Needy Women Seeking Help

Christmas is one week from today. New Year's Eve is two weeks from today. Our prayer gathering for India is three weeks from today. Our departure for India is four weeks from Sunday . . . (holy moley!) calling all prayer partners!  Want to know more about our trip?  Click here.

UPDATE: One week before take-off . . . so many details floating around in my head and jotted on sticky notes, who knows where?  It's important that I have some clothing in my bags, but I also need to be "clothed in Christ" with the right attitudes and motivations. Reading The City of Joy and watching Born into Brothels has been a real eye-opener . . .

P.S. On Expecting Twins

Today I had lunch with two young women who are both expecting twins.  They wanted to meet with me to learn about my experiences as a mom of adult twin boys, and to glean any advice unique to multiples. One friend is already an experienced parent of three young children who are awaiting siblings #4 and #5 (twin girls) to arrive about three months from now. The other one is already an experienced teacher who has been "pregnant" for about six years . . . about to explode from waiting, praying, applying, searching and more waiting. She is about to meet #1 and #2 (14-month-old twin boys) for the first time when they fly halfway around the world to adopt them on January 1st.

I thought it would be easy to address their questions after two and a half decades of parenting and speaking/writing about parenthood for almost that long, but I was struck that their minds had already moved way beyond advice about rhyming names, matching clothes or sharing spoons.

Before I was hospitalized at 32 weeks, I visited a "twins club" meeting and read Elizabeth Nobles' groundbreaking book,  Having Twins (now in it's third edition), but much of the way I navigated the care of multiples was determined by where I was as an individual, NOT how well I could breastfeed two babies at one time (I couldn't). These women are far beyond where I was in emotional and spiritual maturity . . . if only their expectations of themselves can remain balanced and realistic. 

I was most impressed by their desire to prepare for the ways their marriages and their souls will be challenged during the first months and years that expose every fiber of our selfishness and self-pity.  The fact that they are aware and care assures me that, they too, will wake up from the shock and awe of diapers and bottles and interrupted slumber to enjoy mostly delighful, memorable days!

Ten years ago, when we wrote Shaping the Next Generation:Helping Parents Seize their Brief Window of Opportunity, we were trying to answer the nagging questions that occupied our own minds on any given day: What if my worst nightmares come true? Am I doing enough for my children? What if my kids don't turn out right? Can I really influence my children? Our answer to all of the above hasn't changed
. . . "God is both Father and Potter, already at work shaping your children (and their parents)." His gracious plan is to include us in His awesome process . . . and humble, vulnerable, imperfect parents are not required to make the journey alone.  Most of us can attest that there is only one perfect parent.

Today, our twin boys are the same age we were when they were born. This thought was scary for all of us! As adults, "the boys" obviously share the same genes and chromosomes (and each has loudly claimed  that the other is the rotten half of the egg). They grew up in virtually the same environment, yet they are very distinct individuals with many characteristics we now trace all the way back to preschool. 

Perhaps our determination NOT to create a "matched set" has something to do with it . . . but I have lived long enough to believe that God has created every child--multiple or single--as a unique person with a specific role in His (not my) Story. So yes. . . parenting multiples will be a challenge. I wanted to run away from home on more than one day; but I wouldn't trade my worst experiences for anything, because these were the souls entrusted to me by the Lord of the Universe.  These were the very ones God used to insure that I would grow up in Him.  My prayer is that when all the crazy people out there observe you out and about with kids so interesting in gender, number, skin color or development, that they will look at you and recognize above all that "Strength and dignity are her clothing and she smiles at the future."  (Proverbs 31:25)

Rare Houston Snow Sparks Memories

Around noon yesterday, I got an unusual call from my mom in Houston. "It's snowing and sticking to the ground!" she reported with delight. This was big news since it only snowed two times in the thirty years I lived in Houston (and supposedly only three times in the past fifteen years). She went on to say, "I'm looking out the window at the exact spot where you experienced snow for the first time." She retold how excited I was to go out and play in the snow until it "burned" my three-year-old face, scaring me to tears (notice I'm not holding a speck of snow).

On the other end of the line, I was trying to comprehend how--fifty years later--my parents could remember such a minute detail and how lovely and rare it is that they still live in the same home where every childhood milestone took place. What I couldn't mention (yet) was that just this week I found the very picture that documents what is only a shadow in my own memory. [My sisters and I have been gathering scores of pictures that record the sweet memories we have of HER, compiled in a DVD to be shared on her 80th birthday this month.] I was thinking how coincidental this serendipitous moment was, then I recognized that it's just a fleeting glimpse of how the heavenly Father has "taken account of my wanderings; put my tears in His bottle, and written them in His book of remembrance."  (Psalm 56:8)

Yesterday's Fleeting Thought: Boycotting Christmas!

It was the night after Thanksgiving, and we were flopped out on the couch asking, "Why are we so exhausted?"  I hadn't even put away all the serving dishes from Thanksgiving dinner, but we had already bought pine garland and replacement bulbs at Home Depot. That's when I had an fleeting thought, maybe an epiphany . . . we could boycott Christmas. Not the good, parts, the REAL parts, just the drag-out-all-the-mass-of-Christmas-stuff part.

How did we ever reconcile that all the energy and money we put into decorating and shopping has anything to do with Christ's Nativity? My Muslim friends have asked me the same thing. Even the original St. Nicholas, whom I've loyally supported for years, was leaving gifts for the POOR, identifying with Christ's humble incarnation. Yeah. Boycott the fake parts. I liked the idea more and more.

