighborhood streets until I found a path opening to the mountain. With the sun sinking lower in the sky and a sweet spring breeze brushing past, I perched on a rock on a hill's crest, surrounded by nothing but green. I think I could get use to Novato.

Northern Californai Day 2: Tracking Numbers

The day got off to a panicky start. When I checked with the front desk to claim the 6 boxes I had shipped to the hotel with fair materials, the girl told me she's seen no such boxes. My UPS tracking code confirmed that the boxes had been received, but still, the girl said she could find nothing. Refusing to despair completely, I drove 5 minutes down the road to church where I tried to concentrated on worship while formulating a plan to not enter every college fair after today's empty handed. Harlan, the door greeter who must be in his seventies gave me a grand-fatherly hug on the way in and out of church which helped calm me a little. The boxes had to be somewhere.

I headed to the Stockton fair and made acquaintance with reps from Liberty and Gonzaga. Everything started slow, but then I began to see a steady stream of students, most with interests in pre-med and engineering. This was ideal being how George Fox has top-notch science programs. Half-way through a conversation, the announcer came over the loud-speaker letting us know the fair would be closing 45 minutes early. Apparently, they felt the attendance was so poor the fair didn't merit the full 3 hour duration. I laughed to myself thinking of how many transfer fairs they would have canceled. This fair was hopping compared to Oregon Transfer Days. Things must move faster in California.

After the fair, I went for a run. I'm not a fan of running in Manteca. Cat-calling and honking apparently are appropriate forms of expression towards female runners. Not so cool.

Dinner tonight was in Modesto with two counselors from Liberty and one from Penn State. Apparently, George Fox is a small school compared to Liberty's 20,000 and Penn State's 80,000. Still, I think we're pretty amazing. Our waiter was a funny guy, telling cheesy or inappropriate jokes, and I think very disappointed none of us ordered alcohol. I would love to write a character sketch on him someday, but I think it would be irreverent.

Finally, at 10pm, I decided to bug the front desk one more time. Ask and it shall be given. The boxes were in a back closet all this time. I'm thanking the Lord there will be no panicked phone call to the office tomorrow morning asking for overnight shipping. I almost hugged the girl at the front desk--literally.

Tomorrow brings a 7:30am check in at CSU Santislaus and then a two hour drive to the bay area. Manteca's been great, but I'm ready for some water! More to come...

Northern California Day 1: Flying Southwest

I arrived at the airport about an hour and a half before my flight, thinking that would be plenty of time to check my bags, get through security, and find my gate. Little did I know that Southwest had grounded several planes earlier in the day due to a tear in a jet's skin mid-flight from Phoneix to Sacramento. Apparently passangers could see the sky while at 30,000. Don't worry, I flew into Sacramento.

I made it to my flight on time, got my luggage and headed to the rental car counter where I was great by Ryan, my friendly Enterprise agent. He "discreetly" mentioned he's 30, gave me a free upgrade and left a message on my phone later in the evening letting me know he forgot to write down my lisence plate number. Apparently he was "distracted" and was hoping I could please call him back. Hey, I'm happy to take the Hyundai Elantra over the Chevy Aveo I was supposed to be driving.

Currently, I'm sitting in my hotel researching ways to get my ears to pop. Words to the wise: don't fly with a cold unless you want to be deaf in one ear. Hopefully tomorrow brings relief and some great interactions with students at the first college fair.

Running Lesson #3: Proper Nutrition

It's been awhile since I last wrote about my running exploits. It's been awhile since I've had any running exploits. However, just this weekend I signed up for my first-half marathon. Currently, I'm trying to decide if I'm ambitious or just plain stupid, but nevertheless, training has begun.

I'm not a morning runner. There is something about giving up precious opportunities to press the snooze button that doesn't appeal to me. But really, I don't run in the morning because I don't want to run on an empty stomach. I need some fuel and energy if I'm going to make it up the huge hill my house is perched on top of. My best runs are right after work. I've got enough energy left over from lunch, and get to run for my dinner.

