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Kissing Tutorial [15 Jun 2008|03:50pm] In honor of Father's Day, I thought it would be appropriate to talk about kissing. After all, everyone knows part of fatherhood (the attracting of the mother part, to be precise) involves romance, and romance involves kissing. But not all kisses are created equal. No indeed. There's an art to accomplishing the perfect kiss. And that's why I've called on the experts to give us a tutorial. (Note: The following demonstration has been Rated G. No need to send the kiddies out of the room.) To proceed to The Perfect Kiss 101, click here. To all you daddies out there, Happy Father's Day! Now go find the mother of your children and practice what you've learned. post comment

Lingering fragrance [13 Jun 2008|03:06pm] George has been gone for two weeks, but his fragrance still lingers. And I'm not talking Old Spice. Click here to see what I mean. post comment

Promises: They're What's for Dinner [12 Jun 2008|09:36am] Budget-conscious families often stretch their dollars by purchasing food in bulk quantities and freezing it. We do that, too. Sort of. Whenever Dove Dark Chocolates go on sale, we stock up and pile them in the freezer. We have mounds of chocolate in our freezer. Sure, meat has its virtues, and veggies are like little vitamin mines, but Dove Dark Chocolates improve our minds and fill us with hope. Forget antioxidants and bioflavonoids. With Dove, you get the "Promises." Did you ever notice that the Promises don't promise anything? In fact, I think the company may have taken some flack for false advertising, because they removed the word from the outer packaging. It's still on the inside of the individual foil wrappers, but now it says, "Promises Message." It's not a promise. It's a message from a promise. Or something. One such wrapper lies before me now. When I read the Promises Message, a scene popped into my mind. I pictured a man arriving home after work on his wedding anniversary. As soon as he opens the door, he sees a candle-lit table and smells tantalizing aromas wafting from the kitchen. His wife enters the room wearing a slinky black dress and gazes at him with loving expectation. What to do now? He totally forgot their anniversary, but he can't tell her that--not after she's put so much thought and effort into pleasing him. Suddenly his antioxidized brain cells recall the Promises Message he read earlier that afternoon when he was popping chocolates. Of course! If it's Promises, it's got to be true. He smiles at his wife and quotes the ancient wisdom of mass-produced candy wrappers: "Sometimes one smile means more than a dozen roses." He usually prefers to eat his lasagna, but tonight he'll be wearing it instead. post comment

