He just sat there.

OH, I can’t stand it when critters do this. Birds, squirrels, and sometimes even lazy cats feel the need to sun themselves in the smack in the middle of the road. Don’t they know not all drivers are as nice as me? Not everyone will brake, swerve, or run an impromtu “seat belt test” to avoid smooshing a rodent. But I will.

At least, I used to. Until my teenage son started telling me I’m not supposed to do that because birds and squirrels can (apparently) anticipate my speed and factor it in. Don’t ask me where he came up with this (probably Uncle John’s Bathroom Reader), but he says braking and swerving are deadly. I didn’t believe him until my husband tested it out accidentally. I’ll spare you the details. Suffice it to say, I no longer brake, swerve or attempt any other life-saving maneuvers.

Which brings me back to the bird, still sitting dead-center in the road. (Ha ha!) I was coming closer and closer and he wasn’t moving. Finally, when I was practically right on top of him, he flew up with a frantic, undignified flapping. I squeezed the wheel, squealed, and shut my eyes.

Yep. Not my proudest moment. From the passenger seat my daughter raised her eyebrows at me and said with remarkable calm, “Ummmm, Mom? I think the idea is to keep your eyes open while you’re driving.”

In the days since then, I’ve been pondering this concept of keeping my eyes open. Obviously it’s a useful practice when you’re in the driver’s seat, but I’m thinking of life in general. You know, like a metaphor. Must I always be wary and watchful or are there times when I can simply close my eyes instead?

I decided the answer is both. Take my next door neighbor, for example. She’s a grandmother and is suffering from cancer. While it’s difficult to know she’s in pain, and difficult to see her struggle with it, it’s also necessary to keep my eyes open to her situation. To listen when she needs to unload. To be there when she needs me. Otherwise, she would have been completely alone last week when the paramedics had to be called in. The same is true of my prayer life. Praying for others means opening my eyes to their pain. It’s not always easy, but there’s just no other way.

Then again, I’ve learned there are other times when it’s okay to look away. Take Facebook, for example. (I could probably stop there – you all know where I’m going with this.) There will always be that annoying person who posts something just to get a reaction, to see how far they can push it. Social media in general seems to be the place where manners get tossed and tactlessness is the rule of the day. No thanks. Here’s a time when I can happily close my eyes and be better off.

A good rule of thumb is found in Philippians 4: 8-9, “Finally, brothers, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable – if anything is excellent or praiseworthy – think about such things…And the God of peace will be with you.”

On a final note, the bird survived. Don’t ask me how. But now my writer’s brain is trying to figure out if there’s a picture book to be written…maybe I could call it The Cardinal Who Played Chicken. 

What do you think?

This was not how I imagined my first night at science camp would be. I had visions of singing ’round the campfire with my home school friends, not crying frustrated tears in the corner of a musty bathroom. While Noah’s cries echoed off the concrete block walls, I prayed my friends on the other side of the door wouldn’t be disturbed. And if they were, I prayed they’d at least still speak to me in the morning.

All that long night I watched the minutes slowly tick by, then the hours, until finally the spaces between the window blinds lightened bit by bit. At 6:00 Noah finally wore himself out enough to sleep for an hour or so. I powered through the day, confident that I’d weathered the worst and surely the coming night would be better. And it was – at first. I drove Noah around in the van until he fell asleep in his car seat, then I tucked him in to bed. No sooner had my head hit the pillow then he awoke, screaming like before. We were in for another long night. I grabbed my blanket, pillow, and the diaper bag and crept out to the van. Noah wasn’t any happier, but at least we were out of the dorm and and his cries couldn’t disturb anyone but me and a few nocturnal frogs.

I felt pretty sorry myself, balled up uncomfortably in the front seat and clutching my thin blanket like little orphan Annie. I thought of all the camp activities I’d missed that first day because I was caring for a sick baby. Now the second day was dawning and I knew we had to visit a doctor, which meant missing out on even more camp. Suddenly (yes, suddenly!) a passage from Psalm 118 came to mind: “This is the day the Lord has made. Let us rejoice and be glad in it.” My first thought was, “There’s nothing to rejoice over this day. This day is ruined before it’s begun.” I recited the passage again. “This is the day…This is the day…”

I realized it was the first time I’d thought to rejoice in a day that wasn’t exactly going my way. See, I love to praise and thank God in the good times. Because it’s fun to rejoice when the sun is shining, when the bank account is padded, when the skinny jeans zip, the schedule is empty, and the kids are actually playing together like friends.
It’s not so easy to rejoice in the thunderous storms, the dark of night, the harder times. But God doesn’t say, “Rejoice if everything is going your way…” He just says, “Rejoice, and be glad.” I glanced back at my little boy, sleeping fitfully in his car seat. I put the past two sleepless nights, as well as my anxiety over the coming night, out of mind. Suddenly it was just me and Noah, surrounded by quiet, peace, and a new day the Lord had made. Even in my sleep-deprived state I recognized the joy in my heart had come from surrendering this day to God.

