Blowing Bubbles

 

 

 

ahhhhh....my third son and last child of four....love doesn't begin to describe my feelings for him.  Pure joy and delight are the things he brings to my life.  My other three children were young together, and I was too busy sometimes to savor their childhood, not just mothering them but also as a full-time public school teacher and then as children's director in a quickly growing church.   My own mother died of cancer when my oldest child was three and upon the birth of my second child, so I was also dealing with heavy grief for a lot of years which seemed to create a cloud-like sadness that hovered over anything involving my children, because I couldn't help but ponder how much Mom would have savored every moment of their growing up.

The distance that the passage of time has put between me and her loss has created a sort of buffer to those deep feelings of grief, allowing me to be more present to the milestones in Coleman's life.  More often than not, it's not the milestones like birthdays or the start of school that I enjoy most, but just the fun that he manages to eeek out of every day.  Last night when there was just an inkling of light left in the vast stretch of sky that spreads out over the open fields around our home, Coleman disappeared.  I asked if anyone knew where he was, to which one of his older brothers replied, "He went out on the porch, but I don't know what he's doing. " (Normally afraid of the dark,  I couldn't imagine what he was doing out there by himself at that time of night.)  I stepped outside to find him in nothing but his underwear, knees folded up in front of him in one of our porch rockers, blowing bubbles using the dishsoap concoction with the small plastic wand that has delighted children for years.  He casually said, "Hey, mom.  I figured it out."  "Figured what out?," I asked.   "How to blow the big bubbles," he replied.  "You just have to go really slow when you puff your air out."    I told him he had five more minutes to make his bubble discoveries and then he had to come inside and go to bed.

Before falling asleep myself last night, I read a periodic mailing that we receive from Make Way Partners Corporation, a Christian mission agency committed to preventing and combatting human trafficking.  In it, there was the story of another 5 year old child halfway around the world in Hope of Sudan orphanage.   She has sufferred the loss of both her parents and siblings, and knows war, famine, drought, and disease intimately.

I cried as I thought about the fact that Umaa has never gotten to blow bubbles.  Solely due to  where she was born, Umaa's short life has been full of  hunger, torture, death, uncertainty, fear, and resulting rage.  I pondered, as a mother, what it would be like to look into the eyes of your crying, hungry child and have to say yet again that you have no food to give them.  I thought about what I would want to do to anyone who brought any form of harm to my son Cole, and then how gut-wrenching it would be to stand defenseless as the slave raiders of the Islamic regime in Sudan continue to daily bomb and raid villages, ripping children out of their mothers' arms, separating them forever.

We are not talking about horrors of the past, that blacken the pages of our history books, about which we can do nothing in the present.  We are speaking of atrocities that are occurriing while I sit here on my comfortable couch typing.  Women in these areas of Sudan don't spend time as I did this weekend, figuring out where to hang a new picture, because many of them,after fleeing their bombed villages , are seeking a safe place to hide from the slave raiders, and don't have walls surrounding them on which to hang anything.  These women aren't buying different varieties of lettuce to plant in their fall gardens, as I also did yesterday, but instead aren't sure if they will eat anything at all for days on end.

Oh, it is so much easier to quit trying, quit caring, quit hoping....as Kimberly Smith , co-President of Make Way Partners says, "just quit, and clamor about with some stuffy activity to fill up the chasmic void like work, food, wine, or churchy activities (otherwise known as addictions)." Don't we all want to live sorrow free? Since we can't control the sorrows we face in our own personal lives, most of us prefer not to add to that pile by ignoring the sorrows we can halfway around the world, since they aren't right under our noses where we can see, hear, and smell them.

Eventually, brokenness will be made whole.  My brokenness, your brokenness, Umaa's brokenness.  God has good things in store on the other side of the valley of the shadow of death and we will ultimately share the victory with the One who wages war against all evil....but in the meantime, what?  Although it might seem self-preserving to bury our heads in the sand, we are called to "bring good news to the oppressed, to bind up the broken-hearted, to proclaim liberty to the captives, and release to the prisoners."  Whose brokenness are you called to help heal?  In God's ecomony, we do have a role to play.