Reading at the Railroad and other adventures [07 Jun 2008|02:55pm] A couple of months ago I received a call from my friend, Jana, asking if I'd be willing to read a children's train story for an event today at the Marshall Depot. She wanted to schedule "local personalities" to read a story every hour on the hour in an effort to encourage families to visit the depot, tour the museum, etc. I agreed to do it, even though I had no clue what I would read. The only train story that popped into my mind was The Little Engine That Could, and (no surprise) it was already spoken for. Bunny trail. A few weeks ago I received an e-mail from a young mom inviting everyone involved in MOPS to attend the "Reading at the Railroad" event. Not knowing I'd been asked to read, she said, "Books will be read by 'local personalities,' whatever that means." Ha! I wrote back that I was pretty sure it meant "weirdos." Anyway, I logged onto Amazon, located a book that looked like a winner, and ordered it. Yesterday and this morning I practiced on Jacob, reading the story aloud, developing various sound effects, showing him the pictures, and asking pertinent questions. He seemed to enjoy the story, was amused by the illustrations, and answered all the questions correctly. So far, so good. We arrived at the depot about twenty minutes early and suddenly I got nervous. Not about reading the story, though. About the stairs. I've been there a number of times, but I'd forgotten about the stairs. The only way into the depot is to walk down a couple dozen steps and through an underground tunnel. Jacob has a thing about stairs. (Thankfully not the sort of "thing" Michael Buble has going on with Mrs. Mrs. Jones.) There's no physical reason why he shouldn't be able to go up and down stairs without hesitation, but something in the way his brain perceives them makes him panic and lose his balance. He can go down pretty well, but up? Not so much. When George is around, he wraps Jacob's arms around his neck and carries him on his back. Did I mention George is in Africa? I might also want to mention that Jacob is 27 years old--much taller and at least 50 pounds heavier than me. Yeah. Houston, we have a problem. I helped Jacob down the stairs, and he did pretty well. I'd have to figure out our exit strategy later. Jana met me at the door with a big hug. Inside, a couple of festive tables provided pitchers of ice-cold lemonade and trays filled with an assortment of cookies. Across the room, a sea of miniature chairs in primary colors paid homage to a small orange stool. My "throne," Jana said. I snapped a few shots of the kids who'd already gathered. Introverts and extroverts formed ranks, the former hiding in their mommy's laps, the latter clamoring for my attention. One girl in particular, a Shirley Temple look-alike named Erin, obviously loved the spotlight. Wherever I aimed my camera, she scurried into the frame, smiled, and yelled, "CHEESE!" As more kids arrived, the energy level rose exponentially. I wanted to holler toward the snack table, "Hey, would someone give these kids more cookies and lemonade? Obviously they need sugar." But I refrained. Irony is lost on the preschool set, and I might have offended their parents. In no time several children had spilled their drinks or kicked over someone else's. Moms grabbed napkins to toss on the puddles. Finally Jana stood up in front and corralled the herd. She introduced me, I seated myself on my orange throne, and off we chugged on the storybook train. I think it went pretty well. Except for a couple of minor distractions, the kids stayed focused on the story, laughed at the pictures, and answered my questions. Afterward Jana asked me to draw a name out of a box for a door prize. Erin won. "Thanks for making me win," she said. I tried to explain that I hadn't, but I'm not sure she followed. She was too busy smiling for more pictures. Jana was pleased. She loved the story. Several parents complimented my performance. Yay me. Job well done. Time to go home. Um, exit strategy anyone? I asked if there were any way out of the depot without taking the tunnel stairs. Jana directed me to an elevator, but after wandering around the ground level a bit we were told there were no exits to the parking lot from there--only to the train platform. The manager of the gift shop, Carolyn, told us to ride the elevator back down and she'd help us try to use "the lift." The way she said those words made me think maybe we should just buy a train ticket to anywhere instead. But we headed back to the elevator. I'd noticed the wheelchair lift when we arrived and wondered if it actually worked. It's appearance failed to impress, and Carolyn confirmed that, in this case, looks were not deceiving. Apparently the heat and humidity in the tunnel wreaks havoc on its mechanism. But she was determined we would make it work. After jiggling the key this way and that, pushing various buttons, and making a couple of trips up and down the stairs to fiddle with the two sets of controls, the lift creaked its way from the bottom to the top. We weren't on it, though. The platform was still in its upright position. Carolyn didn't explain why she sent it all the way up, then lowered the platform and brought it back down, but I suppose she had good reasons. At any rate, she got her exercise running up and down the stairs every time it stalled out. Finally, it was back at the foot of the stairs and ready for us to climb on. I helped Jacob sit on the little seat and stood beside him. More key jiggling and button pushing and the motor started again. The machinery grated and groaned but we finally began our ascent. We made it almost halfway before the first break down. Carolyn ran up and down a couple of time, fiddling here, jiggling there. Jacob and I remained on our platform. All this time, families had been coming and going on the stairs. Some only shot curious glances our way. A few children asked questions. Carolyn answered cheerfully as she jogged past them. When we were barely past halfway up, the lift died for keeps. There were about nine or ten steps left. I helped Jacob stand and took both his hands. The tension in his grip told me he was afraid. "You can do this, Jacob," I said. "It's not that many more steps than the ones to our front door. Just keep your eyes on the steps." With me going up backwards in front of him, holding his hands, and Carolyn beside him steadying his arm, we made it to the top without incident. This evening we attended a wedding at our church, but I decided not to drive to Longview for the reception at a museum. I don't know the facility, and I'm not equal to any more stairs today. In fact, I think Jacob and I will hang out around the house and watch movies till George gets home. (He's in Africa, by the way, in case I failed to mention it.) Even though we almost had to take up residence in the depot for a few weeks, I enjoyed Reading at the Railroad. And I got some cute pictures. One guess who dominates them. To meet Erin and her friends, click here. 2 comments|post comment

God Listens [06 Jun 2008|07:00pm] When the phone rang this afternoon, I let the machine answer it. A woman's voice stated her name and then why she was calling. Her twenty-five-year-old daughter had been in a car accident, she explained, and had suffered severe brain injury . . . That's as far as she got before I picked up the phone. We get these calls from time to time. I understand completely, because I was the one making these calls twelve years ago. As she told me her story, I identified with so many of the details. The doctors who offered no hope. The endless decisions that have to be made when you have no clue what to do. The joy that rises with each good sign. The waves of grief that swamp you the very next moment. Like Jacob, her daughter has defied all predictions and made amazing progress. But now she's coming "home" to live with her parents, and they've turned a corner into new uncharted territory. I offered a few practical suggestions, but mostly I listened and encouraged her not to give up. The longer we talked, the deeper we went, and soon our conversation shifted from medical realities to spiritual ones. That's when she shared this story. The day before the accident, she and her husband decided to discontinue their land line service and use only cell phones. As a result, emergency personnel had trouble tracking them down. The hospital finally reached their older daughter who called them. Then they had to drive to a hospital in the next town. When they arrived around 4:30 AM, they were instructed to call the doctor, who told them their daughter's injuries were fatal and offered no hope for her survival. However, since no one had been able to reach them, she'd been hooked up to life support. Miracle number one. After receiving the devastating news, her husband went back to their daughter's bedside, but a nurse took the wife aside. "The doctor has to say that, because that's what he believes," the nurse said. "But he doesn't know God's plan." Miracle number two. They checked into a hotel to try to get some rest before facing the doctor the next day and making their first round of decisions. The wife took a hot shower to clear her head, and when she stepped out, the mirror was fogged over. Whoever had stayed in the room before had written a message on the mirror, and the fresh steam had made it reappear. "God listens." Miracle number three. By the end of this story, her tone had changed. Fear of an unknown future gave way to trust in the One who's brought them this far. She still doesn't know what to do, but she knows God is near. He's not asleep. He sees. He cares. He has a plan. And--oh, the joy!--when our hearts are broken into a thousand jagged shards, and we don't think we can take another breath, much less another step, He sends messengers in the form of whispering nurses or steamy mirrors or talking donkeys or stones that cry out. One way or another, He speaks. And then He listens. 2 comments|post comment