No Christmas cards this year? Check. No lights on the shrubs? Check. Well . . . I bought those replacement bulbs and the garland for the front door, and a $9.99 photosensor to save energy. No Christmas tree?  Aww, but I bought a cute little motorized Thomas the Train set to run around the tree for my grandson. So I suppose the (skinny, artificial, pre-lighted) tree must be dragged out. Yes, and I already bought a little bag of Evergreen mix at Yarrow Acres to make it SMELL real.  So only the most meaningful ornaments (can't go there yet) and my Potting Shed Nativity (minus a broken shepherd from last year) . . . and the gumdrop tree, a 50-year family tradition (sigh). But . . . no stockings hanging over the fireplace? Mmm, not sure my adult children could handle not finding them stuffed full of cash and gift cards on Christmas morning. Could I? It was a fleeting thought: boycotting Christmas. At least I will simplify and work harder to sift out the fake from the real.  Does that make me a Grinch?

Kolkata Bound New Year

“Preparing our mind for action means coming to grips with the true nature of the world into which Christ has cast us, His disciples. It means coming to grips with how the Fall is playing itself out around the world in the present day.” Gary Haugen, Good News About Injustice

(Lord willing) seven weeks from Sunday, I hope to be on my way to Kolkata, India, to work for two weeks alongside some of our dearest friends who are serving with an organization called Word Made Flesh (http://www.wordmadeflesh.org/). I met M. in 1994, when we simultaneously joined the same pediatric rehabilitation team and church, beginning our kindred friendship. A friendship also includes walking together through many inevitable struggles (Acts 14:22).

After multiple visits to India, M. fought great disillusionment and despair over the idolatry and injustice they witnessed. A small group of us began reading Good News About Injustice and prayed about our responsibility for others; finally M. imagined “one good thing” she could do to empower women to leave the slavery of prostitution and find true freedom through the gospel . . . and from the U.S. she became instrumental in the development of Sari Bari, a Word Made Flesh community of Christ-followers called to be in relationship with sexually exploited women in the red-light districts of Kolkata (http://www.saribari.com/). Sari Bari is a business initiative that seeks the freedom and restoration of Kolkata’s red-light areas through dignity-giving employment opportunities for women affected by the sex trade.

My Opportunity to Join In as a “Goer”

My first and only overseas trip was ten years ago to Thailand. For the last five years, I’ve worked with East African refugees, so I’m excited about working among a new, unfamiliar group. A long-time friend and teaching partner will join me to support Word Made Flesh and Sari Bari. We will also use our TESL training (Teaching English to Speakers of Other Languages) to prepare a basic curriculum for weekly English instruction . . . and train our friends in “best practices.”

Thank you for the ways you already love God and your neighbor every day, and for prayerfully supporting this and other causes that point people to the love and transformational freedom found in Christ. I’d also like to challenge you to read at least one of these books during the next three months: Good News About Injustice (Gary Haugen), The City of Joy (Dominique LaPierre), or Ministries of Mercy (Tim Keller).

“ . . . and God Himself will be among them, and He will wipe away every tear from their eyes; and there will no longer be any death; there will no longer be any mourning or crying, or pain; the first things have passed away. . . Then he showed me a river of the water of life, clear as crystal, coming from the throne of God and of the Lamb, in the middle of the street. On either side of the river was the tree of life bearing twelve kinds of fruit, yielding its fruit every month; and the leaves of the tree were for the healing of the nations.” Revelation 21:3, 4; 22:1, 2

Straighten Up and Fly . . . er, PARK Right!

I appreciate the policeman who ran off the road chasing drug dealers just before we drove up Wednesday night . . . and the ones who responded when there was a shooting outside my ESL classroom a few weeks ago. So why am I still mad about the ticket on my house guest's car for parking next to our curb in the WRONG DIRECTION?! It's not like the police haven't been to my house in the eleven years we've lived here . . . when I reported a former neighbor for suspected (confirmed) child abuse . . . when one of my kids failed to stop for the neighborhood school bus . . . when another one failed to stop for the policeman trying to give him ticket . . . when our three teenagers and their friends parked their cars on the street EVERY day in EVERY direction for at least four years--you understand my indignation. Well, this time, I wasn't going to take it sitting down. I marched myself upstairs to get construction paper, Sharpies and a couple of sheet protectors, and boy do I feel good about the warning sign I put alongside my curb . . . that is, until the "neighborhood nazis" send a citation for having an unauthorized sign in the front yard. I'll just tell them they're my Halloween/Thanksgiving decorations.

My First Cookbook (c. 1959)

One of the benefits of cleaning out your attic is coming across long forgotten treasures. It's one of the risks, too . . . since I'm quite likely to prolong my cleaning job by stopping to chronicle stuff that might distintegrate. I thought I started to cook when I earned the Cooking Badge in Girl Scouts, but I guess I had already started experimenting with this little cookbook from the Imperial Sugar Co. in Sugarland, Texas (click here) It had to be third grade or before,because the covers have evidence of some first attempts at cursive writing and our phone number prefix was GY4 ("Gypsy") and zip codes were only two numbers between the city and state (Houston, 36, Texas). My "review"at the end of the cookbook read: "Oh! My! I like all of the recipes!" Too bad Jerry's Bars ("my best dish") and Toasty Tuna Casserole are no longer doctor-approved foods--I'd surely cook more than I do!

Ode to Campho-Phenique

Dear Daddy,

I never dreamed what a big response I'd get when I told my Facebook friends what was on my mind this afternoon . . EEA: Remember "Windex" from My Big Fat Greek wedding? My dad's miracle remedy is Campho-Phenique."
In just a few hours, here were some of the comments I received . . .

Katie T. likes this.

(Cousin) Susan: "Do they even sell that anymore? I'm amazed. It was my family's cure-all of choice too -- at least until Bactine came out. Must have been an Everett thing!

EEA: "Definitely Everetts. I've been sick, in fact, I had to cancel my trip to see my parents this week. Chuck called today to remind me that a drop in each nostril might just cure me!"

Julie P: It's a miracle!

