The Natives are Getting Restless

Showing up, showing Him (and a contest besides)

2012-02-13T11:30:00.001-05:00

Wow. That sums it up for this girl on this particular Monday morning.

"Have you ever thought about radio?" She hit me with this surprising question out of the blue one day. We'd just spent considerable time on the phone in a "get-acquainted" call. Just that quick, she'd dialed right back, posing this most unexpected notion.

"I have a friend, you see," my irrepressible editor enthused right through my phone line. "She has a radio show; she interviews folks. I've been on it myself. She would love you. If you don't mind, I'll pass this on..."

Clearly not thinking long enough, I said, in a fog, "That would be fine." And then came the email.

And that's how it happened that The Lively One found herself ensconced in the venerable Mr. Schrock's offices just this morning. While he covered the "baby wrangling (a Hollywood term)," I spent a delightful hour with the very gracious Suzanne Woods Fisher, an author, who, indeed, hosts a show called "Amish Wisdom," aired weekly online.

Hours of sleeplessness and nerves that ran rampant notwithstanding, I should've known how it would end. Should've known that those of you "in the know" would step up, keeping your word, being faithful in prayer. I should've known that the Lord would do what He always does for a soul surrendered...show up and get the glory.

"Lord," I'd prayed, "I just want to show up and show You." For one hour, He did just that. For one hour, I answered questions, telling how, telling Who, showing Him. And for that one hour, there was peace, and calm. There was laughter and joy. There was Jesus.

To celebrate the faithfulness of The Giver of Every Good and Perfect Gift; to celebrate this milestone; to celebrate you who listen and you who read; you who encourage and you who pray, I'm just that happy to give away a one-year subscription to "Cooking and Such: Adventures in Plain Living." In a way that only God could have orchestrated, it just so happens that it's Editor-in-Chief and my friend, Sherry Gore, has included me in her stable of writers. As such, the winner of this contest will receive what is only the second issue of this brand-new magazine that will carry its very first "Grounds for Insanity" column.

It's simple. If you do not already follow the blog, please do so. You will see the "Followers" section down the sidebar a little ways (all those faces? click 'follow' in that section, and it will walk you right through it). And then leave me a comment with your email address, letting me know that you've joined me here at The Restless Natives. If you're already a follower, please mention that, along with your email address. The winner will be announced on Friday.

You.will.LOVE it. You'll love the magazine. The photography is stunning, the recipes are delightful, and the writing...well, it will be a treat.

So thank you again, my friends, for praying and for celebrating with me.

All is well.

Note: The interview will air on Thursday evening at 5 p.m. I will post a link later so you can catch that once it's up. Gratefully...

Marrying Hollywood comes with perks

2012-02-10T10:40:00.000-05:00

Note: In honor of my beloved Mr. Schrock's birthday today, I'm running this "Grounds for Insanity" column that ran last year. I'm happy to report astonishing success at this year's New Year's Eve party.

It’s hard, being married to a celebrity. You’re out and about, enjoying a quiet night on the town, and it happens. “Hey, aren’t you…?” Or, “You sure look like…”

It happened again just the other week when The Mister and I were out running errands. It had been a rough couple of weeks with three sick boys, one college kid home on break, and one very tired mama. Things were reaching critical mass, and it was time to get away.

In a rush, we stopped at Jimmy John’s there on Main Street for two “freaky fast subs (their claim)” before starting the normal circuit. Ringing up our order, the young girl behind the counter looked at my husband and said, “Has anyone ever told you that you look like John Travolta?”

We looked at each other and started laughing. Another Travolta sighting, huh?

It was several years ago that another young woman leaned out the window of the Dairy Queen drive through. Handing him an ice cream cone, she said, “I’m giving you this for free because you look like John Travolta.” He promptly proceeded to blush, and I snickered because that chocolate-dipped cone she was giving away? That was for “Mrs. Travolta.” I guess it pays to marry Hollywood.

When I shared the latest episode with friends, one of them replied that she was married to a Micky Dolenz (The Monkees) look-alike. Another friend added that according to some, her husband looked like quarterback Brett Favre. She couldn’t see the resemblance herself, she said, but admitted that she wished there were more of a resemblance between their bank accounts.

In my opinion, there really is a striking resemblance between my husband and the movie star, though the similarities pretty much end at the neck. Mr. Travolta, for instance, flies. Mr. Schrock doesn’t. Mr. Travolta lives in a gated community in Florida. Mr. Schrock lives in a farmhouse on three acres which aren’t gated, but probably should be, considering his offspring.

Travolta the actor married a striking blond actress. The other Travolta married a curly-headed brunette who’s so short, he says, that she has to run around in the shower to get wet. (Very funny, “John.”)

My Travolta shuns the spotlight. The other one pays an agent to find one for him. Then there’s this – the real Travolta can dance like nobody’s business. Mine? Well, he’ll tell you himself that he can’t sing and clap at the same time. It’s one or the other.

Fame and fortune and dancing prowess of the Hollywood star notwithstanding, I’d take my “ungated” Travolta any day of the week. I don’t know about the real one, but mine isn’t afraid to change a diaper, change the oil, scrub a toilet, or squash bugs. He washes my van, scratches my back, and rubs the kinks out of my neck after hours of typing.

For a guy who values his peace and quiet, he gracefully endures all the kaboom that you get when you marry a girl with an inner cheerleader and some red in her hair. When I catch him praying that the Good Lord would let him be bored “just this once,” I remind him that I’m doing all I can to help him prevent Alzheimer’s and can’t he just give thanks?

I can’t help thinking, though, that the other John’s New Year’s celebration was a little smoother than ours. I doubt that he – um, dropped the ball out there in his Florida mansion.

After spending nearly a week in the Smokies over Christmas, we’d decided to hunker down and spend New Year’s Eve at home with the boys. We’d watch movies until almost midnight, and then we’d join millions of our fellow citizens to usher in the new year in that fine American tradition, by watching the dropping of the ball in Times Square.

Here it came. Breathless, we sat, hunched on the edge of the couch, raising our voices as one with the crowd gathered there in the square. “Ten, nine, eight,” we chanted. “Seven, six, five.” We tensed, eyes glued to the crystal ball hovering in air.

“Four, three, two.” The excitement was palpable. And then it happened. The screen went black. Wha…? “Parental controls!” someone, likely a minor, hollered.

Sure enough. Back in November when we’d left for the weekend, someone else who looks suspiciously like a certain movie star had set the TV to go off at midnight. That way, he’d figured, there’d be no 24-hour TV marathon in our absence.

Well, he was right. There was no TV marathon. There was no gracefully dropping ball, either. What there was, was a different kind of marathon held outdoors in pajamas and slippers with the runner being “encouraged” to set records by his somewhat disgruntled family who followed in the van, honking loudly.

Okay, so we didn’t make him run, and we actually got a good laugh out of it. The new year came anyway, and meanwhile, I continue to shop with Mr. Travolta. I just hope there’ll be more ice cream involved soon.

When it gets physical (you're not an orphan)

2012-02-08T10:18:00.001-05:00

It hit me, finally, some weeks ago. Back in his office, struggling once more with physical pain, I put it to him: "Do you think part of this is related to stress?"

Quiet, kind, the man with the healing hands said, "I've always thought that was a component of it for you."

Huh. Really? Stress turned physical, tightening muscles, pulling bones, causing discomfort and pain? Oblivious, mind going everywhere else, I'd not twigged to this truth, that my anxiety and worry had settled into my shoulders, my neck, hurting...hurting...

Last week, feeling pain again, I popped back in, Little at my side, to have it set straight. Nearly done at last, and there it came. "I feel that I need to tell you this, that you are loved no matter what. There's nothing else you have to do; there's nothing left, to earn His love." I sat quiet, listening.

"I sense tension in you; you're carrying it." Trusting him, this family friend, and knowing his heart, I tuned my ears and my own heart to his words. Then, going to the bottom, cutting straight to the core, he said, "You're not an orphan."

Not an orphan. He was right. I knew this; knew it in my head, but now and then, in the heat of the battle and the grind of the everyday, I wasn't living this truth from my heart. Instead, I was picking up this worry, snatching up that concern and piling it on my back as though I alone were responsible or able to carry it. And it was hurtin' me.

Today, I turn back to truth. I remember once again that I'm not an orphan. I have not been abandoned, left to my own devices, for I have a Father.

My Father's mercies are new every morning. No matter how I messed it up yesterday, He and I, we start fresh today.

My Father is powerful; so powerful that worlds were created and planets were hung by a single word. So powerful that lightning flashes, thunder rages at His command. And the "incomparably great power" that raised Jesus from the dead is available for me - for me.

My Father owns the cattle on a thousand hills. There is no lack, whether material, emotional, physical, or spiritual, that He cannot supply. He never runs out of provisions.

My Father thinks of me day and night. His thoughts, He says, cannot be numbered. His banner over me is love. He chose me, after all, adopted me, picking me on purpose! Nothing can happen to me that He does not allow.

I am kept in the shadow of His wings, safe and secure. My steps are ordered. Just as He was present in my past, so He is with me in the now, and He will be with me every step, every moment, every day, until I see Him face to face.

Hey, you. You right there, carrying the weight of the world on your back. You, feeling alone, abandoned. That it's up to you to make it work...

If you're His child, you're not alone. There's nothing left for you to do. You are loved. You're not an orphan. You have a Father.

Classmates reunite, talk of joy, tragedy, life, and God

2012-02-07T08:58:00.002-05:00

Note: This "Grounds for Insanity" column was published in the 02/06/12 edition of The Goshen News. Every once in awhile, a blog post "grows up" and becomes a column. This is one of those times.

Like a coal, glowing, it rests just there in my chest. Days later, I feel its warmth whenever my thoughts go back...

From far-flung states, they'd come. From a far-off country, too, just over the great, big pond, they'd journeyed, drawn, each one, with that imperceptible pull toward home, toward family, toward their roots.

They'd been teens when they'd last been together, faces shining, hopes fresh and dreams alive with the big, wide world stretching just past those double doors. Twenty-six years, eleven souls. Now, on a crisp December night, they'd gathered again, minus two.

It was the Pilgrim Christian High School class of 1985, my graduating group of seniors. Having moved away as a young woman, I'd not seen most of them for years. Now, at long last, I would get the chance to sit down around a table, see their faces, hug their necks, and hear their stories of what life had held since we were teens.

It was surreal, really, to gather in the Learning Center where we'd sat through chapel talks, given speeches, taken tests, labored through PACEs, and shot the occasional paper wad across the dividers. Now we were back again, many with spouses, some with children, telling our stories.

It's the stories that grab me; pull me in; undo me. For the class of 1985 has accomplished much.

Some of us went on to college. We are nurses, teachers, and a doctor. We are (and have been) secretaries, bookkeepers, mothers, fathers, missionaries, writers, and chaplains.

We've spoken, written, traveled, and telecommuted in a world that has changed, shifting like quicksand since that day in May. Who could’ve guessed all this?

Who could’ve known – could’ve dreamt – that we’d all grow up to be missionaries? Who would’ve thought that a mission field isn’t always far away where the sun beats hot and the skin is dark? That it can look like a schoolhouse, an office, a prison cell, a crib? We didn’t know it then.

We didn’t know, back in the days of tests and homework, that keeping books with integrity was a high and holy calling. Or that answering phones, administrating well, giving shots, wiping noses, reading books, and saying prayers over tousled heads was ministry, too.

Naïve youth that we were, we didn’t know that everything counts when it’s done with love. That simply carrying His presence into the mundane, the mean, and the lowly routines of a daily walk can change a life, can change the world.

Yes, the class of 1985 has accomplished much. But we’ve suffered much, too. There were no warnings of hard things to come that graduation night. There was no "heads up, it's gonna get choppy" to steel us for what was ahead. Nothing, really, to prepare us for life in the wild; life in the real world. All those stories…

How one of us, a father and nurse, cannot revive his tiny daughter. How he and his wife stand beside a hospital bed, hearts in pieces, and make a decision no parent wants to make.

A mother and teacher escapes the flames with her family, carrying only the clothes on their backs. Then, as shovel is set to touch soil, rebuilding their home, an awful diagnosis – cancer.

Another one, a mother and secretary, delivers prematurely. He's a fighter, her tiny boy in his bassinet. And then. A human error, and she's standing by his grave in her husband's arms.

Such suffering. But such strength, for every single one of the class of 1985 is walking with Jesus. Through fire and sickness, through great loss and devastation, their testimony is strong. I've listened to their words, giving thanks. I've seen peace on their faces, giving witness. I've watched their lives, giving glory to the Lord Christ.

Oh, there was so much we didn’t know, we 11, the day we left childhood behind. But there’s a lot that we know now.

We know that in all things, in everything that comes, He is faithful. We’ve learned that He never leaves and He never forsakes, and that wherever He guides, He provides.

We know now that we are the hands and feet of Christ in all our far-flung places. That using what’s in our hands, whether mops or stethoscopes or keyboards, receives His bright smile of blessing and favor. We know that in all things, we are “more than conquerors.”

How happy and proud I am to know that these classmates of mine are using (thank God) their unique talents, gifts, and abilities as world changers in Kansas. In Ohio. In California. In South Carolina. In Indiana, Albania, and Alabama.

What a wonderful Christmas gift it was to find that these old friends, so firmly rooted next to me in the Kansas soil, are still brothers and sisters, walking well, walking strong, walking true.

"Carry him to Me"

2012-02-06T10:50:00.001-05:00

This morning, I offer this for your encouragement. While the concern that prompted this conversation with my Friend, the One who sticks closer than any brother, has been resolved, there's always something a mama is carrying. This is for you who, too, carry burden on your backs...

"It's breakin' my back." Somewhat to my surprise, that's what came out of my mouth, driving home in the BMV (Blue Mommy Van) past greening fields in the summer sun.

I'd taken off early this morning, chunky backpack with the girlish accents tucked in behind me, and headed for my favorite place in the world to create. I'd savored my coffee, freshly ground, alongside the Bread of Life, and I'd begun scratching out the next column, laughing out loud at a funny phrase that came.

Whirling through the bank for Boy Two, I'd just passed the place where Biggest Brother's been working, noting that his car was parked just there in its spot. "Thank You, Lord, for his steady job. Continue granting favor..."

Driving home now, errands finished, I was talking out loud to The Friend, the One Who sticks closer than a brother, and that's when it came. "I've been carryin' it, Lord, and it's breakin' my back."

I stopped.

"He's too heavy for you. You're not built to carry all that, you know."

I knew the voice.

"The only thing I designed you for, little mother, is to carry him to Me."

Silence as I absorbed this, the truth of it sinking deep. "Casting all your care," the Word had said, "on Him, for He careth for you."

And I thought of you. If you're like me, dear reader, then you've got a load, something heavy on your back, and you're just plain tired.

Hear me, now: You're not made for that. It's far too big for you to carry. All you're designed for - your very mission, in fact, is to carry it to Him. Cast it! Drop it at His feet, place it in His lap, and know that in the coming and the casting, He sees faith.

If all you've got is a mustard seed, come anyway. Come with that, for it's faith He loves and faith He rewards. His back is big enough, His arms are strong enough, and His heart is wise enough to handle that thing that's concerning you.

So come, dear friend. Come and cast, then rest.

Super Bowl should end with x's, o's, and apologies

2012-02-03T10:34:00.000-05:00

Note: This "Grounds for Insanity" column first ran three years ago in February 2009. And now that I've just poked a national sacred cow, I shall plead for admission into the federal witness protection program, perhaps as a waitress somewhere in Omaha or Biloxi.

By the time this column goes to print, that annual festival of the pigskin known as the Super Bowl will have concluded. Every year, millions of us gather in living rooms across the nation to watch wildly over-priced commercials and consume the equivalent of Uzbekistan’s GDP in party food. Oh, yeah. And to watch a little football.

I’ve never understood the game. Basketball makes sense to me. I get it. But not football. This is heresy, I know, especially living in Notre Dame country where Rudy once played and every boy dreams of winning one for the Gipper.

From what I can see, a bunch of very big men get dressed up in very big suits and then proceed to waddle, storm, and thunder up and down a very big field in pursuit of a leather ball. Clearly, none of the players learned about sharing in kindergarten because they pretty much spend the entire game trying to take it away from each other.

I’ve seen grown men revert to kicking, hitting, and pushing each other down in their efforts to get that ball. This kind of behavior at recess would have earned us a trip to the office with a phone call to our parents followed by a paddling when we got home.

Apparently, football is a mixture of several games, including keep away, tag, and kick the can. Again, it all centers around that ball. They line up, mutter some secret code words, and then one guy fires it over everyone’s heads while the rest of the pack jumps up and down, trying to catch it. That’s the keep away part.

If someone called a receiver catches it, they switch right over and start playing tag. The whole herd lights out after this unlucky fellow and chases him down like lions after an antelope. If they manage to tag the “it” guy, they move on to the next game and start kicking his can. They do this over and over and over until I’m nearly comatose in the cheese dip.

Believe it or not, these grown men even play Twister out there. Their motto seems to be, “The more, the merrier,” because when two of them start playing it, everybody else sees this as an invitation to hop right in and play it, too. Pretty soon, there’s a writhing mass of twisted-up arms and legs that takes the two guys in the zebra shirts a good 15 minutes to untangle.

This is a real crowd pleaser. Everyone in the stands goes nuts with half of them whooping like Indians and waving their foam fingers in the air while the other half boos and hisses and throws bottles onto the field.

And speaking of the guys in the striped shirts, I still haven’t figured out what they’re doing out there. They run around an awful lot. Maybe they’re trying to play tag with those big guys. They also keep dropping yellow hankies like so much used Kleenex. Then one of them stands in the middle and does some sign language that could mean anything from “the restrooms are that way” to “get me some Coke and peanuts down here and quick!” I’m never sure.

When one side finally carries the ball over the white line, the crowd goes nuts again with some serious yodelling and foam finger waving while certain sections bust out with “the wave.” Predictably, the other team boos loudly again, throwing bottles and insults onto the turf and making ugly faces.

At the end of the game, they present awards to the winners, which, in my opinion, never go to the right people. Why should thugs be rewarded for tackling (assaulting), hitting (battery), intercepting (stealing), and outright conspiracy, all actions which would be felonies off the gridiron? The real heroes here are their mothers.

It goes completely against the laws of nature for a mother to sit and watch someone else attempt to tackle, pin, outrun, or otherwise put a hurt on her son in any way. Every instinct tells her to trip the other kid or to wade in swinging her purse. It takes a great deal of self-restraint to keep from clunking an opponent with your red purse. I know what I’m talking about.

Sadly, we all know that the shiny rings won’t go to the people who really deserve them, so I have a different ending to this annual contest. I’m no dummy. I know what those x’s and o’s mean that the coaches are always scribbling on their papers.

Just for once, why don’t those lugs finish things up by hugging and kissing each other, apologizing for their loutish behavior and then let the other side have a turn at wearing their rings. Now that would be a clear testament of civility and Christian virtue to all our children who are watching. If they could be the “big men” for once and set this example, I’d say throw the confetti, commissioner. Throw the confetti.

When it's okay to sit

2012-02-02T08:44:00.002-05:00

Sitting there at the round corner table, small lamp spilling gold across the page, I quiet. He speaks, that shepherd boy of old; speaks for me: "Restore us, O God; make your face shine upon us, that we may be saved."

I lift the mug, holding it in my hands, warming, thinking. Steam, carrying the lovely aroma, brushes my face as it curls upward, all mingled with the thoughts and feelings of my heart, drifting heavenward. And then The Voice...

"You don't have to be ever-learning, ever-searching. It's okay to sit in joy." I feel His smile.

Ah, yes. It's okay to simply sit. To be. With Him. He loves it (I remember this).

His voice comes again, once more through the shepherd boy's lips, "I removed the burden from their shoulders. Their hands were set free from the basket. In your distress, you called, and I rescued you. I answered you out of a thundercloud, and I tested you at the waters of Meribah."

Burdens on shoulders, baskets of slavery, distress and rescue, answers in thunder and testing by the waters. Oh, I know this one. Know it by heart.

I think of my boy, my bespectacled teenage kid who is wise beyond his years. I remember his kind, "So, how was your day, Mom?" Remember, too, my answer: "It was okay. I'm struggling, still, with waiting on God, with sitting here..." He knows what I mean.

"Mom." His voice again is kind, confident. "You've passed the test. I know you get impatient sometimes and you complain, but we all do."

I'm listening; still.

"But I know your heart. And if I know your heart, how much more does God know?" And right there in my kitchen, hand on a dishtowel, I know I've heard from Him.

Now, several weeks later, a divine 'yes' has come; a door has opened. Day by day, I store it all up, all these jewels falling down, and I ponder it in my hart.

It's coming. I feel it. I know it. Someday (soon, perhaps), the story shall read, "Burden lifted, hands set free. Rescue in distress, answers in thunder, and 'well done, you passed the test,'" at a Meribah of my own.

Today, I sit in joy. For all.is.well.

May I encourage you who, too, carry burdens? Who, too, haul baskets? Who, too, need rescue in distress and answers in thunder?

Walk faithful. Walk true. Walk tight; walk close, so close that you bump into His back, and you, too, shall be rescued, hands freed. Shall hear a, "Well done. You've passed the test." And you, too, will sit in joy.

Electoral home front leaves mom the clear winner

2012-01-31T09:11:00.002-05:00

Note: This "Grounds for Insanity" column appeared in the 01/30/12 edition of The Goshen News.

It was the morning after the Iowa caucus. An eager nation had waited into the night, breathless, for an unnamed citizen in a pickup truck to arrive with the last of the votes.

I’d missed his arrival and the final announcement of an eight-vote squeaker that broke at last in favor of Romney. Now, a clip of his speech was playing on the morning news.

“Look,” I said to Mr. Schrock, pointing just over the candidate’s shoulder. “That has to be his son.”

“He has five, you know,” he said. “Five sons. He beat me by one vote.”

I laughed. It was true. Mr. Romney had beaten Mr. Schrock by a vote. “Welcome to my world,” I thought, but did not say. Here, I was chronically outnumbered, outgunned, outmanned, and unarmed. Here, it was five to one, and the odds were not with me.

It had happened again at Christmas time. The proposition on the ballot? Which movies to watch at the annual slumber party.

“Someone” had voted for “The Help.” Four others, bigger, stronger, and with varying amounts of facial hair, had cast their ballots, none of which said “The Help.” Instead, theirs listed a variety of sci-fi and action flicks. Little (with no facial hair) was oblivious, playing with his cars and LEGOS.

When the dust cleared, there were no eight-vote squeakers. There was no guy in a pickup truck, either, hauling votes. It was a landslide, that’s what it was, with me buried at the bottom. And that’s how we came to watch one science fiction flick, a super hero movie, and “Mr. Popper’s Penguins” at our Christmas slumber party.

For the most part, I’m resigned to my lot. Resigned to the endless procession of dirty blue jeans and T-shirts requiring a large-capacity washer. Resigned to pantry doors that hang ever ajar. To the infernal daily question, “So what’s for dinner?”

I’m resigned to the fact that my sons will never care as much as I do about the condition of their rooms. That they can sleep like babies in beds that seldom get made and with socks strewn about. That cleanliness and godliness are apples and oranges, oil and water in their world.

I’ve learned that asking, “Does this make me look fat?” will net you blank stares, as though you’ve babbled off the alphabet in Mandarin. After a couple of false starts, they’ve learned that there’s only one right answer to this question.

No, I certainly didn’t vote to live in a sea of testosterone, clinging madly to my small scrap of bark (pink, of course). But they didn’t exactly get a vote, either.

They didn’t vote, for instance, to get the mom with the built-in lie detector; the one with the military-grade radar. Nope, they hadn’t signed up for that.

“It’s too bad,” I tell them after I’ve busted a small crime ring, “that your dad didn’t marry someone a little slower.” They grimace, looking pained, as I high-five myself.

They certainly hadn’t volunteered to get the mom who can tell by the way the chip bag rustles, whose hand is doing the filching. They hadn’t wanted the one that could read a face; could scan the set of the eyes and the brow, detecting guilt. The one who’d issue an “invitation” on the spot to play a game called “Twenty Questions, Twenty Answers.”

They’d not expected, those sweet, little diapered bundles, to exit the birth canal, landing in the arms of a relationship expert. That their course of study would include an exercise called “Three Words” at the dinner table. Three feelings you had today, three words, fill me in.

This was not to “sissify” them, mind you, making them into girls, but to teach them to identify their feelings, putting them into words, and to give Mother a glimpse into the day’s events. To elevate them a level above grunts and facial twitches. To prepare them, really, for girls one day who, too, would want to know what they felt and thought.

There were no votes cast (that’s for sure) in favor of the “Smile Hi” program mother invented for a certain introverted citizen who threatened to jump county lines when the ruling came down. Claiming executive privilege, she pushed the legislation through anyway and began daily check-ins.

“So,” she’d say when said citizen strolled in with his backpack. “Who did you smile at and say ‘hi’ to today?”