A few hours later I took Noah into an Urgent Care Clinic and discovered he had a raging ear infection. If you’re a mother, you probably guessed that already. I wish I had guessed it much sooner, for his sake. For my sake, however, I’m glad I had those two long, frustrating nights to remind me that each day, no matter what it brings, is a new gift from God. And if that’s not reason to rejoice, I don’t know what is.

So I did.

For someone who didn’t really know what she wanted to say, I managed to find an awful lot to talk about. But I put myself in a box and said, “You can only talk about these things.” Those things were writerly things and slice-of-lifey things and I kept myself within those boundaries.

But always, at the back of my mind, was the thought that I have something else to say. I just kept pushing it back down, probably out of fear. Correction: most definitely out of fear and insecurity. What will you think of me if I write about God? What will you think if I talk about Jesus?

I actually had this thought one day: Wow, I would have so much to say if I just allowed myself to write what I really want to write. Circumstances being what they are because God is Who He is, the past year has led me to make this decision: I won’t write in the confines of that box anymore. Pretty soon, my blog will look a little different. More importantly, it will sound a little different.

I’ll still write about my family life, and my writing life, but I’ve decided to write more about my Christian life. I hope you’ll continue to stop by now and then and let me know what you think. And I pray you find encouragement here because I finally know what I want to say – and I’m ready to say it.

I’ve been saving it forever. Twenty-three years to be exact. I expected time would dull the soft pastel flowers, maybe turn the lace collar yellow or even (gasp!) flatten the shoulder pads. But when I pulled it out of the closet a few nights ago, it seemed time had stood still. My dress looked as beautiful as the day I bought it from the Deb store in Orchards Mall all those years ago.

Suddenly I forgot what it was like to be a normal teenage girl who wants to wear semi-fashionable clothes. And I became that mom. I realized I’d saved that dress because A) I thought I might have a daughter someday (which I did) and B) I figured she’d grow up  (which she did) and C) naturally she would want to wear it (which she didn’t- naturally).

It happened like this: Katherine walked through the livingroom and I noticed how tall and beautiful she’s become in the past year. Instead of leaving it at that, I got excited. I made my poor daughter unearth the dress from closet Siberia and try it on. She modeled it with a pained expression that I chose to ignore. Couldn’t see it anyway through my happy tears.

“How old were you when you got this dress?” She asked, picking gingerly at a poofy sleeve.
“Oh, I don’t know…fourteen or fifteen.”
“What?!” Her jaw hit the floor. “It’s hard to believe that only 20 years ago this was the style!”
The violin/harp ensemble in my head screeched to a halt.
Katherine wasn’t done. “I mean, I feel like a football player with these shoulder pads.”
“But I thought you wanted to wear it!” I sputtered.
“I never said that. I mean, it wouldn’t be so bad…”
“Without the bib?” I finished for her.
Luke snickered from the couch. Never so happy (or relieved) to be the opposite gender.
I sighed. “Oh, fine. Go take it off.”

I guess it serves me right. I was Katherine’s age once and distinctly remember howling with laughter at my mom’s bell bottom jeans and stretchy tank tops. So now I know The Circle of Life isn’t just something cartoony animals sing about in Disney movies. Oh no, it’s a very real thing – something I’m sure Katie doesn’t understand yet.

But, someday, she will.

I haven’t lived in Georgia so long that I’ve forgotten how loooooong a Wisconsin winter can be, but I learned last week that I must be very careful how I attempt to commiserate with those still living there. They don’t want to hear me even hint that it’s chilly outside – even if it legitimately is. Now that I’m a (sort of/transplanted) southerner, it seems I’ve been kicked out of the Extreme Weather Survivors Club. Unless I’m frostbit, I may as well bite my tongue. Take, for example, this conversation with my dad the other day:

Dad: We’re supposed to get more snow this week.
Debra: Oh, wow! That stinks. It’s been such a long winter.
Dad: Oh, yeah, sure. It’s been such a terrible winter for you! What do you know about it?! Like you even have winter there!
Debra: I meant, it’s been a long winter for YOU.
Dad: Oh.

No hard feelings, though, especially since my end of the conversation took place in flip flops on the back porch. Plus, I really do feel sorry for anyone who still has to shovel snow when they should be dusting of the old ball glove or hauling out the gardening tools. While snow is downright magical on Christmas Day, it ain’t so cute come Easter Morning.

It seemed like a good time to dig out one of my all-time favorite books – The Long Winter by Laura Ingalls Wilder. Talk about frigid. They woke up to ice on top of their quilts and frost inside the house. Can you say Brrrrrrrrr? Maybe if you snuggle up under your own favorite quilt and read this story you’ll realize winter’s not so bad after all. I know it worked for me!