I've been told by the family of tri-athletes I live with, on long runs, you need to consume 100 calories every hour. They jog with their sports gels which they eat as they run the course. Bottom line--the longer the run, the more calories you need. They also tell me I have to drink water every ten minutes regardless of whether or not it's a cool day.

I can't help but think my life's journey is no different. As I look to stretch my capacity not just as a runner but a runner of "the race set out before me," I realize the longer, the more tedious the course, the more of the word of God I need in my life. Sometimes, amidst the busyness, it seems this is the first thing to go. When days get particularly demanding, it's easy to just read a few verses for the sake of saying I've done my devotions for the morning. The truth is, if I want to see great fruit, if I want to reach my full capacity, as the race gets longer and more difficult, I need to dig deeper. I need to eat and drink more than I have before.

And as I move forward with the proper nutrition and the proper training, my eyes are fixed firmly on the finish line.

What I Love More than Anything Else...

“Joshua, you’re going,” his dad says.

“No, I’m not coming.”

Another classic Sunday morning battle ensues. Joshua doesn’t want to get on the bus to go to church. Well, he doesn’t, then he does, then he doesn’t, then he’s told he has to, and then he crosses his arms against his chest, stubbornly scuffs the ground with his foot, and sticks out his lower lip.

“No, I’m not coming.” His curly hair flops against his head with resolve even most defiant adolescents can’t muster.

“Get your shoes,” his dad says with a poker face that trumps Joshua’s. The seven-year old is set into motion but not without lack of heavy steps and dramatic rants on the tortures of kids church.

Ten minutes later, I’ve picked up all the other kids from the neighborhood; Joshua finally trudges after me, urged on by the watchful eye of his father from his front door. “Church is boring. I hate church,” he yells.

The angry child climbs aboard the yellow school bus and sits down next to his little brother. Turning to me he asks, “When do we get snack?”

“After church,” I inform him just as I do every week.

We pull up to the church, and he races off the bus into the gymnasium eyes watchful for the nearest basketball. Joshua laps around the court putting up shot after shot until the announcement to sit down comes over the microphone. He begrudgingly hands his basketball over to a leader and sits sulking in the back row far away from all the other kids except his little brother. Try as I might, he no longer falls for my VIP seating tactic and refuses to be escorted to his “specially reserved, important seat in the front row.”

During worship, he sits motionless, blank stare on his face. “Joshua, help me do the motions. They’re so fun.”

He shakes his head, “I don’t want to.”

The video lesson flashes across the screen, and behind his glazed eyes, I can’t tell if he’s listening to the characters or daydreaming once again about snack. He stays in his seat as all the children line up for small group until I escort him to his proper class.

“God, does he hear anything we say?” I wonder.

We board the bus, and he once again sits by his little brother, joking and laughing the whole way home. His sister passes out snack to all the kids as they exit the bus. Joshua is first in line.

As I walk him and his siblings to their front door, Joshua asks me a question. “Do you know what I love more than anything else in the whole world?”

“What do you love more than anything else in the whole world, Joshua?”

“Jesus!”

“Do you know what I hate more than anything else in the whole world?”

“What do you hate?”

“Hot dogs!”

Today, I knock on Joshua’s door to find him fully dressed, ready to go, with his Bible in hand. “Daniel, get your Bible,” he says to his younger brother. “You need it for church.”

He runs to the bus with no question about snack, sits in the second row with his sister during worship, sings and does all the hand motions with great gusto, and tells me on the bus, “if Jesus is sick in Heaven and I am in Heaven, I will serve Jesus.”

As I walk Joshua to his door, his friend from a few doors down comes running up to him. “Sorry for calling you a booger face yesterday,” Joshua says.

I turn to leave, and he calls after me, “Dot, I’m gonna miss you between now and next week.” And he skips toward his front door.

Cioppino

My grandmother lifts her spoon from the large soup pot to taste the simmering stew. Adding a pinch of salt, she stirs the muscles and clams with the crab legs and halibut morsels in their rich tomato bath. Christmas dinner will be served in moments, cioppino the main course. Grandmother has spent many years perfecting her recipe, and Christmas isn't Christmas without the Italian fisherman's stew.

