Category Archives: Sacred Mundane

Warning: This is really honest! 

When I started writing this post, earlier this morning, it was entitled, “Why I’m So Depressed.”  Now, perhaps I wouldn’t have really posted something by that title, but that just clues you into my frame of mind at the time.  I was down.  Really down.

It’s just been one of those weeks.  For the last month Dutch has been doing this thing where he will not nap—which translates into zero free time for Mommy and endless hours of comforting, walking, dancing, rocking.  And, needless to say Dutch is not the only one crying through this.  We went to Santa Barbara this last weekend, which was great, but by the time we were headed home I was just about to snap—Dutch was exhausted and would not sleep, I was exhausted, and the last day I caught Jeff’s cold and was sick.  The next day (sorry guys, gotta mention this) began that special friend we women get that translates into a grumpy, achy, bloated, emotional, irritable, and just generally miserable girl.  Cramps and headaches on top of my sneezing, sore throat, sleepless miserable self.  The first day back from the trip was my first day of tutoring full time, and I certainly couldn’t call in sick the first week, so I dragged myself to tutoring each day this week. 

So, this was my physical and emotional state—it was not good.  On top of this, I have been struggling with feeling like a complete failure, like a loser, because we live with my parents and we’re almost 30 and for heaven’s sake shouldn’t we be a little more “successful” than that?  And here comes the part where I’m really vulnerable, the part where I reveal why I’m dysfunctional (we all are, by the way!).  I have lived my whole life in the shadow of my brother.  Yes, there I said it.  It seems so trivial and stupid, and I’m sure it is, but it’s still true.  Try being the little sister of Kris Zyp.  Not easy!  Kris was doing trigonometry at age 9.  He was taking college math classes when he was in junior high.  He scored a perfect 800 on math portion of the SAT.  He is the smartest, most athletic, pretty much most perfect person you could ever meet and I have to be his little sister.  So, I spent my childhood trying to be as good as Kris.  I have the most crystal clear memory of being probably six years old and being with my grandma.  We were at a golf course and she was introducing us to one of her friends.  She said, “This is Kris, and this is Kris’s sister.”  Kick in the gut.  I know, I should be over this by now, huh?  Well, I’m working on it.  I think it would be easy if Kris wasn’t so stinking nice and humble and godly and wonderful.  If he were a really successful heathen or a really successful jerk, it wouldn’t be so hard.  But he’s not!  I actually had a wide-awake nightmare the other day that I would get to heaven and spend eternity listening to God list Kris’s accomplishments and godly characteristics while I sat and watched.  I know.  That’s really twisted, huh?

So, why I am I bringing this up?  Well, I thought that I was over all this.  I mean, I’m 27 years old.  I really thought that since we’re now grown up and done with grades and sports and scholarships, it was all over.  I really don’t think about it anymore.  But then I got blind sighted and realized how sick I really still am.  You see, my brother and his wife are moving out of the state and he is seeking a job.  I don’t want to give all the details, but basically I feel like every day I hear from my parents about another job offer, for another ridiculously high amount of money, for my brother to be able to work from home and basically have all his dreams come true (exaggeration, I know).  But that’s what it feels like.  While this is happening I am seeing myself, with no income whatsoever, living with my parents, taking any sort of charity we can get, and I basically feel like all my life of living in his shadow has culminated at this point and I have received the final verdict of my worth: NOTHING.  ZERO.  LOSER. 

And it’s not that I am not happy for him.  I really am.  I love him so much, and I want him to succeed.  But because I am so selfish it still hurts.  It still makes it feel like a kick in the gut, the same way it felt when my grandma introduced me as Kris’s sister. And I know that it is spiritual attack.  I know that when I believe that I am worthless and a loser that I am listening to a lie.   I swear I can smell Satan’s breath right now.  But I keep falling back into this, and I think it’s exacerbated so much because of the timing—he’s at his peak while I’m at my valley.

I know the root is pride.  I know that pride is what prevents us from genuinely rejoicing in the successes of others.  I know that pride is what makes me want to be “successful” or somehow to have attained something in the world’s eyes.  And, I know that my value is not based on how much money we make or whether anyone wants to hire us or praise us.  But man, it’s sure hard to remember that!  In fact, I’d say I’m not really successful at that right now.  The lie that keeps overwhelming me is this:  “How stupid you are for being excited about any dreams or hopes or goals in life—they’re really stupid things and you are a fool for thinking that anyone would want to read your writing or hear anything that you have to say. You are playing pretend and you’re worth nothing.”  Ugh.  Gross huh?  So why do I keep believing it?  It is straight from the pit—from the father of lies. 