(Cousin) Beth: 'Yep, I remember that stuff. What a distinctive aroma! Take care of yourself, cousin!"

Julie C: "I'm a HUGE believer in Campho-Phenique! It cures everything."

(Childhood friend) Luke: "We still use it for everything from sore gums to mosquito bites."

Katie Jo: "holy cow we used that stuff for everything, the scent takes me back!"

EEA: "Y'all are too much!!! Can't wait to tell "Chuckles" what a hit he was on FB today.

Well, Chuckles . . . all this (plus my Benydryl, Mucinex, C tabs and Campho-coated nostrils) took me back to the good old days when you would whip out the Campho-phenique and a Q-tip for everything from mouth ulcers to mosquito bites. If it was a really nasty scrape, we'd be crying before you ever touched it, chiding "Just blow on it--it doesn't hurt!" Whatever . . . decades later, look at all the people who are on the bandwagon supporting Dr. Chuck's medical brigade!

In your honor, here's a little Campho-phenique trivia and a place to click in case you should ever overdose on the stuff. In 1867, Joseph Lister demonstrated that phenol cleansing of patients' skin before andafter surgery could greatly reduce infections. In 1884, Campho-Phenique Liquid was introduced. In 1944, Campho-Phenique Liquid was purchased by Sterling Drug. In 1945, Campho-Phenique was repositioned as a first aid antiseptic. In 1979 Campho-Phenique Gel was formulated as a first aid product (less smelly, but not as effective, people!). In 1984, Campho-Phenique Gel was repositioned as a cold sore remedy. Finally, in 2003, Campho-Phenique Cold Sore Treatment for Scab Relief is launched. Now that's just GROSS!!

Finally, Daddy, since we didn't get to celebrate your 83rd birthday together since I got the crud (but not the oink flu) , I'll close with a little ditty I whipped up just for you (sing it to the tune of one of our favorites, Little Brown Jug)

If I had a great big sore in my mouth, I wouldn't look north and I wouldn't look south;

I'd go to my bathroom cabinet and see, the little green bottle that sets men free . . .

Oh, ho ho, you and me, Campho-Phenique has sure cured me;

Oh ho ho, you and me, Campho-phenique how I love thee!

And I love you, Chuckles . . .

Go This Way, Squirrels

Could anyone miss that Anna and Asha are in country again, spreading their joyful curiosity and creativity everywhere they go? Within five minutes of arrival, their big iron bed had a good jumping-on (it's living at our house while they're in India). However, it was a couple of days before I discovered the paper-twine-n-sticks signs they and Grandma Baas posted around my backyard . . .

"Go this way, squirrels"
"Yes, squirrels can eat the nuts"But evidently, NOT the nuts under the Pin Oak tree . . .

we should all live as if we're still 4 or 5!

What's Up, Doc?

Above ground there were beautiful green carrot tops . . . .

. . . but underneath only scawny, spindly six-inch carrots!

All in all, it's been a good summer growing season for my deep-bed organic garden. For the first time, I planted good organic seeds--not just store-bought plants--and I worked really hard to keep it cultivated, pest-free and fertilized with mushroom compost and fish poop. The red potatoes, cucumbers and albion strawberries were definite successes, but I was most excited about the huge Japanese Imperial Carrots that were (supposedly) forming under the bushy green heads that surrounded my lettuce, tomatoes, herbs and marigolds. Any ideas about what might have happened? And while we're on the subject of slow, stunted growth, what's up with my croquet-ball sized Watermelons at the end of the gorgeous flowering vines trailing out of the bed borders?

On the 8th Anniversary of 9/11, I Recalled My Most Peaceful Place

I glanced up in the heat of the day
like I did every day
and worked even more earnestly
so that certainly the time would
pass by faster.

Later my awaited moment came . . .
I was FREE and I ran
down the dirt slope to the river
never bothering to take off my dusty sandals
as I stepped carefully into the same freezing water
where my great-grandfather once drove cattle . . .

. . . and then we danced--the water and I--it was
so cold on my bare toes that I jumped and splashed, jumped and splashed . . .
meanwhile, the sun played tricks on my partner as it swirled
in tiny, shallow rapids
around the rocks in its way.

Now the sun was beginning to set--nothing new yet
ever exquisitely unique.
Surrounded by the hills my senses were keyed into nature.
I heard only the wind singing gently behind me and
I saw only the sun up ahead sliding
lower
slower
taking its time . . .

. . . the daystar, like a paintbrush, watercolored the sky with a mass of
purple pink orange and red encircling the glowing orb.
My heart soared as I climbed the mountain path,
for I thought I saw his form etched against the horizon;
though my body ached from the day's work,
his coming urged me to the top where I
dropped
in a tired heap
letting the gentle breeze ruffle my hair and caress my bones.

I turned over, resting my weary head on my arms, just in time to watch the sun
fall away in one last blaze of glory.
I let out a sigh of awe and appreciation for this marvel,
just as the night sounds began echoing through the valley . . .

I was lulled to sleep under a sky of countless stars
whose light sent a secure warmth washing over me.
I recognized the feeling like the well-worn paths.
I was not alone . . .

*Written a few months after I met Jesus as more than a historical figure

Elaine Everett Copyright 1972

Pushing Through Bad Beach Karma

I grew up on the Texas Gulf Coast, enjoying Galveston's "Stewart Beach" and Freeport's "Surfside" . . . David grew up in south Texas, admiring Padre Island, just a few miles from Mexico. Fortunately, neither of us saw the "Emerald Coast" end of the Gulf until we moved to Tennessee 23 years ago. Our first family vacation was to Sandestin with three preschoolers in tow . . . at once they were hooked on the clear, turquoise water, soft white sand and abundant shells. As our kids grew, we tried several different spots along the Florida panhandle--most of them pure, blissful playgrounds. One vacation our middle schooler realized that "Someday I could live on the beach if I wanted to . . . yeah, I'm gonna find a college down here!" (same son who graduated from a college where kayaking and snowboarding were P.E. options). Once the kids left for college, we'd still find time for long weekends at various ocean spots . . . but a new pattern emerged. . . it would rain every day or . . . we would arrive during a hurricane evacuation or . . . we would arrive as an unexpected tropical storm hit (at least we were the hotel where the media and insurance people rode it out) . . . even our 25th anniversary trip to Maui dealt us rain 5/8 days--"We've never seen rain like this in decades" read the newspaper announcing the cancellation of Honolulu's Centennial.

