In the middle of the night when ... finds me

At the end of my previous post I wrote the following: "I am excited for what will be accomplished in a week and a half... I am excited. And I am unafraid." I imagine therefore, that the subsequent retreat calamities are in fact entirely my fault. Apologies to all retreat goers.

Except not really. Because I am still unafraid.

This year our annual women's retreat began like any other: searching for the edibles that were inadvertently left at the church and requesting several attendees run to the store for us. However, it weren't no thang. (Okay, the missing accouterments were the coffee pot cord and coffee, and we are Baptist, so it was kind of a thang. But with a Wal-mart just down the street, we staved off any withdrawal induced rioting. [Again, with the plug-in issues. Why can coffee pots and cell phones not run on the same type of charger. It's 2014 people! Coffee pots should come with USB ports and wi-fi... or at least IV drip bags.]) Everyone had chocolate cake and ice cream, we worshiped, we praised, we encouraged, loved, and listened, and then there was a rousing game of Telestrations (just in case we were concerned with becoming too spiritual). All in all, a grand time was had.

Next day? Not so much.

It all started with the mention that a certain unwanted vermin of the "sleep tight, don't let 'em bite" variety had been seen. Our ministry team leader and I slipped quietly into the room, and checked the bed, peeling back covers, lifting mattresses, and generally accusing every ball of lint of being buggy, vile, and committing heinous crimes against humanity. We dug the squashed offender out of the trash, and all but performed a complete crime scene investigation. My compadre got out her phone and googled images of bed bugs for comparison (although I still hold that we should be able to do this on our coffee pot without needing to lug around obnoxious phones). It was, in fact, beddy and buggy.

We informed several others on our team, and then, ninja-style, we slunk from room to room and tossed the beds. Nothing. Our ever wise leader, spoke to her quite godly husband and determined we should probably still inform folk that one was found, though the circumstances of its presence were somewhat suspect. One at a time we started letting people in on the occurrences of the afternoon (like the fact that we ransacked their rooms while they were out... oh yeah, our ministry team is not above creepy). I assumed people would check their beds, find, as we had, nothing, and return to their crafty, gamey, sleepy diversions.

I am really a bad assumer. I should give up the habit.

Another little monster was found, on a different floor of the house, and another on a different floor of the house.

And our fearless leader of this merry band of misfits began to crack.

As the bug infestation exploded all over everything (please don't visualize that), too much unfolded to be relayed in a blog that I want my four readers to finish reading at some point. The summary is: we decided to stay, those who wanted to go went, and we declared to the Adversary that this weekend would not be a win in his score book. And we ate pumpkin cobbler with equal conviction.

The thing I do want to address is this: while most were kind, understanding, courageous, and godly in what was a rather nasty situation, there was also certainly some major paranoia, panic, and irrational behavior, as human beings lunged to grasp any small sense of control they could exercise over things to big and wonderful for them.

At some point we have to live a life of faith. Human beings really have very limited control over reality. We cannot control nature in all of its cruelty and annoyances: the floods will rise, the fires will burn, the bugs will crawl. We cannot control other people: their reactions, their emotions, their choices are beyond are grasp. We cannot control our God, for as Lucy reminds us: "He is not tame, but He is good." All we can control is what we choose to do about Jesus Christ. Can we trust Him to be Captain of our lives or not? I will not live a life of fear. That is not the legacy I want to leave for my children. For those who have been entrusted to me, I want to show that life can be victorious, that Yahweh is closer than a brother and greater than the universe. As my children watch me I want them to see a woman of fierce bravery, who can laugh at the days to come; because her God is greater than herself, and she really believes this.

My daughter is still nursing, so she went with me this weekend. Her bed was a pack and play. I met our leader and her mother in the bathroom as we got ready in the morning, and I offered them the options I had come up with for this fabric-covered, potentially buggy object. 1. Trust that the Lord does not have more children in our future and leave it there. 2. Rub the entire bloody thing down with alcohol until the fumes have killed enough brain cells that I just don't care anymore. (A point of my own failure: unlike my God, my tongue is not tame nor good. "Who will rescue me from this body of death?") 3. Trust that if God has bedbugs planned for my future that they will come crawling out of the woodwork, no effort on my part will stop them, and I will be okay with this.