Kimberly Smith's role was to begin an organization with 2 criteria for selecting where they minister:
1-This organization only goes where women and children are at hightest risk of human trafficking, forced prostitution and other forms of modern-day slavery and 2- This organization only goes where there is little or no other help available because it is considered too dangerous, too expensive, or too remote for others to go. Please go to www.makewaypartners and learn 5 ways you can join this amazing organization to rescue and restore hope.

Just as Umaa must now learn to cope with her rage that is actually righteous anger against the injustices inflicted upon her, we too must learn  not to ignore our anger and sorrow upon being informed of such injustices, but to act in our own little corner of the world in  a manner befitting a child of God and in the way in which He calls each of us to respond.  Ask Him what he wants you to do....he will show you.  I pray you and I will both choose to respond in the ways He reveals.


 

Tomato Candy

I love my garden, small as it may be.  There is nothing like being a busy mom who at 5:00 realizes she has absolutely no idea  what her family will eat for supper (know anyone like that?) and then glances out the window to be pleasantly reminded that everything she needs for a delicious salad , or just BLTs  (if you have bacon in the fridge), is right outside her door.  Now that three of my children are older, I can even send them "grocery shopping" just down our front porch steps, with nothing but a basket in hand - no shirt, shoes, money, or car keys required. 

We've had delicious ocra, cucumbers, squash, peppers of all colors, musk melons, and large tomatos all summer but the best surprise from this year's garden was without a doubt "Sweet 100 Cherry Tomatos".  These plants mature in 65 days and produce large clusters of sweet cherry-sized fruits.  Even my four-year old would pop them in his mouth one after the other, barely giving me time to rinse them, when I would carry a small bucket full into the kitchen.  One day, as he was munching away, I said to him, "Better than candy, aren't they?" to which he quickly replied, with tomato juice dripping down his chin, "You must not have had the kind of candy I have had."

I always start planning next year's garden when the end of August rolls around and my small plot begins to resemble a cemetary - more dead than living.  One of my plans for next year includes using the plethora of cherry tomatos I have high hopes of again producing to hold a salsa-making party for friends in the "neighborhood".  If I provide the tomatos and jars, and each one of them brings another ingredient, we can all end the night of chopping, mixing, gabbing, and laughing, with a couple of jars of the most delicious salsa you've ever eaten.  A co-worker , who used to live in Texas and brought this recipe with her when she moved to NC, shared it with me.

I call it "Shelly's Salsa."

Ingredients:
1 can whole peeled tomatos (or fresh ones from next year's garden)
3/4 of a medium size onion, chopped
4 sprigs fresh cilantro (or a palm full of dried)
2 cloves garlic
1 tsp.salt
2 Tabl. lemon juice
2 fresh jalapenos

Put all the ingredients minus the tomatos in a mincer or chopper until they are at an agreeable consistency.  Add the tomatos and mince or chop  a bit more. Stir in just  under a tablespoon of cumin.  (Shelly says the cumin is the magic ingredient - "If there's no cumin, it's not Mexican.")

After the salsa is made, grab a bag of tortilla chips and enjoy the company of friends around a table in your garden.   Simple pleasures are best!  (Warning - all tomato-eatin' 4-year olds may want to join you around the table....be prepared to share!)

Shuckin' Corn

Our neighbor, who plants the cornfield that surrounds our home, stopped by the other day to bring us a huge sack of "sweet corn". ( In the country, a neighbor is someone who lives within 5 miles of your home, not someone with whom you can shake hands if you stick your arm out of your bedroom window as was the case at our previous residence.)  This nuance was one of the first things I learned upon moving to the country ten years ago.

Something I haven't yet learned is exactly what makes "sweet corn" sweet.  Sweet as opposed to what.....sour?  Sweet to me is a hot fudge sundae or a cappuccino bonbon, not an ear of corn.  I do know that "feed corn" means it's meant to feed farm critters and not my family, and I've heard of Silver Queen corn, too, but I still don't know exactly what is meant by "sweet corn".  Being too embarrassed to ask, I simply thanked Mr. Latta, our generous farming neighbor, and placed the sack on my front porch.

