Notes From the Journey. . .

On Being Brave, Singing in the Car, and Words to Live By

CC-Mom — Tue, 31 Jan 2012 15:41:49 GMT

There are songs and quotes and so many things bouncing around in my head that I want to share with you all as I write. I want to throw my arms open and embrace this new year! I want to tell you all of them at once, so forgive me. . . but I think I will

There's a song by Wynonna Judd that I've been singing in my car. It's not a new song, it's just one of my all-time favorites. I started singing it in December of last year, and now, every time I'm alone, I pop in my iPod and sing like I'm on stage.

"Only Love." You can find it on YouTube here:

http://youtu.be/Zd1E6ZlhNhI

. . . or just follow me around Hudson sometime and hear a less enjoyable version coming from my Honda Pilot.

It's a song with uplifting words, it's right in my range, it makes me feel good, and it's great when I am overflowing with joy. "Out of all the flags I've flown, one flies high and stands alone. Only love."

In November, it was my privilege to begin leading a group of middle schoolers at church. Together, we found our way to forming a new type of choir. I guided them, but only slightly, as they chose a name for the group and picked their first song. Week by week, they found their identity. Over and over, I reminded them that they would be worship leaders during the Christmas season. Did they know we were already in fellowship together, and that the blessings they were laying on me were beyond measure?

Because, you see, in October, I was scared to take it on. I was nervous and afraid of a roomful of pre-teens and teenagers (even though I own one.) I was hoping the food would win them over and the fun would make them stay. I had less faith in myself and the music and more faith in pizza and t-shirts. And then two things happened. I heard someone say these words on television: "If you aren't afraid, you never get the chance to be brave." And Tom Scott, our Director of Music Ministries, slid a piece of paper into my sheet music with this quote, by Harry S. Truman, printed in large, bold, font: "It is amazing what you can accomplish if you do not care who gets the credit." I love having good words to live by.

So. . . November was brave. December was pure joy. After "revoice" sang for the first time in December, I literally, and I mean, literally, skipped out of the church. I could not contain the JOY. On Christmas Eve, one of my choir members asked, "Did you bring us candy canes, Mrs. Chafe? You really should have brought us candy canes." Darn it, she was right! Okay, so the food really does have power, but we were all there, singing. Maybe with just less-minty breath.

And in January, I'm still singing in my car. "Out of all the flags I've flown, one flies high and stands alone. Only love." When I sing it, I find myself thinking of all of the other flags I've tried to fly, and they don't really fly so high or matter so much. Love flies high, and so do all of the flags that are lifted with love.

I had absolutely no idea that this choir, this new venture, would so instantly lift me and give me energy and joy and flags flying and find me singing in my car. Where there was once worry and fear, now there is excitement and peace. And Easter rehearsals are almost upon us. I can hardly wait to bring the candy. . .

Thank you God, for bravery, for squirrel-y middle-schoolers, for good music, for people who have faith in me when I do not, for this beautiful winter day, for the promise of this new year, and for your love, the one true flag that always flies high. Amen.

Countdown-to-the-Countdown

CC-Mom — Tue, 29 Nov 2011 23:43:02 GMT

Bah, humbug! That's what I say to all of those grumblers I hear in the stores and on the radio, on television and in casual conversation saying silly things like "Why is it necessary to decorate for Christmas so EARLY?" I overhear complainers starting way back around Halloween, continuing through November. I know you've heard them all, too. "Thanksgving isn't even here yet. Must we rush Christmas?" Or, "It's so commercialized." They're all around me, these people who don't want the season to start.

I can't wait. All through October and November, I find myself in a countdown-to-the- countdown. I adore the fact that there are tiny bits of Christmas just starting to show themselves behind the Halloween aisle in Target. I think I mentioned in my last blog that I sometimes find myself wandering toward that very space, that tiny Christmas space in the store, when I feel a little. . . um. . .underwhelmed by October. My spirits are instantly lifted by a light-up penguin or the scent of cinnamon pinecones.