But seriously, if you’re reading this post in sub-zero temps, please know you have my sincerest sympathies. Pull on an extra pair of fuzzy socks, drink a hot cocoa, and power through. It can’t last forever. And by the time you thaw out there, it’ll be a hot, humid mess down this way. My air conditioning will be running full time just to keep the house at a sticky 85 degrees, and we’ll be cowering inside behind closed blinds. I’m guessing that’s about the time Dad will call me up and tell me what a long summer they’ve been having in Wisconsin…

I knew what had to be done. I unclicked my seat belt, swallowed my pride, and opened the van door.

Jogging up to the first car behind me, I waved my dollar bill in the air. “Do you have sixty cents?”

The man behind the wheel held up a fat stack of quarters. “I only have the exact change.” Well, okay, Mr. I-read-the-toll-booth-sign. I get your point, but you can’t make me feel much worse than I already do. Not to mention you can’t go anywhere as long as my big white 12 passenger Chevy is plugging the lane, but nevermind. Off to the next car in line.

This driver saw me coming, leaned out his window and said with a smile, “Hey there, how much do you need?” Sun burst through the clouds and angels broke out in song.I could’ve kissed this kind stranger right there on the Florida turnpike.  Instead I babbled, “Yes, please! I’m so sorry! Thank you so much!” I traded him a dollar for his change and ran back to my van.

As far as humiliating experiences go, I’ve definitely had worse. But as I covered the last 20 miles of my trip, I pondered the contrast between those two men at the toll booth. While I believe the first was truthful, something about the way he said it was not-so-nice. And the second man was much kinder than he had to be. It reminded me of a quote I love: Be kinder than necessary, for everyone you meet is fighting some sort of battle.  I hope I not only remember this, but also put it into practice, because I believe it’s true. Even if that battle is just a tired mom with a crying baby fighting against her own lack of foresight, kindness makes a difference.

The call of company rings throughout Mayhew Land. Few things are as exciting to us as having family and friends come visit. So when my sister Beth called to tell me they would be here over Spring Break, I flew into my usual flurry of preparation.

This is the part about company that my kids don’t like so much. But for me, the anticipation is almost as much fun as the visit itself. It’s the only time cleaning is fun (but holy cow on the cob webs!) and it’s a legitimate excuse to rearrange furniture. As if that weren’t enough to keep me happy, I get giddy thinking of all the fun meals I can make.

But last time the Gurgels visited, my cooking didn’t exactly go according to plan. I decided to make what I thought was a great winter meal – Chili and cornbread. It’s almost impossible to screw that up. I mixed everything together and put it on the stove to simmer while we went out for a movie with all the kiddies. “Don’t eat too much popcorn now,” I cautioned my sister. “We’re having chili when we get home.” I imagined her rave reviews about how this was the best chili she’d ever, ever had and could she please have seconds.

The minute we got home, I knew something was wrong. The smell of charred chili met us at the door. I raced over to the stove to find it was worse than I thought. The bottom of the pot was a thick paste of beans, the top filled with watery broth. What a mess. But I didn’t have a Plan B, so we ate it anyway. Chili is supposed to be a warm, satisfying blend of taste and texture, but this stuff tasted like it had one ingredient: burned toast.

Still, everyone was being a good sport – spooning it in with a smile and insisting it was good. Suddenly, my sister gasped. She peered into her bowl and fished around for something with her spoon.

I stared at Beth, wondering what awful thing she was about to pull from the already awful chili.

“There!” She yelled, thrusting her spoon under my nose. “Is that what I think it is?”

I looked at a blob of spaghetti sauce. “Tomato?” I guessed.

She wiggled the spoon again. “No! THAT! Is that a mushroom?!”

“Of course not. I know how much you hate mushrooms! I wouldn’t put them in your chili!”

“But what about the spaghetti sauce? Did that have mushrooms in it?”

I thought about it. “Oh, well. Maybe. I guess it could have.”

Her nose wrinkled and she pushed the bowl away. “I can’t eat this.”

“Fine,” I huffed. “Nobody’s forcing you to eat anything.” I was slightly offended that she didn’t want my burned-beyond-recognition chili just because it had mushrooms in the sauce. Maybe. (Although to this day, I still think that was really a speck of parsley.)

But that’s all behind us now. I can’t wait to see my sister and her family next week, and I’m going to make up for that horrible chili if it’s the last thing I do. So in honor of her upcoming visit, I’ve prepared a special recipe just for her and I even named it The Bethany. Aren’t I a sweet sister?

It’s gotten to the point where all Mark gets out is,”Who wants the miiiii—” before I say, “Knock it off and eat your food.”