Within minutes, my four- year- old son Coleman came running down our rock drive with his dad following close behind.  They had been cutting down a dead tree, and he had seen Mr. Latta leaving in his truck.  "What's in the bag?" Cole wanted to know as he opened the top of the sack, that was almost as tall as he was, to peer inside.  I showed him all the ears of corn I was preparing to tear into as I placed the kitchen trashcan on the front porch in order to catch the husks and silks.  Now even though I have lived in the country for ten years now, I must say I still dread finding a worm in any ear of corn I'm holding and eventually planning to eat.  The dark, mushy, partly-eaten kernels at the end of the ear are a sure sign that a worm-sighting is imminent.  These worms aren't petite, but are instead quite large and fleshy.  I halfway squinted my eyes and turned my head away as I instructed Cole in how to pull back the husks, knowing that I was likely going to uncover more than just corn kernels.

When my husband Scott joined us on the porch to assist with the task at hand,  we quickly developed quite a rhythm, making fast progress.  I would hand him any ear of corn whose end needed to be broken off due to wormy inhabitants, and he would hand me the ears from which he had just  removed the husks because he deplores the tedious task of attempting to remove the tiny silky hairs that are tightly wedged between the rows of corn kernels.  (Yes, he has the patience to sit alone in the freezing cold on a 12" x12" platform high in a tree until his butt is numb just hoping to spot a deer, but not the patience to pull the silks from an ear of corn.  Go figure???)  Coleman was still working quietly on his first ear of corn, removing just one leafy husk at a time.  As he finished, I saw him jump slightly out of the corner of my  eye.  Correctly thinking he had probably been a bit startled when he spotted a worm, I told him I would finish the task for him.  I was a little surprised at his quick response.  "No way , mom," he said.  "This is fun.  I hope I have a worm in my next one."

For the next half hour, Cole would carefully select an ear of corn from the sack as one might choose a straw in a game of chance.  That arduous task would then either be followed by a sigh of disappointment or a squeal of joy, depending on whether or not the selected ear included the grand prize of a wormy resident. For the duration of our work, my son was hoping for a worm even more than I was hoping against one. He would  often make a fist and pull his elbow quickly to his side with a manly "YES!," gesturing as he's seen his older brothers do, as if spotting a worm in an ear of corn were quite the acheivement and something about which one could feel quite proud.

An hour later, as we were sitting at the dinner table and Coleman was chomping on a piece of corn, he excitedly confided in his 14-year old brother.  "Garrett," he said, nodding his head toward the ear of corn he was holding with both hands."This is my first one."

 "Your first what?" Garrett asked.

 "The first ear of corn I ever shucked," Cole answered, as if he'd conquered a real growing up milestone.  "And I think this one even had a worm in it," he concluded.

"Sweet corn" tip-

Mr. Latta shared on this particular evening that sometimes boiling the corn removes its flavor. He suggested we instead wash the corn and then while it's still damp , wrap it in a papertowel and microwave it for 20 seconds or so.  He was right....easy and delicious!  Try it for yourself the next time you want your sweet corn to taste even sweeter!  (As for me, I'll still be reaching for the chocolate the next time I've got a hankerin' for something sweet.)

Barefoot but NOT Pregnant

Our 25th highschool class reunion is tonight...atleast the invitation said 25th.....maybe it was a typo, because I know I haven't been out of highschool that long.  I remember my own parents' 25th class reunion, and they were ancient at the time.

 I  was considering dress for tonight and realized that I have worn maternity garb to the previous two reunions, because I was pregnant with my 2nd child at our 10 year reunion and with our 4th child at our 20th.  Would be fun to wear a maternity dress tonight just to observe the reactions of our old classmates!

Our first three children were all born within 4.5 years, but there is eight years between child #3 and Coleman, our 4th.  He was a great, big, wonderful surprise to all of us, the operative word being SURPRISE.  As we prepared to announce his arrival to our older three children at the dinner table five years ago,  we told them we had a surprise for them.  Our eight-year old immediately and hopefully verbalized, "I know....we're getting a dog!"  Scott, my husband, said, "No, not a dog...."  My then 12-year old daughter said, "I know....you're going to have a baby!  I've been praying that you would." (She smiled an enormous, knowing smile and didn't seem all that surprised!)  At that, our 10-year old son pushed his chair back from the table with both hands, grabbed his head on either side, and placed his elbows on his knees , lowering his head.  "Mom,"  he said, "you can't be.  How do you know?"  I quickly told him that I had been to the doctor, and that he had told me that I WAS pregnant.  My son immediately said, "Yeah, but did he know how OLD you are?"  Ten minutes later the eight year old  asked in disheartened fashion, "So we're not getting a dog?".