“Yeah,” little brother would chime in. “Who did you smile-hi today?”

No, I hadn’t penciled in “all boys” on my ballot, but that’s what I got. What I didn’t get was someone borrowing my shoes or snitching my sweaters. There is that.

What I do get is kisses before they leave and when they go to bed. I get, “Have a good day, Mom,” and a gruff, “See ya.” I get, “How was your day,” and, “I prayed for you at lunch.”

While I’m vastly outnumbered by a teeming, hungry electorate, I think perhaps I’m the winner overall. That a re-do election really isn’t necessary. That I’m happy with what I’ve got.

Hey you - let go now

2012-01-30T11:01:00.000-05:00

Hey, you. Yes, I'm talking to you. Right there - you, the one who's got the weight of the world on her shoulders today.

I see you. I know you because I've been in that place. I know that weight, that thing that's pressing in, pulling you down - you know, that thing you never saw coming? The unexpected blow you took that sent you reeling, the one that's keeping you awake at night? I know that, too.

Maybe you're fretting, agonizing over your past mistakes. You're reliving old failures, seeing them again in living color and writhing in the agony of regret and "should have's."

It's time to stop that. Listen: "Man is so made that he can carry the weight of 24 hours - no more. Directly (as) he weighs down with the years behind and the days ahead, his back breaks. I have promised to help you with the burden of today only. The past I have taken from you and if you choose to gather again that burden and bear it, then, indeed, you mock Me to expect Me to share it." - God Calling

And for today, this 24 hours you have right now? This very moment, the only one any of us really have? The Psalmist knew what to do with the burden of the hour, and in his own extremity, he penned these words, "Yet I am always with You. You hold me by my right hand. You guide me with Your counsel., and afterward You will take me into glory.

"As for me, it is good to draw near to God. I have made the sovereign Lord my refuge."

Hey, you. Did you catch that? You can let go now. You are guided. You are held. You are loved. All is well.

Unexpected pirates, biters, and royal ruffians

2012-01-27T10:30:00.001-05:00

Note: Before this "Grounds for Insanity" column was published in The Goshen News back in April 2009, it won an Editor's Choice award in the weekly Faithwriters contest. Should the Queen of England like some advice on dealing with those kids of hers, she should dial me up.

Life seldom turns out as you expect. In the beginning, the world is your oyster. You have hopes and dreams. You know what you want to be and where you want to go. Yes, the water gets rough sometimes, and you end up with some sand in your britches, but you just take it in stride and seize the opportunity to make a pearl.

Years later when you look back, you realize that very little of what you had planned actually happened. You’ve had enough plot twists and turns to make a Bond movie look positively slow. And pearls? Oh, yeah. Several strings.

Take parenting, for instance. When those pink, squalling bundles land in your arms, your heart is filled with love and pride. You hold the answers to every child-rearing dilemma that could ever arise. You’re sure you’ve got the next Michael Jordan or Condoleezza Rice or Albert Einstein.

About halfway through, you realize that what you really have is a little band of pirates. Apparently Somalia isn’t the only place where brigands roam, judging by the state of your pantry. When they’ve pillaged the cupboard for the umpteenth time and held each other hostage again with BB guns and slingshots, it hits you – it doesn’t take a village to raise a child. It takes a team of Navy Seals.

By the time you’ve sent the last one off to college, having mortgaged your one remaining pair of socks, it’s clear that they’ve pirated more than the larder. Gone is your secret stash of chocolate, your bank account, and all your supposed answers about parenting. And what about your youth and energy? Where did that all go? Sailing off into the sunset, that’s what, with the last of the outlaws.

No, this is not what you expected.

Now, let’s say your dream is to be a dentist. You begin your career with high hopes of making a difference in the world by polishing to a faretheewell every molar that passes through your chair. You attack the plaque. You banish cavities wherever they are found. You fight gingivitis. And then.

Then you get your first biter. As those teeth clamp down, the “praise the Lord’s” have to jump over some other stuff to get out. You secretly consider yanking out every one that is presently embedded in your digit and replacing them with a rubber set. But you won’t, and when you look back at the end of your career, you have the satisfaction of knowing that not only is there less tartar, but there’s a new generation of flossers out there, thanks to you.

How about the Queen of

England

? Can you imagine your feelings at the beginning of your reign, if it were you? This is only every girl’s dream. While the commoners are kissing frogs and living in cracker boxes, you are marrying a prince and redecorating the palace. Why, if you want to, you can have a bedside coffee bar installed, staffed by a full-time barista. With one flick of a finger, you can have a fresh mocha delivered before your royal piggies ever hit the floor. Yes, the future looks bright for you.

Then the little royals start to come. Everyone knows you can’t spank royal bottoms, so you use psychology. “That makes mommy feel bad, Prince Festus. You don’t want mommy to feel bad, do you?” Which, as expected, the royal ruffian never hears because he’s torn off to slide down the marble banisters again.

By the end of your reign, when they’ve trashed the family name with their well-publicized shenanigans, that crown is feeling a little heavy, and you’re left wondering, “Did I spank them enough?”

I wonder, too, how a young preacher feels the first time he takes the pulpit. Most likely, he is filled with excitement at the opportunity to minister God’s grace to this, his flock. He eagerly visits the sick. He brings a covered dish to every potluck. He weeps with those who weep, and he rejoices with the others. He marries and buries them, only glad for the chance to serve.

As the years go by, perhaps he gets tired of a phone that never stops ringing. The idealism has long since vanished, and he knows now that not everyone who wears a sheep suit, is one. In his darkest moments, he wishes he could baptize a few of the troublemakers by immersion for just a little longer than necessary. He resists, of course, and when he reaches the end of his earthly life, he receives the ultimate praise: “Well done, you good and faithful servant. I know you had some hooligans in your pews, but you passed with flying colors.”

It’s true. Our ending seldom looks like we expected. But hopefully we will finish strong, knowing that we’ve left behind healthy children, shiny teeth, or a growing flock. And you know, those royals just may not be too big to spank.

When the cloud starts to move

2012-01-25T09:25:00.001-05:00

It had come through one of those encounters - the ones we call "chance" that really aren't. I'd run into her one bright morning in the summer at the place we'd become acquainted, our beloved local coffee shop.

Exhaustion was written on her face. Her mother, I knew, had just passed away, ending a long and painful chapter in her life.

She told me, then, how she'd been eating breakfast that very morning, tuning in on her television to a preacher who'd been speaking from the story of the Israelites. Using a cloud by day and a pillar of fire by night, the Lord God Himself had led His stubborn people through a desert, dry and barren, and had brought them safely through.

Now my friend, plowing fresh through grief, was looking for direction vocationally. Uncertain, unsettled, anxious, she felt confused, unsure which way to go. Then came her word of guidance. "If the cloud doesn't move," the speaker thundered, "you stay put."

Vastly relieved, feeling that peace, her spirit calmed. And then she shared it with me.

I knew that day that He'd spoken to me, too, for my own cloud, long railed against, hadn't moved. Hadn't budged. Hadn't changed, and though trusting, I was feeling the heat of the day, the soul-deep weariness of battle.

While I still find myself in largely the same circumstances, I am rejoicing today to tell you that maybe - just maybe - that cloud has started to move. For through what would appear on the surface to be another chance encounter, another door has opened. A glad "yes" has come, and my territory is being expanded.

My writing has found favor with a delightful Floridian, Sherry Gore, a prolific writer, gastronomist (cook extraordinaire), and a self-described "accidental editor." Among other projects this busy woman has going, she is the editor-in-chief of the national magazine, "Cooking and Such: Adventures in Plain Living." Which (may I shout this here?) goes to over 40 states, Canada, and Scotland, giving me (her words) "monumental exposure."

The very cool thing is that Sherry will be coming to our area soon to host a cooking show at a large area restaurant and tourist attraction, the Essenhaus, and I will get to meet her! I don't know yet where this will all lead. I don't. But I know this...when the cloud moves, I'm ready to follow.

Ready to go, ready to stay. Willing, by grace, to obey.

All is well,

Rhonda

And wouldn't this be a lovely base for marketing books down the road?

Return of winter sparks crazy quilt of warm memories

2012-01-24T09:08:00.000-05:00

Note: This "Grounds for Insanity" column was published in the 01/23/12 edition of The Goshen News. Now, that's a crazy quilt.

For a minute there, I thought we’d gotten by. Escaped. Slithered through by the skin of our teeth.

Driving home the other day, I noted something shocking. I was having springlike thoughts; two of them, to be precise, in rapid succession. For a slow transitioner who’s perennially one season behind, this was big.

It didn’t help, either, when the new Eddie Bauer catalogue arrived, landing with a thud in my mailbox. There they were – capris, sandals, and unbearably cute tops in vibrant spring colors modeled by smiling women on sand dunes, beaches, and the deck of a ship.

Overcome with excitement and the promise of spring, I was halfway to the closet to find last summer’s pewter flip-flops when it hit me. It wasn’t spring, it wasn’t warm, this wasn’t the sand dunes, and that was a snowflake on the windowsill. Shoot.

Now winter’s returned full force. I’m left to shiver under my favorite blanket on the couch, warming myself with a quilt of a different kind, a crazy quilt of holiday memories, randomly pieced and featherstitched with laughter.

My thoughts went back to Christmas morning. What a treat to be back in my home church, sitting in the pews I’d occupied as a child. The picture of Jesus in Gethsemane, I saw, still hung over the platform, the place we’d stood and said our vows. The altar was still there, too, focal point of many a revival meeting. For a moment, my mind flashed over faces, names of folks who were no longer there, including the old preacher who’d delivered our wedding sermon.

What was crazy that chilly Sunday morning was to see the youngest member of the pastoral team, my brother, fulfilling his role as lead pastor. It was crazy, too, to watch the other young man up front, bass voice ringing out with confidence as he participated in a dramatic reading of the Christmas story.

He looked like an all-American teen, that one, with his hair spiked up in front, khakis on, and the sleeves of his brand-new shirt rolled up just so. He sounded for all the world like an announcer at Fenway Park or a narrator for the History channel. Listening to him, one would never have guessed at the shenanigans he’d facilitated just prior to the service.

“Did you know,” I’d said to his younger brother, stifling a laugh, “that he’s going to be Baby Jesus?”

He’d sputtered. “He’s going to be Baby Jesus?” This with a note of incredulity as if I’d claimed fresh crop circles in the back yard or that a herd of pigs had flown (yes, flown) in, landing in our barn.

“That’s right,” The Announcer piled on, “and they’re gonna swaddle me up.”

When I laughed out loud, he’d added, “Actually, I’m supposed to be the angel, Gabriel.” Here he gave a wicked chuckle. “And now I’m gonna practice my angel flight pursuit.” And so saying, he tore off after his erstwhile victim, flapping imaginary wings in a not-so-angelic chase through Grandma’s basement.

Things got crazy, alright, when everyone landed at Grandma’s house. My brother’s 3 babies had brought the grandkid count to 11 and the total head count to 19. Which was a whole lot of goofiness to fit into one family portrait.

The fact that no one blinked, cried, picked their nose, or crawled out of the picture was astonishing. To have all 19 smiling at once, with or without showing gums, was a Christmas miracle indeed. Knowing how to celebrate, we’d hightailed it to our favorite Mexican restaurant afterwards to toast our success with bowls of salsa, grinning and, yes, showing our teeth.

Because it was Christmas, Mom had the Keurig locked and loaded with a vast supply of coffees, hot chocolates, and spiced cider. Because it was Christmas, Dad grilled his famous steaks, meat so flavorful and juicy that grown men cry, local steakhouses tremble, and we pass our plates for seconds.

Because it was Christmas and we were, for once, together, there were games galore at the table. While the women played Golf with Skip-Bo cards on one end, the men played a loud game of euchre at the other end with shouts of victory and NFL-style touchdown prancing.

Because it was Christmas and that’s what they do, Uncle Terry and the cousins played a rowdy game of Scary, thundering through a darkened house. The rest of us huddled in the one room still lit and punched the button once more on the Keurig. Because that’s what we do.

Later, home again, there were stockings to open, and gifts. There were movies to watch in our jammies. There were games to play, snacks to devour, and another Keurig to fire up, all by the light of the tree.

There was sledding one snowy night with the cousins. There was hot, creamy soup afterwards to warm frozen sledders and happy laughter around our table.

It had been a colorful, crazy Christmas, that was for sure. And the memories of it would warm us all for a very long time.

It's good, and we rejoice

2012-01-23T10:25:00.002-05:00

"Tell 'em the good news," she says, smiling happy. "Tell 'em what you did."

"Yes, tell us," we say, looking at this one, our friend who's plowing a tough road just now, life hammering hard. "What did you do?"

"I got my GED." She says it quiet; says it small. My mouth falls open. This is big. No, this is huge. For she's been told she can't; that she's dumb; that it's just not in her. But she does it anyway.

We rejoice, circling around with words of praise, faces beaming bright and smiles cracking big. She talks on, using words like "college" and "courses;" tells how her son, a great, hulking farmer boy sat patient, helping her through the math.

Oh, it's so good, and we rejoice.

Here at home, Boy Two returns from auditions. Discouragement rides along, angst scribbled across his features. "The only thing they had us do," he groans, "is sing one song. And it was just too high for me..."

I do what mothers do. I encourage, use my words, pour my heart right into him. "But they know you all. Know what you can do. Know what you're great at." It doesn't feel like much.

Two days later, he returns from school, stepping light, bounding eager. "I had a good day, Mom. I made call backs." Oh, glory! A second chance. Another try. There's hope.

It's good, and I rejoice.

An email comes: "I've forwarded it for publication." I share my news, and friends rejoice. I wait, squirming, anxious, and then it appears. In Friday's paper, there it is in a far-away town on the prairie where my roots still lie in hard-baked soil.

And you rejoice. Fellow Kansans in various states: "You made me cry." "A happy bouquet of words." "I really like it....words painting pictures." "I teared up, reading about her..." "Thanks for the trip down memory lane." And this from a friend and classmate, "You made me ridiculously proud."

My old grade-school principal, he with the crippled leg and ready laugh, calls my mother. "I'm sure you've seen the paper. It was encouraging," and, "It's amazing. They're all walking with God." My father-in-law calls from his winter haven, "I really liked that one." I'm stunned.

Other friends and readers chime in, sending private messages, leaving comments that I unwrap like gifts with grateful fingers. Printing them off, I find Mr. Schrock. "You won't believe this," I say. "Listen." Sitting down, list in my hands, I begin to read aloud, words - encouraging words, apples of gold in pictures of silver. Nearly done, I look up. He's choked up, eyes swimming, undone at this embarrassment of riches. And just that quick, I join in.

How grateful I am, you celebrating with me. How you rejoiced, and it was good, us all giving thanks together.

Now, what are you rejoicing over today? I'd love to joy along with you...

Defending the indefensible (and a happy announcement)

2012-01-20T11:16:00.000-05:00

"I made my English class laugh today." I sat up, taking notice, for this startling announcement had come from a most unlikely source, Boy Three, He Who Preferred To Dwell In The Shadows. While Boy Two (a.k.a. Kid Kaboom) lived for the spotlight and stage, not so this one, my non-emotive, third-born son.

Why, it was only Sunday last that I'd seen him sport three new shades of red, squirming in discomfort upon receiving unwanted attention from an adult he didn't know. And now this?

"What did you do?" I asked, truly curious.

"Well," he said, smile cracking edges of lips, "we had to write a letter, and my table made me write it." They'd been given a list, he said, of supposedly indefensible things. Choosing one, they were to write a persuasive essay in its defense. His group had chosen "police taking driver's licenses away from slow drivers."

Here is what he wrote: "Imagine it - being late to school or work because of a slow driver. Then you're late repeatedly and get fired. Since you got fired, you can't pay your bills, so you get evicted and then you're out on the freeway!

"There is a solution to this madness, and that is taking away the slow driver's license. Five out of 10 drivers (his source here is unclear) are slow.

"What if you have kids? How will you provide for them if you are jobless? So if you get the police to take their license, none of this has to happen."

And then a final plea. "Please. Do this for the children."

My shy, laid-back, quiet son read this aloud to his class, all of whom are fully used to his introverted persona. All of whom burst into applause, laughing loudly and cheering. The teacher, laughing, too, said, "You should consider trying out for the musical. Have you thought about being on stage?"

I suppose I shouldn't be surprised when traces of creativity appear in the children. After all, their up-line (and I mean way up past me) is quite prolific in that department, and their father is no slouch himself.

And like it or not, they get words - lots of words - from their mother who is just that happy to announce that some of her own are appearing today in her hometown paper, The Hutch News, the paper she's prayed for years to get. Today, this week's "Grounds for Insanity" column, "Rock-solid memories of the prairie," is live in Hutch. I'd be tickled clear pink if you'd visit me over there. Thanking you in advance...

And if you'd pray for favor on my behalf; for mountains to move; for doors to open; for a great, big 'yes;' and join me in seeing miracles...

Walking strong, walking true

2012-01-19T09:56:00.001-05:00

Like a coal, glowing, it rests just there in my chest. Days later, I feel its warmth whenever my thoughts go back...

From far-flung states, they'd come. From a far-off country, too, just over the great, big pond, they'd journeyed, drawn, each one, with that imperceptible pull toward home, toward family, toward their roots.

They'd been teens when they'd last been together, faces shining, hopes fresh and dreams alive with the big, wide world stretching just past those double doors. Twenty-six years, eleven souls. Now, on a crisp December night, they'd gathered again, minus two.

It was the class of 1985, my graduating group of seniors. Having moved away as a young woman, I'd not seen many of them for lots-and-lots of years. Now, at long last, I would get the chance to sit down around a table, to see their faces, hug their necks, hear their stories of what life had held since we were teens.

It was surreal, really, to gather in the Learning Center where we'd sat through chapel talks, given speeches, labored through PACEs, and shot the occasional paper wad across the dividers. Now we were back again, many with spouses, some with children, telling our stories...

It's the stories that grab me; pull me in; undo me. For the class of 1985 has accomplished much. Some of us went on to college. We are nurses, teachers, and a doctor. We are (and have been) secretaries, book keepers, mothers, fathers, missionaries, chaplains. We've spoken, written, traveled, telecommuted in a world that has shifted, changed like quicksand since that day in May.

The class of 1985 has suffered much, too. There were no warnings of hard things to come that night; no "heads up, it's gonna get choppy" to steel us for what was ahead. Nothing to really prepare us for life in the wild; life in the real world. All those stories...

How one of us, a father and nurse, cannot revive his tiny daughter. How he and his wife stand beside a hospital bed, hearts in pieces, and make a decision no parent wants to make.

A mother and teacher whose family escapes the flames with only the clothes on their backs. And then, as shovel is set to touch soil, rebuilding their home, an awful diagnosis - cancer.

Another one, a mother and secretary, delivers prematurely. He's a fighter, her tiny boy in his bassinet. And then...a human error, and she's standing by his grave in her husband's arms.

Such suffering. But such strength, for every single one of the class of 1985 is walking with Jesus. Through fire and sickness, through great loss and devastation, their testimony is strong. They are using (thank God!) their unique talents, gifts, and abilities as world changers in Kansas. In Ohio. In California. In South Carolina. In Indiana, Albania, and Alabama.

I've listened to their words, giving thanks. I've seen peace on their faces, giving witness. I've watched their lives, giving glory to the Lord Christ.

That Christmas trip to home, to family, to my roots, has moved me deeply. For it's one's past - your history - that gives you your "you-ness." What a gift it is to find that these friends, so rooted next to me in the Kansas soil, are still brothers and sisters, walking well, walking strong, walking true.

Giving thanks, for all is well,

Rhonda

Giving thanks for heritage, roots centered on the prairie

2012-01-17T09:49:00.000-05:00

Note: This "Grounds for Insanity" column appeared in the 01/16/12 edition of The Goshen News. The Writer is thankful today for a heritage that springs from the folks of the prairie; for roots revisited, renewed.

I’d forgotten its beauty. Forgot how the dying sun streaks orange across the horizon just there where sky touches earth. Forgot how the twilight shades up into a velvety midnight blue before the darkness falls, curtain like, and the light goes out.

Driving in, there it was on grand display, trees outlined in black on that band of orange, marching like sentinels on the very edge of the world. It was sunset on the Kansas plains.

I’d heard it from others who’d only traveled through. “There’s nothing there,” they’d say, “nothing at all.” Smiling, I’d nod, knowing what they meant.

Here, there were no mountain ranges; no rolling hills. There were no canyons cut by glaciers or beaches sandy white. Here, there were only miles and miles of hard-baked prairie stretching as far as the eye could see. That, those sunsets, and the people.

It was the people that drew us back. For the richest resource of any region is its people, and my roots remained firmly embedded and intertwined with the folks of the plains.

I’d been born and raised there amidst the buffalo wallows. I’d ridden a combine around a field of gold, chewing wheat ‘til it turned into gum. We’d spent many a happy summer’s night on the farm, playing Kick the Can and Grey Wolf with the cousins.

There on the prairie, I’d gotten saved, been baptized, and threw pitches from the mound. I got my first job washing dishes at the Dutch Kitchen out on Highway 50. I’d attended weekly socials with our lively youth group, and cruised Main with my friends.

I’d gotten my diploma at a small, private high school on a bumpy dirt road along with 10 of my classmates. Now, on a crisp December night some 26 years later, 9 of the 11 original members of the class of 1985 were gathering once more in that familiar building along the same bumpy dirt road.

There where we’d played countless games of Four Square, ping-pong, and a certain number of pranks, we had the chance to reconnect, to hear what life has held since the days of tests and homework. It was fascinating.

One of our number, for instance, is set to graduate with a degree this spring. I’m proud of her.

Five of us are mothers, holding various jobs. Two are teachers, impacting lives in the classroom. One is a prison chaplain, making a difference in the lives of prisoners in another state.

Two of us are nurses, one of whom uses her passion and talent on the mission field in Albania. And one went on to become a doctor; a pediatrician, to be exact, who just happens to care for some small people that are pretty important to me.

It was a gift, that’s what it was, to find that although our outsides have changed a bit, our insides are rock solid. That deep down, the carefree teenagers who walked across the stage together are still there, now deepened and strengthened by all that life has brought.

It was a gift as well to take our four sons for a visit with Aunt Esther, my father’s older sister. I walked through her house, delighted to find that nothing had changed.

We’d stayed there as kids when Mom needed a sitter, playing drive-thru on her back porch. We’d spent happy hours, imagining in her play house. The night our brother was born, we’d slept there, listening to the strange town noises as she read “Heidi” out loud until we fell asleep.

Aunt Esther never did get married, and she never had children of her own. But in all the ways that matter, she was a mother to many.

Her walls tell the story. Row after row of old photos march precisely above the toys. Here is one I recognize, and that one over there. All those faces…

I stop, struck by the scope of what she’s done. Her life’s work hangs before me in these pictures of children, some sober, some smiling. Her investment, I see, has not been in stocks and bonds, but rather in lives.

For 36 years, this faithful woman opened her home to 120 kids in crisis. For 36 years, she fed, bathed, taught, and cared for little ones in need. For 36 years, she invested in “the least of these.”

Grateful children, now grown, still call and visit to kiss her cheek and hug her neck, saying thanks. Grateful families who adopted “her” kids still send cards and pictures at Christmas, saying thanks.

There’s another frame that hangs in a special place by her desk. The certificate inside says, “Points of Light.” The picture that goes with it shows Aunt Esther receiving the certificate of achievement from a smiling Governor Sebelius, presented on behalf of a grateful state, saying thanks.

I didn’t come from royalty. I wasn’t raised in wealth and privilege. But to me, the heritage I have, rooted there amidst the plain, God-fearing folks of the Kansas prairie, is precious indeed. And I give thanks.

Broken down, strengthened up

2012-01-16T10:29:00.002-05:00

It came up this past weekend. Able at last to go on a date night with hubby, the venerable Mr. Schrock, we'd slipped out for the evening to catch a movie and run some errands. We talked about the kids, work, our hopes and dreams...all the stuff, really, that spouses discuss when they are finally free of smallish ears.

Somehow, the conversation turned to a supremely difficult time of testing that The Mister had been through some years back. "How long," I asked him, "was it tough and miserable?" Remembering the toll it had taken on him mentally, emotionally, and, in the end, physically.

"Three and a half," he said, remembering, too.

Thinking back, I recalled his misery. Recalled the agony of working for an oppressor; of laboring under the authority of a man who lacked integrity. Who struck and struck and struck at his personhood, his value, his self-esteem, his very manhood. Who thought that by making another small, it would make him big.

In those months and years, I'd seen him wrestle. Seen him struggle. I watched him hit the very bottom of a pit, deep and wide. Saw him completely undone, every bone broken. I watched, then, as he found, in that place of weakness, the Lord Christ, Gentle Healer, who carefully knit together those broken pieces into something stronger, something lovely, something good.

"It's as though," I said out loud, thinking it through, "you were broken down and then strengthened back up!"