So where does the title of this post come in?  Well, last night I cried myself to sleep (I was really at the bottom) and this morning I was still sick, with swollen shut eyes from crying, a throbbing headache, and (of course!) a huge red zit on my forehead.  So, I’m trying to function and I have plans to meet two friends in Portland, and I’m trying to figure out a way I can get out of it because the last thing I want to do it talk to anyone.  So while I’m going through my morning, I take Dutch from my dad in order to change his poopy diaper, and my dad looks at me and says, “What happened to your head?!”  He is totally serious.  I just look at him, and he repeats, “What happened to your head?  Did you get hit or something?”  And that was it.  Tears filled my eyes and I grabbed Dutch and ran upstairs.  We managed to get out the door but through more frustrating circumstances were 20 minutes late to meet the girls. 

But then, it all changed.  These two precious friends of mine, Liz and Lyndi, came to my rescue.  Just the sight of their faces reminded me that life was not that bad.  I shared with them about my week, openly and honestly.  I told them how I was doing—I shared it all.  And, amazingly, they have similar difficulties, hardships, struggles.  They weren’t shocked at my lack of selflessness—in fact, they understood!  They didn’t try to fix me, didn’t quote Bible verses, and didn’t give me pat answers.  They listened, cared, and loved me.  They spoke the truth in love.  They cared.  And as we talked and shared we found ourselves laughing so hard our stomachs hurt.  One of them actually had her husband say to her that morning, about her zit, “What happened to you? Did you get hit in the face?!”  I could not believe that we had both had exactly the same situation that very morning.  And there was more—it was uncanny how much we shared in common.  And it reminded me of what Paul wrote in 2 Corinthians 1: “Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our tribulation, that we may be able to comfort those who are in any trouble, with the comfort with which we ourselves are comforted by God.”  I know that that my “tribulation” is minor, but how glorious it was to have friends who cared, who understood, who didn’t just sympathize, but who empathized! 

So, all that to say, I’m thankful for friends.  I’m not out of the woods—I still have a lot to learn about finding my value in Christ and rejoicing in the successes of others.  I haven’t arrived, but I’m on my way, and I’m sure thankful for those who walk beside me.  That’s what friends are for.  That’s the reason this post has a new title, and I have a new perspective.  Thanks Liz & Lyndi.  I love you both. 

Warning: I’m writing this during my class . . . so it’s pretty rough, chopped thoughts and prayers.

In class right now we are studying 1 & 2 Corinthians.  Tonight we highlighted a topic we never usually like to discuss: Money

“But this I say: He who sows sparingly will also reap sparingly, and he who sows bountifully will also reap bountifully.  So let each one give as he purposes in his heart, not grudgingly or of necessity; for God loves a cheerful giver.  And God is able to make all grace abound toward you, that you, always having all sufficiency in all things, may have an abundance for every good work.”  2 Cor. 9:6-8.

What is challenging me is this:  I am a faithful follower of the tithe.  And praise God for that.  My parents, from a young age, instilled in me the importance of giving systematically and generously to God, using the guideline of 10% (the tithe).  What I’m challenged with is this:  Nowhere in the New Testament does it talk about giving 10%.  Our professor said that if we actually added up all the different Old Testament requirements for giving (sacrifices, etc), the total would be more like approximately 23.8-24%.  Wow.  Ok, I’ll be right up front.  I do not give that much.  And of course I don’t have to.  Our professor emphasized (and our pastor at Foothills emphasizes as well) that 10% is a great place to start, but do we challenge ourselves in that area?  Do I challenge myself in this area?  Am I content to give my 10% and leave it at that?  But am I missing out on greater blessing because I’m not willing to challenge myself in this area?

And, as I sit here, my husband reminds me that the question is not how much should I give, but how much should I keep?  It’s all God’s!  Do I consider that all my money is God’s and I should ask Him exactly how much to keep and the money that I keep, do I ask God exactly how I should spend it?  Ugh.  This is too convicting. 

Dr. Kim (our professor) emphasized that we need to be careful not to look around and be critical of those who have great riches (or those who are poor!).  It is key to understand that God gives to those who are gracious, so we had better not criticize those believers who have been blessed financially because they might possibly be the most generous people!  On the other hand, we should be careful not to assume that just because we don’t have a lot of money, that God is punishing us or not blessing us.  If we have money, that is not necessarily a sign of God’s favor.  On the one hand, God may give us money if He can entrust us to give it generously.  But, He also may choose to give me little, even if I am faithful.  Our financial status is not a sign of our spirituality. 

You can have nothing and be greedy, and you can have everything and be generous, and vice versa.  It is an issue of the heart.  The ONLY evidence that we are not materialistic is if we are willing to give away what we have.  It doesn’t have to do with how much we have, but whether we willing to give it away. 

Give to what God wants.  Test Him!  Why do I have such a hard time in this area?  Why can’t I let go? Because I don’t trust Him.  That’s why.  Because I don’t trust Him. That is the cold hard truth that I hate to admit.  Give.  Give it away. 

