I'm late. As usual.

According to my mother, the last time I was punctual for something was my birth. She married my dad on Oct. 16, 1969. I was born nine months later, to the day, on July 16, 1970. Since then, arriving "on time" for school, for work, for church, for just about anything, has been an ongoing challenge for me.

My friends and loved ones have been known to tell me to arrive 15 minutes before an event is actually scheduled to start, in hopes that I'll be there on time. *sigh*


So here's my belated "J" post for the A2Z Take 2 meme... 


Why June, you ask, since it's still only March?

Because in June 2012 we will be moving. After spending 14 years in the rural community where we planted a church in 1998, we're heading home. No, really. HOME. back to the Colorado ranch we shared with my parents before we accepted God's assignment and set out as church planters.  We'll return to the home church that "grew us up" in the knowledge of the Lord.

We leave behind a church plant that, although small, is alive. New pastors, who have a fresh vision and a passion and connection to this particular place and community, took the helm last July.

In June, my third child will graduate from high school. He'll be the first of my four to graduate from a traditional public school, and the first to pack off to live in a dorm and be a full-time on-campus college student. I'm thrilled for him because I know he's going to thrive and succeed in that environment, and I weep because it's a transition to adulthood that means yet another degree of separation between us.

And yet, with so many changes afoot, I am jubilant.

The 14 years we've spent here are filled with notes of joy as well as jaunts of pain, depression, doubt, and fear. We've learned things about ourselves, about our faith and about our beliefs, that we will carry with us forever.

We've grown to despise small-town politics, the prejudice that comes from generational pride, and the clannishness bred by isolation and insecurity.

We've learned to value the things of life that have eternal value, not the things valued by men (even religious men). We've come to know that we know beyond the shadow of a doubt that God loves US, not what we do for Him, not what we succeed or fail at. We've learned, by virtue of tests and trials, the triumph of mercy over judgment and the power that is released when we yield ourselves to compassion instead of condemnation.

In June, we have a blessed opportunity to begin anew. Relationships that were strained have been refreshed and restored. Dreams that have been set aside in the face of financial restraints will be reopened to the light.

Perhaps most important, my family will be together, three generations in one place, on property my parents have sown their time, their sweat, their finances and effort into for the sake of their descendants. I am humbled by their faith in so doing, year after year, never knowing if their child (me) or their grandchildren would come back to receive that for which they have labored.

Thanks, Mom and Dad.
God listened.

We're up to the letter K at the a2z4u and me meme. Don't forget to check out what the rest of the a2z memers(?) have to say about K this week! (I can coin a new word for people participating in a meme, right?)


K is a strange letter. King, kitten, kit, kindness, kid, kindle, key, kite, kale, Kellogg's, kin, kilt, kink, ketchup, kelp, koi, kvetch ... Knute, as in Knute Rockne, famous football coach at Notre Dame University. (My mother-in-law intended to name my husband Knute. He ended up as John Patrick, thank the Lord.) 


If your house is anything like mine, the K word that gets the most use is KITCHEN. We have an open kitchen/dining room. My desk and computer are in the kitchen, because it seems logical to put my workspace, well ... in my main workspace.  

I write, check email, balance my checkbook, do laundry (just off the kitchen), and prepare meals at the same time. When all four of my kids were homeschooling, which we did at the kitchen table, sometimes I felt like the rest of my house suffered from disuse.

The kitchen is the pulse of the home. Time is marked out in the thrum of daily meals, in the march of birthday celebrations, holiday gatherings, and in the height measurements ticked off in pencil just inside the pantry. It's where you go to satisfy your hunger not just for food, but for security and familiarity and comfort.


The kitchen is the "you are welcome here" room. The living room is too formal, the family/TV room too informal, the bedrooms too personal and the bathrooms ... too small. And that would be weird, besides.


Do you love your kitchen, hate your kitchen, or feel indifferent about your kitchen? 

When I was a child, if we had company coming—friends, family, business associates, anyone—we had a cleaning frenzy prior to their arrival.

I must have some kind of post-traumatic stress disorder from those frantic housework binges. I panic about the state of my household whether we're hosting a guest minister, having people over for dinner, or my kids have friends over.

If the guests are particularly intimidating to me for some reason, the cleaning frenzy is worse. I'm certain these guests will notice my unwashed baseboards, the grubby walls, the stained carpet, and the footprints on the ceiling. Yes, footprints.

Remember, I have three boys and one girl. Girls have accidents with nail polish and craft supplies. Boys, on the other hand, are dirt movers. They move dirt to whatever surface they touch. Walls, floors, light switches, and yes, ceilings. We also have dogs, and because I love my dogs, they're allowed on the furniture, no rooms are off limits, and they smudge up the windows with their wet noses. Dogs are messy. Like kids. And husbands.

This weekend we had company. I cleaned and scrubbed all day Saturday. Shrieking like a banshee about crumbs left behind on the counter and stinky shoes abandoned on the floor. Fretting over all the dirt glaring at me in 3D from every corner.
And I realized I was afraid.

Afraid of being judged a poor housekeeper, a failure as a wife and mother. Of being weighed in the balance against Heloise the Happy Homemaker or Barb the Bed and Breakfast Owner and found wanting. Afraid of winding up on one of those clean-your-house reality programs, sobbing over the spots on the kitchen ceiling. Afraid my guests would get in the car to leave and say, "Did you see the condition of her baseboards? How disgusting! How can people live that way?"

Fear, and the accompanying stress it produces, sucks the joy right out of hospitality, and that's no way to live. So here's my question, and I want honest answers (you can be anonymous, if you wish):

When you visit someone's home, do you see their dirt? What do you notice?

Aprons are coming into fashion. Serious fashion.