But true beach lovers are not easily deterred . . . our latest road trip included several days at the same resort where our kids first discovered the glorious beach life. Despite our friends' jokes about bad beach karma, we soaked in several hours of sun, blue skies and emerald seas on our first full day. Until about 3:00 pm. When the sky turned black. And the flag changed to red. And our "umbrella neighbors" exclaimed, "Dios mio!" as we all retreated to the hotel. Could it really be true? Should we head for the hills? Nah. A few hours later, the sky returned to blue, the breeze cooled the evening, and the most vivid full moon lit up the sand where people were still playing volleyball well after midnight.

First Moon Landing at Camp Cho Yeh

It sounds pretty lame today, but it was a big deal 40 years ago. I was at Camp Cho Yeh in Livingston, Texas when it was time for the first Moonwalk (not by Michael Jackson, children!) There were no video recorders or TEVO back then . . . if you missed it, you really missed it (except now we can click on the You Tube link above and watch it like it was the first time)! So the camp director plugged in a big black and white console TV in their front yard, and the whole camp came over with sleeping bags to watch the historic moment. I may not have been able to see the TV picture much better than it looks today, but it was pretty awesome to be in the Texas piney woods under a black sky loaded with stars, watching Neil Armstrong take "one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind."

Escape Plans

I was really "to my point" today when I received the glad tidings that we WILL be taking a one-week vacation after all. Oh joy and gladness! The good news jogged my memory of a little book that has brought Melinda and me many smiles and fun: How to Draw a Clam: A Wonderful Vacation Planner, by Joy Sikorski. This clever "retro" artist/author announces: "If you believe that one should always be on vacation as a matter of principle . . . This Book Is For You."

Following is a test called "How to know if you need a vacation" . . .

1. Does the sound of a bird singing get on your nerves?
2. Have you recently announced with vehemence, "I don't give a hoot about anybody!"
3. Do you believe that no amount of money can compensate for the sacrifice you make just showing up each day?
4. Do you tend to embellish? Did you say to someone, "There's a terrible storm in the 26th floor conference room?"
5. Does the motto "Revive the Muumuu" stirl longings in your breast?


If more than one is answered YES, you too, need a vacation. . .

Am I My Neighbor's Sprinkler?

My deep bed garden is just starting to produce its first viable vegetables . . . today I'll be making a salad with homegrown lettuce, cucumber, bell pepper and my first big tomato! All my patio veggies seem to be doing okay, but I have to get up every morning and make sure they have enough moisture to make it through another day in the 90's. Most mornings you can find me barefoot, pajama-clad, poking my fingers into the dust-dry dirt . . . but lately, everytime I check on the "big" garden, it's as moist as can be. A few days ago I finally learned why. My backyard neighbor just planted some new grass against the fence we share and he's been turning on the sprinkler every morning before my little visits. Then last night I discovered that he waters a little every evening, too. Jackpot!! I really should walk around the corner and thank him for all the free water, but I wouldn't wanna jinx it, or cause him to stumble with philosophical questions like "Am I my brother's keeper?" I do hope his new grass takes hold sometime in late September . . .

Celebrating the Two-year old Mind (or how to entertain a grandmother)

Pretending to sleep in his playhouse

Unloading the animals from the toy zoo

Discovering "Lainee's" bubble machine

(click arrow to play video--there's a volume "slider" next to the orange square if the bubble machine is too "woud" for your ears)

I could follow Rainor around with a camera everytime we're together (well I guess I do), just to capture the fun little discoveries he makes week by week. As a former pediatric speech therapist, it's been a blast to track his early language development and the evolution of pretend play and problem solving from Birth to Two. Rainor has loved bubbles for a long time, but on this visit, I found the bubble machine from Amanda's wedding reception. I love how he would retreat to his doormat "fortress" when he wasn't so sure----"Woud" sounds really bug him, but not enough to permanently stop the bubbles--"(A)g'in!" This went on for almost half an hour. Isn't it amazing how easily toddlers (and grandmothers) are entertained?

True Southern Hospitality

Anna and I went to visit some of our ESL students today, with flyers announcing our upcoming June Activity Day--five hours of practicing conversation while sewing carry-all bags, exercising, and making healthy snacks, and painting on aprons. Albay came out to meet us--she had kindly agreed to join us for those inevitable "lost in translation" moments!

Immediately we ran into Fatuma, on her way to job training with another single mom, Jimoy. Next we visited Bahati's new apartment, where we were given bottled Cokes and Sprites. Everyone's apartment is an interesting surprise--some are barely furnished, others have every inch packed with unmatched pieces--but most are darkened and cooled by rich fabrics draped from ceiling to floor--usually adorned with garlands of open-weave, embroidered and tassled "flags" or shiny foil mardi gras-like decorations hanging from the ceiling.

We moved on to Duniyo's, then Binti's where we were offered bottled waters again. Onward to Waktia's and "other Binti's" where we ran into Halima and the big bag of candy she was passing around to all the neighbor kids. We made our way to the apartment of two ladies who live together--one had just lost her newborn son. Afterwards, we went by grandmother Fatuma's--more bottled water (you really can't say no very easily). Just next door was Mumina with her 12-day old baby girl . . . thankfully she was too tired to offer us anything. And all along the way we met scores of children who are usually at school when we're teaching! Finally, we entered the back-door of Habiba's house, after encountering most of her seven children and a few "strays" asking "Who are YOU??" but Habiba was glad to see us!

