The Day It Snowed Stars on New York City

Photo by Arielle Rudin/Gothamist

God knows how to get our attention. And contrary to public belief, he usually speaks in a still small voice, rather than thunder and lightning and tsunamis. Which is why we sometimes claim to miss Him, though He may speak through our children's innocent wisdom, a stranger's casual comment, a lyric in a song.

Yesterday He came like snow, again. (Check out Winter Snow by Audrey Assad).

And the snow was in shapes of stars. Specifically 6 - pointed stars, like the Star of David.

I wondered if He might be asking us not to forget the country whose symbol that is. Not to ignore their existence; not to deny defending them; not to un-friend them as it seems America has on the worldwide facebook page.

For our leader doesn't have the time of day for our long-time ally.

Oh, he has time take selfies on a talk show with a woman whose you tube video went viral. A woman who filled her bathtub with milk and Fruit Loops cereal, got in on all fours and lapped it up like a dog. He has time for that.

But his calendar's too full to meet with Israel's prime minister on a foreign relations tour

or to march with heads of state to resist growing global terror. Or at least to send his representative who was across that Paris street.

Call it crazy or far-fetched, but maybe Someone is gently reminding us to never forget His people; to support and defend them by sending this never before seen weather phenomena

Photo by Arielle Rudin/Gothamist

 of snowflakes in the shape of stars falling on New York City.

Sometimes Love is Like a Bad Tennis Match

Being married for ages has its ups and downs and back and forth's. Especially in conversation. Communication is the hardest part of marriage my father used to say. I didn't understand it then,  but I'm beginning to now.

The dialog often goes like this.

Love, love.

Do you think the paint treatment will hold? 

Don't know. It will be interesting to see if Canola oil can remove oxidation, or at least cover it up.

Of course when it rained I think the windows got cloudy. So I brought some paper towels and now we can windex them down.

It didn't rain before you left.

Yes, it did. Remember you said, wouldn't you know it rains the day you wash the car! It was covered with poinciana petals from the front yard branches that hang over the drive way.

Love, fifteen.

So I feel like our conversations are like bad tennis matches.

We lob sentences back and forth and keep missing the ball.

I send the ball, he misses.

He sends the ball, I miss, never seeming to connect.

I resist throwing the racket at him.

Fifteen, fifteen.

I serve, he misses, he returns it, I miss. We keep missing each other and mass confusion sets in. It's so maddening,  its a wonder we don't pitch the tennis balls and stomp off the court, the both of us.

Oh, he admitted. You're right.

Thank God! Because I feel like I'm going crazy when I cant' remember events that happened a half a day ago.

No it's me that's going crazy, he says.

Fifteen, thirty.

Well, just for today. I'm sure you'll be in your right mind tomorrow.

I'm working on it with diet and exercise, getting my mind back, that is.

We'll work on it together, ok? 

Ok.

Love, Love.

Christmas Doesn't Get Much Better Than This - Part Two

Letters make the best Christmas presents.

Especially when they are from your 24 year old son who is making his way in the world. He shares a 1920's house in historical Flamingo Park, West Palm Beach, is finishing his engineering degree, has a catch of a girl friend and loves Jesus. He's got the whole package. The world on a string. He's lassoed the moon!

What more could a mother ask for? What else would be on her Christmas wish list?

Absolutely nothing. But I got it anyway!

It wasn't the handkerchief or Stephen Sondheim New York City musical tickets gifted me that made my Chrsitmas morning. It was the note in a little red envelope that brought the holiday glow everyone longs for. The "this is what Christmas is all about" revelation amongst twinkling lights, candles and shiny wrapping paper.

It read like this:

Mom,

The more people I meet and know, the more thankful I am for you. Thank you for being so loving and caring. I don't know how you did it. People always assume that as a middle child of five siblings that I might have been neglected. But never once have I felt so. 

I love your adventurous spirit and your appreciation of the little things. Thank you for being the best mom ever.

Love,
B...

Merry Christmas to me!

Christmas Doesn't Get Much Better Than This - Part One

Of all the Christmas scenes that come to mind, I think the fireplace hung with stockings and garland is the most iconic of all.