"And now," he'd said, "it seems like it's your turn."

Ah, yes. My turn. My turn for the breaking down. My turn to fall, arms flailing, into a pit. My turn to hit the bottom. My turn (yes, it is) to come undone, every bone broken. My turn, now, to find, in that place of weakness, the Lord Christ, Gentle Healer, who is even now carefully knitting together all those broken pieces into something stronger, something lovely, something good.

While nothing outwardly has changed, I sense in my spirit that this extended time of testing is nearly at an end. Even if it's not, I know this for sure - it's been His mercy, this breaking and weakness. His mercy, this darkness requiring faith. His mercy, this refining, purifying fire. His mercy that strengthens back up in loving preparation for what comes next.

And you? How about you? If you're in the refiner's fire, take heart. There's a fourth man there in the flames.

Walking through the waters? They will not overflow. Bones broken? Oh, one day you shall rejoice for you, too, shall be made into something stronger, something lovely, something good.

"Make me to hear joy and gladness that the bones which thou hast broken may rejoice." - Ps. 51:8

All hands on deck

2012-01-13T11:11:00.005-05:00

Note: In light of the exciting news this week that my hometown newspaper, The Hutch News, is set to carry yet another guest piece imminently, my mind goes back to where it all began. When the "what-if" of a column first came about and a dream was born, this normally-fearful girl did a very brave thing. With fear and trembling, she sent a piece she'd written to the editor down there, asking a big, big question. To her great surprise, he wrote back with a "yes on this one," and a column was launched. To this day, it thrills her to no end that the very first column to ever go live, did so in her own community where friends, family, old teachers, and fellow churchgoers opened the paper one day and saw it there. Here, again, is that first piece.

With the boys back in school now, things at our house are finally settling into a routine for the baby and me. The first week was a little dicey. He was cranky. He wouldn’t sleep. He organized a little protest march from my computer to his toys and back again. Fortunately, his attempt to stow away in a backpack was foiled by an alert older brother.

Thanks to modern technology, I am privileged to be a full-time mother with a full-time career. My commute consists of walking upstairs to my computer and booting up.

Medical transcription is a very interesting and exciting field. It is certainly a different experience, working remotely for a person I have never met and listening to doctors I have never seen, but it allows me to ride shotgun on the homework crowd, keep the laundry going, and to care for my own baby. It’s a wonderful thing.

Well, most of the time it’s wonderful. It was all well and good when the baby was tiny. He would sleep under my desk in his car seat. When he fussed, I would literally rock his seat with one foot, press the pedal to play the dictation with the other foot, listen to the doctor with both ears, and type with both hands. Talk about multitasking – I think I wrote the book on it, but I was so sleep deprived back then that it’s all a blur.

Now that he’s mobile, however, the dynamics have changed. He no longer sleeps most of the day. He toddles. He climbs. He explores his world. And he loves to “help” me type. I will be working away, fingers flying at the keyboard, lost in a world of echocardiograms and colonoscopies when a hand appears out of nowhere and suddenly I am typing in ALL CAPS.

His other favorite button is “enter.” With a furtive little tap-tap, the cursor is not where I just had it. It’s down in my lap somewhere. The little monkey actually made a whole document disappear once. If it hadn’t been for the Microsoft recover feature, I would have had to type the goofy thing twice. Thank you, Bill Gates!

Now, you have to understand. All of these activities are carried out at the speed of light. In a dizzying blur of motion he strikes, first from the left, then from the right, and then a hand appears from behind the keyboard. I am left reeling like a drunken sailor at my desk. After one such episode, it wasn’t until the double vision cleared that I saw he had, by all appearances, typed up a college thesis. In Swahili. He’s an overachiever, that one is.

Then there was the day I was typing along when suddenly the Holy Ghost fell on the dictating physician and he commenced to speaking in a foreign tongue. Upon investigating, it turned out that the baby had parked his Pampers on the fast forward button on my foot pedal. Speedy removal of the little fellow’s biscuits restored the good doctor’s impeccable command of the King’s English.

I keep threatening to hire myself a new assistant. I have fired this one multiple times, but he keeps coming back. Just as I’m about to pink slip him again, he peeks up at me from under my desk with impossibly blue eyes, hair curling around his ears, and six white teeth beaming innocently. I am instantly transported to the night he was born, five weeks before his due date.

I will never forget the transport team bringing him in to us so we could say goodbye before taking him away to another hospital. I remember standing beside his incubator the next morning in NICU, watching him trying to cry with a tube in his throat. I cried for both of us. I remember how we prayed constantly those 11 difficult days, and I remember the joy we felt when we brought him home, this little boy who changed our lives.

And I just can’t do it. I crumple up the pink slip and throw it in the trash. I pick him up, kiss his dimple, and say, “Thank You, God!”

By the way, Christmas is coming in a few short months and I know exactly what this kid is getting. We’re buying him his own laptop. I’m tired of him writing his theses on mine.

Look up

2012-01-11T09:42:00.000-05:00

It's winter now, and the year is new. I'm working on it, practicing the habit of turning my focus to Him. This summer meditation reminds me today...

Birdsong trills in the morning air, dripping like jewels from greening trees beneath a gray, overcast sky.

Just home from an end-of-the-year meeting at school, I get Little his breakfast, grind up the beans, and measure fresh coffee into the filter. Cream (the real kind) swirls like ribbons in my insulated mug. Backpack over my shoulder, I slip outside to share a cup with my Friend Who Knows.

The clouds above, they match my mood. Restlessness, anxiety, uncertainty swirl down through my heart like the cream in my coffee. What is happening? What's coming next?

Things are changing at work. Slowly, so slowly in recent months, the volume's been dropping. My checks have been shrinking. And now, out of the blue, it's dried to a trickle. Technology invades. The doctors, I know, must keep pace with the times; hence, the switch to electronic records. Leaving me and my colleagues...

Other worries, fears tick through my mind. A sense of failure pervades. Perhaps if I'd only...or perhaps if I hadn't...

I sip from the mug. Thinking...thinking...listening...

Yes. I see exactly which enemies are getting the best of me right now. Battle. War. Fight it. But how?

Opening His letter, I turn to the shepherd, warrior, and friend of God. There, the Psalmist speaks to me of refuges and shields, of training for battle and defeating my foes. I read of victory and praise and enemies turned to flight. Yes! Oh, yes.

From my quiet place facing the wide expanse of freshly-mown lawn, I open just one more source of nourishment, that little devotional, "God Calling," and read this for today:

"'Look unto Me and be ye saved, all the ends of the earth.' To look is surely within the power of everyone. One look suffices. Salvation follows.

"Look, and you are saved from despair. Look, and you are saved from care. Look, and you are saved from worry. Look, and into you there flows a peace beyond all understanding - a power new and vital, a joy wonderful indeed.

"Look and keep looking. Doubt flees. Joy reigns, and hope conquers. Life - Eternal Life - is yours, revitalizing, renewing."

Herein lies our hope. We look to Jesus, Author and Finisher of our faith. Through joy and sorrow, through victory and defeat, through uncertainty and in the knowing, we look. And in the looking, we are helped, we are saved, and we are led.

Look up.

"I will lift mine eyes unto the hills from whence cometh my help. My help cometh from the Lord Who made heaven and earth."

Because there is salvation (resurrection) as we look in faith...

How a "nothing happened" week can look

2012-01-10T09:29:00.000-05:00

Note: This column was published in the 01/09/12 edition of The Goshen News. Good thing there's 'nothing' happening. My excitement meter's in the red.

Right about now, many people hit the mid winter blahs. Holidays are over, and Memorial Day is a long way off. At our house we are between school activities, so all is quiet on that front.

Life, I find, seems mundane in the absence of big goings-on. Of course, if I go by what my men tell me, there’s never anything happening and it’s always mundane. Here’s how that particular conversation goes.

Me: “So what happened today?”

Them: “Nothing.”

“Really?” I say. “Nothing happened?”

“Nope.”

Out of curiosity, I decided to keep a record of what actually goes on here in the course of a normal, boring week. Here is a peek at my journal.

Sunday: Attend surprise party for sister-in-law’s fortieth birthday. Come home, lie in bed with third-grader whose love language is quality time. Older brother in camouflage slips in, making three. Uncharacteristically, oldest brother joins us, making four; then, characteristically, proceeds to pound younger brothers. Father enters fray, disperses mob. Team of Boy Scouts moves in to untangle knotted sheets.

Monday: Senior demonstrates superior logic by asking parents for ride to school because he has no gas, then announces plans to drive to Mishawaka later with buddies. Parents politely decline. Baby insists on feeding self, finger paints in spaghetti sauce.

Popular Science magazine is confiscated from son with far more interest in gadgets than homework. Mother “encourages” keener interest in homework by firing in the air twice. Same son stops mother on the way out the door with pressing questions about Heaven. Baby sits on brother’s Ripstik, tries to “rip.” Mother overhears nine-year-old tell baby, “You surprised us (by being born). You barely hit the target of life.”

Tuesday: Father changes baby before going to work. Calls up the stairs from a kneeling position, “This is a three-wipe deal – and you know I’m conservative!” Mother chortles at keyboard.

Senior announces at breakfast that financial aid meeting was last night. Parents take turns pounding son into kitchen floor like a tent stake. Baby wakes up from nap with diaper inexplicably around one ankle, liberally waters bedding. Mother smuggles Blanky into machine to forestall angry wails at the window of the washer with pathetic attempts to retrieve wet Blanky.

Wednesday: By now, mother needs mocha or she will high-center on fabled mid-week hump and will never make it over. En route to purchasing her “therapy in a cup,” she drops three sons off at three different schools. Third grader gets dibs on front seat, much to brothers’ chagrin. The second his jeans leave the van, the 14-year-old slithers his into the still-warm spot for the 12-yard drive to the middle school. Oldest son scoffs at mother’s defense of brother and her explanation that “this way, all three bottoms are happy.”

Upon arrival at the middle school, 18-year-old darts from back, charges for the passenger’s seat where brother is saying goodbye to mother, and proceeds to “help” him out. The “helpee” throws himself in dramatic fashion across front seat, clutching and screaming in mock terror as “helper” pulls on his bottom half. (To the person who was dropping a kiddo off behind us – it only looked like a carjacking.) Mother makes note to self to purchase plastic glasses with fake nose and mustache in case she ever has to go to middle school again.

Nearing Panther Drive, she slows to 35, forcing reluctant senior to jump before gunning it towards the coffee shop. Later, they meet the Schrocks at a Goshen restaurant to see a brother in from Georgia. Service so slow that sister-in-law has another birthday and is now 41. Will 10 restless grandchildren stage a coup, start a food fight? Adults worry.

Thursday: Weekly 6:30 breakfast with oldest son. Conversation ranges from relationships to work to pros and cons of having a credit card at 18. Later, mother has mini meltdown, looks to resign over some issues with kids that suddenly rear up. Tells father to put her down like a horse with a broken leg. Father refuses; encourages instead. Lucky her. Lucky him. Lucky boys!

Friday: Weekly flight to (where else?) coffee shop to write column. Father set to leave for office with baby when baby waters his good shirt, requiring fresh clothes for both. Mother exhausted after typing 225 reports for the week, issues SOS. Father saves the day, comes home with pizza.

Funny how tired you can be after a week full of so much “nothing.” And I haven’t even mentioned the cooking, cleaning, laundry, straightening, counseling, instructing, training, reminding, encouraging, and general directing it takes to keep all this “nothing” on track.

Good thing it’s so boring around here. I don’t think I could handle much more excitement.

Though the ages of the parties involved have changed, not much else has. There’s still the odd struggle in the van, the occasional maternal meltdown, and the intermittent calls for pizza. In other words, a whole lot of “nothing.”

"Go write"

2012-01-06T12:11:00.001-05:00

"Go write." That's what he said, peering at me with Those Eyes. "Go. You need to."

I may have sniffed, flipping one shoulder up with a dismissive wave of the hand. "But what if I can't anymore? Maybe...maybe I'll quit." He shot me a look. I sighed, knowing the truth, and slinging my backpack over my shoulder, I left for the coffee shop.

To be brutally honest, I ended the year on a low note. Working like crazy, praying for help, I'd cobbled together two columns and sent them in ahead of our trip because, as I told my editors, "I don't want to write one.single.word while I'm gone." And I meant it.

The return from my hometown did not bring a return of my zest for writing. Somehow, it had been buried, lying dormant beneath a heap of anxieties, fatigue, discouragement, and uncertainty. But deadlines don't wait, and callings can't be neglected forever...

"Go write."

To this day, I find it utterly amazing. How God took a girl who knew she could tell stories and make people laugh and put her with a man who saw a book in her. How she didn't see the books. How she saw the mountains instead and shrugged it off and kept on typing. How once- or twice-a-year prayers thrown up, scarcely the size of a mustard seed, were answered in a most astounding way, and a door opened up.

After four years, there are several things I've learned. Sometimes it's very hard, using your gift. At my high school reunion over the holidays, this is what I told my classmates (it was surreal, by the way, sitting in the place where I'd taken composition and speech classes, never dreaming of a future column or speeches at Kiwanis clubs): "It stretches me so far out of my comfort zone, it's unreal."

Most weeks, I'm terrified. That's all. Scared to death. If Beth Moore was right when she said, "God chooses vocations for us that stir up all of our insecurities so He can scoop them out, one spoonful at a time," then God is scooping like crazy over here.

I know this, too - I can't possibly do it on my own. Frankly, I don't want to. There's no possible way a mother of four with a day job could write through diapers and potty training and cross country and school meetings, week after week after week. It's too big for me, and that's why I need Him.

And there's this - we're sinners here, we six, and the days that this fact becomes especially apparent, those are the days I want to quit. To hide; to go back to being anonymous. It's those days that the whisper ("what right do you have to talk to others?") makes perfect sense.

However. I know something, too, of the faithfulness of God; that "where He guides, He provides." I've felt the exhilaration of offering up my fish and loaves and catching glimpses of what Jesus can do with them.

I know the indescribable thrill of dreaming new dreams, of holding "maybe's" and "I think I could's" in my hands. I know both the beauty and the pain of giving birth to something new and becoming something new in the process.

And now, how about you? What is the "thing" that you need to go and do? It's okay to take a break sometimes; it really is. But maybe (maybe?) it's time to get back in there and do it one more time.

Insecure about it? Good. Let the scooping begin. Afraid you can't sustain it or it won't be good enough? That's fine. He can and He is. Tired of dreaming dreams so big and waiting for mountains to move? That's okay. The God who made them can - and will - move them when the time is right. For after all, "Faithful is He that calleth you who also will do it."

All is well,

Rhonda

"All is well"

2012-01-04T11:18:00.001-05:00

For months now, it's been present; here a few droplets, wearing away tiny pieces at a time; there in a wave that rolls through my stomach in an actual sensation I can feel. Without warning, it strikes, and down I go.

Anxiety.

It's not that there aren't reasons. There are. It's not that I don't know where to turn. I do. And so I whisper one word, one name, "Jesus..." when the darkness threatens.

Home, now, from our holidays with my family, real life returns. The doctors are talking again, there are column inches to fill, and a hectic schedule that will pick right back up next Monday morning. I awaken early; faces, situations, demands ahead run relentless through my mind.

Tossing and turning. Fretting, anxious, I feel it once more. How will it turn out? What will happen with...? When will (fill it in) finally change? And then the big one, "When will God come through?"

"All is well." That voice...

"All is well."

But this hasn't been fixed. But that hasn't changed. But I'm still waiting for...But, but, but.

But what if all really is well, even though? Even though I don't know the outcome? Even though (A-B-C) isn't resolved? Even though - miracles delayed? Even though He seems to linger?

I think perhaps these are my three words for the year ahead. For if this is true, "The Lord is near to all who call on him," and if it is true that the spirit of the living Christ dwells within these suits of flesh, then surely all truly is well. Because I have Jesus, because you have Jesus, we have all we really need.

The God who fashioned the universe, who calls the stars by name, who rides upon the storm, He - this very God - can do anything He wants to do. This Great One has promised to provide all our needs according to His vast, unfathomable riches. So every single moment, He provides just what we need. Period.

"All is well." For my friend who messaged me ("I've been better"), using words like "lump" and "mammogram," "ultrasound" and "biopsy," all is well. There is grace sufficient, today. For the unemployed, all is well. He will provide; He has a plan.

For the grieving, all is well. A grand reunion awaits. For the tired and discouraged, all is well. He will refresh the weary and satisfy the faint. And for the anxious, all is well. He is here.

Yes and no, giving and taking lead to fun and frustration

2012-01-03T09:41:00.000-05:00

Note: This "Grounds for Insanity" column appeared in the 01/02/12 edition of The Goshen News. If Bethlehem is short one camel next year, don't look at me. I had nothing to do with it. Uh-huh.

It’s the gift that keeps on giving. And taking and giving and…well, I’m sure you’re catching on.

We hadn’t planned on getting it. After all, we were still reeling from the impressive campaign they’d launched a year ago, the Christmas 2010 “Just Say Yes” initiative. Using charts, graphs, and colorful PowerPoint presentations set to sad, sad music (think “Christmas Shoes”), they’d made their case.

They’d made it well, and we’d said no. And no and no and no. Hoarse, we’d packed them into the van like sardines, only without the oil, and hauled them to Tennessee. In the melee that followed with cousins upstairs, cousins downstairs, and several in the rafters, they’d forgotten about it. Until this Thanksgiving when those cousins came over.

The cousins had done the research. Armed with flyers, they pointed and explained and nailed it down. The deal of the century – nay, the millennium – would be found at Store ABC, go time 10 p.m. At Store XYZ, controllers for The Very Big Deal were on sale, one day only, for a cool twenty bucks off. Their parents had decided to spring for it, they said, with the understanding that this was their Christmas present, and it was meant to be shared.

That may have been the day Mr. Schrock and I lost our minds. For at long last, we relented, saying the one word that set them wriggling and squirming over the mashed potatoes. And that’s how we ended up joining the rest of the common horde that night.

I remember now why we avoid Black Friday. Or Black Thanksgiving, as it turned out. Not only were we late to the party, but we discovered, upon arrival, that 439 of our closest friends had come, too. Which meant that the last Great Deal walked out of the store about three people ahead of us. Then, since pepper spray, brass knuckles, pushing, and shoving weren’t in our arsenal, we crept home, exhausted, feeling like the turkeys we were.

It was a nephew who saved the day. Full of vim, vigor, and the Black Friday spirit, he was back out before daybreak, bagging two good-but-not-as-great-as-the-one-we-missed deals, one for them and one for us.

And that’s where the giving and taking began. The giving’s been the happiness, the excitement, and the hours of fun they’ve had already, those kids in their PJs, thumbs flying on controllers.

The taking’s started, too. As in Father taking those things away at 10 past enough, marching grimly down the stairs, one in each hand. That’s how taking looks over here.

In eavesdropping on their excited conversations amongst themselves, as well as multiple phone calls to the electronics department, it’s clear that the taking isn’t over, for “if you give a boy an Xbox, he’ll want games to go with it.” And a hard drive the size of the War Department’s database. And headsets. And more controllers in case those 439 close friends I mentioned earlier, show up. Oh, and a monthly subscription to Xbox Live so he can play online, real time, with his cousins.

The upshot of the whole deal is that it’s turned out to be a powerful motivator. Who knew that homework could be dispatched so quickly? That two reluctant scholars who’ve made lollygagging an official Olympic sport could find a turbo button hidden on their persons?

Who knew that one small game system could make kids jump through flaming hoops of fire? That extra jobs would be finished at the speed of light? That Mother, for once, could lay aside the notes for those barn-burner speeches, the ones that could make Zig Ziglar himself cry, “Yes, we can!” while grabbing a mop and a dishcloth?

There’s been taking of a different kind, too. As in the taking of fudge, two kinds, whipped up by The Mister. As in the taking of cookies by hands of all sizes, slipping into cookies boxes on countertops and in freezers.

Yup. They’re back, that motley crew. Rolled, cut, baked, and frosted in a mad rush, there they are. A star. A wreath. A tree. Santa’s boot. A gingerbread man. A cow. A sheep (my favorite). A teddy bear (Little’s favorite), and that infernal camel.

“Not that one!” I exclaimed, remembering the legs that could burn like that, breaking off at the slightest touch.

“We must have the camel,” they answered, and promptly set to making what appeared to be an entire family, down to aunts, uncles, and cousins. As Little and his eight hands stamped out one of the 12 tribes (in teddy bears), I sighed, knowing how quickly these moments melt away and that someday, there’d be no misshapen bears cooling on the counter.

Someday, there’ll be no dromedary, either. I’ve put them on notice that there just may be a mysterious disappearance in Bethlehem next year with a certain camel and its gimpy leg going missing. If they fuss, I’ll slip them each a controller for one hand and a fresh cookie for the other, and that’ll buy me some quiet time. I think.

Writer offers list of wishes, but no resolutions for the New Year

2011-12-31T11:38:00.004-05:00

Note: This "Grounds for Insanity" column was published in the 12/26/11 edition of The Goshen News. The writer's back in town, having had a fun-filled week in southern climes with the family et. al. Today, she offers a list of wishes - not resolutions - for the New Year.

The ornaments still adorn the tree. The stockings still march across the top of the bookcase, sagging and empty in the aftermath of four hurricanes that hit.

The ham’s still cooling in the fridge. As fresh coffee hits my cup, holiday happiness fills my heart in a wave that radiates down my left leg.

Wait. No. That’s shooting pain from the brand-new Legos I just stepped on. At least I’ve got Christmas joy as far as the waist, which is more than can be said of Someone Else who’s just waking up, judging by the no-coffee scowl beneath the tousled hair. If He Who is Only a Sniffer and Not a Sipper would just try it, perhaps he, too, could know the joy that floods. (Watch out for that Lego, hon.)

Anyway, as we stand on the threshold of a new year, our hearts are filled with hope anew. Dreams once dead now burn bright. Gazing across the snowy pages of time, untouched by pen and ink, all seems possible. And if I had any more overused, cliched sentiments, I’d use ‘em, but that’s all I’ve got.

It’s right about here that a normal columnist would share her solemn resolutions for change and self-renovation in the New Year. Never having claimed normalcy, however, I figure it doesn’t apply. As our friend, Brian, says, “I resolve not to make ‘em.”

Exactly. Me, too. What I will do, though, is make a list of wishes for the New Year, things that would improve the quality of life for the masses, including, but not limited to Republicans, Democrats, retirees, trash haulers, and the odd tea drinker.

First of all, I wish that this would be the year that scientists discover they’ve been wrong all along and that one pyramid’s been inverted. What a relief it would be to learn that oranges and browns (as in cheese curls and Oreos) are the new leafy greens and should be used prolifically.

As comedian Tim Hawkins prayed, “Lord, turn this Cheeto into a carrot on the way down.” That’s what I mean.

Just once, I’d like to hear the FDA come out, hat in hand, admitting their mistake and encouraging “three to five servings of Chief ice cream a day for maximum health.” In a brave new world with that pyramid flipped over, even world peace, another fond wish, seems possible.

Let’s face it. It’s hard to stay miffed when your mouth is so happy. As the creamy confection hits your tongue, you start to forget why you were shooting rockets or what that little invasion was about in the first place.

By the time you and the other guy are licking your bowls, using first names, and slapping each other’s backs (two-handed operations, all), no one’s finger is on the red button anymore. And there it is.

Another thing I wish for 2012 is that speed limits would become suggestions. This would simplify my life for sure. When the air is thick with foam darts, a mother’s escape will not be sedate.

Proceeding to the nearest Starbucks shouldn’t look like Grandma driving to the pet store for birdseed. It should look like Andretti driving the Brickyard for a trophy and champagne. That’s why I’m asking the legislature to make one teensy-weensy little change for frazzled, unarmed moms like me. Is that too much to ask?

Oh, and speaking of politicians, I wish they’d all come with built-in lie detectors. It would make a difference for ordinary citizens like me. Instead of trying to decipher, as their lips move, if it’s the truth or a lie coming out, I’d like bells and whistles.

No, really. I wish that every time a fib was told, whistles and sirens would sound. Strobe lights should flash the word “lie,” all caps, above the head as an announcement goes out. “We have a fibber in aisle so-and-so.” Then here comes the Truth Squad, dogpiling the unfortunate fellow and taking him away.

Just that quick, the Unfortunate One would be carried off and installed in a Truth Machine (think “very gentle Christmas tree shaker”) where the truth would be extracted in a very gentle fashion. Right there, you’d find out who knew what, when they knew it, and where, exactly, the buck really stops.

Some of my wishes are much smaller. I’m utterly capable of aiming small and shooting low. For instance, I wish that for one year, my peanut butter and jelly bread would land face up instead of face down.

I wish that certain things really could be bought for a song. I’d gladly twitter “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” for a tank of gas or “Bingo Was His Name-O” for a week’s worth of groceries.