Dinner alone. Dessert with Julie Andrews. [04 Jun 2008|08:53pm] After more than a month's absence from this journal, I'm sure the question on everybody's mind is, "What did you have for dinner?" Well, since you're asking, I'll tell you. As a matter of fact, it really was quite a satisfying meal for several reasons. First of all, George is in Africa with Luke right now. (This is not the reason my meal was satisfying, but rather serves as backdrop for what I'm about to tell you.) When I dine alone, I usually go for the easiest, quickest fix. Scrambled eggs and fruit. A healthy, organic, frozen entry zapped in the microwave. That sort of thing. But tonight I cooked, just for me. You see, thanks to George's efforts before he went to Africa, our garden is producing an abundance of wonderful, fresh veggies. Right now we have two varieties of green beans, broccoli, and sweet onions. The first planting of corn is almost ready, and some plump green tomatoes promise to ripen soon. Then there's the side garden bursting with herbs--rosemary, thyme, and mint. With all this delicious goodness at my fingertips, how could I reach into the freezer for an Amy's Lasagna--even if it is the "Garden Vegetable" variety? No. Cook I must, and cook I did. From our garden I used a handful of green beans, a half dozen broccoli florets, and a small sweet onion, diced of course. I added baby carrots and chopped a glove of garlic. While a couple tablespoons of olive oil heated in the skillet, I went outside and snipped some fresh rosemary and thyme. I sautéed all these ingredients together with freshly ground pepper and a little salt until the onions softened and the beans and broccoli turned bright green, then I let them simmer covered for five minutes. It smelled so good! I scrambled an egg into the mix, sprinkled a little mozzarella cheese, and let that melt while I toasted a slice of sesame French bread. I'm telling you, people (since you asked), this was one of those What-About-Bob dinners that make you want to purr with pleasure after every bite. And my fingertips still smell like rosemary. Mmmmm. While we're on the subject of food, if you've never tried Agave Nectar, you should. We bought some because George is allergic to honey (did I mention George is in Africa?)--an allergy he developed after keeping bees and getting stung repeatedly. I'm a fan. Of Agave Nectar. And George. Not bee stings. (And just that quick, Julie Andrews is singing in my head.) So, yeah. I won't try to tell you everything that happened in the past month. To sum up in chronological order, we celebrated our 29th anniversary, Jacob's 27th birthday, Mother's Day, and Curtis' 26th birthday. My niece got married, I spoke at a women's spring program, and my alter-ego, Marge, spoke at a retirement party. Also, George left for Africa. (Did I mention that?) Though I've been slack about posting here, I've done a little better on my photo blog, where you can check out shots of Curtis' birthday dinner (since apparently you're into that sort of thing). Right now I'm participating in Project Blue, hosted by Anna Carson Photography. If you like to take pictures, you should stop by her site and join the fun. I'll try to kick this livejournal back in gear. Meanwhile, thanks to anyone who still stops by here. And, even if no one does, at least now I have a permanent record of what I ate for dinner. post comment

Good, clean fun [02 May 2008|08:55am] Yesterday morning I converted our guest bath into a photo studio, and Luke's room became a model's dressing room. Photographing soap is serious business, y'all. A little before 9:00 I ventured into the yard with a basket and scissors (confession: in my mind I pretended I was Anne of Green Gables) to gather roses, daisies, coreopsis, wax leaf ligustrum, and rosemary. Then I spent the next hour posing flowers and soap and shooting them from various angles. My neighbor, Kimberly, and her daughter, Amanda, showed up at 10:00 with a colorful assortment of shirts and hair ribbons. Amanda was a fabulous model--much more cooperative than the soap (which wanted to slip out of position) and the flowers (which kept dropping petals or tangling their leaves). We had lots of fun, and I'm very pleased with the results. You can view a sampling here. 2 comments|post comment