The experience was never realized here in my modern Florida Mediterranean stucco home. Prior to this, we lived in a string of apartments and a duplex. None possessed a fireplace. Only my childhood California ranch home did. That was my last Christmas with a burning fire to roast chestnuts over. Well, not chestnuts really, but tangerines, yes.  Dad would peal a juicy tangerine and throw the rind into the flames predicting an imminent roasted citrus scent to invade the living room. The fruity flambe was intoxicating.

But my daughter in Virginia got the goods, mantle and all, and decorated so beautifully this Christmas.

She started a new Advent tradition as well. Instead of a calendar with little windows to open, like the one I had growing up, she gave her kids Advent books - one each day to read.

Usually the boys rough and tumble their way through their day, driving my daughter crazy. But something unusual took place one day.

It was a Christmas miracle!

The boys were sitting quietly in front of the glowing fire poring over their day's book, engaged in an heated, yet civil, adult-like conversation about Santa's  descent into the chimney of every little boy and girl in the world.

"Why do you think Santa doesn't mind getting dirty from all the fire places?"

"Maybe he loved playing in dirt as a boy?"

This unprompted event sent mom running for the canon camera, so as not to miss this rare moment of sibling harmony around the family hearth.

Snap away, young mommy. This warm picture will burn in our memory for years to come.

Thanksgiving and Stargazing

A friend modeled this grand idea of cooking everything ahead for Thanksgiving to preserve one's holiday cheer and emotional stamina for the actual day. So, Monday night I chopped up the 5 pound butternut squash and started my soup recipe from the Silver Palate cookbook. It's a decades old book, but so chocked full of delicious recipes from 2 New Yorker girl friends and their gourmet food shoppe.

photo credit - Butternutrician.com

Still exhausted from the day, postponing cooking was quite tempting. Forcing myself to face the skillet, I sauteed chopped onions in butter with 5 teaspoons of delectable Pendy's curry powder for 25 minutes.

While the squash was boiling in chicken broth I took the dog for a walk on this balmy 78 degree November night. The silky breeze felt lovely against my face and bare shoulders. A walk down the curved sidewalk and I felt the great desire to lay on the dewy St. Augustine lawn and look at the glittering stars.

The tiny orbs were abundant and bright. I tried to count them and noticed the familiar constellations. I randomly wondered:

If Orion unbuckled his belt, would the stars fall down? 

A sirius-ly odd thought. I had no clue where it came from. (I hear the reader begging 'Stop!') There's the little dipper, looking like the teaspoon I just used for curry. There's the big dipper that I will use to ladle my soup.

Oh, that I could rest here all night!  By now every star was twinkling ferociously, like rubies and sapphires set in silver. What energy in those stars! A million leaping molecules making them burn and shimmer.

Surely some of that energy could be redirected to this tired woman facing the marathon cooking day of Thanksgiving. Squinting, I stared past the stars imagining the inky depth of the universe, though it appeared a one dimensional backdrop. Could I have a little bit of inertia God used to create the great expanse? Just a 1/4 teaspoon of the power He employed to speak it all into existence?

Pass the energy, please.

Back to the hot kitchen (AC out again) and my potatoes, green beans, stuffing, sweet potatoes, cranberry salad, and pies.

Just a little stargazing with my Turkey Day cooking, thankful for the strength to cook and love on my family this Thanksgiving.

Daughter, April cooks her first turkey; all with 3 kids under 6. She looks perky!

The Princess and the Sheets

Edmund Dulac - Princess and the Pea illustrator - 1911

Taking in two Chinese international students this Fall has proven an interesting cultural experience, to say the least. Desire for a new adventure being one of the reasons, we would be lying if gain wasn't also a motivating factor.

Life has changed since these girls came to reside in my sons' former bedrooms. The boys moved out to live with house mates during these, their college and career years. I thought I wanted girls again after the long stint of raising four boys. I longed for tea and conversation, for compliments on my decorating changes and house cleaning; things to which boys are usually blind.

And that I got, sort of. The tea was wonderful long stemmed green tea and delicate chrysanthemum. The girls comment on new dish ware, notice my dress, hair and nails. It's nice in that respect. But I hadn't been prepared for the female fringe benefits, if you will, that come with teenage girl life.