I have to admit that money has a hold on me.  It was easier to be “generous” when I felt like we had plenty of money.  But now, that neither of us have jobs and we are living on our quickly dwindling savings, I now think that I have to “hold on” to what we have and don’t have as much flexibility and freedom to be generous.  That is garbage!  Just because we have less in our savings account doesn’t mean that God has any less in His.  So what does this look like?  I’m challenged and a little confused all at once.  I want to be a good steward and not make foolish financial decisions, but the poor widow giving her last two mites did not make the most sense financially.  And yet, I dare say that God will bless her beyond measure. 

This especially hits home in our current situation. In fact, while we are sitting here in class, I was actually fiddling around on my excel spreadsheet, trying to figure out how we’re going to make this all work, living on our savings.  Ouch! How convicting.  I have to admit that I don’t know how it will all work, but I also know that are following God, and that He is faithful and has always been faithful to provide for our ever need.  So how do we know how much to give, how much to save, how much to spend?  How do we know what the future holds?  What will happen next year?  How will it all work out?

The answer? My professor is saying it right now.  Prayer.  Wisdom.  Discernment.  A free and willing heart.  Willing to give it all.  Waiting on God to show me where to give and what to give and how to give.  God please help me to hold all that we have with an open hand.  Help me to be generous.  Help me to be free from the hold that money has on me.  Help me to hear from you.  Give me the courage to trust You with our finances and trust You enough to give away more than we can “afford” to.  Help me to trust You with our future, even though I don’t know how it’s all going to work out.  Thank you, Lord, that You are our provider and that You know all things that we need.  I love you, Father. 

The reason we took this trip in the first place was to celebrate the marriage of Joe Munk and Amanda Kuhnhausen.  Joe was one of Jeff’s roommates in college and long-time friend and brother in Christ.  Amanda is a family friend of Jeff’s from Bend.  Before Jeff and I were ever an item, I’d found Amanda a place to live during one summer after she’d graduated from Wheaton, while she did some summer classes at OSU.  So, I met her and her wonderful mom and she ended up living at the Red Door house where I’d lived during college.  Well, during her stay there, Joe was met Amanda.  He was hooked.  Much later, after Jeff and I were married, Joe came with us over to Bend one weekend while we were visiting Jeff’s mom.  You see, Amanda was in town.  After we’d gone to Jeff’s mom’s he took our car and went to find her.  He came back at 6am the next morning after spending eight hours talking with Amanda all night on her parent’s porch.  So, we were unwittingly the ones that got Joe and Amanda together. 

Joe is a passionate man with a twinkly-eyed crooked smile and an enthusiasm that draws you into his world.  He’s one of four brothers (bless his mother!), from the town of Hood River, Oregon.  Amanda is one of two sisters, one of two brilliant, stunning, hilarious, thoughtful, authentic, Christ-centered girls who I seriously admire beyond words.  She’s just finishing up Medical School and will find out where she’ll do her residency this spring.  She has dark curly hair and an exotic latino look even though she’s as Caucasian as they come.  With a huge white flower on the side nape of her neck and her strapless informal gathered wedding dress she looked straight off the cover of a magazine. 

But what was stunning about the wedding was the celebration of story.  For the wedding invitations (this was a very small wedding, mind you) they searched antique booksellers and found tiny, old story books, then glued in their own pages, telling all about their individual life stories, their “how we met” story and then the details of the wedding.  It was the most thoughtful and creative wedding invitation I’d ever seen.  And so, true to theme, the wedding was a celebration of story.  They emphasized how God is always telling a story in our lives, and that we are to surrender our story to His hand, letting Him write in the details, the ending, the twists and turns and conflict and resolution.  He’s the master story-writer.  And they invited us to join in their story: to contribute, advise, celebrate.  And so we did.  The celebration, of fifty-four people, started at 3pm with appetizers and stories, laughter, and fellowship, then segued into the ceremony, followed by a buffet dinner, then more open sharing, prayer, dessert, dancing and fun.  We left at 8pm, exhausted from pleasure and laughter and the sheer delight of having witnessed something sacred. 

And this is what I come away with.  Linnea, Amanda’s mom, shared about how it’s ok, when we are reading a book, to glance at the back and see the ending.  She explained that it’s ok because not all books are worth reading.  But, when we see that the story is redemptive, that the characters, no matter how they struggle, are redeemed and loved and victorious, we are willing to go through the battle with them, through the book.  Likewise, we know the end of our story!  God is victorious.  He has redeemed us.  He has set us free.  He who began a good work in us is faithful to complete it.  He wins!  We win!  And because of that, we can make the journey with each other.  We are not what we will be but we are not what we once were, and because of that Jeff will make the journey with me and I with him.  Our story, because of Christ, is a redemptive story.  And because of that, I want to get involved in the life of those around me.  I want to see my God at work in your life, in his life, in her life.  I want to hear your story.  I want to read your story, to write your story.  I want to know why you tick and why you do the things you do and how God is fashioning and molding you into His image.  And yes, though we will bear his image more and more, we will never lose our image.  We are unique.  You are who only you can be.  One of Joe and Amanda’s vows was: “I promise to help you be only yourself.”  Amen to that.  I surrender the right to try to manipulate your story myself, and I promise to do all that I can to see God work miraculously in your story, to bring glory to Himself.  Amen.  Thank you, Joe and Amanda, for including us in your story.