Actually, I’d be even happier to let Mr. Schrock sing for the groceries and gas, using his smooth bass voice. But that’s about as likely as world peace, speed suggestions, and jelly bread that lands face up. Which leaves me seeking solace in a bowl of butter pecan from a pyramid that, sadly, will never be set straight.

If I could, I'd take Miles

2011-12-23T10:48:00.000-05:00

"Where's the line to see Jesus?" It was these words from a song in the children's musical one Sunday night that grabbed me. And just like that, I saw it.

Jesus in skin, receiving the needy, a line of humanity bedraggled stretching before him. There, the woman bent with an issue of blood that had kept her weak. Behind her, a child, leg crippled, who'd never run, never leapt or climbed a tree. Here, a blind man. There, a mother clutching her baby.

Later that night, after the program, I heard it. Heard the story straight from her lips, how her grandbaby, precious Miles, was suffering. And with him, his mama and daddy, his grandma and "Big Grandpa."

She told me of his seizures, those terrible fits that would grab his little body, wringing it hard and stealing all of his words. It hurt her terribly, seeing him like that, knowing they'd be right back at ground zero when it happened again, building his vocabulary one word, one phrase at a time. And who knew how long he'd keep it?

He was housebound, the little mite, for the tiniest bit of excitement, of stimuli; the merest hint of a virus could trigger another bad one. And there they'd go again...

Thinking of her, of them, of the constant danger he lived in and the stress and strain they wore like a second skin, I thought of that song. Pictured that line.

If Jesus were here in the flesh, how I'd rush to join the line, taking little Miles and laying him in His lap, for one word, one touch is all it would take. If Jesus were here, I'd take...I'd take...

Faces and names appeared before me. Wouldn't I take my children, presenting them before the Shepherd to receive a blessing? Wouldn't I take my husband to receive one, too? I'd take myself, kneeling at His feet, spreading broken pieces of messy me around those sandals, waiting to feel His hand on my head. So many others I would take and hold with me in that line, presenting them to Him...

This, dear ones, is the hope of Christmas, the promise for those of us who are, really and truly, waiting in line to see Jesus. For one day, it will be our turn, and we shall "see Him as He is."

As for Miles, his grandma told me that his three phrases right now are: "I'm good," "You good?" and, "I like it!" It's amazing, she said, how much he communicates through these six words.

I can't help but picture him, looking around Heaven one day, fully healed, exclaiming to the Lord Jesus, "I like it! Jesus, You good?" Then, with a leap and a shout, "I'm good!" Oh, yes. I'm good.

Merry, merry Christmas from our family to yours.

Thank you from the bottom of my heart for the encouragement and life you've breathed straight into this girl for yet another year. Thank you for rejoicing with me over the good stuff, for crying with me when it got tough, and for saying, "Keep it up!" when I wasn't so sure. Over the holidays here, I'll be taking a bit of a blogging break to spend time with my family. There will undoubtedly be plenty of stuff to write about when I get back.

"I'm good. You good?"

Easter's hope began at Christmas

2011-12-20T10:14:00.005-05:00

Note: This column was published in the 12/19/11 edition of The Goshen News. Months ahead, I begin to pray, "Lord, give me a story for Christmas." For four years now, He has. The first three years, the annual column involved a baby. The story He gave me this year, however, is a bit different, but offers hope nonetheless.

It was the annual children’s Christmas musical. For weeks, the preschoolers had been practicing. Singing here, singing there, Little’d been sharing snippets of a song he was learning about Joseph, Mary, and the Baby Jesus.

On the night of the program, he’d flashed upstairs after his nap, looking for the shirt Mama’d told him to wear. In a trice, he’d presented in his khakis, brown shoes and, yes, the right shirt.

Sitting on the end of a bench, his father, two brothers, and I craned our necks as a stream of small people processed down the aisle. And there he came. Crooking a grin and waving one small hand, he marched by, proudly taking his place in the front row along with the rest of the Cherub Choir. Songs done, he settled onto Daddy’s lap and watched, rapt, as elementary students shared the message of Christmas onstage.

The wise men that knelt around the manger were a charming lot. The one in purple, I noted, had his crown on sideways while the crown on the stocky little fellow in gold had slipped down behind his ears, pushing them out in a most endearing way.

The third wise man peered out from beneath a red velvet headpiece that simply covered his ears and rested at his brow. Seeing them, I smiled, rejoicing in their innocent faith as they sang with all their hearts.

It was the second-to-last song that grabbed me. “Where is the line,” sang the girl with the curly hair, face lifted, “the line to see Jesus?” There’s a line to see Santa, there’s a line at the mall, but where’s the one for Him?

As they do every holiday season, my thoughts turned to friends who’d lost loved ones. Names and faces scrolled through my mind, and I thought of empty places around tables and in hearts, of the sorrow that pulsed beneath greenery and lights.

I remembered passing the church that gray, dismal morning in November. Parked just there before the front doors sat a grim reminder, the harsh reality of life in a fallen world. Seeing the hearse, my heart sank. “Lord,” I prayed. “Comfort, please.”

I recalled the message we’d gotten just days before. “Did you hear the bad news? He was killed.” I felt again the shock, the disbelief. “Oh, no. Not him.”

Everyone who received the terrible news that night thought instantly of another day, another tragedy even more horrific. Over four years ago on a Sunday night in June, three teens had been killed in one fell swoop, two of them siblings, a brother and a sister.

We’d known them well, those two, having been friends with the family since the children (theirs and ours) had been born. We’d shared many Saturday night pizza parties, grownups playing games as the children played together.

We’d gone camping, settling squabbles about whose bike was whose. We’d attended countless story hours at the public library, going for cheeseburgers afterward as the children played and the mamas talked. Come summer, we’d find ourselves sitting together pool side, watching our guppies splash and flail, working on their backstrokes.

Then the school years came, and we shared that, too. For one year, their daughter and our son rode back and forth together every day. Those little first graders would fight in the back seat until an Odyssey began and they’d fall silent, riding in peace the rest of the way home.

Eventually we moved to another town. The children grew, and life kept moving. And one awful Monday morning, the phone rang.

There are some things you never forget. Things like the sight of two graves, youth stepping forward with shovels and roses. How the younger brother, a Downs syndrome child, came forward after they were finished, adding his bit of soil. How their mother groaned low, “My babies,” there as the summer sun beat down.

The hearse I saw that day in November was parked at the church where the third teenager’s funeral had been held. In the church whose walls had held the suffering, down whose aisles had walked such grief, there, that day, they gathered for his dad.

Surely the reunion that took place beyond the clouds was sweet beyond telling, father and son reunited in joy eternal. Surely the angels danced and sang, Heaven ringing with the noise. Surely the Lord Christ Himself, Saviour of them both, shouted in triumph for death, after all, has been defeated.

Because of Christmas, Easter came. Christmas, then Easter, bringing the final victory and the hope of life everlasting.

Those of us who remain, we cling to this hope. We cling, too, to faith, believing ever more in the promises of a God who said He will never leave, never forsake, and never fail. Who promised that one day, He will wipe all tears from our eyes and that joy, always and ever, would come in the morning.

We hold fast to faith, hope, and joy as we wait in line – in line to see Jesus.

It's a madhouse, and that's a gift

2011-12-19T11:02:00.000-05:00

"It's a madhouse!" That's what I said to her, holding the phone cocked on my shoulder last night on the couch.

We'd called my mother to say, "Happy birthday." Boy Two (aka Kid Kaboom) was singing a seriously goofy, nasal-ly version on a phone upstairs; I was cackling into the phone downstairs; Little was half-on, half-off; and The Mister was standing in the kitchen, shooting a cap gun.

It was, to put it mildly, chaotic.

In the midst of a crazy busy time, a long car trip imminent, it looked a whole lot like Christmas. Glancing around, I saw it clear - the colored lights twining 'round the tree. Four bulging stockings, marching across the top of the book case. Fudge (two kinds) stashed here and there, cream cheese cookies (a Schrock must) resting atop the washing machine, freezer bulging with cut-out cookies of all shapes and sizes.

Those cookies - what a production that had been! Frantic rolling and cutting, desperate to get them done before dashing off to Kid K's Christmas concert at the high school. Sleeves rolled up, the two Smaller's attending, flour everywhere.

Out came the cutters...the Christmas tree. The gingerbread man. The wreath. The teddy bear. Santa's boot. The star. A cow. A sheep (my favorite) and that infernal camel.

"Not him!" I exclaimed, remembering the skinny legs that burnt too quick, breaking off at the slightest touch. No, they said in unison. We must have the camel.

"But he burns," I said, "and he breaks. Let's not." "Yes, let's!" they said. And so they cut camels.

We cut and baked and rolled and cut some more, sliding the last pan out of the oven just in time to munch tacos and head for one more Christmas concert.

Oh, my. Sitting in that darkened auditorium, listening to the concert choir singing, the NorthWood band playing, and watching Boy Two and Dawning Generation (the swing choir) performing...there it came again. The Spirit of Christmas, joy flooding, heart swelling at the sight of those kids...and our boy, shoes on fire, lighting up the stage.

Today, I am one proud and thankful mama. Proud to watch our son excel (hearing others say it, too). Thankful for the gifts of Christmas; the ruckus, even cap guns that pop in the kitchen; the treats we make with our hands, love baked right in; the mystery of the gift beneath the tree, small boy guessing, excited.

I'm thankful, too, for the joyful mess; for legs that break off of camels. For gingerbread men misshapen. For too many bear cookies, stamped by Someone Small. For frosting - red, green, and blue - everywhere. For shaky X's that mark the calendar, scratched carefully by Little whose Daddy lifts him up every night, counting days.

In this high and holy season comes solemnity, remembering The Gift. But, too, laughter comes, and joy and fun and hilarity, gifts each one, as we share the days with those we love.

Once again, Merry Christmas! May you find joy as you live each moment of it, eyes wide open.

Ice cream goes a long way in soothing Christmas tree woes

2011-12-17T12:29:00.001-05:00

Note: This "Grounds for Insanity" column appeared in the 12/10/07 edition of The Goshen News, a mere one month after its initial debut. Thankfully, the Tree Setter-Upper is far more experienced now when it comes to choosing...

There’s no doubt about it – Christmas is our favorite time of year. It begins when Mr. Schrock gets out his huge library of holiday tunes. Such a Christmas buff is he that when the decorations start appearing in the stores, he rejoices. He revels. He wallows.

He calls, issuing regular reports. “Christmas stuff at Target, aisle 15,” he might say before ringing off.

For the rest of us, we really start getting pumped when we hit the tree lot. You see, there is far more at stake here than just getting a tree – there’s a title on the line. The “Winning Tree Picker Outer” trophy comes up for grabs every year.

This tradition came about after a several-year winning streak by yours truly. When the family twigged to the fact that for two or three years running, I had been the Finder of the Perfect Tree, they revolted.

“Enough!” they shouted, and they set about seeking to wrest the title from my delicate hands.

It’s tough, I’ve learned, being a winner. It puts a bull’s eye on your back; it really does. Hence, our annual trek to the tree has become a good-natured contest to find the best one.

For years we had gotten our trees at a cut-it-yourself place, which the boys have always loved. This year, however, the lure of the Chief proved to be too great. After some discussion, they reluctantly agreed to break with “terdition,” as the nine-year-old calls it, and pick out a precut tree if – and only if – we could get some pints.

“Are we there yet?” I cried, mouth watering at the thought of the butter pecan. Either, I mused, it would be a great way to celebrate winning or I would self-medicate with it if – dark thought – one of the hoodlums won the title.

Imagine, then, the utter dismay that fell upon us when we were greeted with the news that The Last Pint Had Just Been Sold. In a trice, the little mob had chucked the spoons and staged a protest. (PETA only wishes they were so efficient.)

When we caught up to them, they were marching past the firs with homemade signs chanting, “More pints! More pints!” and “I scream, you scream, we all scream…” You get the picture. Adding insult to injury, it was actually the Head Hoodlum who found the perfect tree. Being, of course, unable to ease the pain with butter pecan, I had to settle for carry-out chips and salsa from nearby Hacienda. There was no balm in Gilead.

In reality, it was a blessing for the Hoodlum Mentioned Above. It was a redemption of sorts for him. You see, the first year we ever got a tree, he was the sole picker-outer. Apparently his checklist was about two questions long, including, “Does it have branches?” and, “Are there at least six needles?” Nothing on that list about a trunk, is there?

Big mistake, as he found out after sweating and laboring to get it (with its very crooked trunk) into a reasonably upright position. We had no more than placed the last ornament when the whole thing toppled over at our feet.

As I learned that day, it is entirely possible to tap dance while holding up a tree even though all that’s showing of the Tree King is ankles. I also learned that if you’re going to laugh like a hyena while you’re up to your left armpit in pine needles, you should be standing on the opposite side of the tree. Clearly, someone wasn’t feeling the “ho-ho-ho.”

Then there was the year he ended up on the business end of a pine tree; that is to say, underneath it. To this day he can’t explain how it happened. One minute he was wrestling it in the door and the next minute he was on his back, pinned by a giant pine. Why is it that when you really shouldn’t laugh…?

The boys and I are already making plans for next year. Starting next summer, we’re going to lay in a big supply of butter pecan and mint chip so as not to be caught flatfooted when it’s time for the annual contest. It’s likely that Mr. Winner will be too busy polishing his trophy to notice.

Although, knowing from experience how tiring it can be, carrying that bull’s eye around on your back all year, and since the season is all about sharing, maybe we’ll relent and share a pint or two. Once we hit that lot, however, all bets are off.

Receiving to give - just breathe

2011-12-16T11:04:00.002-05:00

"Are you ready for Christmas?" She drops the question, that curly-haired barista, as I slide into the local Starbucks.

I stop. And think. In a split second, this-this-and-that rush through my mind, things that aren't finished yet or tied neatly with a bow.

I stop and think and then I say, "I am on the inside, but not on the outside."

She grins, kind, and says, "I know what you mean."

It was a conversation I'd had just earlier this morning with another strawberry-blond friend, the one who rushes past in those cute Ugg boots, stopping to talk "life" for several precious moments at my table. I'm trying, I tell her, to do one thing at a time. Just one thing, clinging to peace where it matters, remembering why we're doing any of it anyway.

Why is it such a battle? Why, in this season of beauty and greens and lights and music, does the pressure come crushing, anxiety clenching? Why do I think it must all be done, that nothing less than perfection will do? That it's never enough, and who can measure "perfect" anyway?

Perhaps the key lies there, "battle." For who and what opposed the Babe who was born? And who and what opposes Him still? The kingdom of darkness clashes with the kingdom of light, and we are the casualties, you and I, if we've fallen asleep.

Do you see it, how comparisons and anxiety, expectation and perfection all come at us, horrific weapons wielded by unseen hands, to distract, to deter, to weaken and fatigue us, the redeemed? Perhaps my friend had it exactly right when she told me this: "This is a hectic time. Just be. Don't make yourself do, do, and do. Just be...I will pray for you to let yourself just breathe, and not have to row everyone's boat and yours, too."

And so I stop. Again. And I breathe. In, out. In, out, taking in Jesus who is really and truly the air of the soul. For I cannot fully give to others if I have not myself received the gift.

To you, my friend: Just be. Don't make yourself do, do, and do. Let yourself breathe. Take Him in, receiving His life as yours, and then you, too, will have to give.

What you can miss

2011-12-14T11:11:00.002-05:00

"DQ sells enough bananas each year for banana splits that it would meet the needs of 43,552 monkeys for one full year. That's a lot of monkeys."

That's what it said on the box that held the onion rings. Sitting there at the local Dairy Queen last night post Boy Three's Christmas program, I laughed. Reading it aloud to our own smallish tribe of primates, I couldn't help but think of the hot batch we'd just watched onstage.

It was the seventh-grade show. Stretched across the risers in the high school auditorium, a wriggling, squirming batch of adolescents gathered, nervous and self-conscious, to perform for their assembled parents and grands.

To my right sat my mother, having flown all the way from the wheat belt for B3's show. To her right, B2, the one who dominates the stage as a senior and member of the high school swing choir and drama department. To the left, Mr. Schrock and his father, THE Mr. Schrock with Little perched on his lap. Behind us sat a great-aunt and -uncle, then an "adoptive" set of grands, and the other grandma, Grandma Schrock.

What a difference there was, I thought, listening to the cracking and growling of boys in that awkward 'tween stage, not quite men, but no longer little boys; what a difference between those junior high years and the high school years. What a leap it was from there (middle school) to the juniors and seniors who performed with confidence, dipping, twirling, leaping, and singing out; to the professionalism and superb abilities of the Notre Dame Glee Club we'd enjoyed on Saturday last.

I watched Mr. Middle School, standing stiff, uncomfortable with being in front. Grinning, The Mister leaned over, making a motion with his hands ("I think his lips are moving?"). I nodded. "I think I saw them just now."

Remembering his brother's prayer at the dinner table earlier, I swallowed a cackle. "...and Lord," he'd prayed, "help him to sing good - and loud!"

This coming Saturday, it's The Pray-er's turn. He'll take the stage again with the high school music department, band and all, and we'll tuck in yet one more Christmas event. Knowing it's the last one of his high school career puts a lump in my throat.

This morning, thoughts of firsts and lasts fill my mind. Little's first performance on stage with the Cherub Choir a week or so ago. The last Christmas concert for Boy Two. A seventh-grade performance by Boy Three and his peers, a smaller milestone that could be overlooked...if I wasn't looking.

And that's what I don't want to miss - precious moments, priceless gifts, extraordinary treasures in an ordinary life. We will never pass this way again, you and I. All we've got, really, is today, right now, this moment in time. This moment that's full, if we're looking, of fingerprints divine.

"Oh, grant me, Lord, the gift of eyes wide open, ears that hear, and a heart that's soft to receive the gifts, to embrace The Gift, God in skin, who dwells within."

"If you give a boy a (well, pretty much anything)," mayhem ensues

2011-12-13T09:55:00.002-05:00

Note: This "Grounds for Insanity" column was published in the 12/12/11 edition of my paper of record, The Goshen News. If you give a mother a column...she'll need a nap to go with it.

She must’ve been at my house. Or peeked in the windows, at least. Surely, surely she’s had kids of her own, and that’s how she was able to write it.

“She” is Laura Numeroff, and “it” is her bestselling series of children’s books that started with “If You Give a Mouse a Cookie.” In them, a seemingly benign act (such as giving a mouse a cookie, a moose a muffin, or a pig a pancake) leads to an unexpected series of events that leaves the giver exhausted, shot, collapsed in a heap on the floor.

You can see why it sounds familiar.

There was, after all, the one Sunday afternoon when it all went south, starting at the kitchen sink. Oh, they weren’t shooting for literary excellence, those two. Not in the least. But as an alert relative pointed out later, it read exactly like a Numeroff book.

“If You Give a Boy a Dishcloth” is what I called it afterwards. Even Laura, I think, would be hard pressed to come up with the plot the Schrocklets wrote that day. It went something like this.

“If you give a boy a dishcloth and tell him to wash the dishes so you can take a Sunday nap, he’ll become a U. N. diplomat, a highly-skilled negotiator. He will offer you everything from a week’s allowance to his own firstborn in an attempt to dodge the draft. Wise parent that you are, you’ll bring in the big guns (his father), sticking to your own, and point him again at the sink.

“After considerable delay (snapping his brother with the towel, a couple of chases around the table, and some pointless staring at the bubbles in the sink), he’ll finally begin to wash, giving his brother something to dry.

“In the midst of such monotony, one of them will peer out the window, noting the passage of a squirrel. Dishes forgotten, they’ll rocket into the back room, tracking the squirrel through the window. Seeing that he’s burying acorns under the tree, they rush outside as their parents doze, unaware.

“Digging here, digging there, they find the precious stockpile. They chuckle together at the surprise the squirrel has coming as the dishwater grows cold. While chuckling and exchanging high-fives, it dawns on them that it’s a windy day and that a windy day is good for…? Why, yes. Flying a kite.

“As the enthusiastic kite flyer struggles to get the bird aloft, his brother ambles back indoors to take another crack at those dishes. Wearying at last, The Washer clambers through an upstairs window, presenting suddenly behind his mystified brother. A spirited conversation ensues, ‘How did you…?’ and, ‘Through a secret passage in the pantry. Didn’t you know?’

“It’s right about here that their mother arises to find the dishes barely done and the homework, not at all. The story comes out, the Distracted Ones throw themselves on the mercy of the court, and Mother books an immediate flight to

Fiji

.” At least, that’s how it would end if I were writing the story.

That was a couple of years ago. Despite every effort to head ‘em off at the pass, to shut them down, I have failed, and those kids have done it again. “If You Give a Boy a Nerf Gun” is their latest installment.

“’If you give a boy a Nerf gun,’ the first page would read, ‘or let him buy a gun or three, you deserve what you get. For a boy’s motto, after all, is, ‘Have gun, will shoot.’ And shoot and shoot and shoot.

“The boy with the gun will fire Nerf darts. All over. His brother, feeling besieged, will find his own Nerf gun, firing back indiscriminately. As will a cousin who comes on Thanksgiving Day and brings his, too. Thus, the battlefield (read, ‘house, all levels’) will be littered with orange ammunition, some with whistlers and some with suction cups.

“In the midst of the carnage, the eager combatants will realize that they’re starving. Faces flushed, they and their teeth will present in the kitchen, foraging in the fridge for some of Aunt Iola’s chocolate pie, leftovers from a feast that would’ve made the Pilgrims weep.

“Later, there is maternal shock and outrage when yet another battle breaks out, this time with the erstwhile leader and chief joining his offspring. As they thunder in a circle through the downstairs, shooting darts and slamming doors, the beleaguered mother realizes one thing – her only alternative may be purchasing a gun of her own, something like the Nerf N-Strike Vulcan with extra darts.

“When the boy and his henchmen see Mother’s new gun, it will remind them that they have guns of their own. Seeing the look in her eye, however, they’ll develop a deep and sudden interest in raking the lawn one last time, all three acres. And Mother, chuckling and high-fiving herself, sits down with her coffee in the quiet house and dreams of a trip to Fiji.”

As much as she wishes these would-be titles could be sold in the fiction section, Rhonda Schrock acknowledges, as she steps on, over, and around foam darts, that they’d be stocked in “biographies” instead. Well, shoot.

Jesus smiled

2011-12-12T11:02:00.000-05:00

It's been nearly two years since it arrived, tucked quietly in my inbox that morning as I was booting up, preparing for the day's work. There it was, an email from an uncle in Kansas. My cousin, Twila, had been suffering numerous physical challenges in recent months and years and had recently undergone surgery on her thumb.

Twila is a woman who has lived with a mental disability all of her life. She is a faithful letter writer, according to my mother, and in letters of hers that I've read in the past, I recall her encouraging us to live for Jesus and to stay the course.

What Twila was facing that February day was much more difficult, even, than the thumb surgery. She was preparing to have a mastectomy due to some precancerous cells that the doctors had found.

Here is what her father (my Uncle Willis) wrote that day: "Just a brief note this morning. Twila came upstairs this morning all smiles. She said last night Jesus came and sat on her bed and smiled at her and she smiled back.

"Sometimes God goes the second mile to assure us of His presence."

Thinking of this all these months later, I'm reminded of the viewing that we attended on Saturday last. There at the end of the line of family members was a well-loved pastor who'd finished his race here. This kind, gentle man had preached many a sermon in his trademark down-to-earth style, using stories that drew us in and made it easy to listen.

I'd taught school with him for one year, too, and had shared many teacher meetings around that eight-foot table. Looking at his picture, I could hear once more his chuckle. Could see the kindness in his eyes as he spoke.

The last time I saw him alive, he'd been in a motorized wheelchair at the grocery store. Now, his body, the shell that had housed the "real" him, lay in state, no longer constricting, constraining, or binding the spirit of this one whom God loved.

So happy, so glad that he was running free, flying high, rejoicing with Christ and those who'd gone before, my heart lifted. "Thank you, Lord," I prayed there before his casket. "Thank you for his life and the difference it made."

What a Christmas Pastor Miller (Floyd to us) is having! What a celebration must be under way for another faithful servant who has made it home and has received - in person - Jesus' smile.

Let's finish strong, you and I, knowing that we live in the light of His smile. And one day we, too, shall see it for ourselves with eyes new and clear.

Rejoicing,

Rhonda

Untangling the tinsel

2011-12-09T10:42:00.001-05:00

It was a sage piece of advice. Tucked in amongst others of its kind there at the coffee shop, I grinned when I read the small, wooden sign. "Don't get your tinsel in a tangle," it said.

Tangle, huh? While I regularly "untangle" there in that place with the aroma of fresh-ground beans, the lights in greenery twining, and Christmas music tinkling in the air, I knew just how fast it all got tangled up again upon entering real life back at the house.

With stocking stuffers to buy, a column deadline looming, Christmas programs galore, and an upcoming trip, it could tangle straight into knots, and quick. The proverbial tinsel snarls, spirits fray, and there goes the joy, right past the stockings that hang on the bookcase and out the window.

