Grrrls

Wow. Middle Child and I went with two of our Honduras teammates last night to see a triple feature ending with the 12:01 release of the latest installment in the "Twilight" series. Failing to grasp the seriousness of this event, I figured we would arrive a half-hour or so before the movies since tickets were already purchased. Not so. Our friends arranged to arrive at 5:00 for the 7:15 movie start time. (I thought they were kidding, so KT and I were not ready.) We made it to the theater by 6:00 where we found that at least one of the multiple screenings set aside for the three part series were already full, but that our intrepid partners had managed to slide into the next one being opened up for seating to snag an ideal location for viewing pleasure.
The building was alive with free-flowing estrogen and t-shirts proclaiming allegiance to one side or the other in the epic battle for the heroine's heart to be won by Edward or Jacob. I was a little taken aback by the middle-aged women joining the throng of teenagers in their Twilight regalia. And tickled to find that the practitioner who did my knee injections and one of my companions for the evening were amongst those dressed for the event. Personally perplexed by this, I figured it best to write it off in the spirit of fun and the recognition that my mister was no doubt correct that most of those present were likely of the Super Fan persuasion rather than simply being entertained by the story. (ahem.)
This remained true until a peppy theater employee entered the room to offer up free t-shirts. My semi-derision sort of evaporated as one of the few t-shirts flew toward our row. In an overly competitive moment I fumbled with my sweet friend for the shirt falling in front of her seat as it tumbled down behind the seats of the row before us. Taking advantage of my longer reach, I grasped the shirt and pulled it greedily into my lap to unroll the prize and see that it was not one of those Team Somebody shirts, but a souvenir of the movie complete with the release date. (Oooh. Ah.) Um.
The fourth member of our group was celebrating her 35th birthday. Breaking the spell of Gotta-Get-It, I checked the size of the shirt since we were a group conveniently made up of an X-Small, Small, Medium/Large, and X-Large with the thought that the shirt ought to go to She Whom It Would Fit. The Birthday Girl wanted the XL, but the Prize was a large confirming it as mine. (Never mind that my size logic conveniently put the odds of ownership in my favor with two sizes...) Leaping out of my seat, I took off after Peppy Employee in the hope that perhaps the Birthday Girl could still receive a free t-shirt to mark her special day and the much-anticipated movie release.
I explained with only a tinge of the prior t-shirt-grasping frenzy that I had caught *cough* one of those shirts tossed into the throng, but that it was a mere size large and my friend was celebrating her birthday and had a preference an X-Large which would be a wonderful gift to mark the occasion. (I did not offer to sacrifice the Large. Peppy did not even ask. She was wearing the same shirt partially revealed by her uniform and had just trumpeted to us all that she had already seen Eclipse-and-it-was-awesome.) She said she would check for the other size, and we headed down the hall. As we walked, I mentioned that our group had met as part of a mission trip to Honduras where we stayed at House of Hope, and Peppy Employee became very excited. It turned out that she spent a month at an unrelated House of Hope in Ghana, and it tickled us both to find this unexpected similarity--- however tenuous. It also resulted in her making not one, but two trips to find the only X-Large Eclipse t-shirt left.
Returning triumphantly to our seats, I presented the shirt to Birthday Girl with a distinct pleasure at her good fortune while wishing that I had somehow been able to score the Small and X-small, too. Stepping past my wrestling partner for the Large shirt, I figured she was good in her Team Edward tee, and was highly amused that Middle Child (the youngest in our group by a full decade+) was the only one no longer possessed of a bit of dorky Twilight apparel.
The movies were entertaining, and the near-swooning women in the audience more so. The evening giggling with the four of our six Honduras Girls was priceless. Coming home after 2:00 a.m. with the car filled by chatter between Middle Child and I as we rehashed the shared experience from crazy bathroom lines to the rabid suburban feminine fans was the best of all.

Results

Day after tomorrow is picture day. The resulting images will not likely be suitable for framing. Dr. J has done some blood work, and ordered a CT of my chest, abdomen, and pelvis for Thursday, July 1st. The appointment to hear the results of these tests was set for Monday, July 12th, but Middle Child is leaving for Mexico with the youth group on the 11th. Praying for the tests to be completed quickly, and the opportunity to be seen again to come sooner yielded an opening on Wednesday, July 7th despite the doctor's otherwise packed schedule. (Thank You, Lord!) There is a desire to see her off with an answer to the current burning question, "Does my Mom have lymphoma?"