This is what we forget. God is Sovereign and Good. His will cannot be thwarted, and honestly, why would we want to. If I do not end up with bed bugs in the next year, I will praise God. If I do have little critters nipping in the night, I will still praise God. When Yahweh is the Lord of your life; you can be unafraid. He alone makes us brave. At some point we have to choose: will you live a life of fear, or will you live a life of faith.

Outnumbered in Retreat

Part of my responsibility on our church's Women's Ministry Team is to help organize, facilitate, make brownies for, lead worship at, and generally agonize over every detail of the annual fall women's retreat. (I'm not kidding. Our fearless leader made everyone sign a contract at the beginning of the year. I didn't actually read through it, but I am sure at some point it mentions retreat brownies frosted with agony. ... and given the nature of our fearless leader, I probably signed away a child to her as well. ... which, since we are in the midst of a bout with teething, I could really be okay with.) The retreat is a week and a half away, and whilest all the details have been considered, the finances to accomplish said details are not what you would call... um... there.

Since our first retreat six years ago we have grown every year. Steadily, God has been faithfully increasing our numbers. It is a wonderful trouble to have. Two years ago we all stayed in one house and a third of our blessed attendees slept on the floor. (I slept on a couch, but lest you think I am a spoiled little Women's Ministry Team princess, the couch was in a closet and was about eighteen inches away from my six week old child. Loads of retreating happening there.) Last year there were so many women we rented two houses and shuttled folks back and forth. This did not turn out so grand, but, I believe, God still used this time, the speaker, and the fellowship to encourage, bless, and challenge his people.

With the steady incline our team undertook a quest to find a house big enough, inexpensive enough, in a good location, and suited to as many people's needs/interests as we possibly could (and we figured if we satisfied at least two ladies we would be doing rather well). With the process bathed in prayer we found a new mansion with beds for sixty people, 8 bathrooms, a big worship space, and it was only an hour away from the valley. We started signing women up four weeks ago. With one more week left, we have twenty less registered than last year. As my son would say, "Uh oh!"

In true Peter fashion, I strapped my sword to my hip (right under the baby sling) and set off to rescue the retreat. I posted to every facebook wall, sent emails, prayed, encouraged, coerced, mentioned casually that I'm armed, and in all other ways implored women to come retreating. As I completed my onslaught, thought one of the day flashed through my mind: "Wouldn't it be awesome if I got all these women to come to the retreat?"

Not a full second later, I literally heard Priscilla Shirer's voice in my head as she paraphrased God's message to Gideon, "You might actually have the audacity to think you had something to do with it." I feel I would be much holier if the mind that God has given me was just a few seconds quicker witted than my flesh. Proceed to the dropping of one very foolish forehead onto one very solid table.

God says that He will accomplish mighty things, He will deliver, He is the One who knows the beginning from the end, by His hand the mouths of lions are shut, and in our weakness His strength is perfected.

I find it funny that our team is now outnumbered by too few. It is my prayer that God would use our weaknesses: our planning, our limits, our exhaustion, the worries of life that make us think we don't have the time or energy for His work, as a foundation to build a monument to His great Name. I am excited for what will be accomplished in a week and a half. I am thrilled for those almost thirty women who are coming to meet God and to see the valley through His eyes. I anticipate a new perspective, a new day, a new hope, uncried tears, laughs that have been bubbling up flying out to the joy of our hearts and God's. I am excited. And I am unafraid. And I have nothing to do with it.

The Things I've Learned

My husband introduced me to many wonders of the world previously unknown in my small life. Like the mighty Chewbacca, the first wonders I think of are food-related: sushi, avocados, Indian food, and macaroni and tomato juice... okay, macaroni and tomato juice is not a wonder of the world, but when I can feed our entire family dinner for less than a dollar and leave the three of them smiling happily, it's pretty close to wonderful. Even the little one, who has no teeth (not sure what she's waiting on; life really opens up when you get teeth), loves it all smashed up and even nastier than usual. *

He also introduced me to sports. I knew sports existed, but I had no concept of how satisfying it is to see a 350 pound lineman smashing the enemy's quarterback like an over-boiled potato. (Ah, similes.) Since hooking up with Justin, I have experienced the desire to throw ball, putter, driver, bag, cart, and universe into a water hazard after recording yet another snowman. My voice has been shattered by screaming "GO UTES!" and "ATTA KID, Travis!" for hours at a time. And, I have had softball threads etched into my tibia and humerus as I attempt to stop a speeding line-drive with every conceivable appendage except the one with the glove on it. (Is your head considered an appendage?)

