I do not, in general, like to get dirty. I’m sure I could delve deep into my past to discover the reason behind this, but it doesn’t change the fact that I like to be clean. I don’t like to go a day without showering. I don’t like it when I’m walking after it rains or snows and dirty water splashes up on my legs from my shoes. I don’t buy jeans that look dingy, however stylish they may be. And I don’t like it when dirt sneaks in under my gardening gloves. I just don’t like dirt. As a parent, my personal dislike of dirt has been transferred to my son in that I don’t like him to be dirty either. I don’t like it when his hair starts to get flat, or when dirt starts to collect under his fingernails. I don’t like it when he spills food on his clothes, or when he smears his food all over his face and hair. It bugs me. And no matter how hard I try, I can’t just let it be. However, this past week, I found myself reconsidering my stance on dirt.

We spent a day with some friends in Kirksville, Missouri last week. They have a beautiful old Victorian home with a spacious backyard flowing out from a wide wooden deck. The evening of our visit was spent outside on the deck enjoying the warmth of an early summer evening. While we adults sat around and talked, the children were running free in the backyard, playing in a sandbox and with the garden hose. My son, who is now one, was crawling around all over the deck. When the time came to go inside and get the children settled for bed I noticed that my son was filthy. Not only were his knees dirty, but his shorts, shirt, feet, hands and face were all smeared with dirt and sweat. My initital instinct was, of course, to give him a bath. But as I looked at his tired face I realized that he was perfectly content in his state of dirtiness. The dirt he was covered in meant that he had been doing things, important things. He had been exploring and investigating a brand new world. He had been driving a fire truck and delivering water balloons to a newfound friend. He didn’t mind the dirt. It was part of the experience of reveling in the summer evening.

As I lay in bed that night, a thousand similiar summer evenings of my own childhood flashed through my mind. I remembered playing outside until the sun set and the street lights came on. I remembered riding bikes through mud puddles and playing in a gravel drive. I remembered using the swimming pool as a big bath tub and going to sleep surrounded by the smell of chlorine mixed with sweat. Those were beautiful days… days of meaning… days of accomplishment.

In her book, Recieving the Day, Christian writier Dorothy Bass talks about reclaiming the Sabbath. She states that on the Sabbath, it is important to celebrate and revel in God’s creation, for God created everything of life on this planet and declared that all of it was good. By reveling in God’s creation, we connect with God and bring glory to all that he made. This, I would say, includes dirt. We were created of dirt and to dirt we will return, so what does it matter if we carry a little of it with us along the way? I guess a little bit of dirt never hurts. Maybe it can even be good for the soul.

Blessings and Peace,
Sara

Over the weekend, my family and I celebrated my mother’s 60th birthday. To think of my mother as being 60 years old is somewhat troublesome to me, for the image I have of a 60 year old woman and what I know to be true of my mother are two completely different things. I’ve heard that 60 is now the new 40 and when I look at my mother, I think that must be true. Age itself is a stereotype. Deep down I know it’s just a number, but the numbers have the power of eliciting profound emotions. I still struggle with the fact that I’m 30. I never really thought that age would come. Is it really possible that I’ve lived 30 years? Could I really be 1/3 of the way through my life? What have I done with those 30 years? Where has the time gone? These questions creep into my mind every so often, and I have no real answers there.

After my mother’s birthday party, I was talking to my husband about a conversation I’d had with my best friend’s mother. She told me that Elaine and her husband Tim were going out of town for their anniversary this summer. It didn’t hit me until I was talking to my husband that the reason Elaine and Tim are going off alone for their anniversary is that it will be their 10th. TEN YEARS!! They’ve been married for ten years! I lay in bed that night pondering the meaning of this. For some reason, I found myself a little sad at this revelation. It’s not that I’m sad for them. Tim’s a great guy and they have a wonderful relationship along with two beautiful children. There’s nothing to be sad about in that. It’s more the fact that I can remember their wedding so clearly. Plus the fact that I specifically remember being with them on their 5 year anniversary, and that anniversary does not seem, in my mind, like it took place more than 3 years ago at best. I kept doing the math over and over in my head, but each time I came up with 10 years. I wondered, “What does it mean?”

Before I knew it, I found myself wandering back through my childhood. Elaine and I have literally spent a lifetime together, so I found myself thinking about endless sleepovers and birthday parties and walks home from school. I thought about Barbie adventures and Trivial Pursuit and pogo sticks and roller skates. I thought of North and South and The Winds of War, made for T.V. miniseries we must have watched hundreds of times. I thought of years of laughter, and conversations that carried on regardless of time or distance. I thought of summers in college, sharing a small apartment with friends, staying up through the night talking of life, love, and all that the future would hold.