Ensconced in my favorite "untangle spot" this morning, the corner table by the window, my thoughts turned toward Christmas and what this one smallish mother, wife, transcriptionist, and writer loves about this magical time of year. And a list began to form...

1. Its beauty unique. Period. The greens that speak "life." The lights that mirror the Light of the World. The decorations in the stores.
2. Its sounds - Celine Dion and her matchless voice. Andy Williams crooning the classics. Handel's Messiah sung by a choir that makes me want to weep.
3. Finding exactly the right thing...on sale!
4. Counting with Someone Small, tracking how many nights we have to sleep in our jammies.
5. My mother's caramel candy that is, as Dad says, like gasoline - it evaporates.
6. Laughing like hyenas over a certain game our families play with inside jokes that only we would "get."
7. Staying in PJs way too long and watching movies back to back to back; slipping out of the wrinkled ones long enough to slide into a fresh set. (There should be a federal law mandating this.)
8. The annual Subway platter for the annual slumber(less) party with the boys.
9. The smell of a fresh Christmas tree that can't be captured, bottled, and sprayed to make a fake one seem real.

Even as I think over these things, I can feel it, joy returning, twining like gossamer ribbons through my heart and mind. I recall the comfort of sipping fresh, hot soup, lights twinkling on the Christmas tree just earlier this week; remember those transient, happy moments where peace reigned, if not in the world, then around our table.

From Cousin Sara comes a fabulous recipe for Creamy Wild Rice soup, which The Mister and I love and Boy Three ranked just above "red" chili soup, but just under white chili and taco soups.

1 med. onion, chopped
2 celery ribs, diced
2 carrots, diced
2 c. cooked turkey or chicken
2 c. cooked wild rice
1/2 c. butter
1/2 c. flour
4 c. chicken broth
2 c. half-and-half
1 t. parsley
1/2 t. salt
1/4 t. pepper

Cook vegetables. Melt butter in pot and stir flour into it. Add broth; stir until thickened. Add meat, rice, vegetables, half-and-half, and seasonings. Savor the peace and quiet that falls, taking pictures if desired to preserve the moment for posterity.

Merry Christmas!

What a trip like that can do, Part Two

2011-12-08T09:22:00.001-05:00

And he's back. As promised, Boy Two (a.k.a. Kid Kaboom), one of our two seniors, is in the house today.

It was a mission trip to the Dominican Republic this summer that impacted his life. He'd loved the country, loved the people, loved living on the edge and having new experiences that made his mother cry, "It's good I didn't know!"

Mr. Energy, He Who Jumps From Cliffs Into Small Pools Far Below, is home. He still talks about the country and the people - a lot, plotting and planning, looking for ways to go back and visit the place he fell in love with.

If you didn't catch the first half of the letter he wrote to his supporters when he returned, click here. Today, I share the second and final installment. Here he is, now, in his own words:

"While we were there we focused mainly on the spiritual needs instead of the physical needs, which weren’t as many as we really thought there would be. For six out of the ten days we spent large amounts of our time doing VBS. We split up into three different groups and went to three different churches; Guanabano, Oyo Grande, and Naranjel. My group went to Oyo Grande, the second biggest church. One day Ramiro, a man who helps at the church, took us down to a river that flowed down from the mountains. Us and the Dominicans then started jumping off of a 20-25 foot cliff into the river. It was an experience!

We also, as an entire group, helped bring three people to Christ. We also prayed over a man who was sick and needed a blood transfusion. His family tried asking us, since they think we are all rich, for $600 to send some of his blood to the states to be tested. Knowing we probably didn’t have that much, we prayed over him instead and he was healed! He was one of the people we led to Christ.

Towards the end of our trip, we spent about two and a half days at a resort in the mountains to debrief. It was so we could better learn how to take what we had learned home with us. We then drove up further into the mountains and went swimming in a river with a waterfall. We swam under the waterfall and jumped off a 25-30 foot cliff right beside it. It was awesome! It was a nice ending to our trip. I hope that you now have an idea of what our trip was like and what you contributed to. Once again, do not hesitate to ask me more about my trip. There is much that has been left unsaid. Thank you again for your generosity and prayers. May God bless you ten times the amount that you have blessed me.

Appreciatively,

Jamison

There's so much we didn't know, that mother and I

2011-12-06T09:37:00.002-05:00

Note: This "Grounds for Insanity" column ran in the 12/05/11 edition of The Goshen News, one day after College Kid, our oldest son, turned 22. Un.be.LIEV.able. Wasn't I that naive young mother, kissing his dark, dark hair only days ago?

I always wanted to be a mother. As a girl, I played house with my dollies, taking them to church, shushing them when they cried, and kissing their plastic heads.

Looking back at that girly girl, playing with her dolls, I realize now that there was a lot she didn't know. This morning over fresh-ground coffee, this mother of 22 years scratched out a list of 10 things she didn't know then that she knows now.

I didn't know (how could I) just how completely a tiny, helpless scrap of humanity can capture the heart and hold it forever. From that first whooshing heartbeat and the first butterfly brushes, a mother's heart is never again her own. For all eternity, it enlarges, walking and pulsing and moving outside of her body; in my case, in the shape of a blue-eyed boy with rooster tails. Times four.

I didn't know that the size of a mother's heart is always changing, stretching to embrace each new baby that comes, and then growing again to love their friends and then their own families.

I never knew, as I changed my dolly's dress, how many reasons there are to worry when you're a mama. Didn't know about the nighttime vigils with a feverish infant. Didn't know the anxiety of separation, the terror that floods when you turn around in the grocery store and he’s gone. Didn't know about the fear of the pond next door or the concern that pays for swimming lessons. Didn't know the thousand-and-one reasons that keep a mother awake, whispering prayers on her pillow in the dark.

No one told me that loving so much means that you will hurt hard and keen; that what pains your child hurts you even more. I didn't know that a playground taunt travels through that smaller heart and lands square in yours, stinging and burning like fire. I didn't know that motherhood makes lionesses of us all and that there'd be days I'd have to bite my tongue and pray to “not sin.”

I didn't know how exhausting it is, being a mother. I didn't know that it takes everything you've got and then some. Didn't know the bone-deep exhaustion; how it strips you bare and shows you how selfish you can be, but, too, that you have more strength than you know.

I didn't know, playing house, how much joy mothers feel; joy so big that it makes up for the pain. Just looking at those eyes and the curve of the cheek can make you so happy it hurts. Watching them grow and find their talent and win at something...all the money in the world can never buy that kind of happiness.

I didn't know how making babies and raising them, living through the first smile, the first tooth, the grade school concerts, and the driver's license - sharing all of that, how it binds you to their father. I didn't know the intimacy you feel when your eyes meet above those tousled heads, and your smiles say, "Just look at what we've done."

That girl in the homemade dress, she didn't know that letting go is one of the hardest things a grown-up mama will ever do. Rocking those dollies in that small rocking chair, she didn't really know that babies grow up and walk away and there goes your heart, out into the big, wide world. No one told her that part.

I had no idea how rewarding it is, being a mother. How the happiness that comes from boy kisses and awkward hugs can't be bought or sold. How proud you feel when you see what they're growing up to be and that all the planting and pruning and watering and feeding are finally making fruit.

I didn't know how much my babies would enrich my spiritual life or how they’d change the way I pray. I didn't realize they would lead me to a deeper dependence on the Heavenly Father or how I much I would need His wisdom to raise them aright.

Today, in this Advent season, I’m thinking of another mother. And I wonder.

Did she know, that young girl living in another time, another place, what awaited her? Did she grasp the nearly-incomprehensible truth that she was carrying divinity in her womb? That the Saviour, the hope of all the earth, was growing just beneath her heart?

She couldn’t have known, surely, how she would suffer. Couldn’t have anticipated the nighttime flights; the anxiety of separation; the host of evil arrayed against her child that would one day kill him.

But the joy. She couldn’t have guessed that, either. For faithful obedience, in spite of pain and suffering, brings great reward.

We aren’t Mary, you and I, and it’s not Jesus we’re tucking in. But we’re nurturing those He loves.

Just as the Father’s hand was over her, so it covers us as we walk in faithful obedience. And just as she now knows “joy unspeakable and full of glory,” so we will know it, too, one day. Keep walking, faithful mother. Keep walking.

The prayer I can't pray

2011-12-05T10:41:00.001-05:00

Those of us who know Jesus, who have turned away from the "old" and now walk in the "new," we have the unspeakable privilege of being guided, instructed, and led by the very Spirit of Christ. It is a reality - a living truth - that we hear His voice and we have His mind. Learning how to live that truth in everyday socks is a difficult thing. Or it was difficult, for this girl, at least, for a very long time.

If you've been reading the blog for any length of time, you know that the last 24 months have been a period of extended trial and testing, a season of waiting on Him. And yet it's been right here in the desert of unpleasant circumstances and discomfort that I have heard His voice so very clearly, and the desert, as I've told you, has blossomed.

For days and weeks and months I'd been calling out, asking for deliverance. For days and weeks and months, He'd given me promise upon promise of provision and care and blessing. To those, I clung. And waited and called.

Today, I wait still. Nothing has changed. My outward circumstances remain the same (though somewhat easier than before). Nothing is different in my daily demands and routines. Deliverance, I am certain, is coming, though I've not yet seen it with my eyes.

What has changed is the way I'm led to pray. Where before I would cry multiple times a day, "Lord, deliver me from..." now I sense His staying hand.

"No." I hear His voice.

"Don't ask Me for deliverance anymore. I want you to thank Me for the deliverance that is coming."

Ooohhhh. So that's the next step? That's how You want me to show I believe? This would please you, Jesus? A faith that celebrates, even now in the midst of the same-same daily grind? Then, yes!

"Yes!" to praying gratitude before I see the answer.

"Yes!" to showing I believe by grasping the promise with both hands, hanging tight.

"Yes!" to dropping the last remnants of self-pity and doubt like yesterday's dirty clothes.

"Yes!" Because that's the heart He loves.

Thank You, sweet Jesus, for the deliverance that will come...

"For He has delivered me from all my troubles." - Psalm 54:7

Note: This is an edited post from the archives. Still, I wait. Still I cling. Still I trust in deliverance sure and true.

When the joy slips away

2011-12-02T12:43:00.004-05:00

And there it went. Pressure squeezing pulse right up, sending thoughts whirling, anxiety rising. It should.not.BE.like.this. It shouldn't.

Looking up verses on "rest" this morning, I find it there in Hebrews: "There remains a rest for the people of God." For anyone who enters His rest ceases from their own work, just as God did from His.

Big sigh. Yes. That's where I need to be.

Thinking over the schedule, I change plans, grabbing Little straight from Daddy and heading for town. If I stop at the house and grab the coupons, I can swing by the mall and get those two things I'm needing. I'll rush him through and we'll stop here and here, rushing home, and I will just have killed a whole flock of birds with one precious stone.

Only there's this in the checkout line: "Mama, I have to go potty so-so-so bad!" Can't you wait? "No!" When I see him do "The Dance," I know he means it. Rats.

The lady at the register, doing her job, "Would you like this special, this offer, or that one? Or how about pre-buying this movie?" I smile politely, inwardly gritting teeth, "No, no, and no thank you," before whisking Little as fast as his small legs can go allllll the way down to the restroom.

"Exchange his nightlight," Mister says, handing me the pieces. Obedient, I dash past the service desk, dropping it off before rushing through the aisles and filling my cart. Why aren't there any decent chips on sale? Looking, looking...

We're finally, finally in the checkout lane when it hits me - I've forgotten to pick up a new light for him, my unsettled, tiny nighttime sleeper. You've got to be kidding me. And I haven't typed a word yet today!

Rushing (what else?) with him to the back of the store (of course), I find the lights. Looking...looking...now where in the world?

There's one left. Snatching it up, we whisk back up to the counter, only to find that the line has exploded. They're multiplying like rabbits. They are! What...?

Little, chipper, is singing, showing his new light, spreading cheer while Mama steams, fumes, trying not to look like she's losing her religion.

Hawk-eyed child that he is, he'd noticed the Starbucks we'd passed on our way in. Foolish girl that I am, I'd said, "I will, but later." Now, hearing the clock banging in my head, I make a counter offer. However, he's resolute, and no amount of persuasive words can convince him to swap hot chocolate for a cheeseburger or chicken nuggets from McD's. Lord, help me not to lose it here.

We trot to the counter and place our order with the friendly barista. She smiles, stirring his drink. "He's your youngest, isn't he?" Oh. She remembers me. This isn't my regular place, but she remembers that I have boys and that I write. Cheerfully, we trade talk about our small fry, and she slides our drinks across the counter.

He exclaims over the Christmas cup and hops into his car seat, joy filled, small heart happy. Mama, sighing again, slides in behind the wheel.

And pictures Jesus sitting to the right. She thinks of the Advent calendar she's just picked up at the bookstore, and of the season's gifts. She wonders if maybe - maybe? - the gift He'd like most is a heart at rest, a heart at peace, a spirit filled with joy, content to sit at His feet. Content to be. Content to breathe Him in and out, drawing in grace, exhaling worship.

And you? How do you keep your Christmas joy in the midst of the madness? Your thoughts would be just lovely to hear.

When she's better than you

2011-11-30T10:58:00.001-05:00

It's a deadly game we play, for sure. For some, it's been a lifelong struggle, a continuous trap, an ugly default that's just - there. At least it has for me.

I'm talking about that awful Comparison Game. Not having enough time, space, or wisdom to dissect the whole kaboodle and analyze from whence it springs, I do know this - its fruit is ghastly, and inevitably, one of two things happens. Either I feel inferior or I feel superior, neither of which is good.

I confessed it here a few days ago, how I'd found her blog, looked at her work, and immediately done the one thing I ought not. I'd compared hers to mine, mine to hers, and had come up small.

Just that quick, jealousy had come knocking, then discouragement, discontentment, and a vague sense of failure. Then, the ride to the coffee shop and that holy whisper ("embrace the smallness, embrace the stillness") bringing some relief.

Comparisons. My work. Their work. Where I'm at. Where they're at. Numbers. Stats. Comments. Hits. All of it rolling around and around, bringing unrest.

In trying to navigate safely through this minefield, there are a few things I've come to realize that have helped a lot.

1. First, I know that God has a plan for me. As I was wrestling with this again, thinking of another's obvious talent and success, this is what The Wonderful Counselor said, "What is that to thee? Follow thou me." So gently did He say it, that I felt no sting; only a refocus, a redirection of my gaze to His face.

2. I must realize that He has a plan for her (or him or them), and His plans for us are not the same. Often, as I'm plowing through this stuff, I will feel the urge to pray blessing over whoever-it-is and their work. This, I think, is a powerful tool for fighting this temptation. (Note: Why do we think that another's success leaves less opportunity for us, as though there's only so much to go around? Nuh-uh. Not in God's economy.)

3. Thirdly, it's true. I'm not her (or him or them). I can't possibly be. I'm not intended to be. But...

4. But she's not me, either. She (or he or they) have something special and wonderful to bring to the world. And so do I (and you and you). Faithfully using our individual talents and abilities and opportunities, we work together and get God's work done.

Now, that's something to celebrate! That's something to shout about. Together, working. Together, praying. Together, changing the world.

From X-Ray Day to the one I won't touch, there's lots to celebrate

2011-11-29T09:06:00.001-05:00

Note: This "Grounds for Insanity" column was published in the 11/28/11 edition of The Goshen News. There's lots to celebrate, so what're you sittin' there for? Wahoo and woot-woot!

“Silent Night.” That’s what’s playing even as we speak. Ready or not, here it comes.

Didn’t we just do this? Weren’t we celebrating mere weeks ago in thatcabin on a Tennesseemountain? It sure seems like it, butapparently someone hit the fast-forward button, and here we are again.

Thanksgiving and Christmas may dominatethe holiday calendar, that’s not all that’s going on. November alone is chock full of reasons tocelebrate. After all, it’s Spinach andSquash Month. Yes, it is.

So you’re not Popeye, and youdon’t like leafy greens? You can hop inanyway and give a few yips with those of us who do.

That’s not all. It’s National Peanut Butter Lovers Month aswell. College Kid will love this. When it comes to peanut butter, a shovel’s hisutensil, and Roto-Rooter’s his friend. That’s how much he loves it. Thefamily knows it, too, and buys him big jars of it to celebrate the day he (andhis jaws) showed up.

November’s also the month forX-Ray Day. I don’t know what you weredoing on the 8^th, but I’m pretty sure you missed a great chance toobserve this by having something (your spleen perhaps?) x-rayed. I know I did.

We missed another good one whilewe were at it. Plan Your Epitaph Day wason the 2^nd. Yes, it was. We could take a moment now to work on it, youand me. How about this, “Looks like thecoffee finally ran out.”

Well, rats. It’s harder than it looks. But, hey. We can take another crack at it next year.

I’ll tell you one I won’t missagain. That’s Give Wildlife a BreakWeek, which ran the first full week of November. I am not making this up.

My plan, though, is to tweak itbefore pumping it like mad with our crowd. Here, I’m instituting Give Mom a Break Week with our very local, um,“wildlife.” Oh, they might moan andgroan and gnash their teeth, but a week of washing dishes and tidying up won’tkill ‘em. They’ll just make it soundlike it is. I’m not making that up,either.

I see that Better ConversationWeek ran at the back end of November. Good thinking. If I give thelocals several weeks to cool down from their week of angst, they’ll be limberedup and ready for some “better conversation.”

And one day, pigs will fly. A girl can hope, though, can’t she? That, and she can prep some flip charts,taking one more crack at the basics. “Fellas,” she’ll say, “’good,’ ‘nice,’ and ‘fine’ aren’t adjectives, andgrunting doesn’t count.” Proving onceagain that in some foolish hearts, hope still springs eternal.

So I may be foolishly optimistic,but I do know better than to participate in the festivities that were held onthe 8^th. Are youkidding? As the mother of four sons, Iwouldn’t touch Cook Something Bold and Pungent Day with a 10-foot pole – or aPampered Chef spatula. Not even with asturdy Israeli gas mask on hand. Nuh-uh. No way.

That’s because what you cook iswhat you’ll get. You know, sowing andreaping and all that? The repercussionsmay be delayed, but they are certain. And right there, without even knowing it, I was observing Use YourCommon Sense Day.

Finally. An observance I didn’t miss for once, even ifit was strictly self-defense.

November also offers manyopportunities to be aware of this, that, and the other thing. For instance, it’s National Marrow AwarenessMonth. Were you aware of this? Me, either. I mean, I know it’s there, but I can’t claim a daily awareness of mymarrow.

Over here, Marrow Awareness Monthhas been crowded out by Boot Awareness Month. I’m short a pair. Mr. Schrock,being keenly aware of this, feels strongly that I need some, and we’redisagreeing on what kind.

The difference boils down to aboy-girl thing. Oh, and a winter-loveragainst a not-so-much. He revels in allthings winter, including blizzards, arctic temps, frozen extremities, andtromping around in the snow. Onpurpose.

I’m a reveler, too. I’d just rather do it indoors. No blizzards, no arctic temps, no frozenextremities, and no tromping around in the snow on purpose.

Tromper that he is, he’s thinkingchunky “boot” boots that weigh 10 pounds each and have tractor treads on thebottom, the kind you use to ski in Aspen or to hike the Himalayas. I’m thinking a cute, not-20-pound,what-everyone-else-is-wearing pair that isn’t really meant for skiing in Aspen or hiking the Himalayas.

I’m sure we’ll figure thisout. Once we do, maybe we’ll start a newDay of Awareness. He can celebrate(wahoo!) by hiking outdoors and building a snowman, and I’ll rejoice indoors (yippee!)as I look at my new boots, happily aware that I can feel all my fingers andtoes. Sounds like common sense tome.

Embrace the small; embrace the still

2011-11-28T10:15:00.003-05:00

It happened again. Driving along in the predawn darkness on my way to the coffee shop, there it came.

As I often do when driving alone, I was speaking aloud my heart, my concerns, picturing Jesus Himself in the seat to the right. Thinking, thinking, praying...

Here and there went my thoughts, from this to that to the other thing, telling Him, the One who knew. Briefly, they landed on the sore, the thorn I'd picked up the other day when I ran across her blog. I'd done the one thing I ought not - I'd compared. Mine to hers, hers to mine, and I'd come up small. In nearly every way.

On raced my thoughts, praying once more to love Him more, to know for sure His love for me, before landing briefly on the tight, small place in which I find myself now. And then it came.

"Embrace the smallness. Embrace the stillness." It was His voice. Not audible to the listening ear, perhaps, but ringing clear and true to the ears of my heart.

"One day, you, too, will be greatly used. But for now, embrace these two." So gentle, so loving was the Voice that my troubled spirit quieted with a simple, "Yes, Lord."

Settled, finally, at my favorite table, the corner one with the lamp, coffee in hand, I opened the Word. Then, before starting the column, I turned to my other source of daily bread, "God Calling." And heard again His voice:

"The joy of meeting Me should more and more fill your (life). Your (life) must first of all be narrowed down more and more, into an inner circle life with Me, and then, as that friendship becomes more and more engrossing, more and more binding, then, gradually, the circle of your interests will widen.

"For the present, do not think of it as a narrow life. I have My purpose, My loving purpose, in cutting you away from other work and interests for the time. When (you have) gained strength and learned (your) lessons in the inner circle, it (will then) widen, working this time from within, out, taking to each contact, each friendship, the inner circle influence. And this is to be your way of life."

Inner-circle life. Inner-circle influence. If that's what I desire, then I must embrace the smallness, the stillness of today. During this time of relative solitude, of "smallness" in many ways, He and I are becoming friends. I am learning to trust Him more. Learning to love Him more.

And the rest? Well, that's up to Him. For now, I'm embracing today; embracing Jesus, and finding, in the end, that He is really all I need.

And just today, I found others sharing stories at "Chatting at the Sky," Tuesdays Unwrapped. Happy to link, too.

Family's holidays include fun, frivolity, and - felons?

2011-11-26T10:30:00.001-05:00

Note: This "Grounds for Insanity" column first ran in the 12/03/07 edition of The Goshen News. It was actually the very first Thanksgiving column written by this very green, just-starting columnist, and on November 5, 2011, we celebrated its fourth "birthday." Wow. What else is there to say?

We were all a bit sleep deprivedthis week after our big Thanksgiving hoo-ha. With two of Mr. Schrock's siblings and their families here from

Georgia

, we celebratedThanksgiving, Christmas, and Happy New Year’s in one exhausting, three-daymarathon. That’s either efficiency orlunacy.

Personally, our holidayfestivities began in a rather inauspicious manner. If you really must know why we were late forthe turkey, I guess I’ll tell you. Wewere at a Wakarusa detective’s house having our oldest son uncuffed. Now before you add him to your church hotlineor send money for bail, let me finish. They were toys – yes, toys, which really makes this embarrassing.

You see, this son has always beena curious one, so it should be no surprise that he would spot a pair of toycuffs lying around and slap them on one wrist “just to see how it felt.” Sadly, his little brother waited until theyclicked to tell him that there was no key. Oops! No key and no visiblerelease mechanism, either. Moreover, inhis furious search for such a mechanism, he managed to click it on eventighter, thereby eliminating plan B – a bolt cutter.

Thus, his father made an embarrassedphone call to a friend that he runs with, the detective, whose seventh-gradeson was actually the hero that day. Asour eldest slunk up their drive in his letter jacket, dangling handcuffs tuckedout of sight up the sleeve, his worried mother sent up a quick plea for divineintervention while visions of gangrenous eruptions followed by a bloodyamputation danced in her head. A vividimagination is not always a blessing.

Again, it was Casey, the seventhgrader, who saved the day. Handing overthe key to one of his old pairs, he said, “You can have it. I don’t play with them anymore.”

“Neither do I,” blustered thesenior while a virtual chorus of ewes may have been heard bleating in thebackground, so sheepish was he.

The handcuffs (with the key) werean unqualified hit at the family gathering. Word reached us at the dining room table that our second son had beenspotted lying face down in the kitchen beneath a small, enthusiastic band ofcousins who had apparently deputized themselves and were making a citizen’sarrest. Boy, give ‘em a pair of metalbracelets and they all become crime fighters, fearless defenders of truth,justice, and the American way.

As one might imagine, with 14grandkids – 10 boys and 4 girls – it is difficult to have a meaningful,uninterrupted conversation. We adultsdecided to remedy the situation on Friday.

It’s just gratifying, somehow, to know that the old standby stillworks. You know, the one where you pointand shout, “What’s that over there?” and when they turn their little heads tolook, you flee the premises, hole up at the coffee shop, and quit takingcalls.

In theory, that’s how itgoes. It’s amazing how the long arm ofthe law (see aforementioned “deputies”) can reach all the way to Nappanee fromHoneyville and Wakarusa. There weretexts, “U better bring me a bar!” Therewere phone calls, “When are you coming home,” to which we chorused in unison,“Tomorrow!” to a stunned silence on the other end.