Thirdly, Justin has opened the door to the world of Marvel heroes, which the incredible Hulk succeeded in smashing shut behind me. I cannot remember the last movie we saw that did not have a superhero or a hobbit in it.

What do you say to the man who daily brings you so much joy that your heart might burst... like a bowl of mac and tom shattering on the floor... like it was smashed with a line drive... like The Thing and Hulk got in a fight over it and scattered it to the corners of the universe?... But in a good way.

I love him. Lots. And if he ever tries to leave, I'll kick him. Hard. And I never thought, after six years, I would still be so smitten. Happy Anniversary, husband. You've done so many amazing and important things for me and in my life... none of which are listed above.

* Think this sounds odd? It is. Read more about mac and tom here: http://ririerantings.blogspot.com/2013/06/macaroni-and-tomato-juice.html.

Overpacking

Growing up with a little sister who is severely handicapped, I learned the value of over packing. Going to church on Sunday mornings required a sherpa. Sending her to school was a mass undertaking. A trip to Yellowstone?... Forget about it; we had two car-top carriers and the back and sides of a van packed to the rafters... or whatever it is that forms the top of a van... emergency lights? Even more than with a normally able-bodied child, with an alternately-abled child there is no telling what may happen, and you have to plan for every possibility. You have to take warm clothes and blankets in case it is cold and light clothes in case it is hot. You have to take an extra sleeping bag, more insulating mats, several many food options, diapers, clothes for diaper fails, special chair, special wheelchair, toys, distractions, etc, etc.

Because of this need to prepare for every eventuality, I learned to over pack. I would take the biggest bag I could find on trips and would have to sit on it in order to zipper it closed. My first real confrontation with this understanding came on my trip to New Zealand with Youth For Christ. After I raised my support and got my passport, YFC sent me a duffle bag. I was allowed to fill this bag and then bring a sleeping bag along with me. And that was it.

I started to compile the things I would need for a month away from home in a foreign land. It began massing in a heap in the center of my room. Seven pairs of pants (they promised laundry once a week... this did not happen... it did rain every single day however, which is kind of like laundry, right?), ten shirts, three jackets, three pairs of shoes, two skirts, and necessary under-riggin's. That was just the clothes. Then, I had to think about other necessities: my wave iron, a blow dryer, plug adapters and a voltage converter so I could plug in said hair toys (really, what is so wrong with everyone having the same plugs/sockets? I suspect when the aliens visit they will go back to their home-world pub and report to all their alien buddies, "Earth? Don't even bother! All their technology plugs into different types of sockets. They're a mess!" I feel in our galactic marketing scheme, nonstandard plugs are really holding us back from our target audience... I digress.) hair gel, hair spray, shower stuff, camera, extra memory card, extra battery, YFC binder, food in case the apocalypse occurred or our flight was downed in the Pacific and we had to swim to a deserted island and survival depended on the food I brought and coconuts (the food I brought being a cup of mini Oreos and a Reese's Fastbreak... and yes, we would be doomed, but we would die happy). Oh, and my Bible. Maybe an important thing to bring on a missions trip.

Needless to say, I got two pairs of pants and a couple shirts in the bag, then felt the weight of hopelessness bearing down on me. I relinquished the need to have perfectly straight, smooth hair on a humid pacific island in the wet season, I selected one pair of shoes aside from the ones I would wear on the plane, and I broke my toothbrush in half. The latter action did nothing to save space, but did accomplish something for venting frustration. In the end I took that one duffle bag and my sleeping bag and soldiered off into the unknown (with maybe just a few extra pairs of socks accidentally rolled up in my sleeping bag. "How did those get there?" she asks with innocent doe eyes.)

I have grown better at being less prepared, and I have come to appreciate the spontaneity and creativity it takes to survive inside of limits. As I have matured (a little) I see this psychology for what it is: a need for control. Limited in my mortal humanity in a vast, unpredictable, and often unkind world, I have a mental imperative to be prepared to exert control, to bring down order, to fend off the discomfort of uncertainty with the range of stuffs I carry on my back. This leaves little space to exercise the range of faith I carry in my heart, or the vastness of God's strength and grace. Perfectionism is a desire for control, and it leaves very little room for the beauty of life as Christ's child.