In that moment, I finally realized what had been troubling me all along. My childhood had passed from a recent memory to a distant one. It was, and is, truly gone for good. It’s not that I want to go back and relive those days. I’ve come a long way since then. I fell in love with a wonderful man and we’ve created a beautiful child. We’re building a life together, and I’m excited about all of the possibilities it holds. Yet, it is a mark of passage for me that my significant memories of ten years ago are that of an adult. I am getting older. We are all getting older, and it is not an easy thing to reconcile yourself with. My question now is, when do we get wiser?

Blessings and Peace,
Sara

Around election time, you always hear campaign workers and teachers telling people that “every vote counts” so make sure you go to the polls and cast your vote. I’ve also been told by my mother that you can’t complain about a politician or bill if you don’t vote. Well, I’m going to complain anyway.

I didn’t vote this week during American Idol, but I’m wondering now if I should have. Last night, my husband and I’s favorite contestant this season was inexplicably sent home. In my mind, Melinda Doolittle was the best singer of the bunch, and proved week after week that she deserved the Idol crown. In most cases, it’s probably best that we each don’t get what we deserve because it’s probably a lot worse than what we have. In this case, however, I disagree. What were people thinking? Can people really prefer Blake to Melinda? Blake… Seriously?! It’s not that he doesn’t have talent. He can sing.. sort of. But he’s not great. And the beatboxing thing? Give me a break! It’s his only gimmick. It’s all he does. Melinda showed her versatility week after week. She brought her A game every single time, and although I admit I questioned where she would fit into the music industry– which genre she would fill– and I thought there were times she seemed a bit too old for her age, she flat-out outsang every other contestant.

So, what happened? Did the voters get bored with her consistency? Did she not have a bubbly enough personality? Did she not sell the songs enough? Did the voters not want another African-American Idol? (Sorry, Chris– had to throw that one in.) As Randy and Paula both said, Melinda will be successful regardless of her place in Idol standings, but it’s the principle of the matter for me. Melinda should not have been voted off last night.

Then again, we do live in a nation where the majority of voters elected Gerorge W. Bush to office–twice! As Americans, we don’t have the best track record. So, what can you do? I guess every vote does count after all.

Blessings and Peace,
Sara

Why is it that time always seems to be an enemy? Either hours drag on like days or days speed by like hours. There never seems to be a happy medium. Maybe it’s just that we’re conditioned by our culture to always be looking ahead. Most of us aren’t taught to just live in the moment, although I’ve found that life is much richer when we do. After our son was born last June, my husband and I made a point to not rush him through the various stages of his first year. We took delight in each day and each stage (some more than others) and although we looked forward to watching him develop, we didn’t want to rush it along. I read the concerns of many new mothers on a local breastfeeding list serve about holding their baby too much while he/she sleeps. I always want to tell them to just hold them, and hold them as long as they can. Before you know it your child will be off exploring the world and will prefer a nice solid mattress to your shoulder.

I have to remind myself about time today as I’m finishing up one of the longest weeks I’ve had all year. I keep thinking to myself, “I just want this week to end!!” I remind myself that we should never wish for time to end, but should relish what we can of what we have. I remind myself that it’s a beautiful day outside, and I work with beautiful people all around me. I remind myself that the children I work with are full of life and energy, and I should be grateful to be in the presence of such unencumbered spirit. I remind myself that my long drive to and from work is an opportunity to reconnect with myself or to spend some quiet time with God. My boss bought me an ice cream cone from the ice cream truck which visited school today and I remind myself that the simple things in life really do bring the most joy. Finally, I remind myself that it’s Friday, and I have a whole weekend ahead of me to spend time with my husband and son, relax, unwind, live in the moment, and not think about time! Enjoy your weekend!!

Blessings and Peace,
Sara

Kansas City is one of the worst cities I have ever been in when it comes to road construction. In the three years I’ve been commuting, several major arteries through the city have been closed off due to road construction with nothing new opened up to relieve excess traffic. Detours are complicated and poorly labeled and, most frustrating of all, no new progress seems to be made. For instance, construction has been underway for at least fifteen years in the so-called “Grandview Triangle” of Kansas City where at least three major highways intersect. In that fifteen or so years, the highway department has worked continuously to build the exact same road structure that was present before, alleviating no traffic problems for the thousands of commuters who go in and out of the city each day. I realize that I know nothing about the intricacies of road construction and am not an expert by any means. But seriously, building the exact same thing? What’s the point? It’s not that I’m against road construction, per se, I just want to see some progress. I want someone who knows something about it to tell me what the point is, what good is going to come from it, how the inconvenience and extra work is going to be worth it in the end. I don’t think that’s asking too much.