Like the bickering and cold shoulders because one allegedly didn't flush the toilet, and one played her music too early on a Saturday morning. The online postings flew -  this 2014 version of note passing and phone gossiping, sometimes qualifying as bullying. Now the girls do not speak to each other, after having started out as BFF's. This is sad, I think. But we are managing to live civilly as a blended international family.

I also didn't expect the only-child entitlement a well-off Asian beauty might expect. Things like $200 sheets and $400 down comforters. This comes after I had purchased new linens, from mattress covers to quilts. The quilt ridges bothered her and the cover was too thin. Sheets weren't quite up to her liking and made her itch, she said. Well you are welcome to head off to the mall and purchase the sheets of your choice, I offered. Mr Shaw took her to the mall with instructions for the size and store. They returned sheetless.

Mysteriously, a set of 500 count sheets showed up at the school office with princess' name on them. Lucky for my wallet, I realized I already had a down comforter she could use. We're all happy now, I think. And the itching has long stopped. After a hasty trip to urgent care for fear of an unknown allergic reaction, medication and absences from school, we concluded the week-long rash came from swimming in an ill- treated pool.

Photo credit - Deviantart.com

Keep in mind these only-child, Chinese girls have multiple caretakers back in Beijing and Qingdao ready to meet their every whim. If one can't fulfill a request, there are 5 other parents-in-waiting.

1. Their parents
2. Their paternal grandparents and
3. Their maternal grandparents

Note the robust ratio of six adults to one child! And now they have us, their host parents, which makes 8 to 1. So when Princess #1 needed new sheets, mom in China found some family friend in Florida to buy her sheets and leave them anonymously at her school - even though it took a month and the itch had long ended.

Likewise, when Princess #2 ran out of shampoo, she asked if I could get her some the next day. Sure, I said,  She proceeded to write down the shampoo brand and the mall store called Lush, where it could be found. Well, honey I might be able to pick up some Herbal Essence or Pantene at Target while I grocery shop, but I don't have time to go the the mall tomorrow in the middle of my workday. I'm sorry. I reminded her there was shampoo under her sink. She reminded me it was not very useful. The following weekend she goes to the mall and comes back with handcrafted soaps, her fancy-shmancy shampoo and a variety of other designer toiletries totaling $88.

According to my childhood fairy tales, the proof of a princess was in the pea. A girl of royal blood felt the pea through a stack of twenty mattresses. For these girls, the proof of a princess is in the thread count of her sheets and the price of her shampoo.

Ponder that Hans Christian Andersen. And it's no fairy tale.

A Warrior Falls Forward

It was my first staff meeting as a new employee. We were celebrating the past week's events in the upstairs choir room; celebrating Char's first victory of cancer. Her smile spread across her cherub-like face with her hair in the short curls that new hair takes on after chemo treatments. She was radiant and those who knew her early struggle cheered her on.

I remember prayer requests every 6 months for the dreaded blood tests that would reveal whether the victory was permanent.  We prayed. She tested. We waited. Sometimes it would be a shining report of 'negative' results. Sometimes it would be 'positive' with more treatments to follow accompanied by days off work and stories of nausea, extreme fatigue and the physical misery cancer patients come to know as common, everyday life.

Seven more years followed of this pattern. Yet, Char continued to work, lead hundreds of women, events, classes, LifeGroups, nurturing her teams all along the way. She did not esteem her condition as an excuse to not serve God, or a reason to stay home, to give up. But she pushed through obstacles.and discomfort for which many would call in sick. She worked from a couch at simulcasts, emailed from her bed when therapy forced her there, innovated when it was inconvenient, to say the least. She coped and survived to do her job and lead women to walk closer to Jesus.

She returned from lunch one day to say she had asked the employee cafe to offer hot meals, something other than cold sandwiches. She wanted comfort food.

A few wild hormones can put me over, give me an excuse to sit on the sidelines for a spell. But despite years of deviant cancer cells racking her body, Char never quit or faltered or threw in the towel.

Last week, Jesus said, 'That's enough, Char. You've run the race, finished the fight. Well done, my good and faithful servant."

And now they are sharing victories at the big staff meeting in the sky. 