Priscilla Shirer calls it God-margin: the space between your abilities, your talents, your time, your resources, and what God has asked you to do. She states one of the beautiful paradoxes of the Christian life: "God does not call us to do hard stuff; He calls us to do impossible stuff," and at the same time, "You don't need all the things you thought you would need." Gideon faced the army of the Midianites (a paltry 135,000) with 32,000 men. But, "The Lord said to Gideon, 'You have too many men. I cannot deliver Midian into their hands, or Israel would boast against me, 'My own strength has saved me.'" The Lord cut Gideon's men down to 300, and said "Now you are ready."

My 300 is living on one small (from my perspective on the hillside) income for the next nine months, my 300 is being for all intents a single mom, my 300 is the raging battle of perfection, control, and stock-piling in the face of a God who has declared that He will provide for my heart, my spirit, and my family. In my weakness, God, may your strength be perfected!

How to Bathe a Pair of Scalawags

"How to's" seem an easy way to describe the impossibility of being a parent, thus, below I give you: "How to Bathe a Pair of Scalawags."

Step 1: Obtain a pair of filthy scalawags. This shouldn't be difficult. The young female crawls everywhere and through everything. Her socks and suits which start white will conclude the day a dusky gray (if we're lucky). Also, she is utterly amused by spitting at the most inopportune moments, like seconds after taking a bite of pureed peas. And she co-owns a bulldog. Enough said. The bulldog co-owner is a boy. And loves eating macaroni and cheese with his fingers. Enough said.

Elect to bathe the boy first. Gather accouterments of tub-time: towel, green incredible-hulk soap, blueberry-faced sponge, cup, duck, boat, Q-tips, clean clothes, fresh diaper, water, boy. Gathering the final item will take the most effort as, the second he learns it is bath time, he will run screaming into the kitchen and fold himself into armadillo defense. Carry/roll said boy into the bathroom. Once he sees the duck all will be well with the universe again. Remove child's clothes and diaper, leave in a pile on the floor while rushing to get momentarily not screaming child into the tub.

Wet the blueberry sponge. You will be distracted, so the boy will take the opportunity to snatch the cup fill it up and poor the contents out... not in the tub, on the floor, and over his clothes and diaper, and around the electronic scale, drenching the bathmat... cause if Noah has to be wet, so does everything else. Watch the water soak through his clothes and diaper lying on the floor. Sigh. The distraction of watching your bathroom being baptized will turn your gaze to the door, where a dirty little munchkin is wriggling her way towards you with a squinty grin on her face. Panic. "No no, Hannah!" you will cry out. This will upset her. Greatly. Pushing herself into a seated position, the baby will proceed to poke out her bottom lip and cry. Wonder why it isn't fair or proper for you to do that.

Now, you are faced with a dilemma: daughter crawling towards you needs to be removed to a safe safer location (there is no really safe place for a child outside of the arms of our King. I'm sure my children could accidentally injure themselves in a padded room wearing a straight jacket), whilst boy child should not be left alone standing in a tub of water. ... Oh, did I forget to mention aforementioned boy scalawag refuses to sit down during baths? This is one of those battles you chose not to fight. The inevitable concussion will eloquently fight this war for you soon. Reject every mothering instinct, snatch the daughter up and throw her in her crib across the hall. She will begin wailing. Return to the bathroom. In the, literally, three seconds where you are out of Noah's sight line, his universe will fold, stars will crash from the sky, and he will wail like you were gone for eons leaving him to his doom. Sigh.

Calm the child down by giving him his green hulk soap. Curious, he will rub it across his forearm. As his skin turns green he will grin jubilantly. Grin jubilantly. Sometimes it's nice to be a clever mom. Wash child with Johnson's baby soap as he continues turning his belly and right arm green. Come to the part of the bath where you must wash the boy's hair. Take a deep breath. Looking innocently in every direction but at the cup, ladle up some water. Still smiling sweetly cup your hand at the top of the child's forehead and start pouring water. Shrieking will ensue. Quickly check to make sure the contents of the cup are not in fact boiling acid masquerading as water. Wonder why child is shrieking as if being showered in boiling acid. One more cup full, and then assure the tortured soul in front of you that for the moment we are "all done". Still shushing his quivering form, lather his hair with soap. Scrub all those divinely perfect golden locks. Feel immense love in your heart. Time to rinse. Crud.