As a Christian, I often feel like my life is one big road construction area. God has cut off major arteries, sent me on complicated detours, surprised me with unexpected Road Closed signs, and has been working on the same stretch of road for a number of years with no sign of an end in sight. However, I’ve learned over the years that one thing I can always count on is that there is a point to all of the construction. Although I might not see it right away, I know God has a plan of action, and that the work in progress is really a work toward progress. God is not going to spend fifteen, twenty, thirty or even fifty years re-building the same thing. God is always working on rebuilding and renovating for something better. The past five years have been an example of this for me.

I quit a teaching position five years ago with the intent of being hired on at a high school in Columbia, Missouri. The high school had no openings in their English department, and I instead found myself packing my bags, belongings and cats and moving to the Chicago-land to attend seminary and earn a Masters degree in Christian Education. Seminary was a great experience. I learned a lot, grew a lot, made wonderful new friends, and met the love of my life. I felt myself called into doing urban youth outreach, and have spent the past three years engaged in that endeavor. However, this Spring my husband and I found ourselves in front of another Road Closed sign as he was appointed to a new charge in Southwest Missouri. Caution: Major Detour Ahead. Initially, I had no idea what I was going to do in this area, but I trusted that God would open up another route for me to take, and sure enough, he did just that. After a five year hiatus, I am going back into the classroom to take up teaching once more. I will be teaching sophomore and junior English at Monett High School in Monett, Missouri. Although somewhat intimidated about going back into the classroom after a five year break, I think it will be a good experience. And although the past five years were somewhat of a professional detour for me, I learned a lot from all of the experience and will be a better classroom teacher because of them. The road is now opened, resurfaced and expanded, and I can’t wait to get driving!

Blessings and Peace,
Sara

In the past few weeks, the organization I work for decided to sever its ties with the Kansas City Missouri School District and pull out the 38 before and after school programs it runs, as well as the over 7 million dollars it contributes to the district each year. The reason for the decision, in a nutshell, was irreconcilable differences. The school district underwent an administration change this year, the 6th or 7th administration change in less than ten years. The school board brought in a new superintendent (after they’d chosen three other finalists for the position) who has been making sweeping changes in curriculum, programs, staff, and building reorganization. Many teachers, parents and students feel it is too much, too soon. Our programs came under fire early on. The superintendent, never having observed our programs, continually referred to them as childcare programs, noting publicly that we did nothing more than provide parents babysitting services. Funding for our programs disappeared (the district claims it did not have the money), contract disputes ensued, and a tick for tat battle of words took place in the press, both sides lashing out at each other through print and network media. In the end, our organization decided to concede first, by announcing plans to completely pull out of the district at the end of this school year. They supplemented this announcement with a 12 page booklet detailing the conflict to be handed out to parents, business partners, and community leaders.

I do not disagree with the decision that was made, although I have some concerns about the process by which it was made and the lateness of the decision. Two months before the end of the school year doesn’t leave a lot of time for changing course, and there are about 300 employees who depend on their paycheck. It’s the irreconcilable differences that bother me the most. In an age where the divorce rate is 50 %, I wonder, what brings two parties to a point where they can no longer settle their differences? And why is the severing of a relationship considered a solution?

In this case, the superintendent made demands we could not meet while maintaining our vision and mission as an organization, as well as keeping our state funding and license. Yet I think, as a rule, we should not accept irreconcilable differences as an excuse to break ties or end relationships. We need to be taught, and we need to teach our children, the process of reconciliation. We need to encourage our national leaders to use reconciliation as a tool for governing. Heck, most of us need to learn to reconcile who we are with who we think we need to be. Jesus entire ministry on earth was one of reconciliation, his death and resurrection the means by which God was and is reconciled with all of us who are, were and will be. Reconcilable differences– what a world of difference that would make!

Blessings and Peace,
Sara

Over the past few years, I have worked hard to try and align myself and my life with the will of God. I have tried to be accepting of situations that have occurred to test my strength and resolve. I have tried to keep my eye on the bigger picture, to see my life lived in the grand scheme of things, rather than the smallness of myself. Chris and I have known for a long while now that this would be our last year at Platte Woods Church. We have both been praying for several months about the next appointment Chris would receive. I, myself, have prayed that we would end up exactly where God wanted us to be, a place where we could both grow professionally and personally. We were both excited and energized at the prospect of moving forward, to go on to bigger and better things. Well, we might be moving on to better, but it certainly won’t be bigger.