Ah, lunch. We had planned to try a nearby African restaurant but Albay had a luscious meal waiting for us in her lovely apartment. We didn't know it, but she had cleaned and cooked before she left her five children to help us for three hours. The children quietly served us or watched from the kitchen as we ate meat-filled Sambus, little red beans and corn cooked in coconut milk w/ "red" seasonings, and (I can't remember the name) little "pillows" that were like a (not-sweet) beignet and drank a delightful tea- creation from clear glass teacups. By now we had taken enough of Albay's time--even though we had missed four or five students who will need to be called . . .

Anna and I decided to make one last stop to see Lula (which means "pearl"), who would never forgive us if she heard we had come around. Lula has hurt her back again and was dragging her leg when she limped to the door with her three preschool children. But out burst her big white smile, inviting us in, making us sit down, lifting a coffee table to place in front of us . . . "No, Lula! We just ate a big lunch!!" Too late, she had already shuffled shortbread cookies onto a plate and was popping the top on some orange sodas. After a little more visiting (interrupted by a "Wizard of Oz" whirlwind of sand in a sudden storm), she pushed a big box of frozen chicken into my arms! "Lula, you don't have to . . ." But she had already tied it up in a plastic bag and ordered me, "Take home to David," I guess she figured with all those visits I wouldn't have time to wring a chicken's neck and cook it in time for dinner! What a blessing and a lesson in true hospitality. A day well spent.

Jurassic Park Visits Franklin?

I wish I could capture just how shocking it was to open my garage door and wonder if Jurassic Park had come to Fieldstone Farms (click each picture for some scale)! I ran back inside to get my camera, not knowing what might happen next. Never mind, it was only a SWIMMING POOL being delivered to neighbors I don't know . . . yet :)

26 + 26 = Freaked Out!

How is it possible that my sons have turned 26 . . . the age I was when they were born!! They celebrated together by going camping, then driving back to have dinner with us. The funnest part was making their birthday cake with Rainor! I could never have imagined all that would transpire over the years . . . or where each would be in their own life journey. For identical twins with the same genes, chromosomes and environment, they are truly unique human beings! I think the most wondrous thing I heard that day was, "Thanks for having me, Mom, so we could have Rainor." Another thing I couldn't have imagined when two little preemies were struggling for life for fifteen days. May God answer all the prayers we've prayed since the time we asked Him to bring children into our lives, and may our heritage of faith be unbroken for all the generations to come. . . .

Rainy Days with Rainor

Rainor has been spending time with Lainee and Pops the last two weekends, while Blake has been promoting a show that's scheduled for tonight . . . several bands, two sound stages, one inside, one OUTSIDE . . . after a full week of rain, we need a break!! Not ME--I'm having a ball INSIDE with the sweet music of our little "Rain man"! Rain still loves his "pa pa", but now only for night night time . . .
A blankie is also a nice touch . . .
Rainor's natural born scientist, like his mom, and loves to look at every little detail with a magnifying glass (especially my button bowl)

Lainee's "weeding glasses" really freaked him out . . . oops, it just really thunderered, but did he cry? No way. . . just put his hand to his ear as if it was just another discovery and whispered, "Hihen" (translation: Listen). Time to play!

Tree of Nations, Family Trees

Today was our last English class for the semester, completing a full year since we opened the doors of the Sudekum Homes ESL classroom. To mark it, we created a fun art project focusing on the beauty of our different heritages (click on images to enlarge) My inspiration was Revelation 22:2:"On each side of the river stood the tree of life . . . And the leaves of the tree are for the healing of the nations." The result? A tree of nations whose trunk (from bottom to top) is a collage of feet, then hands, then mouths, then noses, then eyes, and finally faces of all ages, colors and shapes. The branches are full of praying people from all cultures. The leaves were decorated by each of our students and volunteers. It was so interesting to observe the unfolding creativity of a group with little prior experience using simple art supplies like decorative paper, scissors and glue, stamps and markers!

We also created a wall full of family trees, that compare the way American and Somali Bantu families name their children. Part of that wall contains posters of the 12 generations of my ancestors, the "Everetts," since they came to America from England around 1630. I happen to belong to the 12th (and last) generation of this branch of Everetts, since the sisters and male cousins didn't produce heirs to the name . . . oh well.

Somali Bantu families aren't concerned with surnames or "Henry the VIIIs"--they had no written birth records until they fled to Kenya, so the way they name their children helps them track their generations quite easily . . . some can quote ten or more generations on both sides! Here's how their names work . . .
1. Choose a first name (maybe, Hawa for a girl, Salah for a boy)
2. The middle name is always the first name of the father (if Farah, she will be Hawa Farah ____; he will will be Salah Farah ___)
3. The last name is always the first name of the grandfather (perhaps, Ali). So . . . little Hawa Farah Ali will always keep her same name, even after she marries. Her brother, Salah Farah Ali , will also keep his same name; and each of his children will become ________ Salah Farah. . . the great-grandfather's name is dropped). Follow?

Neither can most Americans! [Now remember, interculturalists, "different isn't necessarily wrong, it's just . . . different."] After an excruciatingly tedious exercise of changing all 12 generations of the Everett line to their Somali Bantu forms (click on top picture), my name had become Elaine Charles Willard (vs. Elaine Everett Atchison--my parents tried to retain the family name by not giving us a middle name). In the end, my little grandson's name became David David David! The class thought that was hilarious, but don't think a thing about having a child named Mohamed Mohamud Mahamed . . . . oh well, every name is beautiful in it's own way!