After taking pictures of Dutch’s new shoes, I had the defeating task of putting Dutch down for his afternoon nap.  You see, we’ve reached a napping road block.  I am a babywise mom* and babywise has done wonders for Dutch.  Since 8 weeks old, he has been an absolute champion sleeper.  He sleeps 12 hours straight at night took two two-hour naps each day.  What was ever better was that babywise taught us to train Dutch to fall asleep on his own, in his crib.  So, at nap night, we’d go upstairs, into the dark room, and I’d tuck him in and snuggle and kiss him, then walk out of the room and he’d play with his fingers happily until he fell asleep.  It was bliss.  Perhaps I wasn’t thankful enough at the time.  At any rate, when Dutch became 9 ½ months old, he had just learned to crawl and pull himself up on everything, cruising around on all the furniture and on walls, anything really.  When he gained this new skill, he quit sleeping.  Instead of putting himself to sleep, he now pulls himself up to standing in the crib, playing and laughing, until that gets old then he just cries and cries and cries.  No sleeping is taking place at all.  So, you might say, why don’t you just lie him back down?  He gets up.  Again and again and again.  I think I’ve laid him down 100 times and he just gets back up.  I spank his hand, say no, a few nights I’ve resorted to pinning down his hands and legs, physically restraining him until he finally gives up and falls asleep.  But he’s a strong bugger!  And leaning over the crib for that long makes my back absolute toast the next day.  So, you might say, let him cry it out.  I’ve done that too, going in to check on him only every 5-10 minutes or so.  He will wait it out.  He will stand there his entire nap time, all two hours.  So, perhaps you might think he’s not tired.  If I rock him, he’ll be asleep in 10 minutes.  So, perhaps I should just rock him to sleep at every nap.  That’s what I was doing for three weeks, but a friend insisted I was setting myself up for disaster because then I’m making it so that he can’t go to sleep on his own.   Plus, while we’re traveling, I don’t have my rocking chair and dark room.  So, the car, nursing, and walking and singing are now my sleep props of choice. I know sleep props are a no no, but right now the rules go out the window. 

Anyway (!), I certainly didn’t intend to write that much about our child’s sleep schedule.  It’s a little road block on our smooth sailing sleep journey, and it reminds me I don’t have it all figured out.  So I won’t be writing a book on infant sleep, that’s for sure.

But after an afternoon of lying Dutch back down a hundred times and finally giving up on a nap after almost two hours, Jeff thoughtfully volunteered to take Dutch for an hour or so to give me time to just read and relax and be by myself.  I’m reading The Secret Life of Bees right now.  It’s very good.  After a good hour of reading, I was recharged . . . and hungry.  Dan suggested a Japanese restaurant and I leapt from the couch . . . visions of sushi dancing in my head.  Two hours later I was sufficiently glutted with miso soup, sesame salad, sticky rice, tempura (yum!), teriyaki chicken and California rolls.  Gracious, it was so good. 

The next morning we got an early start for Santa Barbara.  Dan generously loaned us his car for the trip, so we loaded up our bags, stroller, high chair, car seat, and cooler full of sandwiches and leftover sushi, and took the onramp to I-5 South.  Our drive was supposed to take six hours.

The first half of the trip was great.  Dutch took a nap (!) and we made it to Kettleman City by noon.  I’ve already written enough of challenging nursing situations, so I’ll leave it at this—nursing in a gas station parking lot in a hundred degree car, surrounded by truckers, is almost as difficult as doing it on an airplane.  Enough said.

But we made it out and were feeling good, ready to make the final stretch over Hwy 41 and down 101 to Santa Barbara.  But then, we stopped.  Construction.  Not just any construction, construction out in the middle of nowhere, in some hot dusty hills with no exits, no rest stops, no cell phone reception, and no civilization in sight.  I thought perhaps it’d be a 10 minute delay.  We sat there in the blistering sun for an hour and ten minutes.  People with horse trailers opened their trailers and let the horses walk around to keep from getting heat stroke.  People got out of their cars and blasted their radios.  Poor Dutch.  Finally I got out of the driver’s seat (Jeff needed to do homework so he was on his laptop) and got into the back to play with Dutch, then would hop back up to drive when the line would crawl forward.  I know—it’s really such a minor thing.  All in all, it was a great trip—even though it took almost 8 hours, and Dutch was an absolute trooper.  By the time we got there he was stripped down to nothing but his onesie because it was so hot and he’d eaten his weight in Cheerios. 