My love is like a red, red, rose by any other name [30 Apr 2008|01:42pm] Life has been busy and good, with happy moments gracing ordinary days, like fragrant rose petals scattered on a familiar path. A few highlights: Several days ago I logged on to gmail and saw a green dot beside Luke's name. I was a little surprised to find him online, because he's currently traveling across West Africa by car with three other people. They started in Casablanca, Morocco, drove along the Atlantic coastline, through the Sahara Desert, and then cut inland to head back to Ivory Coast. As it turned out, in Mauritania they stayed at a guest house with high-speed internet, so he caught up with a lot of business. And chatted with his mom. For a couple of hours. That was a whole bouquet of roses. Last Friday evening I participated in the American Cancer Society's Relay for Life as part of the Marshall MOPS team. It was a time for remembering those who lost the battle, celebrating those who have survived, and raising money to keep the fight alive. Good conversation, dancing in the rain with uninhibited children, listening to bagpipes play Amazing Grace on a football field lit only by luminaries. Lots of lovely rose petals. Last week I approved a cover for Parting the Waters. I love it. The book should release in September. Speaking of Parting the Waters, yesterday I had lunch with Pam, her daughter Natalie (both important "characters" in the story), and Natalie's adorable nine-month-old son, Lawson Jacob. I took lots of pictures. And speaking of pictures, tomorrow I'll be photographing soap for a friend. (Yes, soap. Her mom makes beautiful, scented, artisan soaps.) The little girl across the street is going to come over and be my model--washing her hands, etc. We'll have wardrobe changes, hair touch ups, the whole routine. Should be tons o' sudsy fun. Also speaking of pictures (and roses), I'm currently posting some (pictures of roses, that is) on my photo blog. Thanks to George's hard work, these happy moments grace our yard. No wonder life smells so sweet. post comment

Life With a Science Guy, Part II [24 Apr 2008|01:50pm] I got in trouble again last night. This time I didn't inoculate any chicken. I was an aider and abettor. An unwitting accomplice to escapees. Before I go any further, I must say there are many perks to life with a science guy. Especially one who loves to work with plants. Every morning I'm greeted by climbing red roses that peek through our bedroom window. Our flower beds entertain daisies, snapdragons, lilies, and a variety of other blossoms whose names I've forgotten. And, as if beauty on every side weren't enough, there's also the vegetable garden and the herbs. Not only does my science guy like to grow fresh, organic veggies, more and more he's been trying his hand at preparing meals. Yesterday morning he started a roast in the crock pot, simmering in red wine, seasoned with salt, freshly ground black pepper, homegrown thyme, and an herb that looks like a scallion but smells like garlic. Later he added portabella mushrooms, and even later, diced sweet potatoes and onion. All day long the delicious aroma teased my nose and kept my stomach rumbling. But even in the face of such gastronomical temptation, I never once lifted the lid or sampled the savory broth. No, my sin came later. Shortly before dinner, he went out to the garden and harvested a lovely bunch of broccoli, which he then cut into pieces and placed in a steamer. I helped by popping some artisan bread into the toaster. (Yes, yes, I know. I shouldn't work so hard.) A few minutes before we sat down, I lifted the lid on the broccoli to assess its progress. And that's when they escaped. "What are you doing?" he asked. "Checking the broccoli." "Do you realize how many vitamins just escaped in that steam?" I said nothing right away because: 1.) I have no idea how many vitamins escaped. 10? 20? Eleventy-seven million? 2.) I've been steaming broccoli for decades and no one has ever accused me of criminal activity before. 3.) I was trying not to laugh. When I finally did speak, I countered with a question of my own. "You're just trying to get in my blog again, aren't you?" Mission accomplished, Science Guy. Thanks for the scrumptious dinner, your spectacular handiwork in the yard and garden, and for always making me smile. ~*~*~*~*~* In related news, I'm participating in another group photo romp, Project Green. Given the theme, it seemed only right to include a portrait of last night's infamous broccoli, taken while its vitamins were all still accounted for. You can see it (and my other project shots) here. This project is hosted by the talented photographer, Anna Carson. Visit her blog to view her fabulous work, find links to other participants, or to join the fun. 7 comments|post comment

Project Looking Through [17 Apr 2008|11:21am] I'm participating in a group project on my photo blog. For the next little while (I'm not sure how long) I'll post a daily photograph that somehow fits the theme of "looking through." I've posted two so far. It's an open project, if anyone else wants to join the fun. For more info (and links to lots of great photographs), visit Mark at the host blog, Regular Life. post comment