A Half-Century-Old and Still Cooking!

I live in a 10-year-old house, but after five years we had already replaced the microwave oven, the refrigerator, the downstairs and upstairs AC and the hot water heater. How is it possible that my parents' home is 51 years old and they are still using the original 1958 oven made by General Electric? Maybe we should have replaced our brand spanking new appliances with vintage ones!! Better yet, I think I'll order a copy of the 1958 Schoolgirl's Pocketbook and begin with the good horse sense on p. 93 . . .

Oven Chart: simple test for temperature for [electric] ovens . . . place a piece of white kitchen paper in a hot oven for 3 minutes. If the paper is . . .

black ..............................the oven is too hot

deep brown..................... the oven is very hot

golden brown.................. the oven is hot

light brown......................the oven is moderately hot

light biscuit..................... the oven is slow

As Martin Luther King once said, "Progress is neither automatic or inevitable."

[Hope I didn't jinx it . . . I'm sad to report that said oven's heating element cracked in mid July and it finally had to be replaced. Rest in peace, valiant workhorse.]

A Little Scribble Scrabble

After Easter Sunday worship and a yummy backyard picnic with family and friends, we ended our 10-hour gathering with a rousing game of Speed Scrabble. [Speed Scrabble scraps the board and allows each player to create their own crossword puzzle that can change as the game evolves . . . when a player uses their seven tiles they shout "Take 2" (tiles) until the last tile is used]. The later it got, we started stretching the rules and making up new ways to play. For instance, Story Scrabble: once you've finished your crossword, you have to make up a story using all the words you created. Super Story Scrabble: each person makes up a story using the running list of the most creative words from each game like . . . sublime, cruet, tarnish, zipper, hoaxed, dainty, rotten, jousting, eviction, bilge, vixen, cottage. This morning as I was trying to separate the two sets of tiles we had used, I thought of another variation: Bad Sport Scrabble: using any tiles you want to write a message to people who have a ridiculously large vocabulary and always beat you. But I'm really not competitive . . .

Spring Break in Texas: Breaking Down Barriers, Cultivating New Ground

Uncanny. Enlightening. Endearing. Three words for my latest experience among the Somali Bantu. Several of my newer English students have migrated to Nashville from Houston, where they were originally resettled in 2004. As a fellow escapee from the 4th most populated city in America, I couldn’t imagine how—or where—a refugee group with such needs could survive in that metropolis! From 1956-1986, my only interaction with the inner city was during graduate school when I was required to drive through the Third Ward on my way to the University of Houston. My modest but safe neighborhood was the stuff “Leave it to Beaver” was made of, including my elementary school at the end of the street.

When visiting my parents in Houston this time, I brought the address one of my English students gave me. I said I would try to visit his elderly parents. After using Google Maps to locate their government subsidized apartments, I gingerly approached my dad about the possibility of driving over to the Second Ward to visit Farah’s parents . . . “On Runnels? Not me” was the response. I zoomed in a little closer, though he already knew the street names—“That area was a shanty town when I worked over there in 1957." Geographical barriers. Security barriers. Social barriers. I dropped the subject as we googled “Myers-Spalti Furniture Manufacturing Company”, assuming that the old buildings where my grandfather had also worked from 1905 until retirement had been torn down . . . nope, still standing with a Texas Historical Marker out front . . . on Runnels Street!

We woke up yesterday, with no real plans before my flight back to Nashville, until breakfast, when Dad suggested that we drive downtown—"We don’t have to get out of the car if it doesn't look safe." My dad is a real native Houstonian, who still knows most of its streets simply by “feel.” Since 1926, he has observed virtually every layer of Houston’s development. He grew up on La Branch Street-- once considered the edge of town, it now cuts right through the downtown skyscrapers. It was fun to hear my parents reminisce as we wound our way through the residential and business district that has dramatically evolved since the Great Depression . . . high rise lofts, electric trolleys, Minute Maid Stadium, and the JP Morgan Chase Tower (tallest in TX).

As we finally approached the "slums" we saw plenty of people carrying bottles in brown wrapping paper or pushing grocery carts; but were struck by how different it looked than what we had envisioned. Other than the Head Start Building and Boys' and Girls' Center on each side of the Administrative Office, Abdi Kawaga's complex looked more like a townhouse community than "the projects" . . . but then we were distracted by some striking red brick buildings. What? Luxury Lofts and Condominiums? A Texas Historical Marker? The utterly transformed Myers-Spalti Furniture Manufaturing Company was . . . next door!

One set of barriers fell, but more would emerge. Language barriers. Cultural barriers. Gender barriers. Generational barriers. My parents wondered what to do and say . . . or not do and not say? We briefly reviewed as we circled the complex and located Apt. 99. We were about to knock on the door, when a young African woman drove up. I asked if she speaks English or knows Mr. Kawaga or my friend, Farah. “Yes. Abdi is my grandfather and Farah is my uncle” Amina smiled, “Can you follow me to my apartment?”

Finally our acquaintance unfolded. We got out of the car just as Farah’s dad strolled up the sidewalk with his thick, hand-carved cane—regal in his embroidered Muslim cap, traditional African skirt, French blue button down and penny loafers! Simultaneously, a tiny, aged-looking grandmother with the cutest smile full of zigzag teeth was greeting us from the tidy little porch. As we entered the home, we removed our shoes, even though Amina insisted that we didn't have to. She translated as introductions were made—we had been expected. Farah had been sure I would come. Before long, Amina's mom, Sitay, came in (she's Farah's sister) with Amina's wide-eyed preschoolers. The air was overflowing with the warmth that is customary between old friends!