Her smile is like the stars, her hair is grown and gleaming.  Heaven is celebrating in that upstairs choir room. Celebrating a life well lived and a child of God finally home, the ultimate victory over her battle because of what Jesus did on the cross.

Let's celebrate along with all of Heaven!

Photo credit - Therproject.org

The Day My Son Came Home

Rembrandt's The Return of the Prodigal

Having wandered through the Forest of Seventeen for several years; having had my fill of cell phone stalking and ATT online phone bill reviewing for clues about friends and true whereabouts;

having waited up till early morning for too many nights to see a curfew-breaking boy skulk through the front door;

having prayed, fasted, pleaded with God, worried, cried and agonized over his return;

having argued with my husband about how to handle a wayward teen; having enlisted as many good people to reach out to him as I possibly could;

 I can finally say with great relief and gratitude that

my son has come home.

We have emerged from the confusing fog of the forest and can see the shimmering glow of noon day sun.

It was an ordinary summer holiday home from college, but we had an extraordinary conversation. As soon as he walked in the door, I could see it had returned. The light in his eyes had come back.

If the eyes are the window of the soul, then someone flung them wide open. The murky darkness was lifted. My son had come home; back to being himself again; back to Jesus.

The holiday was 4th of July, Independence Day. We celebrated with chicken shish-kabobs, barbecue and flag cake. There were the traditional Roman Candle wars in the side yard, goggles worn and onlooking neighbors aghast!

Before bedtime, I said good night to my son who was sitting on the guestroom couch. I noticed his eyes were welling up.  

What's wrong?

I just feel so bad for some of my friends who are so messed up.

A tear spilled down his stubbled, young man face. He wiped it away as I sat down on the floor, and put my hand on his knee. He kept talking.

Mom, I know you've forgiven me for all the times I was out there. But I have to ask you again. Please forgive me for the lies and the running around, the late nights, everything.

Of course, I forgive you. I just didn't want you to hurt yourself irreparably. I knew what was going on, but I feared you would launched some hard consequences. 

Yeah, I just wanted to do what I wanted to do.

Head on his knee now, I felt the wedge of dishonesty and hiding and shame lift. We connected as mother and son, human to human -  something I had prayed for, for years.

He continued to cry and admit to all the things I had suspected, the pain of rebellion releasing.  Love and forgiveness purifying, freeing us both. It was his Independence Day;  a day of sweet reconciliation.  A coveted conversation that blanketed our hearts and souls with healing and restoration.

I knew what youthful mistakes could do to a life. Mine follow me to this day. I am still working through them.  There was nothing more I wanted than to help my child avoid the same mistakes.

This was his day to raise the white flag; the day my prodigal son come home.

Photo Credit: The Leftovers

How I Finally Ended My Weekend Affair

My attraction began in 2004. It starting with a furtive glance, then a lingering look that grew to  all-out desire. Every time the object of my affection crossed my path, full blown passion was ignited. I fantasized about our first meeting, me with my hair flying in the wind in a gauzy blouse, sunglasses and a cooler-than-you expression.

In 2007, we had our first weekend rendezvous. The spontaneity of it only augmented the excitement. I booked a hotel and car for a 2-day songwriting conference in North Carolina and tagged on some sightseeing  before the conference. We met after the flight landed. The rental place aided and abetted when they offered me a deal of $5 a day more just to have you.

We had the quintessential weekend fling in the  Carolina smoky mountains including a visit to the Vanderbilt Estate and wine-tasting, culminating in the drive up the winding road to the Vanderbilt, top down, towering emerald pines rising above my head with nothing between me and them but wind and azure sky.

After that illicit weekend, I went back to the minivan and small sedan of my real, boring life. But I wanted you for my own and thought about you endlessly. It was my goal to not only meet again, but to share my life with you.

Years passed.  Another weekend liaison in California occurred that fired up my passion again.

Finally, I had the chance to meet you and buy you for my very own. But it was 10 years later and when I went to see you I saw you for what you really were. Torn, old and dated. You were dirty and leaky. Your top didn't even work.  How did I spend so many years wanting an illusion? So many years not appreciating what I had.

It's over.

It's finally over.

My affair with a Chevy Sebring convertible is over.