I could now write a memoir  (Coleman's only four , and I definately have enough material to fill it) entitled "Confessions of a Mother of Four", solely about all the ways I have already failed him.  He told his preschool teachers a few months ago when the children were discussing their favorite television shows that his were "Man Vs. Wild" and "Deadliest Warrior".  This revelation had followed other children sharing their love for "Thomas the Train" and "Bob the Builder".  Ooops!

At the top of the list of failures would be that I have never taken Coleman to a photo studio, much to the dismay of some family members, who strangely have never volunteered to take him to a studio themselves.  It's just such fun to put a child in an uncomfortable outfit he doesn't like to begin with, to wait in a large room at Olan Mills with other stressed out parents who are trying to keep little darling's shirt tucked in and face clean, only to finally get called back to the "studio" where you jump around like a bumbling idiot while a 19-year old stranger with the personality of a rock who's never had kids tries to get yours to smile.  What joy!  I can't imagine why no one's volunteering.

Each of my other children has a 4-year old portrait hanging prominently in our hallway.  Since Coleman turns 5 in September, my older children have been periodically reminding me that I have an important task at hand so that Coleman doesn't feel "left out". ( They are all three quite skilled at reminding me of the important mothering tasks that I am forgetting when it comes to their youngest sibiling.)  This responsibility of mine is further exaggerated due to a beautiful portrait of the oldest three children painted by a dear friend who surprised me with this gift before Cole was a twinkle in his daddy's eye.  Because it is displayed conspicuously on our mantle, we've all worried that it might make Cole feel like the family add-on.  Since it isn't possible to somehow crop him into the family painting,  I knew I had to do something about this 4-year old portrait, but would rather shop for school supplies at Walmart on the eve of the first day than suit up for the Olan Mills expedition.

My solution:
1- Let Coleman wear what he wanted - jeans, a tank top, and no shoes, of course, because he is my child
2- Give him some of his own favorite toys - his Cowboy horse and lassoing rope
3- Run across the front yard together a few minutes after supper
4- Take a picture with the simple one-step camera we recently purchased at Best Buy
5- Return to our comfortable air-conditioned home five minutes later

Enlargement at Costco - $1.49
Used frame at Goodwill - $2.98

Chocolate brown spray paint - free (already at home)

Cole's smile and my sanity to spare - PRICELESS!

 Sierra's 4-year old portrait cost us $200.00.  Despite "Man vs. Wild," "Deadliest Warriors," and the fact that none of Coleman's preschool pals are allowed to come over to play anymore, maybe I have learned something!

Barefoot Beginnings

One of the highlights of summer for me is being barefoot , except when shopping or attending services at church. Since I can even slip my shoes off at work, I am exaggerating only slightly.  My grandmother says I'm the only person who visits and then drives home shoeless without even realizing it.  It has happened more than once that I have forgotten to put the shoes back on when leaving, that I slipped off upon arrival on her back porch.

This trait is something I inherited from my mom.  She was a public school teacher, and she always said that it felt so good each afternoon when she got in her car to drive home to drop her shoes in the floorboard first. I can remember as a young child, watching her slip her shoes off in the car, even as she drove 55 miles an hour down the highway.  My father always liked to say about her, "You can take the girl out of the country, but you can't take the country out of the girl", in reference to the fact that she had been raised on a tobacco farm outside a small town but now lived in a suburban neighborhood just outside Greensboro, NC.  At the time,  I couldn't understand exactly what "country" was in her that needed to be removed, but since both my parents would grin when dad would make that comment, I would smile, too.

As a young child, I can remember pleading with my mother to allow my brother and me to go barefooted on the first day we deemed warm enough in the spring.  Although she wasn't a woman of many rules, she always demanded that we not go without shoes until the first day of May.  "If it's 85 degrees today", I would ask, "what is so magical about the first day of May?" Her explanations would only increase my frustration because she would respond that her mother had always made her wait until May to go barefooted so we should wait as well, and then, just for good measure, she'd throw in something about the likelihood that we would "catch cold".  (Wasn't that the reason mothers gave for not getting to enjoy atleast 90% of what makes childhood so enjoyable?  Maybe I should tell my own children that they should abstain from all contact with the opposite sex so as not to catch cold.)

