Sacred Mundane: The Blog

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. . .