We had a great time that morning,drinking coffee and nibbling scones while catching up on our lives, all ofwhich is easier to do when you’re not helping someone go potty or plucking twoor more crumb crunchers off the rafters. Then, because we really do love our kids, we moseyed home to pick themup.

The next stop wasShipshewana. With our nine-year-oldhaving birthday money for the Thomas store burning such a hole in his pocketthat a skin graft was imminent, it was crucial that we go. It doesn’t hurt, of course, that the hotpretzels are a mere two floors below that. Those alone are worth the 45-minute drive. We had another ritual family gathering overthe pretzels and cheese before swapping kids for sleepovers and finally callingit a day.

Really, the Schrock clan didnothing exotic this year – no family cruise, for instance. We were just together, laughing, talking,eating, meeting the newest nephew, shooting in the air periodically to calm therowdy mob – just normal family stuff. But that’s what makes a holiday memorable. It’s the “ineffable holiness of smallthings,” as someone has said. It’s heartstuff.

May you see the ineffableholiness in your own “small things” this season.

No ungrateful lepers, we

2011-11-23T10:26:00.001-05:00

"Where are the nine?"

He's just done it again. Jesus, Gentle Healer, heart beating full with love for those castoffs, speaks a word and heals the lepers. His word alone, going forth, makes them clean, and they run, leaping and shouting, to spread the word.

Suddenly, one turns. Running, he throws himself prostrate, face down, before Him. And there, over the precious feet of God-in-skin, he gives thanks.

Surely He smiles, looking down at that man, flesh all pink and whole. Surely grateful tears drip down, marking trails of joy 'cross His dusty sandals. This one who'd known rejection, known suffering and loneliness keen, has been branded forever, changed by the one who came for the last, the lost, and the least.

And then the question. "Weren't there 10? Where are the nine?"

Do you hear it? Did you catch it, that note in His voice? Feel the longing of His heart to be loved, thanked, appreciated, not taken for granted?

How is it that we forget this, that we were made in His image, His breath in our lungs, His heart beating within, His very life flowing in our veins? How?

If we cry, it's because He does. If we laugh, it's because He laughs. If we feel sorrow or pain or joy or pleasure, it's because He does, too. And if we long to be loved, well, then - how much more does He?

We're the lepers, you and I, set square outside the city gates; rejected, barred, abandoned there in our rags, our feeble attempts at righteousness. And then He came.

He loves to hear our thanks. Fully God, fully man, He, too, longs to be loved, loves to be praised, and is happy (yes, He is) when we say "thank you." No ungrateful lepers, we. No longer, for we are healed, and we give thanks.

That's all. That's my Thanksgiving word for us both today. It need not be some great effort; a striving, guilt-driven work. Just a simple, "Thank you, Lord, for this blessing today." And for that one, and this one, and that one, too. Just - thank you.

And now, you? You may whisper it here, a simple thanks, if you'd like...

Grandma's visit brings out the professor in Mom

2011-11-22T09:14:00.001-05:00

Note: This "Grounds for Insanity" column was published in the 11/21/11 edition of The Goshen News. Sign-ups for Professor Mom's courses will commence shortly. Stay tuned.

“For fools rush in where angelsfear to tread.” Mr. Pope must’ve beenthinking of me when he wrote that line.

I’ll admit it here; I’m no angel,which probably makes me that other thing. Given what I’m about to do, I’m afraid I’m about to prove it, too. And now, if we could all move to prayer, witha tetanus shot on the side…

Here’s what’s happening. Boy Two is performing in NorthWood’s falldrama. That’s not news. The kicker, the trigger, the bottom line ofthe whole deal is this – Grandma’s coming. And that means only one thing.

Just the thought of it makes mebreak out in a cold sweat. There goesthe heart rate, pounding like a high school percussion section hopped up onespresso. My vision is blurring, mymouth’s gone dry, and I can see a white light.

Oh, wait. That’s just the preschooler, playing withBrother’s Rayovac krypton lantern again. “Put that back, you little monkey!”

Anyway, if you’ve not had boyswho drip and drop and plop their socks, who smear the sink with paste, and whouse the same towels for way too long, you won’t “get” my angst. You won’t understand, either, my franticsearch for a Hazmat suit, size 2, if you’ve not deep cleaned a boy’sbathroom.

It’s not that it never getsdone. Caring mother that I am,character, responsibility, and familial teamwork are big with me. It’s just that in general (please hold thevats of boiling oil and flaming arrows), the ability to deep clean doesn’t comenatural to boys. Generallyspeaking. Which is why they’reautomatically enrolled in “The Proper Care and Cleaning of a Lavatory” byProfessor Mom.

If Kevin Leman is right andself-esteem is fostered by contributing to the family, I can find any number ofways to build. Including tubs andsinks. The fact that I may have daughters-in-lawwho will throw flowers and “blessed art thou’s” like confetti one day is anancillary issue. Really. It is.

The promotional brochures that I hadprinted up state, “Participants will become fully proficient at removingtoothpaste from sinks, polishing mirrors to a sparkle, obliteratingring-around-the-tub, and leaving behind a floor that could be eaten off of oroperated on.

“Classes include ‘how to wield atoilet brush,’ ‘101 squeegee techniques,’ and ‘polishing a toilet tank ‘til youcan see your own reflection.’ Allequipment is provided.

“Upon successful completion ofthis course, students will undergo a pinning ceremony, receiving a ‘MasterJanitor’ badge and their very own industrial-grade janitorial kit.”

The pictures on the back showbeaming graduates receiving their pins, squeegees thrust aloft in triumph. In the last photo, the air is filled with thebrushes they’ve thrown high in true West Pointstyle. Their faces all shout, “I canclean! My self-esteem is high!”

I’m still waiting for the currentclass of one to graduate. Possessing“Junior Janitor” credentials isn’t going to cut it, and that’s why I’m headingin, gloved, masked, and suited up, to get ready for Grandma.

I’m actually thinking of addingsome classes to my repertoire. Forinstance, I’m seeing a course on the art of fixing a bed, something along thelines of “How to Make a Bed with Military Precision.” In it, students would learn techniques formaking a bed you can bounce a quarter off of.

They’d learn the importance ofswiping crumbs briskly using a side-to-side motion; these, naturally, from thesnacks they smuggled upstairs like chicken poachers and munched by flashlight beneaththe covers.

Maybe I’ll add this one, “How toFloat Across Mother’s Freshly-Mopped Floor Without Leaving Any Tracks.” Talk about rushing in where angels fear totread…sometimes a little bit of fear is a good thing. That’s all I’m saying.

Another great one would be “Howto Run a Washing Machine Using Your Two Unbroken Arms.” I have a hunch this would be a sellout, seeingas how the course would be just packed with helpful tutorials.

I’d start with “How to ActuallyPlace Your Socks Into the Hamper.” Thenwe’d practice carrying the hamper all the way down to the laundry room. This could take weeks.

From there, we’d move tosorting. (No, no, you can’t put a redT-shirt in with your white skivvies, not unless you’re cool with pinkunderwear. From your pasty expressions,I assume you’re not.)

By late spring, we’d get to thereal meat of the course – loading the machine. It shouldn’t take more than a few weeks to walk them through addingdetergent and knowing which buttons to push.

The fact that thousands of womenwould throw flowers and “blessed art thou’s” like confetti is an ancillaryissue to this Professor Mom. Really. It is. I just want to help the little doobers withtheir self-esteem.

Oh. And I’d just like to have a clean bathroomwhen Grandma comes.

If you’re reading this, it means that “Professor Mom” found the suit,cleaned like mad, and lived to tell about it. So did Grandma.

What a trip like that can do

2011-11-21T10:17:00.001-05:00

And he's back. Yup, Kid Kaboom (one of my two seniors) is in the house.

You may have seen him in Friday's post (if not, skip down below). If you know him at all (or if you read the post), you'll know that he came wired with a burden for the lost, a passion to tell them about Christ, and the courage to do so. Frequently.

Last summer, he had the wonderful opportunity to go to the Dominican Republic with an IMPACT team from our church. It was life changing for him, and when he got back, he wrote the following letter to those who had supported him with their prayers and hard-earned dollars.

I thought about it again when he received a lovely postcard from a far-away auntie just last week, thanking him for his letter and rejoicing with him over the chance he'd had to go. If you enjoyed the essay he wrote in English class this fall, you will like this letter, I think. Since it's rather long, it will be a two-part series. Here he is, in his own words:

"First of all, Iwould like to thank everybody who donated money and prayed for me while on thistrip. It would not have been possible without either. God chose me to go onthis trip and he used you as his means of sending me. I am very appreciative ofall your generosity you have shown me. For out of your generosity my life hasbeen changed and I’ve been given a new perspective on life. It is also becauseof your generosity that I think you deserve to hear some of what I did and whatmy trip was like. Keep in mind, I will not be able to cover nearly everything I would like to inthis letter, so if you ever see me in person, feel free to ask me more about mytrip and I will be happy to oblige.

For starters, westayed in the Dominican for ten days. It was pretty hot with not really any ACto run to. It usually stayed somewhere in the 90’s. But we just sweated it outwith the Dominicans in hot, sticky, brotherly love. We stayed in a hotel thatwas considered “cush”for missions standards, though in my room we had four guys, some of them on thelarger side, that had to sleep together literally cheek to cheek on a three manbed. I think we really got to know each other better on this trip.

We rode everywherewith half the team piled on top of each other in the back of a pickup, and theother half scrunched together cheek to jowl in the van. People would hang outthe side windows and door so that the occasional Dominican could pile in withus too. Quena, the woman that ran all the churches we went to, made all of ourmeals, with the help of a few others, which was a real feat. I considered theirservant hood one of the first lessons I learned there. I don’t think I willever complain again when I am getting the house ready for when my Grandma and GrandpaYoder come to visit. Well, or at least not as much." To be continued...

A senior moment

2011-11-18T09:59:00.001-05:00

Good Pete. Where on earth have the days, weeks, and months flown since a dark-haired baby boy showed up three weeks early (and hasn't been early since)? Where, I ask you, whimpering? Where?

Just this week, he came home with a CD in his pocket, loaded with (swallowing hard) his senior pictures. Eager, Mother flashed upstairs the next morning, tearing through them, smiling at some (yup, that's so him), frowning at others (not so much).

Like this one (it's him):

And this one. It is, too:

And DEFinitely this one:

While our TIBJ (Tornado in Blue Jeans), dancer, and performer extraordinaire is a very deep thinker, you won't see him sitting around like this too often (although he could be thinking up a new prank to pull on his brother. Or his mother. There is that):

Just this morning, I took him for breakfast at the coffee shop to celebrate the grade in that one hard class that exempted him out of finals. "Oh, goodness." I texted his father afterward. "Your kid is a talk talk talkety talker. Not like ur first kid. Or ur third one." This, after I could scarcely get him to head for school. ("Oh, and two more things I forgot to tell you, Mom...")

A happy-go-lucky fellow, he is a born evangelist, this one, quick-witted as all get out, and in his leading role in last weekend's drama, brought down the house. His parents shake their heads, knowing that they never had his ease up on the stage.

In spite of his comfort with a stage, a spotlight, and a microphone, he is comfortable, too, behind the scenes, going where many kids don't go - to the underdogs. To the Goths sitting alone in the lunch room. To the kid on the bus who quietly tells her secrets ("I cut myself" and "my stepfather abuses me"). To the agnostic in the halls and in the parking lot, he talks about Jesus and sees God's hand at work in everyday circumstances.

Of all my boys, he's probably worn me out the most with his high energy, strong will, and his thorn-in-the-flesh (ADD), which any mother of such a kid knows, becomes hers, too. For such mamas, God is kind, knowing when to give glimpses of fruit, the payoff for all their hard work, that keeps them going, keeps them working, keeps them trying.

Looking at each other in dismay over the head of our strong-willed toddler, I'd murmur to his father, "When this one grows up, something's gonna move and shake. Just what, I don't know. But something will." His dad would nod, and we'd sigh. Then we'd smile, and sigh again.

And then it happened. All at once, he was grown. In every way, maturing, finally; blossoming, finding his niche and using his gifts. In spite of us.

It's worth it - it is! - all the pruning and weeding, the watering and feeding, the trimming and transplanting and plain hard work that "gardeners (aka parents)" do in the training of their charges. That we do to prepare our birdies for flight.

God sees. He hears, He knows, and He helps.

Fly strong, son. Fly well.

Waiting, back row

2011-11-16T08:39:00.001-05:00

"I don't know what God wants anymore. I don't know if there's something I'm doing, not doing...I have no idea why He's waiting."

It was Monday morning, a writing day, and I was laying it out, baring my spleen to a couple of friends who'd stopped by my table. She listened quietly, face intent, and then she spoke.

She began to tell me of a book she was reading even now, the story of a woman (gifted, truly, with much to give) who'd been used powerfully by God up front, onstage, making a difference. And then.

All at once, she'd been removed from the stage, not by her choice, and set, quite literally, in the back row. She told, the writer did, of her struggle. Of the flailing and kicking. The wrestling and grappling. Of the terrible difficulty in accepting her new back-row seat. She told of finding there, on that bench in the back, that Jesus was there, and joy (my paraphrase).

My friend told me how the Lord had been using the story in her own life. How He'd said to her, "It's not you. You've done all you can do. You've faithfully done all that I've asked. Now you're at the end, and it's up to Me." She told how she'd moved to the back row, to a spot out of the way, and that Jesus was there, and joy.

I cannot tell you, can scarcely put into words, what it meant. Listening, I thought of my own place of waiting. Thought of my own struggles and why's and when's and those countless "what else do I need to do's?" that I'd thrown up in desperation. I thought of all of the restraints the Lord had placed (yes, ordained) for now, and the God-breathed, God-sized dreams tucked closely, silently within my heart.

I saw it all that day.

This morning, there is peace. That's because I'm taking Isaiah's advice, "In returning and rest shall ye be saved. In quietness and confidence shall be your strength."

I'm returning to that seat in the back; returning to wait quietly, confident that He's got it all in hand and that this season in the back is only that - a season.

I'm returning, for I see Jesus there, and joy.

Through uncertainty and joy, celebrating 13 years

2011-11-15T09:52:00.001-05:00

Note: This "Grounds for Insanity" column was published in the 11/14/11 edition of The Goshen News.

It was a big one by anyaccount. It marked, in its silentpassage, the transition from childhood to adulthood. Marked the turning of a boy with all thesweetness and innocence of those early years, right into a man. Not yet fully grown, to be sure, or fullymature, but a young man nonetheless.

To celebrate the event, hisfather had taken him for breakfast, stealing away before the sun arose for someenchiladas and pastries at the coffee shop, then dropping him off atschool. His mother had baked a cake(chocolate with chocolate chips) and made a family favorite, wet burritos, fortheir dinner.

His little brother, caught up inthe excitement, sang the song over and over, believing, as children do, that onyour day, the whole world stops and you’re a king.

How quickly the years hadflown. The mother of the celebrantpaused, remembering.

She remembered their joy when thestick turned pink. Remembered thehappiness of the older two upon hearing the news. Remembered (how could she forget) the firsttwinges, those first signs that all was not well.

Thinking back, she recalled theoffice visit. Recalled lying there,blood running cold, as the physician performed an emergency ultrasound. She could see him still, countenance grave,and hear his words, “It’s not a matter of if this baby will be early,” he’dsaid, shooting straight. “It’s ‘howearly will he be?’”

Looking her in the eye, he’dsaid, “Your life is about to change, young lady. You’re going to bed.” Then, as tears of shock and fear rolled downher face, he’d taken her hands and began to pray, “Lord, we know that none ofthis has caught You by surprise…”

Life for that small family changeddramatically that day. For 2-1/2 months,the mother rested in bed. For 2-1/2months, the young husband and father stepped up, covering not only his duties,but hers as well. And for 2-1/2 months,they were blessed and blessed again by the love of Christ, ministered throughthe hearts, hands, and feet of others.

Once more, the mother (older now)breathed a prayer of blessing on those willing servants. For meals brought in. For regular house cleanings. For cards in the mail. For warm, professional care by those nurseswho came weekly. “Lord, bless…”

And once more, she thanked theGentle Shepherd, the Great Physician who’d kept them through it all. Who’d answered countless prayers with a smileof favor, answer all shaped like a baby boy, perfectly healthy, perfectly ontime. “Thank You…”

She smiled again, thinking of himnow, eyes clear blue like his dad’s. Hewas growing up, that boy was, having passed her months ago. He could look down on her now, quirking thatcrooked grin as he did.

He was stretching out, slimmingdown, losing the stocky look he’d inherited from one side of the family. Much to her delight, he’d kept the frecklessprinkled over the nose, which he’d inherited from the other side.

He was his own person, that onewas. For years, his two big brothers haddoted on him, giving him vast amounts of grace. Then their affection took a more physical turn, and they began includinghim in the teasing, chasing, and pounding.

His parents, knowing it for whatit was, kept a watchful eye, never letting them go too far. And they watched him grow in quiteconfidence, secure in his place in the family.

Early on, he’d given his heart tothe Lord in childlike faith, receiving the gift. Every year at the annual crusade, he’d standagain, reaffirming his commitment. Once,he’d brought a small card home afterwards, telling his parents of hisdecision. His mother, remembering herown youthful struggles with assurance of salvation, had queried him.

“I just want to keep it fresh,”he’d answered calmly, no hint of strain in his voice. And his mother whispered a prayer ofthanks.

The family dynamics shifted whenbaby brother came along years later, displacing him from the “baby of thefamily” spot. He’d vehemently voiced hisdisdain at the thought of a sister, and when asked what the problem was, thunderedone word, “Barbie!”

Relieved, he’d welcomed abrother. His mother smiled, thinking ofhis nonemotive personality and his reluctance to kiss the little fellow forweeks, asking her to do it for him instead. Smiled, too, as she thought of the ease with which he’d learned to giveboth hugs and kisses and how he adored him now.

Sobering, Mother recalled theweeks of anxiety after an unexpected diagnosis. Recalled the way the house fell quiet under that ban on physicalexertion.

She remembered the utter reliefand gratitude that broke like waves when the specialist said, “All’swell.” The trampoline that went up thatday was an altar; was a monument. Andthe noise of the running, chasing, and shouting that resumed once more was asymphony.

To our son, “You may be third inline, but you’re top cookie with us. Happy thirteenth birthday, buddy.” Love, Mom and Dad.

Blog awards

2011-11-14T12:31:00.000-05:00

After a stellar weekend of drama (no, really), belated birthday celebrations at a teen's beloved B-Dubs (Buffalo Wild Wings), and having a grandma fly in and out, I have the very wonderful privilege of receiving, acknowledging, and passing on some blogging awards.

I am so feelin' the love today. Oh, my. Two people sent me the Liebster Blog Award. Since Liebster means "beloved" or "favorite," I'm deeply honored. I love blogging. I love encouraging others through my blog, and when I find out that it's hitting the mark, well - that just makes me happy.

So thank you sincerely, Marji Laine, a mystery writer, and Saloma Furlong, author of "Why I Left the Amish." Marji, I wish I could write mysteries instead of just unraveling them all the time (you know - like who ate that last Oreo). And Saloma, it was such a joy to meet you in person when you came through on your book tour. I truly couldn't even put your book down. God speed, my friend, on your journey.

So now to pass it on to several worthy recipients. Here they are:
1. IASoup Mama whose blog, Soup: Midwestern Mama Cooking up Life in the Heartland, makes me laugh. She it was who suggested "Pleading the Fifth" when I was casting about for an official column name. Even though I didn't end up picking it, still. It made me laugh.
2. Nancy at Out of My Alleged Mind who has a nice blend of humor and insight.
3. Monica at The Mennobrarian for her refreshing way of writing about the plain lifestyle. And - she's having a baby! After years of infertility, "Yea, God!!"

And now, for the other award I've been showered with: The "Tell Me About Yourself Award" most graciously offered by Saloma Furlong ("About Amish"), Jeanette Levellie, ("On Wings of Wirth and Mirth"), and Cheryl Linn Martin ("Life in Flip-Flops"), writers all. Jeanette, a kindred spirit, has her first book coming out next spring. God is great, and God is good! Cheryl Linn Martin's blog will have you feeling the tropical breezes and booking a ticket to Hawaii in no time. Thank you so much, ladies.

To satisfy the requirements, I must tell you some things about myself that you may not know before passing this fun award on down the line. So here goes:
1. I love a rainy day, to paraphrase Eddie Rabbitt. And, well...I love a rainy night.
2. I'm a coffee snob. Folgers isn't real coffee, IMO. For that, you have to have really good beans and a grinder. (And now I'll be ducking away to Fiji 'til you all settle down.)
3. I love the heated seats in my BMV (Blue Mommy Van). But then you already knew that.
4. If you have to love brown chocolate to be a real woman, I flunk. Yup. You heard me. I fail!
5. After doing the hard work, the market research, and running the numbers, I can tell you where to find the best white chocolate mochas ever: Starbucks. Which Mr. Schrock cattily refers to as "Four Bucks." Very funny, hon.

And now to pass this on to a few other bloggers because I'd really like to know. "Tell me about yourself!"
1. QuietSpirit at Following My King. She is a faithful reader and commenter who blogs regularly about whatever Scripture the Lord lays on her heart. She is the mother of one son.
2. Susan Panzica at the Eternity Cafe, a truly gracious and warm-spirited friend (I could SO do coffee with you) who also has a heart for encouraging others with her words.
3. Linda at Grandma's Letters from Africa. Linda and her husband were missionaries in Africa. She has been a faithful encourager for this girl and many others. Her blog tells about her adventures in a far-away land.

What a nice way to start a week...receiving these fun awards and being able to pass them on!

Happy fall, folks.

Loving God and loving others on borrowed time

2011-11-11T11:04:00.000-05:00

Note: In honor of Veterans Day and our local hometown hero, Travis Hunsberger, I'm sharing with solemnity the article that ran on October 13, 2008. With heartfelt gratitude to those who've died on foreign fields and with thanks to those who serve today. God bless you, Daniel Miller and company.

This has been a tough week for our small community. In a matter of four days’ time, two of our own have been called home suddenly to be with the Lord. If the voice of God is supposed to be still and small as I Kings 19 tells us, it certainly hasn’t felt like that. God, it seems to us, is shouting.

It was just earlier this summer when another Wakarusa native died unexpectedly. Staff Sgt. Travis Hunsberger was killed in Afghanistan while on active duty. The community mourned with his family and celebrated his life, acknowledging with deep solemnity and grateful hearts just what his commitment to his country had cost.

This brave hometown soldier fell only days before Independence Day. When his body was carried through the flag-lined streets, an utter stillness fell on those gathered that day, and we realized once more how costly is the independence we were preparing to celebrate.

Ever since this summer when I heard that Diane Brown was back on chemo for her breast cancer, the phrase “borrowed time” has been running through my mind. Diane, our beloved school nurse, had been battling the disease for the past three years. It was a preventive measure, they said, and she was back in her office when school started in August.

In fact, it was on the second day of school that she called me, saying she had a sickie in her office that belonged to me. Thanks to her trademark good cheer and gift of encouragement, I hung up smiling and went to get my kiddo.

What a shock it was, then, to stop at the school a week ago Friday only to see the sad faces of her coworkers and to hear the news of her death. It was her day, her time, and none of us were ready.

On Monday, with thoughts and prayers for the Brown family still heavy on our hearts and minds, we received the incomprehensible news that our close neighbor, Lisa Lengacher, had passed away. Lisa had simply gone to sleep, only to awaken in the presence of the Lord she loved. It was her day, her time, and again, none of us were ready.

As we struggled to believe and accept the awful reality, our minds immediately went back to the many memories we have of Lisa and her family. Her girls and our boys jumped on the trampoline together, played hide and seek, and enjoyed numerous Shipshewana pretzel runs. There was an indoor campout once, and a 1:30 a.m. attempt to catch the eclipse together.

The boys especially were bewildered, trying to understand why God would allow two people they knew to die so suddenly. We talked about how God is always trying to speak to us and that the first thing He was saying is that we need to be ready at all times. “And what is the second thing?” one of them asked.

After thinking about this over the last few days, I think God’s “second thing” may have something to do with how we live. For some reason, we often apply the phrase “borrowed time” to someone with a terminal illness. In reality, we’re all living on borrowed time. While God alone knows the number of our days, He gives us a great deal of latitude in how we use them. In remembering the lives of these three, here are some things that stand out to me about how they chose to use their days.

They all loved the Lord first, and they loved other people. They just loved others differently. Travis loved us by choosing to fight and defend our freedom. He deliberately stood between us and the evil that threatens. For this, he paid the ultimate price.

Diane loved others with a mothery heart. I saw how she loved her family, how she loved the countless children that came through her office, and how she loved those who crossed her path with her warm spirit and encouraging words.

Lisa loved others by countless acts of kindness. With hugs. With prayers. With words of encouragement. Her driving passion was that others would come to know her Jesus.