When that first Saturday morning in May finally did roll around, my brother and I would be outside by 8am anyway, running around our yard to feel how interesting all of the different available textures felt on our feet.  We'd rub our feet over the scratchy concrete of our sidewalk, through the softest patch of green grass in our yard, and over the cool, smooth tiles of our front porch.  We'd later run barefoot to our neighbor's home just a couple of houses away to announce, as if she couldn't see with her own eyes,  "WE get to go barefooted today!"  We'd then implore her to ask her mom if she could forego shoes as well, joining us next in her sandbox to bury our feet and  to wiggle our toes.  (We didn't have a sandbox.) 

Despite the lifelong joys of being shoeless, one  place where I will never go barefooted is my blackberry patch.  Last week, while picking in my old shorts and flip-flops, I almost stepped on what appeared to be atleasst a 6 foot long black snake.  (In reality, it was only about 3-feet long.)  In 9 years, it's only the second black snake I've encountered while living in the country, the first being one that made its way a few years ago into my grandma's fireplace, presumedly through the chimney.  When she couldn't get in touch with her son, she called my husband , who quickly made his way to her home. Enroute, I asked him how he was going to remove the snake from grandma's house, and he just responded that he wasn't sure.  Well, that not knowing turned into just picking the snake up right behind its head with his bare hands , Crocodile Hunter fashion, (at the time, he had watched some of Steve Irwin's animal videos with our young sons) and calmly carrying it across my grandma's kitchen and outside.  Us girls stayed in the house, and as Scott returned, my grandma immediately asked him what he'd  used to kill the snake.  "Kill it?"  Scott said,  "I didn't kill it .  I just threw it in the pasture behind the house."  He went on to explain the virtues of the blacksnake, how it isn't poisonous and how they eat mice and moles and other small varmints, but it all fell on deaf ears.  Grandma let Scott know in no uncertain terms that she didn't want that snake anywhere near her home and that she had expected a beheading.  Scott was expecting his own after that tirade.

A few days after my own encounter with a blackberry-loving blacksnake, I suited up like a HAZMAT employee (minus the breathing apparatus), despite the 97degree temps, just to pick blackberries.  I tried to be as noisy as possible during my expedition, so as to possibly prevent us from surprising one another.  Even though a black snake isn't poisonous, Scott had assurred me that a snake bite of any type would hurt.  I must admit , this experience and the ensuing blackberry-picking "uniform" have taken some of the pleasure out of blackberry picking for me, and it won't be the chore that I assign the boys anymore either.  (They may be too much like their daddy and just decide to carry the snake barehanded to the woods!)

After this experience, the berry cobbler that I eventually share with my uncle and grandma (See "What Happened to the Blackberries?" blog) may contain frozen vs. fresh berries....when I tell her about the snake, though, Granny will definately understand!

A Long Line of Love

My grandmother's close friend Daff called my home one night recently while we were away.  She thought she was phoning my grandmother and left the dearest message (intended for her) on our answering machine.  Daff said, "Chris (short for Christine), this is Daff.  Just checking on you, sweetheart, to see how you are doing. I don't know where you are, but I'll call you back later. I love you...."

Daff and my grandmother met when they began the fourth grade at Helena School in Helena, NC.  They were the best of friends all through their years of schooling, but sort of lost touch with one another as they were both raising their children.  My grandmother shared that she thinks that happens to alot of female friendships during that stage of life because there is so much for a mom to do when her children are at home.  I met Daff at a Christmas luncheon my grandmother hosted about 7 years ago and so enjoyed hearing the stories that Grandma and the couple of her classmates who were there shared.  They laughed heartily many times until my Grandma's eyes teared.  Just recently my 89-year old Grandma attended her school friend Daff's 90th birthday party, enjoying herself immensely.

In a day and age when neighbors ,cars, and houses change yearly sometimes, and even marriages don't often last, my grandmother's stick-to-it-ness when it comes to love is refreshing.  It applies to many relationships in her life.  Since her husband died quickly and unexpectedly of a heart attack when my grandma was only 48 years old, she has been faithfully caring for her mentally handicapped daughter, who is totally dependent on her  for everything.  Even when her daughter's behaviors towards her are unkind and selfish, grandma continues to patiently persevere and show her daughter unselfish love and concern.  Grandma understands that love isn't a rush of butterflies in the stomach...instead it's caring for others when they don't deserve it, in spite of who they are, being quick to forgive and move on.....love that doesn't depend on the endearing characteristics or accolades of the recipient or even on being loved in return.