Center of Attention [16 Apr 2008|09:04pm] My air-pressure light came on today when I was half a block from Marshall Tire, so I just swung right in there to see what was up. Thankfully they didn't look very busy. Glen, the owner, happened to be walking from the office to one of the garages, so I rolled down my window, explained the situation, and he ushered me into the slot where the air hoses are. I heard him bark an instruction to one of his guys. Had he not been wearing a mechanic's uniform, the man who approached my car would have looked more at home in a smoky jazz bar romancing a saxophone. Two gold hoop earrings dangled from one ear, and cool shades rested low on the bridge of his nose. I watched him, waiting for eye contact so I could express my gratitude, but he didn't look at me. All the men who work for Glen wear the same uniform. Dark taupe-brown slacks and a short-sleeved tan work shirt with a name patch over the pocket. My attendant's name patch said Mr. Tip. About the time I concluded this must be a nickname, I noticed another employee scoping out my car. He was thin and craggy with gray stubble on his chin. His name patch said Pappy. Mini Coopers are uncommon in Marshall. The closest dealer is in Dallas, a two-and-a-half-hour drive away. I know of only three other Minis in town. After a few moments, Pappy approached my driver's side window and lowered his head to look inside. He was only inches from my face, but he didn't seem particularly interested in me. "The speedometer goes to 150," he said to no one in particular, but a couple more guys stepped closer to the car. "And it even has a tachometer." Then he addressed me. "This is the first one I've seen. It's cute." "Thanks," I responded, but he'd already renewed his examination of my car. By this point, four or five guys had gathered around my car. One, a tall young man with a name patch that said Coy, had the most beautiful amber-colored eyes I'd ever seen--like looking at the sun through a shot-glass of whiskey. While the others ogled my Mini, Coy sucked on a cigarette and chatted with me. "I test drove a couple of these," he said. His intoxicating eyes shifted from my face to caress the car. "They're hot. And fast. But not as fast as a GTO." He took another long drag and turned his thirsty gaze to a past I couldn't see. "I'd be in trouble if I owned a GTO." For a moment Mini and I were both forgotten. Then he stamped out his cigarette and grinned. "Nice car." Pappy knelt at the grill. "Mind if I look at your engine?" I popped the hood. By this time, Mr. Tip had finished checking and airing my tires. Six or seven beige shirts huddled over my engine, discussing amongst themselves its virtues and/or faults. I don't know. I couldn't hear them. Glen is a ruddy-faced, white-haired grandfather with a pleasant smile. Like so many people in this community, he loves Jacob and gives him a ball cap or other souvenir whenever he accompanies George to the shop. But when business is hopping, Glen takes his stand in the midst of the fray like a general on the battlefield, directing traffic, shouting orders, demanding instant response from his crew. I've watched him in action, so I was a little concerned for the crowd gathered around my engine. When I saw Glen glance their way, I shot him a sheepish smile, but he wasn't looking at me. Come to think of it, no one was really looking at me. After he closed the hood, Pappy returned to the window and peered into the back seat. "It even has room in the back." He turned to one of his cronies. "Did you see that? All that space in the back seat?" I mumbled something about the lack of storage space, but I might as well have been telling an adolescent boy that the perky cheerleader he's crushing on only made a C in math. Pappy finally smiled at me, his eyes magnified by his coke-bottle-bottom glasses. "I like it. It's really cute." "Thanks," I said, smiling back at him. The beige sea had parted, so I threw my cute car in reverse and made my exit, as certain as any perky cheerleader ever was that half a dozen pairs of eyes were watching me go. Well, okay. Not watching me, maybe, but I was there. You can ask Mr. Tip or Pappy or Coy . . . no, on second thought, just take my word for it. 2 comments|post comment

Edible Art [01 Apr 2008|11:22pm] Today I took my camera to Kroger to photograph some fruit and vegetables for Thursday's Master's Artist post. I wasn't sure what kind of reaction I would get from employees, but the produce manager said he was honored. I can see why. His department is a work of art. I've written about my love affair with produce before. If you didn't understand it then, maybe you will now. Behold, the Kroger Art Gallery. Hungry? [edit: If you're interested, you can read the Master's Artist post here.] post comment

VeRTiGo [25 Mar 2008|07:41pm] "I'm so dizzy, my head is spinning. Like a whirlpool, it never ends . . ." Remember that old Tommy Roe song? Yeah, well, that's been my theme song for almost a week now. I guess my allergies took the whole "party in my head" thing literally and decided to host a hoedown in my semi-circular canal. Whenever I go from sitting to lying or lying to sitting, or even if I just tilt my head wonky (and who doesn't do that umpteen times a day?), I have to brace myself and take a little break until the walls find their proper positions again. It's a bit trippy. Oh, and speaking of "trippy," the timing couldn't be more jolly. Tomorrow I fly to Colorado for the sixth annual FDDDS+M (Father Daughter Daughter Daughter Son + Mom) ski trip. This is my dad's baby--a chance to spend a long weekend skiing with his children sans spouses and grandkids. We always have a blast, and I'm sure this year will be just as fun--provided my eardrums don't explode from pressure on the plane, and I don't take a dive from the chairlift due to disorientation. Note to self: NO wonky head tilts while suspended in a chair swinging far above a steep mountain side. So, I guess this means I'll be taking a brief sabbatical from Croatia stories. But before I go, I want to leave you with one more set of photographs. In Dubrovnik our hotel faced west, and every evening God provided an original light show--sometimes subtle, sometimes stormy, sometimes spectacular. I hope you enjoy these images of sunset on the Adriatic Sea. 1 comment|post comment