I will never look outside the four walls of my garage again.

Although, I do have my eye on a VW beetle. And it's a convertible.

When Faith and the Sex Industry Move in Together

The car sputtered, jerked and shook before it completely stalled just outside my neighborhood. The "check gauges" and oil icons came on. Oh no! The engine's seized for lack of oil, I thought to myself! Speed dialed hubby, who didn't answer.  I was late for work.

So I did what anyone else would have done. Rather than hit redial, sit and wait for husband to pick up, I got out of the car, jay-walked the highway, hopped the chain link fence, machete-ed my way through the hedges, emerging with spider webs trailing from my black slacks and twigs jutting from my hair, walked through strangers' backyards and made it home in 5 minutes.

Hubby hadn't left. I briefed him on my vehicle mis-hap and we were planning our repair when he smacked his forehead with palm of hand and said, It's the gas! You ran out of gas! I forgot to fill up for you last night. I'm sorry.  I let you down.

For the first time in my life, I didn't want to wring his neck. He constantly drives on empty and leaves nothing but fumes for me to drive on, usually late to my next appointment.

This time I was elated. After all it wasn't a seized engine! We just ran out of gas! Nonetheless, I was late for work. We found the gas can, filled up the car and I was off, even later than ever. I pulled in and walked in with another latecomer whose car I noticed as one of those cute VW beetles. I wanted to ask her how she liked her car, because we are in the market for one, but she was busy talking on her cell phone all the way into the class I was coordinating. Thank God for dependable volunteers.

Coincidentally,  after class the very same girl lingered by the coffee pot as I was clearing it.  I asked her how she liked her VW beetle. Wow, was she ever ready to tell someone that answer! A waterfall of words gushed out about complaints with dealers and manufacturers because the body was falling apart on her newish car.

Then the conversation turned to her personal life: how she has 6 yr old twins with an absent dad. How she works in the 'entertainment' industry, but was debating showing up today. She puts her kids in Christian school while she works in a gentleman's (what an oxymoron) club and can't seem to find a nanny to take care of the twins at night.

Age 2 is too young to encounter the adult body. But that was when she was first physically violated.

Then it was a string of violations. No relatives or church members dared to expose the perpetrators. Nor did they come to her defense. Yes, she admitted to rebelling later, and took responsibility for part of her situation.

Her name is not Candy or Star or any of the typical names those girls have.

 Her name is FAITH.

I realize I  never would have met her if I hadn't run out of gas as she sits in front of me at a table in church and tells me she is a trained beautician, but hates the field and really wants to be a therapist, but can't afford school and needs the money from her current occupation, which made her $1400 just yesterday.

Then I tell her my story of having an unwanted pregnancy at 17 and how I adopted out. How God redeemed my mess and allowed me to reunite with my adult daughter recently. And how He can redeem anyone, no matter what.

I am reminded of what I read that morning by Oswald Chambers:

Watch the kind of people God brings around you and you will be humiliated to find that this is His way of revealing to you the kind of person you have been to him. Now, He says, exhibit to that one exactly what I have shown to you.

Grace.

Forgiveness.

A second (3rd, 4th, 5th) chance.

A clean slate.

No remembrance of wrongs.

That's what we give to those who come to us sitting in the midst of their shredded lives. We see them whole again. Pure again. Lovely again.

No labels and stigmas. Not that kind of girl.

Still, how do Faith and the sex industry co-exist? Like oil and water, they cannot mix for long before the molecules will vehemently repel and separate. How many of us in the church are just like her? How many men partake and wrestle with their contradictory lives. How many Faith's sit among us? 

She says she feels better after attending bible study and wants to skip work.

And could I get her in touch with our human trafficking rescue ministry director for her, she asks?  Sure I will.   She says goodbye and 

Oh, don't forget, if you know anyone, 

I still am looking for a night-time nanny.

Faith misses class next week and the next and doesn't show up to meet the director.

Will Faith have enough faith to trust God to make a different occupation? Will she have enough faith to believe she can be a different person? Do self-hate, guilt, and the inner turmoil of knowing what is right, and not believing there is an escape, keep her away?

It's a fact that Faith and the Sex Industry will never co-habitate peacefully.