There are two options here: 1-Slowly and carefully trickle water down, trying to avoid his face while gently cooing "Almost done" repeatedly. 2-Dowse him and get it done with. Elect option two. Know everyone is judging you. Be okay with that.

Once the dowsing is complete, wrap Noah up in a towel and take him to the change table. The crying will stop when you hand him the baby lotion bottle. He considers whether to drum on the bottle or pry it open and eat the lotion. He chooses to drum. Exhale in relief. Dry him, diaper him and clothe him. Lastly, clean his ears; because the kid makes an unnatural amount of ear wax. Wonder how it is even possible that he can hear. Consider his obedience infractions over the last few weeks. Maybe he can't hear. Wouldn't that be a nice excuse instead of admitting your child has a willful sin nature.

And done. Yeah!

Step 2: Collect items for baby girl's bath: blue sink tub, washrag, duck, towel, clean clothes, diaper, soap, pacifier, water, girl. As you gather up the girl her crying will instantly stop, and she will smile at you adoringly. At once be utterly frustrated and totally smitten. Remove baby girl's clothes and diaper. Carry her into the kitchen. Notice a suddenly warm and damp patch on your belly. Yeah, she totally just pee-d on you. That's how we roll in this house. Fill the tub with water and insert baby.

Baby girl will look at water as if she has never seen this anomaly before, and will curiously poke one very articulate finger down, breaking the surface of the water. Content that it will not kill her, Hannah will raise both hands high in the air and smash them down into the tub. Remove your sopping wet shirt. Snag a dish towel from the counter and place it on the floor. You've played this game before, and there is nothing like slipping all over the kitchen while trying to carry your best baby girl back to her room. You ain't no fool. ... this time.

Proceed with the washing of girl child. She is much less a pain about the whole scenario than her brother. Of course you will not escape dry. Scrub a dub all her little baby rolls. Love her completely. Be grateful that she with all her splashing and Noah with all his shrieking have been entrusted to you with the most important charge ever given: parent. Once the bath is done, collect the hooded bath towel, and fit the little hood over her adorable noodle. While you are trying to wrap up the rest of her, she will fiercely seize the towel from her head and plunge it into the bath water. Your glare will meet her grin like a fire extinguisher in the face a flame thrower. Scoop up naked, dripping wet Hannah, cradle her to you (it all dries in the end... at least in Utah), and retrieve another towel. Dry, lotion, diaper, and clothe the baby girl. And done. Yeah!

Hear the sound of the first born playing with the bulldog, offender of all senses. Sigh.

Manic Little Man Feet

I don't know what it is like living with someone who is bipolar, but I imagine it is not too unlike living with a two-year-old. Thankfully, we caught him in his manic state for your entertainment. I have a dancing drummer in the making. Wahoo!

 

 

Happy birthday to my Little Man, my Baby Buddy, Mr. Noah!

Stuck

There are some dear friends of ours who are going through a hard time in their lives and marriage. They are both wonderful, amazing people, and this seems to have come out of left field (although we are very outside the situation). It is a solemn reminder that no marriage is invincible. As Justin and I prayed for them, for reconciliation, and for God to make the wrongs right, we were reminded to pray for one another and our small family too. This was our dinner prayer, and as it ended and Justin headed for the tuna (alas, yes, I am serving tuna for dinner. We will all turn into cats... and then I'll be allergic to myself.), I warned him, "You're stuck with me, though, okay? I'm not going anywhere."

The Husband laughed, gave me a hug, and told me, "I was just about to say, 'Poor girl, you're stuck with me.'" We are stuck with one another. Which I am pretty okay with.

We are facing a hard ten months ahead. Due to the greed and selfishness of a select few and a host of political issues that I don't fully understand, Justin's school is closing. The doors shut at the close of business May 31st, 2015. My husband has a year and a half of classes that he still needs to take, so the faculty very graciously came up with a plan to squeeze it all in before then. It will be a hideous ten months. The volume of material to read/learn, the time in class, and the completion of clinical hours means he will be a ghost around our home, and for added fun, not able to work. We will be living on my income. We have already decided to cancel all gifts for each other, we are getting rid of every little extra, and we are trying to find ways to work more now.