Bosnia [24 Mar 2008|06:44pm] On our last day we chartered a bus and crossed the border into Bosnia. Breathtaking beauty and heartbreaking destruction, side by side. I posted pictures here. When I see children playing outside a building pocked by machine-gun fire, emotions collide and words refuse to order themselves until they all distill to one simple prayer. Come, Lord Jesus. post comment

Toni, the sound guy [22 Mar 2008|03:55pm] When one visits a foreign land, one is encouraged to be culturally sensitive--to educate oneself regarding offensive behavior and basic good manners. For example, in some countries, it's rude to point with what we Americans call the "pointer" finger. In other countries, it's rude to sit in any position that aims the bottom of your foot toward a person. What comes naturally may be totally unacceptable, and it often takes months in a new culture before one even begins to ferret out the nuances of right and wrong behavior. Enter Toni, the sound guy. In Croatia we stayed at the Hotel President Dubrovnik. I could say a lot about the hotel, but for now, let's just say we were not roughing it. By any stretch. Comfortable rooms, fabulous food, breathtaking views. Lovely place. We held our key-note sessions in a spacious conference room. Picture 100 women (per retreat) seated at round tables. A central "stage" area contains a keyboard and three microphones, which are connected to a portable sound box. Seated in front of the mixing board we have the only man in the room, Toni. (Yes, he spells his name with an "i.") Toni is probably 40ish. I would peg him younger if his hair and beard weren't both graying. He's tall, strong, and soft-spoken with friendly brown eyes. Every morning Toni arrived by 8:00 AM to set up for our 9:00 meeting. He stayed until our last session ended, sometimes after 10:00 PM. When he arrived, Heather, Lisa, and I were usually running through the morning's worship set. From day one, we liked Toni. It's impossible not to like him, and with each new day our appreciation increased. For one thing, Toni is thoughtful. He pays attention. During the first meeting, Heather read a few scriptures during the singing time. After reading, she balanced her Bible on the corner of the sound box. There wasn't any other place for it, besides the floor. The next day, Toni showed up with a small table for Heather's Bible. Whatever we asked him to do, he figured out a way; and most things we needed, he noticed before we asked. Heather had printed up songbooks with lyrics to all the songs. She gave one to Toni--just as a gift. No other reason. The next day as we gathered for our meeting, the song "Indescribable" was playing through the speakers. "What's this?" Heather asked. In his thick accent and somewhat broken English he said, "I went home and looked up your songs on the internet." So, as you can imagine, Toni rapidly became our hero. And here's where the cultural sensitivity thing comes in. How do you let someone know he's a hero, when you don't know what's proper in his culture? We decided to do what came naturally. Then ask. Sometimes we drew attention to his unobtrusive service--especially if he solved a problem on the spot. "Go, Toni," or "Woo hoo!" or, "You rock!" we'd say, and all the women would applaud. Toni looked a bit overwhelmed, but not at all displeased. During coffee breaks, he'd stand outside on the deck, smoking a cigarette or talking on his cell phone. Many of the women walked over and chatted with him. We all wondered what he thought of us. I mean, here you have 100 women, singing their hearts out, many crying or raising their hands. These are women who serve God in countries all over the world. Many of them rarely get to worship in English or enjoy the freedom to openly express their devotion. Toni sat at his sound board and observed, day after day. He sat as the speaker spoke about God's goodness and the power of redemption. He sat as we prayed in small groups. He took it all in, recognized needs, and came back the next day prepared to meet them. As we got to know Toni he told us a bit about himself. We learned that his nine-year-old son was currently competing in an academic competition. He searched for the right English words to explain. "The winner will be named . . . um, 'Croatia's best boy.'" We smiled. I'm not sure what he meant to say, but I imagine any son of Toni's is quite a fine boy indeed. Toward the end of the second retreat, Toni showed up with several copies of a CD he'd burned for us. "It's Croatian love songs," he explained. "Some popular, some old. I thought you might enjoy them." "Wow, thanks, Toni. This is awesome," we said. After a momentary pause, Heather asked, "Is it okay to give you a hug?" A shy grin. "Sure. It's okay," he said. We did. The next day, Toni brought us a box of Croatian chocolates to share. Smooth hazelnut cream filling between two chocolate layers. Delicious. Toni devoted long days to our service over a period of two weeks, anticipating our needs and quietly meeting them. Then he lavished us with gifts. We did the only thing we could think of. The whole staff signed a thank-you note. So inadequate. But that's not the end of our relationship with Toni. When I made photographic web albums for the staff and attendees, I made sure to include several shots of Toni. He snagged a spot in all our hearts, and I know lots of women all around the world will be praying for him. The thought of all those prayers makes me happy. Toni may be generous, but I've never met anyone who could out-give God. Maybe someday, when people from every tongue and nation gather around the throne, Toni can tell me how God answered. In a language we'll both understand. 5 comments|post comment