At her funeral, something amazing happened. In the midst of the grief, joy broke out. There was worship, which she would have loved, and there was laughter amid the tears as we recalled her life. It was, above all, a celebration.

How is it with you, my friend? Do you know Jesus, the One who also stood between us and evil when He faced death on the cross? He gave His life so that you might be His child. He has been calling you, knocking on the door of your heart since the day you were born. Can you hear Him?

There is no sin so black that He cannot forgive if you will only ask. Oh, do not wait. We’re living on borrowed time, you know, and one day will be our last. Let us redeem the time that we’ve been given, making every day count by following hard after God and by loving other people. No more excuses. No more delay.

There will be a funeral for each one of us. Let’s live our lives so that on that day, there will be worship, there will be celebration, and joy will break out.

Analyst (mother) recommends troop surge and additional funding for mochas

2011-11-10T10:42:00.002-05:00

Note: Alright. So this reminds me again why I chose the name I did ("Grounds for Insanity") for the column. Hit me with an espresso, a double, please.

Some events have transpired this week that have highlighted an area in our family life that needs attention. A certain analyst (that would be me) has been picking up chatter that a certain criminal element (one of the boys) has been conducting clandestine operations against a neighboring tribe (his younger brother). His weapon of choice that has been provoking shouts and panicked flight is a slingshot. Clearly, Homeland Security has some work to do.

Some days I feel like General Petraeus, overseeing wartime ops and issuing daily reports to the Commander in Chief when he comes home from the office.

Commander: “How were things on the front lines today?”

General: “Sir, there was a hostile incident involving two of our own.”

Commander: “Friendly fire?”

General: “Well, I wouldn’t exactly call it ‘friendly.’ An enemy combatant with your last name has been terrorizing his younger brother with his slingshot.”

Commander: “Do you have a plan?”

General: “I’d like you to approve additional funding for the war effort, in addition to a troop surge.”

Commander: “Additional funding? Troop surge?”

General: “I need money for a mocha. Have to keep up my strength, you know. The ‘troop surge’ would be you, surging up the stairs to pound your son.”

Commander, looking pale: “Do we have any chocolate around here?”

It was about a week ago that I really began noticing that the weapon in question was being used for nefarious purposes. It was Saturday, and those two were nowhere to be seen. As they had a list of chores to do, I finally put boots on the ground and went to investigate. After repeated calling, the owner of the weapon appeared, tearing toward the house from a break in the pines. With unerring maternal instinct, I read guilt all over his face.

“What were you doing?” I asked him.

“Hunting Brother with my slingshot,” he said sheepishly.

Sometimes you just don’t want to know. Sometimes “don’t ask, don’t tell” is the easy way out. Sometimes, all you want for Mother’s Day (if you can’t have a cease fire) is a one-way ticket to Fiji.

I caught him again later that day as his brother and I worked in a flower bed. There he came, slinking around the front porch on his stomach like a ninja, looking to plant in pebble in brother’s hide.

Big mistake. His mother called a draft on the spot and instead of a marksman, he was pressed into service as a groundskeeper with his only hardware now being a standard-issue trowel.

The kicker came a few days later when I hauled the youngest three with the stroller, a bike, and a ripstik up to the bike path. After unloading, this repeat offender immediately took off on his brother’s bike, tying him up in absolute knots. When his brother finally reclaimed the bike, he followed him around, making threatening motions and taking potshots with the you-know-what.

It is clear that security here must be tightened. We are considering diligent weapons checks at every entrance. This would involve frisking the suspects, turning all pockets inside out, and thoroughly inspecting the oral cavity. We must put a stop to terrorism among us.

Meanwhile, the toddler has been busy wreaking his own brand of havoc this week. He was standing in the back room the other day, looking out the window (or so I thought), watching his brothers who were – in theory – burning trash and hauling out recyclables. When I finally twigged to the fact that he was no innocent bystander, he had chucked every shoe and flip-flop out the back window, followed by his chunky step stool and a clean pair of khakis. It wasn’t until he had the kitchen sink halfway out the window that I caught on to his game and shut his little operation down.

Hoo boy. I realize it’s a good 16 years before we can declare permanent troop withdrawal. I know that there will be plenty more “surges” needed before our jobs as general and commander are done. But I also know that it’s in everyone’s best interests to have a happy, relaxed general. So step aside, please, while I go AWOL for two hours. I’m addressing morale issues at the coffee shop.

Taught to "profit"

2011-11-09T10:01:00.002-05:00

It wasn't new, exactly. It wasn't as if I didn't know it, really. The reminder, though...well, it was the word I needed for the day.

Only yesterday, I'd shared it. Told it to a friend in an email, "Here's the deal. Here's where I'm struggling. This hard thing right here, that's what I'm trying to accept." Feeling better for having owned it, for having come clean with someone I trusted, I got up this morning, slung my backpack (Eddie Bauer with girlish accents) over one shoulder, and left for the coffee shop.

There at the corner table, sky still dark outside the window, I turned to Isaiah. "Thus saith the Lord, thy Redeemer, the Holy One of Israel." The names, the titles, spoke, witnessing of the Who and the What that was giving the promise. "I am the Lord thy God (the cadence of the King James language was lovely to my ears), which teacheth thee to profit, which leadeth thee by the way that thou shouldest go."

And I thought of the message I'd sent, of the thing I was trying to receive, to accept. "...thy Redeemer, which leadeth thee by the way that thou shouldest go." Hmm.

Glancing at the NIV, I noted its wording: "I am the Lord your God who teaches you what is best for you, who directs you in the way you should go."

Yes, I knew these eternal truths; I just needed to hear them once more. Needed to remember just Who was in charge, Who was at work, and Who could be trusted.

My Redeemer - Almighty God himself, Lord of the Universe, and the Father who chose me, He was the one who would redeem the hard things, who could take me from where I was to where I needed to be. He was the one who'd ordained my circumstances, and He was the one who'd promised to answer "in an acceptable time (Isa. 49:8)."

How about you? Are you in a hard place, in a situation you don't like, don't want, and didn't ask for? What if (just perhaps?) the very circumstances you find yourself in right now; what if that's the way He's teaching you (and teaching me) to "profit." What if today's path is the very route that will take us to greater victory, greater opportunities, and greater fruitfulness?

When we grasp this truth, we can rest, you and I. We can leave it in the hands of the God who will exalt in due time, those who humble themselves beneath His mighty hand, the hand that parted the sea, formed the universe, and fashioned man from clay. We're safe, you and I, in those hands.

If these truths seem simple, worn out, and elemental, I ask for grace. Sometimes, a simple girl needs a simple truth to pick back up and journey on. Wednesday blessings!

"Mom for President" campaign may have hinged on the jelly

2011-11-08T08:33:00.001-05:00

Note: This "Grounds for Insanity" column was published in the 11/07/11 edition of The Goshen News. Yup, I think it was that jelly. Oh, and the unpublished memoir.

I’m seeing a trend here. They’re all doing it, and if I want to hop in while there’s still time, I’d better get crackin’.

It’s the presidential campaign. Still a year out, it’s dominating the news. Everyone’s writing about it, including the candidates themselves. And that’s what I’m talking about.

It was during the last election cycle in 2008. Feeling the weight of civic duty and with a deep, abiding love for God, country, Mom, apple pie, cross country, and Starbucks mochas in my heart, I did the only responsible thing I knew to do.

“I think a mother of boys could straighten out this mess,” the initial press release stated. “And that’s why I’m running for office. You know, the oval one with that cool desk and the spectacular drapes that didn’t come from J. C. Penney?” And with that announcement, the official “Mom for President” campaign was underway.

In the weeks that followed, I laid out my platform. I’d be tough on crime (just ask the local pantry pirates). I could empty the prisons (think “really huge gardens with endless weeding beneath the summer sun in polyester jumpsuits”). I’d secure the borders (ask the bullies who mess with the cubs), and I’d balance the budget.

The fact that I got seven votes, not counting the two voters in our little district, had nothing to do with my message. After watching the current crop of candidates, I know now what I did wrong – I didn’t write a memoir, and that was my fatal mistake.

I know why they do it. It makes perfect sense, actually. In a memoir, you can tell where you’re from, where you’ve been, how many ladders you’ve climbed, how many glass ceilings you’ve shattered, and how many high-stakes mergers you’ve facilitated. Wait. No. Wrong plot line.

Anyway, writing your memoir, if you’re a politician, is like publishing your resume, extended edition, with pictures. Throw in a few photos of you rolling around on the lawn with Rover, grass in your hair, and you and the kids in their jammies on Christmas morning, and it humanizes you to a skeptical populace.

Not only that, but it gets you a book tour to the biggest

U. S.

cities where folks line up in droves to shake your hand. It also nets you some great interviews with the best in the business. All of that is almost enough to make me write my own memoir. Almost.

It’s not that I wouldn’t love the tour. I would. It’s not that I’d shy away from interviews with the best, the brightest, and the blondest. I wouldn’t. What holds me back is the fact that mine’s far too boring to make it into print.

Unlike many of the pols, I’ve never been a CEO. I had no lemonade stand at the age of six that went public by my seventh birthday. Nor did I mow lawns or deliver newspapers, building an empire with ever-expanding fleets of Simplicity mowers and/or Huffy bikes. There was business, alright, but our parents called it monkey business and shut it down.

There were no fancy vacations on Martha’s Vineyard where the little Yoders mingled with the young Kennedys. Instead, we had summer nights on Grandpa’s farm with the cousins, playing Kick the

Can.

Inevitably, a game would spring up with eager participants scattering everywhere through lanes and outbuildings. That’s what we were doing while the Kennedy kids were out sailing.

According to family lore, there is one small incident that allegedly occurred on the farm when I was a toddler. I say “alledgedly” because I have absolutely no recollection of it and cannot testify as to the veracity of the claims.

The story goes that one day after Grandma had gotten a new batch of baby chicks, a tiny cousin and I wandered into the building where they were kept. Toddling through a sea of fluffy, yellow balls, we discovered that the whole crowd would move and shift at our approach. Squealing in delight at this discovery, we moved the crowd, alright, scaring them straight into a corner where they piled themselves into a heap and suffocated. Allegedly, of course.

This is the story that’s been fed to us for years by The Establishment (i.e., our parents). For all we know, it’s nothing more than urban legend, which is why I’m admitting nothing and pleading the fifth.

If that’s as scandalous as it gets, it won’t make for a riveting read. Neither will stories of a voracious reader who shocked herself and everyone else by winning a county spelling bee and going to the statehouse. Who fell in love, got married, and had baby boys. Lots of them. And then after all of that, became a writer and a storyteller.

And that’s why (I know it now) my presidential bid flopped. Well, that, and the fact that the voters were nervous about the jelly. As Mr. Schrock said drily when he heard of my bid, “Well, the White House was white when we got there…” Yes, there’s that.

In the morning, joy

2011-11-07T10:21:00.003-05:00

Passing the church this morning on my way home from the coffee shop, column finished, I saw it. Parked just there before the front doors sat a grim reminder, the harsh reality of life in a fallen world. Seeing the hearse, my heart sank. "Lord," I prayed, "comfort, please..."

I recalled the text that had come last Thursday, "Did you hear the bad news? He was killed."

Surely everyone who received the terrible news that night thought instantly of another day, another tragedy even more horrific. Over four years ago on a Sunday night in June, three teens had been killed in one fell swoop, two of them siblings, a brother and a sister. And the third, the son of the man who'd just as suddenly been swept away. We'd known them all, those three, through church connections.

How could I forget that grave site, the burial of the two? How the youth stepped forward with shovels and roses. How the younger brother, a Downs Syndrome child, had come forward after they were finished, adding his bit of soil. How the mother had groaned low, "My babies," there as the summer sun beat down.

Now, in the same church that had seen the third teen's service, whose walls had held the suffering, down whose aisles had walked sorrow - there, today, the father's service was about to begin. Ah, Father. How much can one family bear?

It was on Friday last as I lay in bed, waking up slow, that my thoughts turned to the widow and the awful reality to which she was awakening. I thought how she would give everything, everything she owned, if she could turn back the clock a mere 24 hours. Before her world changed. Before she saw him out the door. Before she put supper on the table and waited for a husband who would not return. Before the power went out and she, going down the road less than a mile, asked, "Was it...?" and received the dreadful reply, "Yes, ma'am. I'm sorry, but it was."

The reunion that took place that night just beyond the clouds was sweet beyond telling, father and son reunited at last in joy eternal. Surely the angels danced and sang. Surely Heaven rang with the noise. Surely the Lord Christ Himself, Saviour of them both, shouted in triumph for death, after all, has been defeated.

Meanwhile, for those who remain, we cling to hope. We know that this life down here is not all there is.

We cling, too, to faith, believing ever more in the promises of a God who said He will never leave, will never forsake, and will never fail. Who promised that one day, He will wipe all tears from our eyes, and that joy, always and forever, would come in the morning.

Praying peace, comfort, strength, and hope strong and true for Doris, Kelly and Spenser Yoder and their extended families. Come quickly, Lord Jesus!

She's off to join the army

2011-11-04T10:22:00.001-04:00

...The Army of Ermas, that is. It's been awhile, but The Lively One is in over there today.

This time, she's sharing the hair-raising tale of shopping with three of her boys. By herself. All alone. Scared and - wait. No. Make that frustrated.

Ever since she's been writing, many folks have kindly compared her style to that of the late, legendary humorist, Erma Bombeck, beginning with her old grade school principal who said to her mother, "Tell her that she sounds like Erma."

And when she received a ha-ha-ha email from an aunt saying much the same thing, followed by, "You know, your grandma would sit and read Erma's columns and laugh," she was just that happy. Pop on over and see for yourself if there's just a hint of Erma in her work.

Shopping with the Sin-dicate is not for the faint of heart. She's still recovering. Mochas help.

Happy Friday,

The Writer

"My power is out"

2011-11-03T09:58:00.001-04:00

"My power is out." That's what he said, my VSP (Very Small Person) after flailing, windmilling, and laughing hysterically.

We'd picked up a work-out DVD, his father and I, at the recommendation of a friend. Fair-weather runner that I am, I was ready to move it indoors. And with a high school reunion coming up, it was time to firm and tone. So there we were, sweating it out, Little following along. Panting, kaput, he said it: "My power is out."

In those four little words, he summed out how this mama of four boys, telecommuter, and weekly columnist feels many days. Exhausted. Depleted. Wrung out with nothing left to give. Try as I might, I just can't seem to juggle all the balls, to keep all the plates spinning. Something inevitably drops.

Crash. Failed again.

In his book, Beautiful Outlaw, John Eldredge says, "...This is what most Christians experience as the Christian life: try harder; feel worse." Reading those words, I knew - I knew - what he meant.

He continued, "I find myself slipping back into this weekly. A handful of symptoms tip me off. Exhaustion, for one...or an unnamed internal distress. Discouragement, that old nagging cloud of 'I'm totally blowing it.' Irritation with needy people. These symptoms - and a host of others - are the collateral damage that results from trying my best."

The key, he said, the epiphany he'd come to after years of striving to help people become whole, was this: "Jesus has no intention of letting you become whole apart from his moment-to-moment presence and life within you."

And there it is, the answer; the antidote; the remedy for striving and self-effort. It is this: His life filling ours. Jesus in us, living His life through us. There - there - is the source of a power that cannot fail. For apart from Him, after all, we can do nothing.

"Lord Jesus, I give my life to you today, to live your life." And this tired, depleted girl says, "Me, too. Amen."

Note: The prayer shared above and the Eldredge quotes come from his newest book, Beautiful Outlaw. We have been blessed many times over the years by John's books, starting with the discovery of Wild at Heart one day at the local bookstore. I was thrilled when I received an offer for a copy of Beautiful Outlaw in exchange for an honest review. It blessed me deeply, bringing much-needed healing, and I am loving Jesus more than ever. As a writer who wants to publish books someday, this is the highest commendation anyone could ever give. Thank you sincerely, John.

Ten thousand feet of glory

2011-11-02T09:33:00.002-04:00

It was an unlikely beginning for a friendship. We'd found each other in the snack aisle at Target, no less, her with three boys trailing and I with The Mister alone. I'd told the story about meeting Ellen and finding a kindred spirit that night. Told how I'd laughed, hearing her and those boys, and how she'd turned, smiling, and said, "I have five," and how I said, "And I have four," right back, and how it was all downhill from there.

When we met later at yet another common love (Starbucks), we'd talked and talked, spinning happiness through the mocha-scented air, and then she dropped it, casual like, right there in the middle, "...and my parents live in a 10,000-square-foot Queen Anne Victorian," and chattered on.

"Wait." I stopped her. "Say it again, that part about the house." So she did. And she told me the story of the family home, that her mother had inherited it from her mother who'd inherited it from hers and that she and her family lived right next door, sharing the family soil. "You have to come and see it sometime."

That was a year ago. Connecting recently through Facebook, she said it again, "You've got to come up and see the house. The shops are open now. It would be right down your alley!"

Saturday last, with the middles gone, Mr. Schrock and I feeling free, we headed for Michigan, Little stashed in behind, and went to see Mama's dream. What we found when we arrived was amazing. There, spread over acres and acres of Michigan land, was a fully-functioning centennial farm, complete with sprawling house, ice house, smoke house, corn crib, barn, and other outbuildings.

Three of the buildings had been decorated for Christmas, music playing, candles burning, ornaments and floral arrangements and baked goods, all for sale. Customers flowed in and out, moving from one to another, reveling in the old-world charm.

It was the house, though...oh, the house. Built in 1885 by Ellen's great-great grandfather, it rose, solid and strong, speaking of another time, another age...

Woodwork gleamed on floors, baseboards wide, doors arching in two kinds and colors of wood. Quaint pocket doors disappeared into walls that were papered in Victorian designs, some of which was only the second paper ever applied to those old, old walls.

The ceilings were high - 12 feet - as one expects in houses Victorian. Some were tin, sporting that lovely raised design. And everywhere, crown molding, curved walls, and wood, wood, beautiful wood.

At the top of the gorgeous, curving stairs was a hall, long and straight, running the entire length of the house. There were eight functioning bedrooms in all with two being used for other purposes. And at the end of that hallway, a narrow stairway that the servants had used went downward to the current dining room. Oh, yes!

It was the history, though, that was the true adornment. Face beaming, Ellen unwrapped the gift, telling the family story. That mannequin in the window? She was wearing a family wedding dress. Just beneath it were the actual shoes that had been worn. This antique? It was so-and-so's. And that one there, well, that one belonged to...

On and on throughout, she shared it. Family history was woven there, gracing the walls, permeating the very air. Everyone who'd lived there, she said, had loved the Lord. "I cried," she told us, "when we found these diaries." And picking up the one on top, she began to read, "Had an experience at Sunday meeting today. I stood and gave my testimony for the Lord (paraphrased)."

Ellen's boys are the sixth generation to be raised on that farm. Some day, she will inherit the family mansion. She loves it, yes, but loves even more the rich godly heritage that is hers. That much is clear.

In thinking over that wonderful day, I'm reminded of the pure beauty of a godly lineage, of generations who walk in faithfulness, of those older who pave the way for those who follow after. How glorious such godliness is, how lovely, how precious.

One day, God willing, there will be a house with wood that gleams, a stairway that winds, ceilings tall, and walls adorned with faith for this girl with a dream. And the dream has a name...

Note: To the family's astonishment and delight, the original blueprints for the house were found, rolled up in a drawer, when they went through things after Ellen's grandmother died. They are in pristine condition, beautifully mounted under glass and on display there on those walls. Beautiful!

After a summer of "naughty," some "nice" would sure be nice

2011-11-01T09:15:00.002-04:00

Note: This "Grounds for Insanity" column was published yesterday, 10/31/11, in The Goshen News, my paper of record. Publisher Kroemer's "yes" to my "can you use this," well, that sure was nice.

“He’s gonna find out who’s naughty and nice. Santa Claus is coming to town.”

Ok. I heard that sniff. But here we are, 10 months from last Christmas. That equals out to a cough, a sneeze, two rollovers in your jammies, and bam – it’s almost here. You know it, too.

But that’s not really why I’m singing that song. It’s the “naughty and nice” part that’s stuck in my head like popcorn between the teeth. After the summer we had, I’m needing a whole lot of “nice” to recover from all the “naughty” that went down.

"The 'Dad' sign is off," their father announced recently during an outbreak of naughty. "You know, like the taxi signs?"

I spluttered, stunned. On my visage, thunderclouds gathered, and he disappeared with a clatter and a whoosh, suddenly “needing something” out back by the property line.

The homemade ice cream he made in his inaugural run was awfully nice, though. Handing over a dish of coffee-flavored ice cream with chocolate chips, he'd grinned like the proverbial cheshire cat with cream on its whiskers and, I noted, some on his shirt. Yes, it was very nice.

It was nice, too, when the teenager finally got his driver's license. I'd forgotten how nice it was when a whirlwind could haul himself to his own whirlwind activities, allowing mom to opt out of at least part of that maternal whirlwind of chauffeuring.

It wasn't nice, though, for him to drive off like he did, laughing like a hyena (what else?), leaving his younger brother to walk to the library from Dollar General. No, it wasn't nice at all. It was that other word. It was naughty, too, for College Kid (aka Big Brother) to unleash his own inner hyenas, slapping his knee and snorting when he heard about it.

There are days (I'll admit it) when it seems I've got five boys. When The Mister's got them hollering and thrashing, when the whole lot of 'em set to pounding and chasing, and when they high-five each other over an especially good burp ("that's a 10.0!"), you realize the scales of justice are seriously out of whack. And that's when I say, "I don't even know who to spank first, you or them," and I start at the top, working my way down to cover the bases.

Some days, however, it seems that no matter how strong your resolve or which underwear you pick (you know, the lucky rocket ship pair or the sturdy Christian ones), it doesn’t help. You’re out of your league, and you may as well wave the white flag and head back to bed. Like Sunday last, for instance, as we were preparing to worship in the house of God.

All at once, there arose such a clatter, we stood, frozen, mute, wondering what was the matter. “Hey!” someone shouted just outside the door. “Mom and Dad are pulling out! Whatcha messin’ around for?”

From overhead came the sounds of thundering feet. A freight train? A yak? We were unable to speak. Then someone screeched up, yanked open the door, laid rubber (I’m sure) in two tracks on the floor. “No, they’re not,” this in a wheeze all disgusted. Then Father stepped out. Grinning perp? Busted.

See what I mean? See? And, yes, this really happened. I didn’t make it up. I didn’t include the part where the prankster jumped out from behind the fridge, either, scaring the Frantic One spitless as he reached for the doorknob. No, I didn’t make that up, either. Perhaps now you’ll understand the untucked shirttails, untied shoes, and the rumpled hair when we finally limp through the church house doors.

Oh, it’s not the kids. That’s me. My nerves are shot, and I can barely remember my name. Maybe once the Schrocklets have been dispatched into adulthood and the “naughty” factor drops to zero, I can finally make a nice presentation.

What is nice (and here we give thanks) is the built-in crime detection software moms have. Using our super powers, we can detect a crime in progress, apprehend the suspects, and remand them to custody until the judge arrives home from work for the sentencing.

Alright. So I heard the wrappers rustling one floor down. And with Little being the only one home, the pool of suspects had just one floater.

It was naughty to steal, sure, but it was nice to bring Mama the stolen goods when she asked. Even though he was really mad. Even though it was very hard.

He never knew it, of course, but Mama had to laugh at the sight of his small, convicted self, creeping across the floor on hands and knees. Then a tiny, recalcitrant hand appeared over the edge of her desk, dropping the contraband with marked reluctance.

She laughed to herself. Then she sighed. As she set about the ongoing work of character reformation, she wondered quietly how that one list was coming along and how Christmas would look for certain folks that she knew. She was hoping for “nice.” Yes, really hoping for “nice.”

Why "story" matters

2011-10-31T11:02:00.001-04:00

We were nearly home when it happened. There in the dark, rolling down the highway, we got to the meat; the heart; the place where the rubber, proverbially speaking, meets the road.

We'd traveled to another town to hear a concert with friends, and it was on the way home that the conversation took a turn. We'd been talking the whole evening about the trial by fire that they'd just come through, what we'd been through and were still walking, and how the Lord was working it out, what He'd done, and what we were, each of us, still waiting for Him to do.

Theirs had been four years in the making. Four.long.years. Four years of desert paths that included cancer, business challenges, and other things too painful to speak of publicly. Now, the path had turned. They were coming out on this side of it all, just cresting the hill into a far greener place of life and joy and prayers answered.

"How," I asked, needing to know, "did you feel during that time?"

"I felt," she said it straight, "like I was just one little person down here and that God had forgotten me." Ah, yes. "And that none of my prayers mattered. That He wasn't hearing them." In the darkness, I nodded my head, understanding. "I knew in my heart that He hadn't forgotten, but it sure felt like He did."

"What was the big thing you learned, the take-away in all of that?" Leaning forward, listening, needing to know...