As we head into this time I am beyond thankful to be stuck with such an amazing man. For him, because we see the Light at the end of the tunnel, I can do this. With God's power we will outlast. I am so excited to see the other side as we prepare for ministry and service on the mission field. I am excited to see the man my husband becomes, how my children grow, how I change. When it all ends, I am excited to sleep in sometimes, and have ESPN so we can watch Ute games and baseball!

It's not just the end I am looking forward to, however. That is the hope. But I know the next ten months are life too. In the next year there will be laughter I wouldn't trade for the world, and tears that break me down. There will be family, and friends, and work, and play. There will be Christmas with a Charlie Brown tree and two beautiful shining faces, glowing in its twinkling light. When we first decided this was the road we would take, I had in mind to squeeze my eyes shut, plunge on, and hope it all came out all right in the end. However, I realize there is too much to see in ten months. I will not spend the next year blind. I will spend it stuck. And happily, happily so.

Grace and Giggles

It's hard being almost two.

I cannot count the number of times I have told Noah this in the midst of a crisis over the last few weeks. His head is at counter height, his feet walk without his brain guiding, baby sister borrows without asking, and sometimes we have squash for dinner. It's a rough life. And he's sure we know about it.

At a family gathering a few weeks ago after an altercation involving a glass door and a dog bell, my sweet little boy hauled off and slapped me across the face. In shock, I grabbed his hand and motioned to my husband that it was time to go... NOW. It was time to go somewhere with fewer witnesses. And no death penalty for murder one.

When we got home, settled every one down and got the kids in bed, I went back to my Dobson literature. I'm not saying his words are inspired; I do not believe he speaks gospel... but he is pretty close. Concerning the terrible two's he said, "I am a firm believer in the judicious use of grace (and humor) in parent-child relationships. In a world in which children are often pushed to grow up too fast, too soon, their spirits can dry out like prunes beneath the constant gaze of critical eyes. It is refreshing to see parents temper their inclination for harshness with a measure of "unmerited favor." There is always room for more loving forgiveness within our homes. Likewise, there's nothing that rejuvenates the parched, delicate spirits of children faster than when a lighthearted spirit pervades the home and regular laughter fills its halls." (Dr. James Dobson, Family Talk, Solid Answers.)

I knew this. I honestly think we know much more than we would admit. Often, forgetfulness, business, and failure to really think about the problems presented to us makes us believe we do not know. So whether forgetful or unthinking, I managed to forget that it is kind of hard being two. The world gets very big very fast. Time suddenly exists, and it refuses to wait or hurry. There are wonders and disasters, learning to fear and learning to love. There are icky foods that mommy says are good, dreaded baths, and early bedtimes. As I teach my Little Man kindness, maybe he could use a little demonstration. Mommy, can you be kind, understanding, firm but loving, gentle and cautious, and loads and loads of fun?

It is an impossible task, this raising a little man and lady. Knowing when to discipline is not easy (and yes, I do think, in the future, hitting requires discipline... maybe not death, but discipline). Knowing when to show mercy, when to offer grace, and when to laugh and laugh is not simple. It has been easier though with these thoughts in my head. My children are a wonder, and they are learning day by day how to be more wonderful. More than concerned for the terrible two’s I am excited to see what this Little Man becomes when he is not so little anymore.

Summer pics

Last post was a lot of jabbering, so this post will be more pictury, just to shake things up. Justin is playing in a softball tournament with his work. Here are his loyal fans paying so much attention (yes, that's his game going on behind us).

I cannot tell you how difficult it is to take a group selfie, when one member of the groups has arms too short to hold the camera far enough away to squeeze all our selfies in, one member is grouching because he is not allowed to lick the camera, and one keeps counting blades of grass with her big toe. It's like trying to take a selfie in a mental institution.

And before we move on, I feel I should apologize for Little Man's 'Luke Skywalkert/Aunt Beru' haircut. I am aware it's not his best look. He still wears it better than Mark Hamill though.

This is Baby Girl, and Big Little Man at Lagoon... speaking of not our best look ever..

My kids have a polar magnetization to water. They are part water monkey... (is that a real thing?)