So what?  So what about sleeping schedules and construction?  Why write about this?  Because now I can look back on the road to Santa Barbara and see that the hour and ten minute delay was not a big deal. We still made it safely, no one was injured, and we weren’t even late for our six o’clock dinner date with Jeff’s mom.  It wasn’t a big deal.  And it helps remind me that the same is true of Dutch’s little napping dilemma.  It feels like a big deal right now.  Mostly because Dutch’s naptime is my only free time!  (Naps are really more for mammas than for babies.)  So while it frustrates me that my son won’t nap and it feels like I spend ½ my day lying him back down on his back or slapping his hand for the 500th time for playing with the electrical outlets. . . it’s really not a big deal.  Soon, I won’t even remember it.  Road blocks are frustrating, but they’re temporary.  The other lesson?  Always keep extra Cheerios in the diaper bag, just in case. 

Well, when we found out that Jeff’s Dad’s wife was going to be out of town during our visit, I figured that I would be doing the cooking. But, I was amazed and impressed when Dan (Jeff’s dad) started making lunch—we had Campbell’s tomato soup and a plate of grilled cheese sandwiches, cut in triangles, and since it was 2pm and we’d been on the go since 9am that morning, it was the best meal I’d ever eaten. I even snuck the last triangle of grilled cheese while the boys were busy slurping their soup. Dinner was delightfully male. When Betsy (Dan’s wife) is there we usually have a huge salad, with dozens of different types of veggies, or a vegetable soup of some sort, or stir fry. This night? Barbequed ribs and boiled potatoes. Oh yeah. I dug around in the fridge and whipped up a salad. Then, surprising even myself, ate a plentiful helping of ribs and my entire potato along with my salad. Halloween candy followed for dessert. It was actually kind of fun eating like a guy—I just had to force myself to not think about completely striking out on my veggie and fiber quota for the day.

Jeff’s Dad is really a kind man. He is very unpretentious and down to earth. What you see is what you get. He loves his wife, and we could tell he missed having her there, but he cheerfully did all the housework and went to the grocery store before we came so that Jeff had his soy milk (Mr. Lactose-intolerant) and Dutch had his applesauce. Dan is also a very good match for us because he’s very content to do not much of anything. I guess it can be a downfall because we all could have spent all three days doing nothing but reading, playing dominoes, going for walks, and working on our computers. Then again, why is there anything wrong with that?

But I guess we all figured that we better do something, so we piled in the car and took Dutch to the park. This was kind of funny because Dutch was tired and out of sorts that day, so he literally just stared at us, with a droopy sort of frown on his face, the entire time we were there. Jeff slid down the slide with him, climbed up the play structures, and even pushed him on the baby swing. I held him on my lap and swung, while Jeff clicked pictures and made funny faces. Not a single smile. Not one. We played until we finally gave up—not having received so much as a courtesy smile from this child. He never fussed, he just stared at us with droopy eyes. Apparently it just wasn’t the day for the park. But afterwards, we wouldn’t give up and just go home. No, we were out to do something. Now, Dutch has no shoes and we never seem to find the time to go out and take him with us to buy him shoes. The other obstacle to shoeing our son is that Dutch has very fat feet, so none of the normal baby shoes fit him. So, Dan announced that he wanted to buy Dutch his first pair of shoes and we were happy to oblige. Wal-mart here we come.

Jeff and I are not Wal-Mart fans. Please do not be offended if you are one. That is fine. But we are not. We think it’s quite possibly the most depressing place on earth, because, and please pardon this overwhelming generalization, but it seems like no one there is ever happy, and that people are always buying things they a) cannot afford, b) don’t need, or c) really, really, really should not be eating. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve wanted to reach into the cart of the person ahead of me and unload the bags of Doritos, cans of Spaghetti-O’s, boxes of Captain Crunch, and 24-packs of Mountain Dew, and replace it all with a few canisters of Quaker oatmeal and some apples. But, that’s not my place. Anyway, like I said, it’s not my favorite place in the world.

But, I have been known to shop there on occasion, because there are those certain moments when Wal-Mart is the perfect place to get that super value item you need. For example, when I need cleaning supplies, shampoo, or a pregnancy test—Wal-Mart is the place to go. Yes, a pregnancy test. You see, the 2nd stall in the Wal-Mart bathroom is actually where I found out I was pregnant with Dutch. I know, you can’t believe it. I felt sick at work and just had to know, so I used my lunch break to zip over to the local Wal-Mart where I knew I could get a pee test for under two dollars. Once I’d bought it, why wait? I darted into the bathroom, followed the directions, and three minutes later I had two pink lines. We were having a baby.

So, as you can see, Wal-Mart, though not our favorite store to frequent, definitely has its place in our life. So, when Dan suggested looking there for shoes, we shrugged our shoulders. Why not?