Weenie

Ah. Joseph is the subject of the current series at our church. Joseph had an awful lot of ups and downs, and yesterday we contemplated what an old friend would refer to as some serious, "down-dooby-down-down" stuff because our hero refused to bring grief to his Lord. It was pointed out in the message that with all the badness dragging Joseph deeper into misfortune, that God was with him. Joseph just kept living the life that God had for him. The guy was no weenie because God was with him and he knew it.
Today, I am clinging to this thought. In an hour and a half, I will be sitting in the office of a hematologist/oncologist. I have already had an oncologist, and I do not want another one. The last one was treating thyroid cancer which is, thankfully, the most treatable sort of cancer. (It's the cancer of choice for weenies.) Dr. J is a specialist in less weenie-fied sorts of out-of-control cells and blood diseases and disorders. Hopefully, he will have answers to why my spleen and liver are enlarged.
Hopefully, fear will not kick into hyper-drive whatever Dr. J says. Joseph is not listed as whining. Complaining. Kicking and Screaming. (He did put fleeing into good use, but that's not quite in context here. Even though I wish it was appropriate to run away from what I do not find palatable.) Not possessing the sort of strength of spirit to be cast down in the prison of a body that does not work quite as it should, there remains the underlying faith that God is with me in all circumstances.

Cosby

There's an old Bill Cosby bit about couples who wonder if they can get pregnant. He assures them that they can. Except that sometimes they cannot. The Boy was an "impossible" pregnancy due to a hormone deficiency. Except that the impossible turned out to be entirely possible. One would think that the success of an impossible pregnancy would have convinced even the most doubtful mama that pregnancy was not outside the realm of possibility. Except that another doctor following up on the same hormonal condition claimed that the was zero chance of another pregnancy.
Mr. Cosby continued his comedy routine to say that second children are often the answer to the same parents who wondered if they could get pregnant asking themselves if they could do it again. He again assures them that they can. The mister and I again proved doctors wrong and Bill Cosby right with the successful conception of Middle Child. I don't know what Bill Cosby said about subsequent pregnancies, but the doctor who delivered our third child also performed the subsequent surgery to prevent any further experimentation.

Laughter

There's a brief line in Genesis that says volumes. In 18:12, "Sarah laughed to herself," after hearing that she was supposed to have a son in the coming year. So often Sarah's laughter, her disbelief, her lack of faith resonate when the impossible calls out. When logic decries the direction of my heart, I think of Sarah and her laughter. (Even if my own laughter is more of a hysterical giggle.) Sarah laughed at the impossible.
She tried to apply logic to the issue at hand--- namely her own lack of issue. Her effort to figure out how to fulfill God's calling Abraham to fatherhood was, well... disastrous and with consequences reaching far into a future lacking in peace amongst the descendants of Abraham borne to him by Hagar and Sarah. Those consequences (an epic fail) help to stay my mind when I begin to try to think through the How of whatever God has called me to on any given day.
Rather than laughing at the impossibility of a given situation, perhaps one day I will be more like that Proverbs 31 woman in verse 25 as, "...she smiles at the future." The verse implies a sense of peace rather than the disbelief of incredulous Sarah and I.

Hunger

Holy Discontent featured a chapter last week on a SAHM to five who packed up her suburban home and family, and hauled them to inner city Detroit to ignore race and class distinctions. As I read about the food pantry that is part of the ministry, I thought of how long it had been since I last dropped off a bag of groceries at Pleasant Suburb's version.