I am the beneficiary of my grandma's stick-to-it-ness with love in a direct way, but even more so indirectly.  Because my mother was blessed with her own mother's unconditional love and care,  she parented well.  My grandmother's legacy of loving long and hard impacts the way I love my own children.  As corny as many find many country music lyrics, I can't help but think of the chorus from one of my favorite old country songs:

"You see, I come from a long line of love. 

When times get hard....we don't give up.

Forever's in our heart and in our blood.

You see, I come from a long line of love."

Us moms have to remember that when we care well for our own children , we are ultimately loving our great,great grandchildren.  Yes, our mothering is just that important.  Our children need to know that they are a priority in our lives, and that nothing they do can ever make us stop loving them.  Children spell "love"

 T-I-M-E whether us busy parents like it or not.  No matter what you give lip service to, your children will decide how much you value them in accordance with how you spend your time.  Ultimately, our children would rather have" face time" with us than the toys or sports camps or dance lessons our paychecks afford them.  Our children need less "car time" as we hurriedly rush them from activity to activity and more " face time".....not with their peers at after-school , but with us.  The parenting phase of life is brief, and we won't get a shot at a re-do , no matter how badly we might want it.  Make sure your kids know that being at home with them is your favorite place to be!  Your great, great grandchildren will thank you one day! 

Thank you, Grandma!

More Summer Reflections

Summer is the time to consider those new traditions that might be worth starting in the coming year....the slightly slower pace and longer days seem to allow time for atleast some reflection.  Before August brings the start of school and all the "to do list" items that entails, make plans now for next summer's "Founders' Day Celebration", one of our favorite traditions in Caldwell.
Five-six families with grandparents thrown in here and there gather at my brother's home next door around 4:00 in the afternoon each year on July 4th.   Each family brings a plate of sandwiches to share, any equipment necessary for the race/contest they have planned, and a handful of prizes for the winners of such.  Past highlights have included the watermelon roll, for those three years old and under ( the seeds of which are used in the later seed-spitting contest), the mile run in and around the cornfield, and the "hollerin' contest".  The yard is always festively decorated (thanks to my sister-in-law) with traditional patriotic ballads playing in the background (thanks to my brother, and yes, he knows the words to all the songs!)
After devouring  the sandwiches and the repurposed watermelons, the climax of the evening for all those with an insatiable sweet tooth like myself, is the judging of the pies in the pie baking contest (because after the winner is announced by the guest judges, we get to eat all the pies!)  I have won the pie baking contest 3 out of the 4 years that I have entered a pie.  This is quite funny , and even baffling to my sister-in-law I think, because I am quite possibly the worst cook in the county.  (I think I remember asking my college roommate how to heat a can of soup.  I guess I could blame my mom for that lack of training by the time I entered college, but I don't, because my growing up years were near perfect due in large part to her mothering, and I do just fine with soup prep these days!)  Mom would be proud!

Well, here's the very simple winning recipe for the 2011 Caldwell Founders' Day Pie Bakeoff...start picking out a place to hang your First Place ribbon now!

Double Chocolate Pie (how could you go wrong with a name like that?)

1/2 cup unsalted butter

1/3 cup instant cocoa mix
4 ounces semisweet chocolate, chopped
2 large eggs, separated
1 9-inch pie shell, baked

Melt butter and cocoa mix over low heat, stirring until mix is dissolved.  Stir in chocolate until melted and well mixed.  Remove from heat; cool slightly. Beat in egg yolks, one at a time, beating well after each addition.  Beat egg whites to stiff peaks; fold into chocolate mixture.  Spoon filling into pie shell.  Refrigerate 4 hours or overnight.  Serve with whipped cream.  Makes 8 servings - I doubled everything!

The highlight of winning was how proud my 12-year old son was of me....middle schoolers don't often confer praise on their parents, or atleast the two that I live with don't! (Being that he's male, it figures that that praise would be the result of his stomach being full of something he had liked the taste of!)  My son immediately asked me when we returned home on the eve of Founders Day if I had remembered my ribbon.  I think I'll go gaze at it now, hanging in the exact spot where he placed it on our fridge!