The language barriers fell—Farah’s niece is a college student aiming for pharmacy school, and the most fluent Somali Bantu person I’ve met in five years. The cultural barriers fell, though my dad was a little hesitant about the refreshments (little plastic jugs of red or blue juice and a variety pack of Frito Lays chips). Gender barriers fell—the men shook hands, the women hugged and both of Farah’s parents hugged me and kissed my hands as we left! Best of all, generational barriers fell. We were one united circle of children, parents, grandparents and great-grandparents enjoying a Spring morning in the shadow of my Grandaddy Everett’s workplace. One last "coincidence" . . . I've never known where the Somali Bantu refugees were first resettled or attended school in "Space City" . . . "Braeswood area. McNamara Elementary." (Braeswood borders my parents aging suburban neighborhood and McNamara was the little school I attended from 1961-1967)! Ironic. Instructive. Charming. And unforgettable. Isn't that just like God?

The Gypsy Hombres

Here's a Nashville band really worth checking out . . . click to hear a great sampler of their tracks. One of my favorites is Sweet Sunset Swing . . . this music always lifts my spirits and sparks my imagination! It's Django gypsy jazz with a new twist (as in Django Reignhardt 1910-1953). Both of these links will let you hear why Django was such an influential contributor to jazz and why he so inspired these multi-talented "hombres." If you like what you hear, let's go enjoy them live when they're playing in town!

Lost in Translation: Why I'm Glad I'm Not Teaching English on April Fool's Day

I've never been very good at April Fool's jokes. As a child, (before caller i.d.), I made a few lame prank phone calls . . . to a funeral home to ask for "Mr. Box" . . . to the zoo to ask for "Mr. Lyon" . . . to the Diamond F Ranch asking for my "NEIGH-bor." Other than that, I've been the victim more than the perpetrator!

Yesterday I taught two English classes and highlighted the last day of March and the first day of April. We practiced writing the dates in numbers . . . 03/31/09 and 04/01/09 . . . but since I don't teach English on Wednesdays, I never bothered to bring up the concept of "All Fools Day". Since we will break next week for Holy Week, I'm preparing a short segment on Easter for my Thursday classes . . . speaking of lost in translation and cultural collisions--that's going to be enough of a challenge for my oral (mostly pre-literate) East African Muslim students! I said "I'm preparing it" (my middle initial should have been P. for Procrastinate), but in the process, I became curious about the origins of April Fool's traditions.

Some say All Fools Day began after the Reformation, when New Year's Day was changed from April 1 to January 1--evidently, the news didn't spread consistently throughout the land, leaving some as "fools" . . . hmm. Actually it probably goes even farther back, because a few years earlier, the Romans often set aside days to play jokes on each other during spring celebrations.

If you're a bit ethnocentric, thinking everything originated in America, you're wrong . . . though early colonists from France, England and Scotland enjoyed sending people on "fools errands" like obtaining a copy of The History of Adam's Grandfather! In England, you're a "noodle" if you get pranked; in France you're the April "fish" if someone tapes a paper fish to your back without your knowledge; Scotland really does it up big--April Fool's Day lasts 48 hours--if you get tricked you're called an April "gawk" (cuckoo bird). Worse, Day 2 is full of pranks involving one's err-- backside . . . can you imagine me explaining that to my ESL classes? Maybe tomorrow's brief explanation of the Easter holy days versus the American Easter holiday won't be as difficult as I thought . . .

Talking with the Worms

In middle Tennessee, it's not quite time to do alot of planting, but I'm happy to say that most of my indoor starter seeds are showing signs of germinating . . . but oh--so--delicate is my "certified organic" investment at this point! However, today was a great morning to pull weeds, since it has rained alot the last couple of days. We had a few hours before Ali was to dump three yards of Midnight Mulch in our driveway so we picked our way through all the beds trying to discern the new growth from the imposters. But happy day, each time I turned the soil over I'd find a little earthworm and talk to it. "Hello, little earthworm. I hope you're happy living with the gerber daisies that pop up here every year, even though they usually aren't perennials." "Hi, little wormies. Thank you for creating air pockets in the clay next to my Texas Bluebonnets that have never bloomed in the 10 years I've lived here." "Oops, sorry Mr. Earthworm. I didn't mean to cut off your tail . . . or was that your head?"

Later, when the mulch had been delivered and the tornado sirens started going off in our neighborhood, I discovered that you can buy the most amazing products from the Gardener's Supply Company, including an upside down "gardener's revolutionary tomato planter", fabric potato bins that can hold a 13 lb. potato harvest (Davey may not have to dig me a new space after all!) . . . but nothing can beat an order of 2000 earthworms for only $92.00 (seeds of change.com)! "Hey little earthworms, you are quite the little entrepreneurs, aren't you?"

Pinch Me (I'm 1/6 Irish)!

For some reason, I've always wanted to be Irish, especially on St. Patrick's Day. (Then again, I always dreamed of having children with brown skin). The reality is, I'm a mix of the genes and chromosomes of generations of Everetts, McKenzies, Stallworths, Currys, Hendersons and Fannins . . . not that exciting in today's multi-ethnic, multi-cultural economy. My heritage, according to surname, is 3/6 Scottish, 2/6 English and 1/6 Irish, (my Fannin ancestors). In the vast American melting pot I'm just another WASP [white, anglo-saxon, protestant] . . . but I'm glad to be a wee bit related to the Christian this day claims to honor . . . especially since Patrick was actually born in Scotland!!

Coughing Up A Garden (Click here)

Before I went to bed last night, I encountered the familiar spasms which signal that my late-winter (better-not-be-asthma) coughing fits have arrived for their annual visit. I had two English classes to teach today, so I swallowed my big gun cough medicine and fixed my pillows so I could sleep-sit. Unfortunately, I awakened with the same choking drip-drip-drip so I canceled my classes. It was 7:30 a.m. when I faced this unexpected day of rest, covered up with my Sari Bari, with books, hot tea and . . . oh yay . . . a computer so I can plan my garden! Anna and Rainor came by yesterday and she shared two good websites to explore, so the "seed" was already "planted"!