Chris got the call last week that he was being appointed to First United Methodist Church in Mt. Vernon, Missouri. For those of you who don’t know (we didn’t) Mt. Vernon is a small community about 25 miles west of Springfield, Missouri. There is one main street that runs through the town, and a business district in serious need of revitalization. Although there is some projected growth in the area, it is not coming fast. After years of living and working in urban and suburban areas, we were both pretty shocked. I immediately started looking around at all I would be giving up. No more Target, no more Starbucks. No more trendy shopping districts and upscale restaurants. No more theater, no more concerts. No more Barnes and Noble. More importantly, what was I going to do? I looked to God and asked, “Are you serious?” I quickly began to come to terms with my own snobbishness and materialism when we took a trip down to see the church last weekend. The people were friendly and seemed genuinely excited to have us there. The district superintendent was especially excited, and I think sees potential for a lot of growth.

Chris and I have since been praying Jesus’s prayer of submission in Gethsemane on a regular basis. It really is a good appointment, and southwest Missouri is a nice area to be in. There is a city close by, and living in a small town will give us the opportunity to be more involved in a community than living in a city allows. More importantly, I know we have both placed ourselves in the center of God’s will, and that God has a definite purpose for bringing us to this church. So, instead of saying, “WHAT?”, I am changing my response to “YES!” and trusting in God’s greater vision.

Blessings and Peace,
Sara

We live in a very complicated society. There are no more simple decisions to be made, no more boxes in which you simply check yes or no. There’s too much information out there. Our information superhighway may make decision making more effective, but many times leaves me feeling like I’m stuck in traffic. There’s just too much. We live in a society of too much. In fact, I think that “too much” needs to become the new official motto of the United States. We have too much, we consume too much, we know (or think we know) too much, and we still want more. Too much…

I was contemplating this state of too muchness today while reading information on homemade baby food. Our 9 month old has been attempting solid foods for a few months now. I have tried in the past few years to be more conscious of what I put into my body. I buy organic milk and vegetables, frequent the local farmer’s market in the summer, and try to buy more natural products. After I had a child, I decided I wanted the same for him. I wanted to be very aware of what he put into his body and wanted to make sure he stayed away from processed food. My goal was to give him only breast milk until he was a year old and to make all of his baby food from scratch. Ha! The things you learn as you go… Working full-time, my milk supply has not grown with my son’s appetite, and my husband and I introduced formula into his diet at 6 months. As for the food, the closest I’ve come to making it from scratch has been to mash up a banana!

I was reading a series of e-mails on a listserve I belong to about baby food, and all of the mothers who responded to a question about baby food make their food from scratch. One of the mothers found a website which she directed the group to that had baby food recipes and tips for parents to make food on their own. It’s a great website, with great recipes and advice. The authors of the website have lots of facts and figures for why you should make your own baby food and the great benefits your baby will receive. It’s one of those websites that makes me feel like a bad mother for investing in Gerber. The problem for me is that it’s just too much. It’s too much to bake chicken and apples and peaches and rice. It’s too much to get out the food processor three times a day, dirty it up, clean it up, and put it back, only to go through the whole process again the next day. I only have so much time during the day, and I’d rather spend that time playing with my son and talking to my husband. That, for me, is not too much. Most days, it feels like it’s not enough. It’s easier for me to pop open a tub of Gerber sweet potatoes and corn than to go through the process of baking a sweet potato, roasting corn, and puree-ing them together. I know in the eyes of some this makes me a less than ideal mother, but I was never cut out to be June Cleaver. Anyway, June Cleaver is too much.

This idea of too much was driven home to me again when I was reading the latest edition of UN Wire, a daily e-mail update of articles published about human rights issues throughout the world. I was struck once more by the disparity of the too little in which most of the world lives and the too much in which Americans live. As a friend of mine recently said, at least we have a choice in the type of food we consume and give to our children. So many don’t. Maybe my Gerber food isn’t ideal, but it’s food that nourishes and sustains my son, and for that I am very grateful. Gratitude can never be too much.

Blessings and Peace,
Sara

There are many different cycles we see and experience in life. There’s the overarching life cycle which frames all that we do. There are cycles of relationships and cycles in relationships. There are cycles of days and cycles of time. There are cycles of seasons and cycles of celebrations. There are religious cycles and political cycles. Our lives are lived in cycles, not linear at all. I started thinking about cycles a few weeks ago, when my monthly cycle began again after an absence of 18 months. This cycle is one in which most women live the majority of their lives. Different women feel different things about this cycle. Most of us are excited when it first begins. It is a rite of passage for young women, a mark of change and growth, of maturing. It begins a new phase in life. Over time, the newness wears off, and it becomes, for me at least, more of a pain than anything else. I know there are women out there who eagerly anticipate the continuation of this cycle. For them, it means that things are going smoothly and there is no major life-change on the way. I also know that there are women out there who just as eagerly anticipate the end of this cycle. For them, it means that something new is taking place, a much-hoped for life is beginning to grow, or a new stage in life is taking place. In general, this cycle is the beginning of something.