Legend claims cioppino (chip een o) got it's name from hungry fishermen who all "chipped in" their catch of the day to make a collective stew. It's an awkward dish to eat with shells still cradling clams, muscles, and delicious pieces of crab meat. For the Tobey family, eating Grandmother's cioppino is almost a rite of passage. If you want to become a Tobey, you'll tuck a napkin under your collar, put your spoon in the potent stew, and crack the shells with the best of them.

For me, the simmering substance grandmother gently stirs symbolizes the tie to the eclectic races and cultures that make up my heritage. I, like cioppino, feel I'm made up of a little of this and a little of that without any main ingredient at all. Since the time I was a young girl riding the bus to and from school, people have starred ponderously at my brown skin and dark hair wondering how I could possibly be related by blood to my pale and fair-haired sister sitting next to me. They awkwardly guess at my nationality of origin, and though I'm descent of mostly Western Europe, I always explain my race by my skin.

"I'm Mexican and Italian," I say, although I'm Irish, Scottish, English, Canadian, and many other things as well. "My great grandmother was the daughter of a ranchero from New Mexico which was a part of Mexico at the time. She was fluent in English, Spanish, and Italian. Her husband, my great-grandfather, was an immigrant from Palermo, Sicily." In my mind, these characters are larger than life. I see my great-grandmother watching her father as he rides through the dry dessert, in my day-dreaming, his stead always black stallion rearing on it's hind legs. I envision my nineteen-year old great-grandfather approaching a desk on Ellis Island, shoving some papers across to a disgruntled clerk, and receiving the stamp that made my existence in the United States of America possible.

But, if I'm truly honest with myself, the scenes of their actual lives really weren't as romantic as I've made them out to be. My great-grandparents married, had three girls, and then my great-grandfather left them. As a single parent, my great-grandmother worked much of her life in a cannery and nobly provided for her children. Although, I'm a product of the better life she sought to provide, still, I stare at the stew in front of me, and long for some connection to Italy and to Mexico, to feel even through my white, middle-class, American upbringing, the threads of their culture woven into mine.

I am cioppino, many cultures, races, and stories chipping in to make my substance. As I pop open each shell, removing each crab leg, clam, and mussel, I gain a larger understanding of myself and the individual stories and decisions that have shaped my life. The substance may be messy and awkward at times, but it is the specialty of a Master Chef who lovingly stirs the pot over a low flame. And as each flavor works together, a masterpiece is created. Someday, I will serve this dish to my children at our Christmas celebrations. I tuck my napkin under my chin, and dig in.

Of Ships and Shoes and Singing Penguins

"3, 2, 1, blastoff!"

Captain Daniel punches the red button and our spaceship, made of a large purple blanket draped between the couch and two chair from the kitchen table, launches into the final frontier.

"Captain Daniel, there's a giant flying donut ahead! What do we do?"

The three-year-old space adventurer pauses for a second, carefully calculating his next mode of action. "Eat it!" he says, with a grin of sheer glee illuminating his face.

I hold 18 month Kaden on my lap who quickly proceeds to shoot the donut with his TV remote blaster, saving our spaceship from certain dismemberment by flying pastry.

Kaden ducks under the blanket behind the captain's chair to check on the singing penguins we've rescued from Planet Transformer along with a large stuffed puppy dog, a monster truck, and Bumblebee himself. Daniel pretends to cut down the Christmas tree feeding our group of refugees their quota in greens for the month.

And I am amazed at the faith Daniel places in large purple blankets and kitchen table chairs, and how confident he is that no matter what junk food we encounter in space, nothing will stop him from reaching Planet Transformer. And I want that faith for myself, a faith that meets each twist and turn in the story with eager enthusiasm, a faith that believes I've been equipped with everything I need to reach my destination. And maybe along my way, I can rescue a singing penguin or two.