Soon I was transported to the hill country of Fredricksburg, TX and the colorful website of Wildseed Farms. I ordered some wildflower mix for Zone 6B as well as some Velvet Queen and Tangerine sunflowers. Next I clicked my way to Seeds of Change* a site that supports sustainable organic agriculture--this was a little intimidating but I can tell I'll learn alot from it, especially now that my sustainable ag expert (Joel) has moved . . . I've always tried to cultivate and tend my garden using organic methods, but it's time to take another step . . . in organic gardening genetics counts (thanks Anna!) beginning with the seeds. Oops. I usually start with little plantlings that may or may not be organic, so this year I'll sow some literal seeds of change.

Garden Seeds. Urban Gardening. Four Season Gardening. Herbs. Vegetables. Flowers. Click, click, click. I like to experiment with sunflowers so I ordered some Jerusalem Dwarf seeds. Also some new-to-me perennials including Peach Campanula, Gloriosa Daisies, Cardinal Flowers . . . and one "curious" fall bloomer called Pumpkin on a Stick--I hope they're like the little dried pumpkins I've bought at Yarrow Acres in Franklin! Herbs are a must, but I've never grown them from seeds. I hope to cultivate Bouquet Dill, Slow Bolt Cilantro, Rosemary, Lime and Thai Basil, and Sweet Marjoram to transplant after April 15 (here). My big commitment this year is to grow our salad through the fall. I ordered two packs of Peacevine Cherry Tomato seeds, Rubens Red Romaine Lettuce, Little Caesar Lettuce, Buttercrunch Butterhead Lettuce, American and Bloomsdale Spinach, Bush Champion Cucumbers, Pizza Chili Peppers (a mild jalapeno) and a 20-crown pack of Albion Strawberries (please bear edible berries twice!). Finally . . . I will try my hand at some Cranberry Red Potatoes if I can talk my sweet husband into digging out a new little garden patch for them!

And now I must really rest . . . for now I must decide where I'm going to put all those planting boxes until they can be transplanted outdoors . . . then which herbs and vegetables will be good "neighbors" in my deep compact bed . . . then how to amend the soil and keep up with them over the summer. Cough, cough cough . . . oh why didn't I just go on to class?

* Nashville area friends can find Seeds of Change packets at All Seasons on 8th Ave. or The Turnip Truck on Woodland.

Two Interesting Questions

I grew up in a somewhat liturgical tradition, yet never paid much attention to all the changing colors and candles and fabrics or what they symbolized. The last few years I’ve become more intentional about marking the church year, which enriches my personal and shared celebration of the living Christ. However, just before Easter last year, I commented to my small group that “it doesn’t feel like it should be Easter time.” I still felt the dreariness of my winter--or spiritual--hibernation. Maybe that’s why I’ve been trying to pay more attention this year. Advent, then Christmas, then the Twelve Days of Christmas, and Epiphany . . . until finally Ash Wednesday was on my horizon. Several years ago, my kindred friend, Melinda, told me how meaningful the “St. B’s” Ash Wednesday service was. I mentally filed her suggestion away, but have never attended one . . . but this New Year’s, when I was marking special days on my new Mary Engelbreit calendar, I remembered her words.

Last week, I was reading about Ash Wednesday as “an invitation” to the Lenten season. I’ve always considered Lent a cheerless, rather legalistic tradition—usually revolving around a diet of some sort. I hadn’t considered that, celebrated correctly, it is a time of being refreshed by a loving God with the purpose of strengthening our spiritual lives. I totally missed the point that forty days to focus on the meaning of my life in Christ is not so much about taking off something as taking on a spiritual discipline or practice to cleanse my mind and focus my soul before Easter. Oh . . .

The evening before Ash Wednesday (aka Fat Tuesday), I looked up the times for Ash Wednesday services and texted Kristi to see if she wanted to join me. “Yes!” she replied. But by the next morning I had a nagging headache . . . maybe from some trepidation about being an outsider for an Anglican tradition I didn’t really understand. I told Kristi that if she really wanted to go she would have to talk me into it. All she said was, “Melinda would want you to go.” Oh . . .

So we met, and happily, found our friend, Deb, who knew what to expect and helped us navigate all the readings and prayers and kneeling and going forward and kneeling and going forward and kneeling again. It was a rich experience . . . especially the serene quietness and unhurried pace . . . for that hour I was truly an insider because it was not me-centered, but Christ-centered. Everyone parted after sharing The Peace, with little crosses of ash gently drawn on our foreheads (not fireplace ashes, but the cinders saved from last year’s palm fronds from the Palm Sunday processional) Oh . . .

As we drove away, each person had an inner conflict to resolve—do I rub off the ashes or leave them for a while? You don’t want to make someone to feel “irreligious” for not acknowledging this holy day; yet you don’t want to be ashamed to share an outward sign of your faith . . . these days, the most common question is not “Where did you get your ashes?” but “What is that mark on your face?” I drove through Starbucks to get some tea (not what I’m taking off during Lent) but the well-trained barista acted like he didn’t notice and said nothing at all!

I went on to the office, and began my Wednesday afternoon ritual. . . making copies for my ESL classes, spreading them out on the floor, and crawling around on my hands and knees to collate them. But while I was kneeling for this totally different purpose, I felt a little POP! and a weird sinking feeling all through my way-lower back (aka boot). Even though it took me about ten minutes to get up, move to a chair, summon my husband for some Advil, then shuffle to the car, I found myself giggling at the irony. My ashes were washed off within a few hours, but for a few days now, I’ve had quite a few people ask “Why are you limping?” The only honest answer is, “I guess I don’t kneel often enough.” Oh . . .