Yet for me, the return of my cycle felt more like an end. It was sad, not because I would have to start paying attention to the calendar again and making sure I was well stocked-up on various feminine hygiene products, but sad because it means that life is moving on, and my baby boy is growing up. I realize, of course, that he’s only 9 months old. It’s not like he’s getting a driver’s license or going off to college, but those things will come. He’s already changed and grown so much. In 9 months he’s tripled his birth weight, gotten teeth, lost his baby-face and begun to crawl. His existence is no longer wrapped up within me, and my body has recognized that and moved on. I know it’s not a big deal in the grand scheme of things. I know that at some level he’ll always be my little baby boy, and that we’ve got lots of new things to look forward to. I know that cycles are circular and always come back around. I know this is really a beginning, and not at all an end. But, as with all cycles, there is something left behind. And in this moment, it’s hard to let it go.

Blessings and Peace,
Sara

Some days, I just don’t feel like going to church. I’m tired, or I have other things to get done, or I just like the quiet Sunday mornings bring. Some days, getting my son and myself together and to church on time and in the right attitude to worship is just too much. My mother always said that the devil works extra hard on Sunday mornings, and I’ve found this statement to be very true. This Sunday was one of those mornings for me. My husband and I were just settling in to a new home after a whirlwind move with an eight month old who was battling both an ear and upper respiratory infection. Our son and I were going to the eleven o’clock service so I could hear my husband preach, and our son could enjoy some quality time with the childcare providers in the nursery. As luck would have it, our son decided that 10:30 would be a great time for a nap, so he settled down to take what he thought would be a nice long one. My first thought was, “Why didn’t he do this an hour ago?!” Followed by, “Great! What a perfect opportunity to unpack! Surely I can listen to Chris’s sermon on tape later.” This thought was quickly replaced by the guilt of my good Baptist upbringing (the Catholics have nothing on the Baptists when it comes to guilt) and I begrudgingly readied myself and my son for church.

We were late, of course, and I was rushing. I finally found a seat after the choir cleared the entryway to the sanctuary and sat down to worship, kind of. Mostly I just looked around the sanctuary and thought about all of the nice homes other people lived in that weren’t full of mold and asbestos and that they didn’t have to abandon in the course of four days. I tuned back into the service only to find that we were singing “Shout to the Lord”, one of the music director’s favorites that he always conducts at a tempo fit for a funeral dirge. Tempted to walk out, I remained in my seat and tried to focus “on things above.” As the service wore on, I noticed that all of the songs were songs we were singing were songs of praise and thanksgiving. “Hmm..” I thought. “Could God be trying to tell me something?” This thought set off a furious debate inside my mind. On the one hand, my attitude stunk and was in serious need of a major adjustment. On the other hand, my attitude stunk and I didn’t feel like adjusting it. Besides, if God really wanted to say something to me, wouldn’t he find a better way of communicating than praise songs and choir anthems sung five times too slow?

I intended to stay in my seat and pout through the time of prayer, instead of going to the communion rail like most weeks. However, as I saw my husband stepping down from the stage to the railing, I felt compelled to join him. This is our time of worship together, and brief as it may be, it’s precious time for both of us. As I kneeled down at the communion rail, I heard God more clearly. It was time to stop being stubbornly selfish, wallowing in self-pity. I needed to actively listen.

My husband’s sermon was a biography of John Wesley, the “accidental founder of Methodism”, as my husband stated. In this sermon, my husband spoke from the viewpoint of John Wesley, and for the first time that morning, I actively listened. As John Wesley’s life story spilled out before me, I realized that I had endured no great hardship this past week. I was inconvenienced, nothing more. My attitude was ungrateful and selfish, and not at all what I was, and am, called to be. John Wesley spent his entire life working to minister to the needs of others and to bring everyone he could into the fellowship of Christ. He placed the needs of others above even his own, and gave all that he had to the poor around him, despite actual hardship and some inconvenience to himself. In actively listening to my husband’s sermon, I realized that there was a bigger picture which I was forgetting during my little pity party. The party’s over. Let the work begin.

Blessings to all,
Sara