And, like an old friend, Wal-Mart came through. Shoes–that fit–for $9.88. And they’re actually nice-looking as well. You know what else? We didn’t wait in line, and the girl that checked us out, bless her soul, smiled and was cheerful. She even said to have a nice day and I think she meant it. Wonders never cease.

The Road to Santa Barbara

No, don’t worry. This isn’t another 220-page story about our misfortunes in the state of California. This time, we’re just visiting. We’re flying to Sacramento to visit Jeff’s Dad, then driving down to Santa Barbara on Friday for a wedding on Saturday. So, this morning we packed up our two mammoth suitcases, car seat, stroller, and two carry-on bags and toted the Dutcher to the airport via the Bill Zyp shuttle. We marveled at the fact that if the two of us had been traveling alone, like we used to do, we would have needed ¼ of what we were currently taking. For such a small person, Dutch sure requires a lot of stuff!
Thankfully, airline personnel are used to people like us, and they smile knowingly as we lug our suitcases and push the stroller, still managing to feed Cheerios to a wide-eyed ten-month-old waving his hands in the air. They are wonderful to us. Even the security people were friendly, smiling and asking how our day was and poking Dutch’s cheeks. Jeff observed wisely, “People are nicer to us than they used to be.” It’s Dutch.
Dutch is the reason for a lot of things. He’s the reason my parents are really sad about us leaving for five days – that’s it, five days. Yeah, they are spoiled getting to have their grandson live with them. I don’t think they’ve ever been sad when Jeff and I have gone on vacation before . . . but they’re sad now. Dutch is also the reason why Grandpa Patterson is jumping out of his skin with excitement that we’re here. There’s an old keyboard on the floor, just for Dutch (who loves to type on keyboards; thanks Grandma Betsy!), there are containers of applesauce in the fridge. There are toys just waiting to be scattered across the floor. Yes, Grandpa Patterson is ready for Dutch.
I will say this: After we’d had the wonderful passage through cheerful security guards, and I’d gotten my Grande Decaf Caramel Macchiato, Dutch was swinging his feet cheerfully in the stroller and I was feeling good about the traveling thing. Yeah, we really had it all together. So, I told Jeff, “Before Dutch is two (when kids have to actually buy a ticket and have their own seas), we need to take a lot of trips—visit the Seifers, your brother and Brenda, and Kris and Nikki. It’s so great traveling with Dutch we need to take advantage of it before we have to pay for him.” How blissfully ignorant I was.
Thirty minutes later, we were stuffed into the impossibly tiny seats of Southwest Airlines, and it had to be one-hundred-and-twenty degrees. Dutch was sweating and as soon as we started to take off, he was wailing. Right across the aisle sat another little girl, Dutch’s age, sitting absolutely silently on her mommy’s lap, playing with her own fingers. I could not believe it. I could see her, as we ascended, slowly start to drift asleep, where she leaned into her mommy’s chest and nodded off without a peep. Ah! At the same time, Dutch had turned into a wild animal, and was thrashing around, arching his chest and wailing, hitting his head against the back of the seat in front of us.
So, I figured I’d try to nurse him, to keep him quiet. Imagine trying to modestly breast feed a tiger, tightly surrounded by businessmen and other complete strangers. Jeff reached into my diaper bag to get get my “hooter hider” (my indispensable fabric nursing cover), and started laughing when he saw that I’d actually brought a book in my carry-on. “I know. I know. What was I thinking?” He smiled, then tried to help me put on the nursing cover, pulling it over my face so all my hair fell over my eyes, then tried to get it over Dutch while he’s yanking it away. I’m sure half the plane saw much more than I care to think about, and every minute or so Dutch would pull off and cry, pulling off the cover and arching his back, thrashing around. This was ten minutes into the flight and I finally just closed my eyes and started pleading with God to help this child to settle down.
And, of course, he did. He never necessarily was calm, but at least he was happy. A steady stream of Cheerios kept him busy, then straw-fulls of diluted apple juice, then once we were at cruising altitude, he happily walked along the aisle, holding onto the arm rests, making new friends in every row. Thankfully, no one scowled at us, and everyone said he was cute, so apparently the whole scene in the beginning of the flight wasn’t as horrific as I’d felt it was.
As we disembarked in Sacramento, I felt like the flight lasted a week. The truth? It was only a 1-hour flight! As Jeff unfolded the stroller, I kissed my precious boy who was smiling and completely oblivious to my grief. Man, I love him. His smile, the way his little upper lip sticks out, the way he bats his hands and claps and sticks out his tongue—it was worth every second.
However, I amended my previous statement: “Honey, I take back what I said: Let’s wait until Dutch is two and we can strap him into his own seat . . . preferable at the opposite end of the plane from us.”

~Stay tuned for more adventures from sunny California. . .

Take some time to check out the new pages to your left:  I’ve updated my bio (which may not interest you), but added a Word for Today page, a Food for Thought page, and a Honey for our Souls page.  Check them out, and if I haven’t ever mentioned this to you:  Thank you for reading.  I’m honored you’d take the time to be here with me. 