A call to the food pantry yielded a return call from Carol whose passion was obvious even over the phone as she talked about the needs of our community's hungry. She quickly offered a short list of items that were particularly needed right now: 2 pound bags of dried beans, 3 or 5 quart packages of powdered milk, and cans of spinach, carrots, pears, peaches, and fruit cocktail. She said she could give me the "full menu" later as we talked. It was a lengthy conversation, but it passed all-too-quickly. Carol is the sort of woman who is probably all sorts of in touch with what Bill Hybels calls our inner firestorm of frustration.
Getting off the phone, I was anxious to go to the grocery store. When the group of holy, discontent women met this week, a lady whose personal passion runs to feeding the hungry suggested we do something in a general way. I restrained myself from shrieking, "YES! Have I got a deal for you...", and used my inside voice to offer up the short list of needed items to the ladies. Those women were quick to express willingness to add to their regular grocery list in order to help combat hunger amongst our neighbors.
But that's not all. Yesterday, I met a friend for breakfast who plopped cash on the table and said I should add some items to the cart for her, too. Our youngest daughter sacrificed a week of her doggie poop scooping earnings to purchase spinach, carrots, and beans. A friend we met on our shopping trip let her small daughter select items to add to the growing donation after hearing about our quest to add to the food pantry's stock. Positively giddy over the donations that would surpass what our family would have given on our own, a challenge has been issued to the offspring to try to think of ways we can help or encourage others to give to the food pantry so that in this town no one need go to bed hungry.

Words Fail

Me: "There are some things you do NOT say to someone facing cancer."
Offspring: "Like what?"

I don't know. I remember a close friend in high school who ceased to be a close friend after she explained to me that my cancer was just creepy. Wow. She was 17. And compassion wasn't really her thing. Apparently. So, I'm going to say that severing relationships and referring to one's disease as creepy would be on the "What Not To Do/Say" list. Instead of offering up a list of such unpleasantness, I decide we should consider this from an alternate perspective.

Me: "Maybe it's less about what not to say, than it is about what to say?"
Offspring: "Like what?"
Me: "Well, how about just a simple greeting, then ask how the person is feeling..."

We pull into the drive, and each of us grabs a hot or cold dish as we climb from the car. We walk to the door, and knock. The Lady of the House answers and welcomes us inside. She leads our procession to the porch where we place our offerings on the table set for their dinner. Her husband of almost four decades laughingly says he will not be rising to greet us today as he gestures to the towel over his lap covering the tubes that are in place after his surgery. We briefly chat, and the kids are shy, but polite. They love this place, and we are all tickled by the antics of a squirrel hanging off the edge of the swimming pool outside the windows. The talk turns to that of a bobcat that prowls the property on occasion.
I cannot be polite. This is monstrous. This thing threatens the peace and joy of this home, this marriage, this family. How can I help but rebel against such darkness in this place? I wade in by naming the darkness, but refuse to be daunted by it. I relate the good results of another who has shared this particular type of cancer in treatment, and in the life still being lived. Because I think what we should say is not that everything will be all right, but that we will be walking steadfastly alongside our friends through this journey. We will pray, laugh, cry, cheer, listen, and hope.

Unrelated

• I took the Boy in to have the dentist say Evan can have the solid food we have been giving him for 24 hours. I ended up having two crowns. (The intervening story isn't very interesting, but what you imagine fills in the space between those sentences could be, so I will leave you to it, Gentle Reader.)
• Little Bit is trying to figure out how she can parlay her future goals of writing and burger flipping into a sustainable income that will satisfy requirements for her to eventually adopt a baby. I'm not sure what makes the kid tick, but it's always intriguing to hear what is rattling around in her skull at any given moment.
• The Boy needs a job. Well, he needs a job if he wants to drive at some point in the next couple of years. He wants to work at Local Market. Since Local Market has not called him back, he is willing to consider Take-out Pizza as a potential employer.
• Middle Child is going to Mexico next month. The headlines are threatening me with the heebie-jeebies. She is going as part of a team who will be building a home for a family that would otherwise go without, and their need persists despite the dangers in the country.
• The mister and I need a honeymoon. We did not take one after our wedding, but perhaps we will get around to it one of these days. Or at least a nap.
• The local food pantry has specific needs. After talking to a representative, it has become somewhat clear that most people do not ask what those might be. Little Bit and I are headed over to the grocer's with the Pantry's shopping list. I find their list far more motivating than my own.