Croatian Islands [21 Mar 2008|02:53pm] The day after the second retreat ended, the staff rented a small ferry boat and visited two nearby islands. I posted some pictures here. I could go for a job as a travel photographer. I'm just sayin'. post comment

"God totally showed up!" [20 Mar 2008|12:26pm] I don't know if it's intrinsic to my personality or if I've just trained myself this way, but I tend to closely observe whatever is happening around me and also inside me. I experience emotions, but I simultaneously paint pictures of them. I marvel over beauty, but then I have to wrap words around it. In some ways this tendency can render life in clinical terms, but mostly it seems to allow me enough distance to approach any new experience without prejudice or worry about self-preservation. After all, as an observer, I'm apart. I'm safe. Which brings me to my next Croatia story, one I feel is particularly appropriate, considering where we are in Holy Week. During the last supper with His disciples, Jesus took the role of a household servant and washed their feet. It was a common practice of the most menial nature. People in those days wore sandals and walked on dusty roads. Their feet got hot and dirty. When they entered a home, basic hospitality dictated a host offer this cleansing and refreshing service. It's not surprising then that foot washing has come to represent servanthood, cleansing, and spiritual refreshment. I've also seen it used as a symbol of reconciliation--a chance for people to humble themselves and restore relationships. All good stuff. And yet, in my own experience it always struck me as a bit forced or awkward. I mean, it made perfect sense in Jesus' day--like we would offer a cool beverage to a summer visitor. It didn't seem logical that the specific act of washing someone's feet somehow released a special power or grace. Weren't there other, more practical ways to reconcile or serve? When I heard that one of the women on the retreat staff, Kathy, had a "foot washing ministry" and would be providing it for the attendees, my curiosity was piqued. She said she'd seen God work in powerful ways--that as she washed feet, many people poured out their hearts and went away not only with soft, lotiony feet, but with cleansed souls. As the official photographer for the retreats, one of my assignments was to document Kathy's foot-washing ministry. I arranged to be there before one of her appointments started. (The last thing I wanted to do was barge in and catch someone's soul mid-rinse cycle.) I arrived without preconceptions, ready to observe and shoot, and proceeded to scope out the set up and plot my photographic course. In addition to Kathy's station, a harpist played soothing music per the foot washee's request. I wanted to capture all of this to its best advantage. And I really wanted to see how it played out with the woman in the chair. I mean, foot washing is an eccentric enough idea, but a harp suggests angels in the clouds. Would the washee take all this seriously or merely be amused? The woman arrived for her appointment, and I asked if she minded my taking a few photos. She didn't. As Kathy prepared the water, the washee and I chatted about inconsequential matters--the gorgeous scenery, my haircut (she liked it), etc. When Kathy was ready, the woman sat down. "Is the water temperature okay?" Kathy asked, as I clicked away. "It's a little warm, but I'll get used to it," the washee replied. Click. Click. After a brief soak, Kathy lifted one foot and placed it on the towel across her own lap. "I'm just going to massage your foot with some lotion," she said in a calm, pleasant voice. Click. The harpist had begun playing Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring. Click. Click. I crouched on a low shelf to get a nice artsy shot of Kathy through the harp strings . . . click, click, and . . . whoa! Without warning the washee began to weep and talk about a personal struggle in her life. Kathy continued to gently massage her foot. The harpist continued to play. And I eased the door open and slipped out into the hall. The title of this post quotes Heather, my very fun and funny roommate and co-worship leader at the conference (who just got engaged day before yesterday--Go, Heather!) At a youthful 27, she amused some of the older staff members with her comments. I could go all flowery here, but "God totally showed up" perfectly describes the way I felt when I stepped out of that foot-washing room. God had showed up, alright, and if you want to know what I think, it wasn't because of some magical power associated with the act of massaging someone's feet to the sound of harp music. It was because Kathy is humble and obedient enough to do what God asks of her, no matter what anyone else might think about it. I walked away with a sense of awe, aware that I had been allowed to witness something precious and sacred--a soul being washed by the same hands that gently cleansed the rough feet of fisherman in an upper room. I observed a foot washing, and I saw grace. I don't think you can see grace up close and not leave with a bit of its fragrance clinging to your own soul. It's a nice aroma to carry into Holy Week--a reminder that we can draw near to God because He has drawn near to us. He is as close as the air we breathe. So really, when you think about it, isn't the real wonder that we are surprised when He "totally shows up"? 7 comments|post comment

Images of Dubrovnik [19 Mar 2008|08:17pm] When you have almost 700 pictures, it's hard to choose just a few. Here's a sampling. Isn't Dubrovnik enchanting? 5 comments|post comment