Last Wednesday I just knew The Mystery Box would show up at our evening meal. See, I’ve decide it’s time to eat a little healthier and am seeking out replacements for bad carbs like pasta and bread. Considering how much I adore carbohydrates in any form it hasn’t been easy. But I’m determined to do it. Just to prove it, I bought a big bag of Organic Quinoa at Costco. Okay, it wasn’t really that big, but I’ll be honest. The stuff scares me. It looks sort of like squished sesame seeds and it smells like sprouts.

It sat in the cupboard for over a week before I decided to bite the bullet and make it. Well, actually, Katie made it and I supervised. Sort of. From the living room. (I told you it scared me.) Anyway, pretty soon the timer beeped and Katie chirped, “It’s ready, Mom!” I took a tentative peek under the pot lid and wrinkled my nose. It looked like someone sheared a sheep in our supper pot. Kind of smelled like it, too. But it was too late to turn back. I served the quinoa under some (healthy!) shredded chicken.

I sat at the table, fully expecting all six kids to be offering The Mystery Box that night. To my utter shock, they all loved it and I have the pictures to prove it. I couldn’t make heads or tails of the Quinoa Phenomena. I dished out seconds and thirds to kids who chowed down like they hadn’t eaten all week. It was exhilarating. I felt like The Good Mom. So naturally, Mark had to ruin it.

“Who wants The Mystery Box?” He said (while my mouth was full).

Katie answered for me. “Mark. I think we all know what’s in The Mystery Box.”

Mark giggled and opened his hands. They were empty – a sure sign if I ever saw one that quinoa is here to stay. It looks like my first few steps into the land of healthy living were a success. Now…wish me luck. I’m going to need it. Chia seeds are up next…

This is how:

But what a cute reason, right?

Now, on to business. I’m sure you’ve all been waiting anxiously to hear what the prize (from this post) is. I’ll get to that in a minute. First, we need to take a look at this great list of your favorite books. This is the real prize, if you ask me. I love, love, love finding new stories to read. So, many thanks to all of you for suggesting these titles. I can’t wait to go on some new adventures…

• To Kill a Mockingbird ~ Harper Lee
• A Voice in the Wind ~ Francine Rivers
• Hero and the Crown ~ Robin McKinley
• Brides of Culdee Creek ~ Kathleen Morgan
• The Healing Quilt ~ Lauraine Snelling
• The Story of Beautiful Girl ~ Rachel Simon
• Hawaii ~ James Michener
• Bride of the MacHugh ~ Jan Cox Speas
• Death Troopers ~ Joe Schreiber
• The Holy Bible

I’m truly looking forward to reading these soon, although the last one might take me a while.

Now, on to the big reveal. Nathanael graciously agreed to help me put the prize together. (In other words, do it all himself.) So now I can tell you it is a compilation CD of all the favorite songs you shared with me. (I’ve come a long way since the mix-tape, baby!) And the lucky winner is:

REBECCA NEMETH!

I’m guessing she can use a little music to keep her smiling right about now. Check out her adorable blog Dixie Livin’ to find out why.

Thanks again to everyone else for sharing your favorites with me. See you soon…I hope.

This week I’m thinking of things I love. Of course my favorite people always come to mind first, but since you all know who you are I’m going to share my other two loves: Great books and great music. I ask you, what’s better than snuggling under the covers and reading a great story? Especially the kind that keeps you turning pages long after you should be sleeping? Or how about that great song that makes you happy to be alive? The one that you’ll start over and over again?

One of my all-time favorite songs is “Wouldn’t it be nice?” by the Beach Boys. Seems like just yesterday Nathanael and I were listening to this and dreaming of our future. Feels like all we did was blink and here we are, with a house of our own filled with seven kiddos and a dog. Every time I hear this song I remember how blessed we are to be walking this crazy journey together.

One of my all-time favorite books is “The Book Thief” by Markus Zusak. I’ve shared that with you before – probably more than once. If you haven’t read it, treat yourself. If you have, I’ll share another favorite. “The Witch of Blackbird Pond” by Elizabeth George Speare is a classic, filled with beautiful writing that you’ll love to read. (Or reread, as the case may be for most of you!)

Now it’s your turn. I’m asking you to share those two favorites with me. Leave a comment with your favorite book and favorite song. (And yes, you can leave more than one if you really have to. I know how hard it is to pick just one!) You’ll automatically be entered to win a special Valentine’s prize. I can’t tell you what it is yet, because I haven’t told Nathanael I need his help making it. But trust me. It’s a fun prize, guaranteed to help you celebrate what Valentine’s Day means long after it’s over.

So, please share the love (and your favorites!) with me. Speaking of sharing, say hello to Gladys. She stopped by from Cathy C. Hall’s blog because she’s just that kind of goose. From what I hear, Gladys is responsible for all of Cathy’s scathingly brilliant ideas. I’m hoping some of it wears off on me. Keep your eye on her, you never know where she’ll pop up next!