                                          ~Kari

So, for the past three months I’ve had itchy shoulders.  Jeff thinks it’s hilarious; I think it’s infuriating.  The strange thing is that I have no rash, no redness, no bumps, and it gets much more intense at night.  During the day I rarely notice it, and I thought perhaps that it was just psychological, but no, last night I was awake until 3am with burning, itching arms–ah!  So today I finally researched.  What did I find?  I have a rare, enigmatic condition called Brachioradial pruritus.  I thought that sounded like something affecting my lungs, but apparently it is a real thing that causes unrelenting bouts of itchy arms for prolonged periods of time.  It’s been linked to both sun exposure (probably my culprit) or arthritis in the neck which causes nerve damage in the upper arm and shoulder area.  Therefore the sufferer’s average age is considerably higher than 27.  However, everything I read, including online conversations, blogs, and posted questions, all point to this diagnosis.  It strikes in the late summer/or early fall, or after prolonged sun exposure such as a visit to a sunny climate.  Its intensity peaks and falls with no apparent predictability, and some people have it for a few months and several claimed to have had it (off and on) for over 25 years!  The sufferers wrote at length about being sleep-deprived because this ridiculous itchiness drives them absolutely mad all night.  Why is it worse at night?  Apparently the heat from blankets causes the condition to become worse.  Some people sleep with ice packs on their arms, others with wet towls wrapped around their biceps.  Fortunately for me, I discovered a decade-old bottle of anti-itch gel in the bathroom drawer and doused both arms.  It felt like a cool breeze blowing on my arms all night long. 

All day I’ve been trying to think of some really significant spiritual insight to gain from this ridiculous disorder.  I can think of none.  Of course we talked about the itch of self-regard.  And yes, I can wholeheartedly agree with CS Lewis and say that it is FAR better to not have any itch in the first place than to have an itch and scratch it.  Scratching it just makes it worse!  But, really, that’s a pretty lame application.  Or, perhaps the lesson is that we should obey our husbands when they tell us to wear a long-sleeved shirt in the summer to avoid too much sun exposure (experts say sunscreen doesn’t help prevent this condition).  Or, the lesson may be to keep a handy bottle of anti-itch gel handy just in case you are ever unexpectedly plagued with Brachioradial pruritus in the middle of the night.  Who knows.  If you have any insights or spiritual lessons for me, please, comment below.  I’ll just be sitting here, scratching my shoulders. 

This week I had the now-rare experience of being on my own.  Jeff is always gone Mondays and Tuesdays for class and teaching, and this week he was at a Spiritual Warfare retreat Wednesday through Friday, then Saturday he had a leadership mini-retreat for the day with Foothills.  Mom and Dad are in Montana on vacation for ten days.  So, for the better part of six days, the Dutcher and I were home alone.  Jeff made me promise that I would not waste my time doing practical things like cleaning the house and painstakingly organizing our life (which is my default mode), but to spend some time doing enjoyable things, like reading.  The week before, my sister-in-law Nikki gave me a year’s worth of my favorite magazine, Real Simple.  So, after Dutch was in bed, I’d curl up with my magazine and read.  Though certainly a secular magazine, one article rang true in my heart, the subject of which was that not everyone in the world will like you.  I know.  You must be thinking, “Wow, Kari, you’re just now figuring out that lots of people don’t like you?  I could have told you that!”  But really, we are just approval-addicts and people-pleasers, and the way this particular author worded her article, it really made sense to me. 

She talked about our flavor.  What is my flavor? Am I chocolate milk or coca-cola or (more likely in my case) green tea?  Are we spicy or mild?  She explained that the only thing in the whole world that everybody likes is water, because it has no flavor.  But we are not like water, we have flavor, and it only follows that some people will naturally like our flavor and some naturally won’t.  That’s ok!  Now, don’t get me wrong, this is not a license to be offensive.  Certainly if people do not like us because we are proud or rude or arrogant or haughty or insensitive, then that is a problem–and we need to fix it.  But, I’d say I’m far more likely to err on the side or worrying about people liking me, rather than erring on being rude and mean to people.  (If I’m wrong in that and you think I’m really rude please email me rather than posting a comment in response!) 

Jeff has been a major catalyst in my journey with freedom in this area.  A few weeks ago, I was having a difficulty in a relationship.  He saw that I was agonizing over it, worrying about it, and obsessing over doing the right thing, saying the right thing, making everybody happy.  He pulled me into his arms and just began telling me all the things he loved about me, specifically.  I cried as I laid there, in his arms, showered with his words of affirmation.  He kept saying, “Just be you.  Just be you.”  I realized as I let the words sink in, that that was all I had to do.  I’d been clinging to the verse, “As much as depends on you, live at peace with all people,” but I think I’d misinterpreted the “as much as depends on you” to mean “as much as depends on you . . . and it all does!”  The truth is that it doesn’t.  I’m still going to do all that I can to live at peace with all people, to be accomodating and adaptive in order to bless those around me as best as I know how, but really, when I start to think that it’s my job to make everybody around me happy, I’ve bought into a lie that places far too much importance on one person–me. 