Wallflower

Standing in the kitchen with the mister, I commented on the Holy Discontent discussionn group's increasing number of what can be described as conversation with feeling. Those exchanges of words when the speaker's convictions pop up and say, "Hello!" There is no absence of passion in that group of women. Commenting on the notably increasing occurences of feminine passion conveyed in our talk, I told the mister that these particular ladies were not, "Wallflower Women," and he was quiet for a moment or two before replying that he did not think there was such a thing.
I thought about how desperately I can wish to melt into the floor or a wall if thrust into a group of Pleasant Suburban PTA Mommies. Of how my spirit quails at the idea of being surrounded by semi-strangers at one of those parties where the hostess is earning free stuff by selling the guests some exciting product. Of how much reliance there is on a cup of coffee or punch in hand to keep from fidgeting in social situations. (I once fled an engagement party where everyone was of the closest relations. Worse, it was an engagement party in honor of the mister and I.) I can go all sorts of wallflower in under sixty seconds unless an escape route makes itself known. Yet, our subject matter has been that searching for what stirs us. The question, "How is God shaking your tree?" Is one that fails to encourage shrinkage.
I figure that says more about God than it does those women, though the women still have that free will thing going on... but we are not going down the Free Will and Predestination rabbit trail today. I was just taking a few minutes to marvel at the way that passion bubbles up. The author is encouraging each reader to seek out that place where God has built in a unique passion, and to feed it. Each week, the ladies come together and, whether the sparks of our little firestorms of frustrations are large or small, there is something of a conflagration coming that will prevent any of us from remaining ignorant of how we may serve.

Accent

Little Bit has been experimenting with a British accent. She has taken to performing an odd assortment of daily activities with her pinky up, too. He accent is generally good, if somewhat overdone. She has developed a vocabulary characterized by her accent and this acquired mannerism that includes a few odd words that are of unknown etymology such as, "Moo-thuh" which is a bastardization of the more mundane, "Mother". (I do not answer to this word. It sounds too much like it has a bovine root.) The pinky-up thing is making all sorts of daily activities from video games to turning door knobs entertaining, if a tad inefficient. Whatever unknown something makes this child tick, every second with her is a jolly good adventure.

Inconsequential

Nothing big today. Just a few little things.

• The Boy is feeling no pain, but he looks a little like a chipmunk with his post-extraction swelling.
• I have an appointment with another in the slow parade of -ologists on the 28th. Still no idea why my spleen and liver are enlarged.
• Little Bit has become enamored of a blue shirt with a star on it. I am going to hide it because she has been wearing it since Sunday. First, I will have to extricate her from it.
• Middle Child has somehow managed to murder the computer she saved to buy herself for her 12th birthday. I hope the mister and I sprung for the "no matter what" replacement plan.
• My closet may have a moth. I am finding an increasing number of articles of clothing with holes in them. Shopping is not my happy place. The full-length mirrors and inconsistent sizes tend to highlight the body image issues that are otherwise held at bay by ice cream.

Sent

I maintain a theory that each person on this planet is going to be given precisely the circumstances that God has for them, and that those circumstances will be fitting for that person. Sometimes others indicate that my circumstances sound overwhelming, confirmation, of a sort, of that personal conviction. My circumstances are precisely the appropriate materials for whatever God desires to build in me, and in others, when I am in service to Him regardless of my limited ability to understand the plans.
Having recently heard the suggestion that God did not have a plan for my service right now outside of my own small world at home between the latest health issues and the reintegration of The Boy, there has been time given over to a bit of self-examination. Except that looking outside of myself often is the plan. The blue print for the finished project is incomprehensible to me, and it is only in completion that one may perhaps recognize a particular phase of building. This idea has been successfully applied to others as well, and who better to serve as an example of such a theory than one of my own offspring?

Middle Child had been in a messy place emotionally through her first half of middle school, but rather than wait for her to "get it together", I invited her to journey to Honduras to serve others. Middle Child needed to give this offering in honor of her King in order to heal what was broken within her. This is the sort of result that has led to disagreement with waiting for everything in our personal lives to reach status quo before stepping out.

That kind of waiting is reminscent of those who choose not to set foot into a church or pick up a Bible because they feel themselves too broken. It is too close to the idea that one can be too sinful to receive God's grace. Rather than drowning in her own discontent, Katie found a source of holy discontent and kindled a desire for serving those in need. The architect who designed all of Creation is in charge, and she and I are simply masons placing one stone on top of another. He will direct the project, and we will keep laying down the materials He gives us to form the design He has set.