Please stop the plane, I want to get off. [19 Mar 2008|04:56pm] I've been home for almost a week, and I've just about caught up with life. (I told it to stay put while I was away, but it didn't even slow its pace. Cheeky.) Croatia was amazing, and I imagine I'll be processing for quite a while. I know I'm a different person than I was when I left, but then, I suppose we all wake up at least a little changed each new day, whether we travel half way around the world or walk around the block. Some changes shout through a megaphone and others only whisper. Part of what I learned in Croatia was to listen to the whispers. So, kids, I have lots of stories. And 699 pictures (after deleting the rejects). But don't worry. I love my loyal blog readers and don't want any of you to feel like you've been consigned to "here's another shot of Uncle Herbert with the elephants" hell, I'm going to dish out my stories in small servings. Little bites to be long savored. Dining European style. Everybody cozy? Okay. Here we go. My first story happened before I even landed on Croatian soil, and it starts with a confession. I'm not a particularly sympathetic person. (And the crowd gasps in mock horror and feigned shock.) So, when George would complain about his claustrophobic tendencies, I'd listen, but inside I was thinking, "Oh, come on. It can't be that bad. Just get a grip." However, after my experience flying from Dallas to Frankfurt, I will no longer think of George or his fellow claustrophobes as wussies. Mine was an "overnight" flight--the idea being that one will depart one's own country late afternoon, sleep as much as possible, and arrive at 2:00 AM body time, which is 9:00 AM in the land of one's destination. To aid in this attempt at biological deception, the airline feeds you dinner around 6:00 PM and "breakfast" shortly after midnight, aka 7:00ish in the morning. Of course, any sleeping one does must be accomplished in a seat that was apparently designed for maximum discomfort and to numb one's nether regions as quickly as possible. "Are we having fun yet? We are? Well, in that case the captain has turned on the fasten-your-seatbelt sign. There goes your half inch of wiggle room!" So, I thought I'd be clever and beat the system. I had my neck pillow. I had my earplugs. I had my oh-so-fashionable eye shades. And I knew how to use them! I sat by the window. A very friendly, talkative man from India sat beside me. Much of the time I couldn't understand what he said, but I nodded and smiled and (when I deciphered a snatch) assured him that, though I'd never tried Coco Chanel perfume, no doubt it was every bit as wonderful as the ad in the magazine claimed, and how fascinating that perfume was one of his hobbies, and jewelry, too? how nice, and yes, now that you mention it, I was actually reading this book that is open in front of me, but no bother, I'd just as soon catch half of what you're saying instead. Oh, what a pity! They're turning out the lights. Guess we should try to catch a few Zs, eh? I arranged my pillow, inserted my ear plugs, slipped on my eye shades and tried to get comfy. In spite of my aching tail bone, I think I dozed off and on for a couple of hours. And then a very strange thing happened. I awoke in a panic, hot, closed in, and nauseated. I yanked off the eye shade, clawed out the ear plugs, squirmed my way out of my sweater, and tried to take slow, deep breaths. "Please don't let me throw up," I prayed over and over. The plane was dark, and the man next to me was asleep. The seat in front of me leaned all the way back, staring me in the face. The side of the plane curved inward, further encroaching on my space. "Don't scream. You really don't want to scream," I told myself. "Breathe. Just keep breathing." A few minutes later Man from India stirred and opened his eyes. "May I get out?" I whispered. He stood and I scooted out of the seat. My legs felt weak and I imagined my face pasty in a ghostly shade of green. A trip to the lavatory proved I still looked mostly like myself, but I knew I couldn't go back to that seat. I stood in the hallway for thirty minutes, taking deep breaths. More than anything I wanted to get off that plane, and knowing it was miles above the Atlantic Ocean at the time only made me feel more trapped. I pushed the thought aside and concentrated on breathing. When they turned on the lights for our midnight "breakfast," I returned to my seat. Thankfully the guy in front of me raised his seat back to the upright position, and light seemed to help. I ate very slowly, not trusting my stomach, but the rest of the trip passed uneventfully. I'm happy to report I never vomited or screamed or even mentioned my struggle to Man from India. On the flight from Frankfurt to Croatia I had three seats to myself, and I lay down and slept with nary a hint of panic. I sincerely hope this was an isolated event. Meanwhile, I know I'll show much more sympathy in the future, at least as far as claustrophobia is concerned. Which is a good thing, I suppose. As for other issues, hopefully all you wusses out there will keep those to yourselves. ;) 4 comments|post comment

Croatia blog [25 Feb 2008|09:29pm] I'm not taking a computer to Croatia, and I don't know if I'll have internet access, but Women of the Harvest plans to update a blog during the retreats. If you're interested, you can find it here. I leave day after tomorrow. I still haven't packed. I should get on that. 4 comments|post comment

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