August Showers Bring Great Glowers

It all depends on your perspective.

After a flight to New Zealand, whereon I ceased to exist for the span of one day (and why does that always happen on Saturday?), got pelted by a Thor-grade thunder storm, took a 2:00am detour to Fiji, and finally landed in Auckland exhausted, starving, and brimming with excitement for the adventures ahead, all I really wanted out of life was a shower. ... and maybe a kiwi. ... the fruit, not the other kind. ... I mean seriously, who would land after such a traumatic plane ride and want to snuggle up to ... a rare, flightless, soda straw beaked bird? ... and not the other, other kind either.

(It just now occurs to me that you have to understand New Zealand slang to think that joke was at all funny. Sorry.)

After our brief NewZea orientation (wherein the kiwi joke was explained to us [if you're really curious I can attach a power point presentation outlining the nuance of meanings, which infuses humor into all previous phraseology]), we went to the Marae. If you've never experienced a Maori greeting and welcome onto the Marae, it is beautiful, moving, haunting, and warm, a curious juxtaposition of forgotten worlds and those to come (except with sloppier sneakers, because I swear, it NEVER stops raining in New Zealand). My need for a shower was lost in feelings of awe and honor, family and community, fear and food. However, once we had been through the welcome ceremony, a huge meal, singing and dancing together, and a philosophical lesson from the story-teller, my shower craving had returned. A short-circuit in my brain was processing all information in a binary of 'shower' / 'bed.' (For example, when asked my name it would come out: -shower-shower-bed-shower-bed-bed-bed-shower.)

So for the first time in three days (well, four according to the calendar, but that pesky oblivion doesn't count), shampoo and razor in hand I stepped into a shower. Allow me to set the scene: Outdoors, top half of a wooden crate set over a drain, dingy tile walls, 'that's a curtain?!' shower curtain, COLD water - adjust - COLDER water. And Jethro. Jethro is the wee froggy who lives under the wooden crate. And Roland. Roland is an enormous unfolding spider who lives on the shower wall... with about 50 of his buddies. I was having a Cirith Ungol, Forbidden Forest shower.

In all honesty, I found it most entertaining. It was an adventure. Abi's love adventure! Of course there were spiders in the freezing shower, that's how adventures work. How else would you know you were on an adventure if there weren't creepies in the dirty hole where you are supposed to get clean? Adventures require frogs in the shower. They serve the same function as parakeets in the coal mines. If the frog passes out, it's time to go. With all the balance of a ninja, you angle your back out of the freezing spray, and your leg crooked in front of you so you can manage to shave slice your legs with the utterly chilly razor. It was fun!

Flash forward to last night. Finally, I gave up on getting my sweet baby to go to sleep. After a very hard week, I peeled off my clothes, swept back the 'that's what a curtain is supposed to look like' shower curtain, and stared into the eyes of a very broken faucet. So here's a sentence I hope none of you ever have to write: my dog ate my shower. He jumped in and either smacked or bit the water gusher part and broke off the little bits that make it shoot from the top. (That is my advanced plumbing vocabulary coming into play. Sorry, if I left any of you behind with my elevated, PVC diction.)

Justin was doing homework. I think at this point, that should be a given. Despondently, I gathered my shampoo and razor (and a few other necessities), wrapped a towel around me and trudged downstairs to use the other shower. Allow me to set the scene: Indoors, clean white, 'you can't see me' door, COLD water - adjust - COLDER water - adjust oppositely - warm water, and only a few unsightly insect corpses. All in all, from a neutral perspective, better.

But it wasn't better. It was all worsely all over. It was one of the more wrathful showers I can recall in my brief history. I seethed at the small space, cursed that I had to use all my ballet training to shave my legs, and grumped at the innocent deadlings swirling down the drain. When it was all over I swung the door open. BAD IDEA. BRRRR COLD! I snatched my towel from the floor. Oh, did I mention the shower kind of leaks? How silly of me to leave that glorious detail out! So my towel was wet and probably about 32.5 degrees Fahrenheit. And so without a stitch of clothing on, hair dripping wet, and eyes blazing red I stormed away, leaving the offending shower to sulk in its steaminess.

It's all about context. I will endure most anything in the name of adventure. I will endure it with the joy encouraged in New Testament letters. Sans adventure, there is very little I will tolerate.