"That it's all about God's timing. It certainly wasn't mine. But it was all about His." Yes. Wasn't that where frustration and impatience were bound to come in, when my expectations collided with His divine plan...

"And how about you?" I turned to her husband, stalwart friend of my own. "What's your big one?"

He chuckled. "There are far too many to pick just one. We learned so very much. But in looking at it, I can see how God was faithful in it all, providing what was needed." And he listed it out, how God had done this and this and that right here, here and there when the fire had rained down and the river had nearly overflowed its banks.

And now. The breakthroughs were coming. Victory sweet. Blessings galore, and He'd been faithful.

Hearing their story with all its twists and turns, light and dark, day and night, mourning and joy, all those threads tangled up and knotted together...something in me eased. Something long coiled, relaxed just a bit. My spirit lifted, faith infused in hearing how He'd dealt with them.

And that's the power of "story." This is exactly why "story," yours and mine, matters. Matters deeply.

In the telling of it just as it is - nothing whitewashed, nothing glossed over - it sets a stone just like the Israelites did. One stone upon another, upon another, upon another, a glorious monument to the character and faithfulness of Father God.

We need "story." The one who's lived it needs to tell it and so give praise, and the one who's listening needs to hear it to keep the faith, to keep on walking and not to faint.

You have a story. If you're drawing breath and living here, you have a story to tell. It need not be big and dramatic, just a simple account of how God came through when it mattered and how He never fails. You need to tell it. Ask Him where, ask Him how, and He'll give the grace and courage needed. You'll be surprised at what a difference it will make, both in you and in the one who hears it.

Shot (at) with your own gun? That's a shame

2011-10-28T11:26:00.004-04:00

In more distressing community news...

How embarrassing. If there's a code of honor among thieves, this flouted all the rules.

In the NAFNB (National Association of Friendly Neighborhood Burglars) handbook, section D7531.2, it clearly reads, "Never, ever allow victim to disarm you. Being dispatched into the hereafter (or even merely shot at) with one's own weapon is an egregious violation, which shall result in immediate disbarment. In other words, your membership will be swiftly revoked, and your name will be plastered on the Hall of Shame." Or that's how it would read if there were an NAFNB with a handbook and a section D7531.2.

It happened earlier this week. A mere few miles from here, a local man was awakened around midnight by a knock on the door. Thinking that someone needed help, he answered it, only to find himself staring at the business end of a loaded revolver, held by a hoodlum (read, "thug wearing a hoodie"), demanding money.

When "give me what's yours" meets "over my dead body," someone is bound to receive a big surprise. Sure enough. It did and he was and once the dust had settled, "Over My Dead Body" was holding the gun, and Mr. "Give Me What's Yours" was hoofing pell-mell for the getaway vehicle where he bailed in, frantic, atop his dumbfounded colleagues. Yup. Color him red, that one.

In a remarkable show of restraint, homeowner Lance Mestach reported that he only took one shot at the vehicle. News photos later documented the cuts he received on his hands in the struggle for the weapon. And when local police arrived shortly thereafter, they seized it, hauling it off to the lab. (Which this writer and voracious mystery reader can only hope was loaded with the criminal's DNA).

As for me, the whole thing has left me nervous, jumpy as a cat in a roomful of rocking chairs. Hearing a noise in the quiet house the other day, I screwed up my courage, dialed up Mr. Schrock, making him stay on the line, and crept downstairs to search the house. Color me white for chicken.

It's good (boy, is it) that there was no thief, no scuffle, and no unlikely seizure of a loaded revolver that day. Knowing myself as I do (highly-charged, emotional, 4 feet 11-1/2-inches, size 2), I would've emptied the gun into my left foot, allowing the ruffian to flee.

Shucks. Color me green for queasy.

Some folks, I suppose, would call that homeowner foolhardy. Wrestling a wired-up thief with a twitchy finger and a loaded gun is risky, after all. But it all turned out well. This time, the good guy won, saving his family, protecting his castle, and shaming a thief. Color him brave, as in "hero."

Here's to you, Mr. Mestach. And godspeed, Wakarusa police department.

Faith to live, faith to die

2011-10-27T10:48:00.000-04:00

Lying in bed this morning, thinking over the week so far, my thoughts traveled to Florida where friends of ours are gathering around a sick bed even now. A father is dying of cancer, and they're preparing to say goodbye.

It was only a couple of weeks ago as they shared their hearts in class that she said something that caught my attention. "When I had my tumor several years ago," she said, "I retreated for three days."

For three whole days, she wrestled with her own mortality, unable to look at or speak to her husband and children. For three long days, she wrestled with God.

Looking back now, this is what she said: "I had the faith to die, but I just didn't have the faith to be sick."  And with that sentence, a light went on.

I know what she means, don't you? As a Christian, as one who walks with God and hears His voice, death, for me, has lost its sting. I no longer fear it like I did as a child. It's the living down here...

I have the faith to die, but I don't always have the faith to live. The faith to walk through the hard things. The faith to say, "Yes, Lord," and embrace what comes. The faith that believes that no matter what, He is good and all is well and all will BE well. Always.

It's not the dying so much that we need the grace and the faith to bear. It's the living.

Just this morning, I read this Psalm: "God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble. Therefore will not we fear, though the earth be removed and though the mountains be carried into the midst of the sea. Though the waters thereof roar and be troubled, though the mountains shake with the swelling thereof. Selah."  Stop and consider...

He continues. "There is a river...God is in the midst of her; she shall not be moved. God shall help her, and that right early." Drinking in the cadence of these ancient words, I hear His voice: "God is in the midst of her (and here you can add your name). She (Rhonda) shall not be moved. God shall help her, and that right early."

And then the key, the secret to living in the hard things. "The Lord of hosts is with us; the God of Jacob is our refuge. Selah."  Stop and consider...

This is how we do it. This is where we find the faith and the grace to live and not die. We know Who is with us. We believe - we firmly plant our feet on this rock - that the God of Jacob is our refuge.

Therefore, my friends, we shall not be moved.

Do you, too, need faith to live? Need reassurance that all is well and all will be well? There is a river; there is a refuge. Run (don't walk) to Him and there find strength.

This is a repost from the archives. And don't I continually need - every day - the faith to live? Brian's father has since died and gone to meet Jesus. There was peace on their faces, all mixed up with grief, when we embraced them at his viewing. Faith to live, yes, and then faith to die.

One thousand, one, and one - why counting matters

2011-10-25T08:40:00.002-04:00

Note: This "Grounds for Insanity" column was published in the 10/24/11 edition of The Goshen News. Perhaps you'll count, too?

The trees outside my window are turning. Brilliant oranges and yellows mingle with greens. Golden leaves blanket the lane, looking for all the world like a calendar picture.

Driving home beneath the crisp blue of an autumn sky, I see that the Painter’s been at work. “Look!” I say to Little in his car seat behind me. “God’s painting the trees.”

“Yes,” he says solemnly, gazing out his window at the passing display.

Later, standing at the kitchen sink, I glance up just in time to see a single leaf fall, dancing and twirling on its way down, joining the rest that carpet the drive. End of summer, season of life. Onset of winter, season of death. Autumn, glorious autumn, bridging the two. Circle of life.

Summer. Life. My mind whirled, spinning back to August when “life” showed up at our back door.

I’d seen their faces countless times on the fridge. There they were, those three, grinning out at me, eyes bright. I’d told it before, how Jesus had brought two together. How they parented other people’s kids as youth pastors. How He said “no” to babies of their own. How they said “yes” right back when He said “will you,” and they took those first two right in.

Then came the divine “yes,” and God sent Baby Girl, and her daddy said, “But I thought we were always going to pick ours up,” and, “Do you want a litter or what?” And we all rejoiced and praised Father God.

It was the last two that I’d not met. For months, I’d prayed, “Lord, please let me go down to see the babies.” And for months, that prayer went unanswered. Until.

Until one day in August when He answered, though not in the way I’d expected. Instead of taking me to see the babies, He brought those babies to me.

For nine days, I played with girlies and savored the look of a tiny man in jeans. I reveled in the sight of dolls on the floor and small, pink clothes in the laundry. Auntie soaked up baby giggles with teeth all showing and dimples and curls and the smell of Baby Magic.

After they’d gone, I sat down, combing through precious memories, letting them sift through my fingers like jewels, falling right onto the pages of my gratitude journal.

Standing at my sink that day, seasons passing through my mind, I thought of the journey I’d begun, a choice I’d made to learn an attitude of gratitude by documenting the traces of the divine in the everyday.

The goal was one thousand, one, and one. One thousand gifts, one transformed heart, and one renewed mind.

Opening the journal, I leafed back to where it all began. “A Thousand Gifts,” it read, “begun July 2010.” Number one was “the first red tomato.” This was followed by “grass in my tub, ‘wunch,’ a pastor with a sense of humor, and gouges in my Velveeta loaf.” That was two through five.

Smiling, I read number 11, “a string of successful poos by Mr. Pull-Ups.” Oh, yes. So much thankfulness here.

I read on. “A warm cup of coffee as I write and listen to the rain.” “The tent that held four lively boys for a sleepover.” “Foot races around the big, red barn.”

“The squeaky wheel on the tricycle that I never let The Mister oil.” Even now, I could hear it, that rhythmic squeak drifting through the window, little legs pumping, Mama knowing right where he was. No, no. Father wasn’t allowed to oil that squeak.

There was more. Flags on Main Street. Texts from a friend. A small-town parade. Taco Thursday. “A boy who layers,” not fashionably, mind you, but with play clothes right over his pajamas.

“Gouging a laugh out of Mr. Schrock,” a pleasure that’s always high on my list. “A father’s tears. Brother tears. Little Brother dancing and skipping on Big Brother’s campus.” In a flash, I was back there, swallowing a lump that arose, kissing his cheek and hugging his neck in farewell. So many memories here…

“Buying a kid-sized hot chocolate along with my mocha. Seeing brothers hug each other. A college kid who still needs me, texting me a picture of his clothes so I can help him match.” (I was smiling again.)

“You’re doing a good job,” this with a kiss from my biggest supporter, my husband. Then, “finding a friend in the snack aisle at Target.” A “bless Jordan at Beffel” prayer by Little. Chief ice cream. The smell of the fresh Christmas tree.

And then, there it was, number 1000, penned just this week: “Friends who cheer, pray, and rejoice as the first query packets go out.”

As I retrace the journey so far, the thousand little steps handwritten in black ink, my heart swells with joy. And like the scent of that fresh tree, I catch it. It’s the aroma of grace borne along by the giving of thanks in the large and the small, transforming the heart and renewing the mind. One thousand, one, and one.

Burglary on Main (and the thief you can't see)

2011-10-24T11:16:00.003-04:00

In the dark of the night, it came. In a place unexpected, place of beauty and warmth. Where peace abides, and joy. Where friends gather and the writer creates. Just there where the aroma of coffee and pastries unfurls like ribbons unseen beneath ceilings of tin, past walls of brick, evil came.

They'd struck in the night, those thieves. Entering unlawfully, they'd taken what was not theirs, disappearing, then, as silently as they'd come.

The presence of the three armed officers said it was so. Said it had happened here in this small town, here in this place where community folks wave and smile, calling greetings. Right here where the baristas that work behind the counter know your name.

I'd seen him here before, that policeman behind the counter. His wife and I had become friends, thanks to our shared love of the coffee shop. I'd seen them there together, sharing breakfast, her dressed for work and him in civilian clothes.

But not today. Not now. Today, it was all business, gathering of evidence, dusting for prints, and looking for clues. And with it all, the process of catching those thieves was officially underway.

Watching them work, my thoughts turned to the recent outbreak of crime in Goshen, a neighboring town. A businessman killed. A shooting and a string of burglaries. A beloved college professor brutally (is there any other way?) murdered while protecting his wife during an apparent home invasion. Citizens nervous, gun sales spiking.

Burglaries. Shootings. Murder. Fear.

"The thief," Jesus had said, "comes to steal, kill, and destroy." The thief...

Ah, yes. The thief, that insidious liar who took so much, wrought such havoc, robbed folks blind with nary a fingerprint left at the scene...that thief, not of flesh and blood, was the real enemy, the real threat.

Wasn't it joy he was after? Wasn't it peace? Wasn't it faith, more precious than all the silver and the bills in the drawer, that he sought to take?

Yes. Yes, it was. And yes, it is. That's why Peter, His quick and impulsive friend, had warned us to "be sober, be vigilant," alert, on guard for the adversary who walks about, seeking whom he may devour.

Two things this morning, dear ones. "The joy of the Lord is our strength." Your joy (and mine) will be attacked. And attacked. And attacked. So will our peace. And so will our faith. It is of utmost importance that we know the truth, that we put on the full armor of God, and that we resist him, "standing steadfast in the faith."

This we know, "He that is in you is greater than He that is in the world." This is how we stand. This is how we fight. This is how we win.

In Him, for Him, and through Him,

The Writer

Delay is not denial

2011-10-23T10:51:00.001-04:00

Here is an excerpt from that wonderful little devotional book, God Calling, from which I've shared with you before. This one definitely spoke to me this week. Remember, it is a delightful collection of daily thoughts written down by two poor, lonely English women back in the 1930s. For one year, they met together every day and just listened to the Lord speak to them. Then, they wrote it down.

What follows is a part of the reading for May 1 entitled as above.

"Leave Me out of nothing. Love all My ways with you. Know indeed that 'all is well.' Delay is but the wonderful and all-loving restraint of your Father - not reluctance, not desire to deny - but the divine control of a Father who can scarcely brook the delay.

"Delay has to be - sometimes. Your lives are so linked up with those of others, so bound by circumstances, that to let your desire have instant fulfillment might in many cases cause another's...earnest prayer to go unanswered.

"Think for a moment of the love and thoughtful care that seeks to harmonize and reconcile all your desires and longings and prayers.

"Delay is not denial - not even withholding. It is the opportunity for God to work out your problems and accomplish your desires in the most wonderful way possible for you.

"Oh, children, trust Me. Remember that your Maker is also your servant, quick to fulfill, quick to achieve, faithful in accomplishment.

"Yes. All is well."

"Survivor Mom" gains extra 15 minutes of fame

2011-10-21T10:59:00.000-04:00

Because it's Friday and Fridays should be fun, I'm calling a "Fun Friday" right here on the blog. Yes, I am. In my tireless efforts to help you have fun, to liven you up, and to get your jellies jumpin', I'm pulling this laugh-out-loud piece that ran back in March 2009 straight from the archives just for you. Katie Couric really didn't know what hit her.

They say everyone has their 15 minutes of fame. If that’s all we get, then I guess I’m done. I didn’t realize when I won the Reno County spelling bee in the eighth grade and competed at state that I had peaked too early. Now all I’ve got left are daydreams.

I can’t imagine what I could possibly do to earn myself a spot on a celebrity’s couch for a high-powered interview watched by millions. I guess there’s always the notoriety that comes with reckless criminality, such as infanticide, but my self-restraint thus far has kept me off Oprah’s couch. Besides, who wants to appear on national television in prison orange? Not me. It washes me out.

In some of my more imaginative daydreams, I have come up with a plot that I believe could get me an extra 15 minutes and save CBS Evening News. If the network would tap into that whole “Survivor” phenomenon by having Katie Couric do a series called “Survivor Moms,” I think they could right their sinking ship and send ratings through the roof. Here’s how my interview with Katie might go.

Katie: “Good evening. Tonight we continue our series on ‘Survivor Moms,’ our ongoing look at women who are raising large families and, so far, have lived to tell about it. Our next guest is an enterprising young woman who, with her husband, is raising four sons. She has a full-time career in addition to doing a bit of writing, and last year even announced a run for the presidency. Rhonda, you look remarkably normal given your circumstances.”

Me: “Thank you, Katie. It’s an honor to be here.”

Katie: “Is that grape jelly on your shirt?”

Me: “Doggone it. I thought I got that spot. Actually, Katie, I personally think that’s why my presidential bid failed. In the end, I think the constituents were afraid that the White House wouldn’t stay white if we moved in, so they voted for the other guy.”

Katie: “So tell me your secret for surviving as the only female in a houseful of men.”

Me: “I’d have to say it’s the ABC’s that hold me together.”

Katie: “The ABC’s?”

Me: “You know. Ambien, Benadryl, caffeine, duct tape, and so on all the way to Valium, Xanax, and all the Zzz’s I can get. You follow this regimen, you can pretty much survive anything.”

Katie: “As you know, I have two daughters. I’m curious – living in a male-dominated household, are there any mood swings or emotive displays?”

Me: “Oh, sure. We can go from abject despair to elation inside of 30 seconds. There’s lots of giggling, some excited shouting, and the occasional crying jag.”

Katie: “Your boys are certainly emotional.”

Me: “Oh, no. That’s just me.”

Katie: “I see. Now tell me what a family of six does for entertainment.”

Me: “Well, when five of you think that the highest forms of entertainment are belching, whoopee cushions, and blowing things up, it can leave the one with the ovaries feeling a little desperate. That’s where my good friends at the coffee shop come in. There’s just something about that padded room there, and the IV…”

Katie: “Say no more. Now, with a crowd this size, you must have a system, a way to keep order. Can you explain to us what that is?”

Me: “You’re right, Katie. This is a crowd, and it’s very important to maintain control. When you’re outnumbered two to one, you have to really come out with a show of force initially, get the little people marching in line or you’ll have anarchy. And it’s absolutely essential that you stick together, or the little buggers will pick you off one at a time, and then the inmates…”

Katie: “…Are running the asylum?”

Me: “Exactly.”

Katie: “One last question before we let you go. What are your fears as a mother?”

Me: “Two words, Katie. Drivers ed. I mean white knuckles, some whimpering and praying…”

Katie: “Is it really that bad?”

Me: “Think about it. Have you let your oldest daughter take your limo through NYC at rush hour with no extra steering wheel or second set of brakes back where you normally sit?”

Katie (blanching): “Um, no, I guess not.”

Me: “That’s how it feels. I’m just sayin’.”

Katie: “Well, that wraps it up. Thank you for stopping by this evening and sharing your survivor story with us.”

Katie, off camera: “Someone bring me some Xanax – now!”

How the last chapter ends

2011-10-19T10:20:00.004-04:00

I'd run across it on a friend's blog. "Faith," it said, "is deliberate confidence in the character of God whose ways you may not understand at the time." This from Oswald Chambers (My Utmost for His Highest).

Needing constant reminders and bolstering of my own, I'd shared it over on my wall. Then a friend, an old and dearly-loved Bible School teacher, offered this: "Compare that statement with Romans 4: 20, 21." Curious, I turned to the Word, lying open on my desk, to see what it said. And there it was, like a shot of vitamin B, a hit of straight espresso, the truth undiluted and filled with promise.

Sitting there this morning in my favorite spot, preparing to write the weekly column, I opened the leather cover once more, head bent over the steaming cup, and turned to Romans. The writer, of course, was Paul, that one arrested on the way to Damascus, forever after a follower of Christ. His subject? Abraham, father of the faith, father of the many.

"Against all hope," he'd written, "Abraham in hope believed...and without weakening in his faith, he considered not his own body, now dead, or the deadness of Sarah's womb. He staggered not at the promise of God through unbelief, but was strong in faith, giving glory to God." The ancient words thrummed with power. This was strong stuff from the old apostle. Unbelief?

Continuing on, I read, "Being fully persuaded that what He had promised, He was able to perform, and so it was credited to him for righteousness."

Oh, how I wanted my story to read like his. Wanted that to be the record, the account, the way the last chapter ended. Eager, faith swelling, and with the hope of the future burning bright, I picked up the pen and began to write the story of - me.

"This is the story of Rhonda, called to (and here, I filled in my impossibles). Being by nature a fearful, doubting person, she overcame in the power of Christ and, in hope, believed that all of these things would be accomplished, just as God had said they would be.

"Not being weak in faith, she did not consider the impossibilities or her own inabilities, but chose instead to fix her eyes on the One who gave the promise and the call.

"She did not stagger through unbelief at the promises of God, but was strong in faith, giving glory to God, being fully persuaded that what He had promised, He was able to perform. Thus, it was credited to her as righteousness."

And now, dear one, it's your turn. You, too, have a calling. You, too, have impossible situations that are far, far out of your league. You, too, have been given "exceeding great and precious promises."

How will your story end? How will your last chapter read? Tuck your own name in there. Fill in all of your own impossibles. Pick up the promises and plant your feet. Do not stagger. Refuse to consider your own inabilities. In hope, believe, being fully persuaded that what He has promised, He is able to do.

Fully persuaded, fully able, fully victorious. All righteous. End of story.

Inner hyenas? Blame it on the genes

2011-10-18T08:29:00.003-04:00

Note: This "Grounds for Insanity" column was published in The Goshen News, my paper of record, on 10/17/11. How about you? Do you have funny eyes? An inner pack? Your kids will wish you did!

It was a status update on Facebook that started it. “Goodbye, shrub,” a friend wrote. “Hello, teenager with very fragile, tenuous cellphone privileges.” I could only guess what had happened. It cracked me up, and so I mentioned it.

“Is it okay if my inner hyena hollers if I appear properly sympathetic on the outside?” I queried meekly, having a teenager myself.

She laughed. Then her friends laughed, and an ordinary, everyday event became a communal cackle fest.

Lying in bed later, I told Mr. Schrock about it. “Maybe they’ve never heard of inner hyenas,” he said.

“I think I was born with one,” I said, staring up into the dark. “In fact, I may have a couple.”

He laughed. “You,” he said, “have three.”

Now, I wouldn’t go so far as to claim an entire three African hyenas. That’s awfully close to a pack, if you ask me. But there are times when the boys are right, I’m guilty as charged, and they flare.

Lucky for me, being a “trouble laugher (their term)” isn’t a felony. Yet. If it were, I’d be tried, convinced, and sentenced, doomed to wearing orange, a color that does not become me.

So I laugh sometimes when they get in trouble. But guess what? The very trait that drives them nuts actually works in their favor. When they’re committing crimes and misdemeanors and I’m about to strip a gear, all at once, I’ll see the funny side of it.

Oh, I may not show it, but inside, those things are howling even as I’m laying down the law. Later, when I tell their father what went down, he has to chuckle in spite of his irritation. Usually.

They help preserve our marriage, too. Take what happened the other day. The dryer had stopped. Finding a preponderance of The Mister’s clothes inside, I snatched them up, calling for his help.

“I don’t do pants,” he said in his pulpit voice as I thrust an armload his direction.

“You need to learn,” I said briskly, clipping a pair of khakis onto the hanger. “What if something happens to me and I’m not around to do it?”

From the bowels of the closet came his voice. “The thought of another woman hanging up my pants will keep you alive.”

I couldn’t help the chortle that escaped. Recovering, I snapped, “Maybe it really wouldn’t bother me if someone else hung them up, and maybe I really wouldn’t roll over in my grave. I might not, you know.”

He grinned that annoying grin, the one with cream and feathers all mixed up in his whiskers, and skewered me with a knowing look.

Rats. I didn’t mean to let that one bark.

Then there was the close call at the dinner table. Tom Brokaw that I am, I was reporting the day’s events to Mr. Schrock, the CEO of the DNN (Dad News Network).

“He did it again,” I said soberly, referring to Little and his recently-acquired bad habit. His brow scrunched sternly.

“Then he rushed at me with confessions and pleas for forgiveness, completely bypassing the person he’d wronged.” Here, his father turned, leveling a penetrating stare at his small charge who, I noted, was happily spooning up applesauce from his plate with the monkeys on it.

“He filed for total absolution on the spot,” I continued, “and asked me to sign a waiver, verifying his acquittal from all charges and resultant penalties.”

By now, Father and Brother were swallowing grins and studiously peering at the ceiling. My own shoulders were shaking as the little sinner in blue jeans finished his meal.

They were noticeably silent, however, when the phone rang last Monday. “Mom?” said a tentative voice on the other end. “I forgot to bring my clothes for pictures today, and I need you to run them up.”

Seeing as how I’d driven past the school mere moments before, it wasn’t an urge to laugh that was welling up. Just in case, though, I stopped, listening for any hint of merriment coming from my inner pack. In the silence, crickets chirped. A car went by. The ice maker kicked on. Nope. I’ve got nothin’.

Living in a male-dominated household, working hard to keep my small, pink life raft afloat on a sea of testosterone, there’s plenty of stuff that’s not funny. But there’s a lot that is. Whether they like it or not, Mother came wired with a funny bone, and they should give thanks. After all, it’s done wonders for their life expectancy.

I can’t help but wonder, though, if there’s a diagnosis and a cure, an official medical term that would let me claim a congenital condition. Something like hyenamegaly, perhaps?

For now, I’ll go with that and chalk it up to heredity ‘cause I have some folks in my upline that have these symptoms in spades.

Yeah. I’ll just blame it on them.

Tagline: Rhonda Schrock heartily thanks her readers who came through when asked and helped her choose a column name. She thinks it captures both her love of coffee and her life in an all-blue household. Yup. That’s “Grounds for Insanity.”