Do you have a favorite apron in your current selection? Why is it your favorite?

My favorite is an over-the-head denim job I picked at a thrift store. No pockets, very plain and simple heavy blue denim. I love it because it doesn't show stains, it fits (I don't have to tie the neck loop in a knot to make it short enough) and it actually blocks spills from getting through to my clothes. It's utilitarian, practical, efficient... boring! I hate to admit this, but it describes my work in the kitchen for the last two decades of child-rearing. I think it's time for a change... tune in Friday!

Meanwhile, check out some of the following sites for fun apron inspiration.

The simple act of putting on an apron is akin to the spiraling metamorphosis of mild-mannered Diana Prince into the bustier-wearing, lasso-throwing Wonder Woman.

I'm a relative newcomer to apron-wearing, and sometimes it's still hard for me to remember to toss one on before I cook dinner or whip up a baked delight.


But when I tie my apron strings, suddenly it's easier to do the dishes, to set the table, to create nutritious, well-balanced meals for my family. Donning an apron is a tangible reminder that I am the queen of my household domain, and inspires me to rule my roost with renewed grace and creativity.
Whether you're married or single, a working woman or a stay-at-home wife and mother, a grandma, an auntie, a gourmet chef or a successful TV dinner preparer, you can change the world through the simplest of acts: wiping a child's tear, making a cup of tea for a hurting friend, starting a grassroots campaign for a cause you believe in, or running a multi-national corporation.

The humble apron is just one token reminder of the awesome power that belongs to women to transform the world around them for the better

You may have seen the following essay on aprons already, since it has circulated the blogosphere and e-mail loops for quite some time. Even if you have, it's well worth another read.

"I know that there is nothing better for men than to be happy and do good while they live. That everyone may eat and drink, and find satisfaction in all his toil - this is the gift of God."

In this house full of boys I feel like part of a freak show sometimes. Even our dogs are males. I'm seriously outnumbered! But I've never actually been to a real freak show, unless the White River Museum with its two-headed calf counts. I have been tempted, I'll admit, to stop at that place in Kansas that boasts of having the world's largest prairie dog. Not that I really care about giant prairie dogs, I'm just looking for an excuse to get off the highway.

Freak shows, or side shows, were wildly popular in Europe and America from the late 1700s all the way into the 1940s.
Traveling caravans like P.T. Barnum's and the Ringling Bros., spotlighted the bizarre physical abnormalities or exceptional abilities of humans and animals hired to "perform" for the show. People collected and traded freak show cards like baseball cards. I remember thinking the "Garbage Pail Kids" trading cards in the '80s and '90s were twisted! (They're making a comeback, by the way!) How would you like to have your kid come home with a "Titana the Fat Girl" card, or an "Eliza Jenkins the Skeleton Woman" card?  "Hey Johnny, I'll trade you my Jo Jo the Dog-Faced Boy for your Grace the Mule-Faced Woman!" What's wrong with this picture?


Oddly enough, Germany banned freak show exhibits in 1939 because they were "exploitive." In the same year the Nazis invaded Poland and began the Second World War. Apparently, tossing Jews in the gas chamber was okay, but pointing fingers at the deformed people wasn't nice. Talk about a bad case of situation ethics!

Some freak show performers became famous, like Tom Thumb, who appeared before Queen Victoria three times. He was only eleven years old when he signed on with P.T. Barnum. Oh yeah, no exploitation there.
Bearded ladies, probably the victims of a simple hormone disorder, were frequent attractions, along with albinos, giants, midgets and dwarfs, hermaphrodites, multiple amputees, conjoined twins and individuals with varied birth defects... like Howard the Lobster Boy. Folks with "self-made anomalies" were popular, too, like the tattooed husband and wife team, the fireeaters, the sword swallowers, and the "human pincushions."

So this afternoon I sit down to check my e-mail and come upon a headline about the Duggar family. It seems Mrs. Duggar has announced her 19th pregnancy. Feelings about the Duggars run strong, judging from the emotional comments left on the news article. And that got me to thinking... (which is always dangerous). I turned on the television and scanned the ridiculous number of available channels. Almost every other program was a "reality show."

We have shows about the day to day lives of  "little people." How they drive, how they reach the top shelves in their kitchens, and so on. We have Miami Ink, an entire program dedicated to tattoos, tattoo artists, and the people they tattoo. "De plane, de plane, boss!" Sorry, wrong Tattoo. I have no business posting a blog at this hour of the night.

We've got American Idol, America's Got Talent, and Survivorman highlighting the special--and not so special--abilities of everyday folks. For everyone out there who grew up on Knight Rider and Baywatch, is it NOT embarrassing to watch David Hasselhoff demonstrate his mid-life crisis--complete with chest hair and gold chains? And what in the heck was Sharon Osbourne thinking when she married Ozzy? Sharon is a reasonably attractive woman. Ozzy is, well, Ozzy. And who is that British guy with the bad attitude, anyway? Oh, right, which British guy? Both of them. Are British guys just grouchy? And if that isn't enough, Discovery and TLC offer options about morbid obesity, women who didn't know they were pregnant until they gave birth (yeah, right), and mysterious, incurable diseases. Yippee.

And then there are the parenting and marriage shows (not counting the Duggars). There's Jon and Kate plus 8. Whoops, make that Jon, Kate, their significant others, and eight kids. There are the nanny shows, which prompt my children to say, "That kid needs a spanking!" And there's Wife Swap. Which used to be a very naughty term, but apparently just means taking a feeding-on-demand mom and trading her with a feed-on-schedule mom to see if the moms fall apart before the dads and kids do.

We've gone back to the freak show, ladies and gentlemen. 

Hey, can I get some Duggar family trading cards?