So, I’m learning.  I am a flavor only.  In this huge mix ingredients, I am but one.  God knits us all together and creates a delicious concoction using us all.  While we should all be able to fit together, it is not my job to do this.  He’s the one who makes the flavors blend. 

So what flavor are you?  The more I write, and the more I do character sketches, the more I want to learn about people.  People are fascinating!  One night this week, while Jeff was gone, one of my best friends came over and spent the whole evening with me.  We ate cookie dough (can that be my flavor?!) and sat on the counters and talked and played legos with Dutch.  It was a rare time because we were in no hurry.  Dutch went to bed, Jeff was gone, and it was just the two of us, with nowhere to go.  I confessed to her that I can spend hours online looking at house plans.  She admitted that she goes on Craigslist everyday and looks at Mazda 3s.  I learned more about her flavor.  And now, I value her and love her even more, because I know her just a little better.  That’s why, even though I despise forwards, I really love those little questionairre things that get sent around every few months.  Sure, some of the questions are corny, but that’s the point.  I love reading them because I learn about the person’s flavor, and usually, the more I understand a person, the more I can love and relate to them.  Sure, there’s risk in being us.  The risk is that we’ll expose our flavor and people will say, “Yuck!  You taste like Brussels sprouts!”  But, don’t give up.  Give it some time and keep exposing your flavor.  You might just be an acquired taste. 

This weekend at the Writer’s Conference I attended, one of the questions we were asked was, “Why do you write?”  They encouraged us to understand our mission statement, our purpose, in order to propel our work forward by a central driving vision.  So, I’ve been thinking about this.  And, you’d think I’d write down why I write, huh?  Well, eventually I will.  Right now, here are thoughts from John Piper on reading and writing (given to me by my ever-encouraging husband), to which I would give a hearty “Amen!”  I pray we all will ripple throughout this world!

— 

I’ve been thinking again about the importance of reading and writing. There

are several reasons I write. One of the most personally compelling is that I

read. I mean, my main spiritual sustenance comes by the Holy Spirit from

reading. Therefore reading is more important to me than eating. If I went

blind, I would pay to have someone read to me. I would try to learn Braille.

I would buy “books on tape.” I would rather go without food than go

without books. Therefore, writing feels very lifegiving to me, since I get so

much of my own life from reading.

Combine this with what Paul says in Ephesians 3:3-4, “By revelation there

was made known to me the mystery, as I wrote before in brief. And by

referring to this, when you read you can understand my insight into the

mystery of Christ.” The early church was established by apostolic writing as

well as apostolic preaching. God chose to send his living Word into the

world for 30 years, and his written Word into the world for 2000+ years.

Think of the assumption behind this divine decision. People in each

generation would be dependent on those who read. Some people, if not all,

would have to learn to read—and read well, in order to be faithful to God.

So it has been for thousands of years. Generation after generation has read

the insights of its writers. This is why fresh statements of old truth are

always needed. Without them people will read error. Daniel Webster once

said,

If religious books are not widely circulated among the masses

in this country, I do not know what is going to become of us

as a nation. If truth be not diffused, error will be; if God and

His Word are not known and received, the devil and his works

will gain the ascendancy; if the evangelical volume does not

reach every hamlet, the pages of a corrupt and licentious

literature will.1

Millions of people are going to read. If they don’t read contemporary

Christian books, they are going to read contemporary secular books. They

will read. It is amazing to watch people in the airports. At any given

moment there must be hundreds of thousands of people reading just in

airports. One of the things we Christians need to be committed to, besides

reading, is giving away solid books to those who might read them, but

would never buy them.

The ripple effect is incalculable. Consider this illustration:

A book by Richard Sibbes, one of the choicest of the Puritan

writers, was read by Richard Baxter, who was greatly blessed

by it. Baxter then wrote his Call to the Unconverted which

deeply influenced Philip Doddridge, who in turn wrote The

Rise and Progress of Religion in the Soul. This brought the

young William Wilberforce, subsequent English statesman and

foe of slavery, to serious thoughts of eternity. Wilberforce

wrote his Practical Book of Christianity which fired the soul of

Leigh Richmond. Richmond, in turn, wrote The Dairyman’s

Daughter, a book that brought thousands to the Lord, helping

Thomas Chalmers the great preacher, among others.2

It seems to me that in a literate culture like ours, where most of us know

how to read and where books are available, the Biblical mandate is: keep on

reading what will open the Holy Scriptures to you more and more. And

keep praying for Bible-saturated writers. There are many great old books to

read. But each new generation needs its own writers to make the message

fresh. Read and pray. And then obey.

Pastor John