But I do hold back in one area: no Christmas music allowed until after Thanksgiving, and then ONLY Christmas music in the car until Christmas. (My kids are thrilled, let me tell you!) Just today, I heard Barry Manilow singing "Winter Wonderland" and Hall & Oates singing something Christmasey that I can't quite remember but. . . who cares! It was a mix of 80's and Christmas. Brilliant.

Now, my countdown-to-the countdown is almost over, and I can be officially in countdown mode. On December 1st, I can light our lights. On December 3rd, our Elf on the Shelf, Chester, is scheduled for his annual arrival, and I'm so excited to see him. We're not sure why he always shows up on the 3rd, but he does. The ping-pong table in the basement has been a flurry of wreath-fluffing and bow-making. It's almost time to deck my halls!

Advent. Countdown. A season of waiting for miracles. Ten years ago in December, I was eight-and-a-half months pregnant with Sam. Walking into church on Christmas Eve, Reverend SueAnn Schmidt stopped me as I was entering church. She spoke to me of Mary, and how seeing a pregnant woman at Christmas reminded her so vividly of Mary's journey, and what Mary must have gone through physically in her very pregnant state, traveling on the donkey, laboring in a stable. I think of this every Christmas Eve. Sam was born ten days later, on January 3.

I often wonder if this waiting that I love, this waiting for the waiting, is tied to my joy of ten years ago. Each Christmas since has been just as joyful, albeit filled with more energy, and I am definitely more aware of the wonderment of advent, of what is coming.

Mary gave birth to a King. We wait to celebrate the miracle. I can't help but see the joy in the ornaments, the gingerbread, the wreaths, the ribbon, the lights and the gifts, even if the wrappings of Christmas arrive earlier each year. Delight in the magic of the season. But hold off on the music if you can. It's totally worth the wait.

And she gave birth to her firstborn son; and she wrapped Him in cloths, and laid Him in a manger, because there was no room for them in the inn.

~Luke 2: 7

Sweet

CC-Mom — Tue, 01 Nov 2011 14:55:27 GMT

“Once in a young lifetime one should be allowed to have as much sweetness as one can possibly want and hold. ”

― Judith Olney

Holding Sweetness

I'm not always the biggest fan of Halloween week. I love Halloween Day, but the week, or weeks, leading up to Halloween have left me a little worse for the wear. Bones, skulls, masks, blood, gore- not my thing. The haunted houses, the creepy hay rides, the spiders dangling from the stores all start to get on my nerves, and I find myself wandering into the much more appealing Christmas aisle, which is just starting to appear in most stores. My Halloween anxiety is nothing a little gingerbread house can't cure!

About a day or two before Trick-or-Treat, I'll dress the place up with pumpkins, candy corn and some friendly ghosts. I even have a few bats flying around my belfry (okay, they're Webkins bats and they're hanging with orange ribbon, but they are a little scary.) We visit the pumpkin patch and eat butter dripped corn before navigating the corn maze. I say "we" but I opt out of the corn maze myself. It scares me.

Did I say candy corn? I do buy candy corn. Because I really love candy corn.

This year, Jonathan, my 17-year old son visited a "haunted prison" attraction. While nervous at first, and still swearing that he will never again step foot in a haunted house, I think he enjoyed the experience with friends, the few and the brave. Abby, my 13-year old daughter, was an actress in a local haunted house. Decked out in a straight jacket and horror make-up, she loved every minute.

And then there is Sam. Sam, who until this year, could not walk through the aisle of Target because of "the creepy things that talked." Sam, who has dressed up as a pirate, a magician, and Superman. No "Scream" masks, no phantoms, no ninjas. It's been the saving grace of my Halloween season every year.

This year, Sam said an unexpected thing.

"Mom, I want something scary in the yard."

"Really?"

"Like a gravestone with an arm sticking out of it."

That didn't sound very Caspar-the-Friendly-Ghost to me, but I promised to see what I could do. On my next trip to the Halloween aisle, I found two sturdy Styrofoam gravestones. No arms. One was adorned with a skull, complete with blinky red eyes, and one was engraved with the words "Out to Lunch." Winner.

And the costumes? Jono went to a party with bunny ears. Abby wore a recycled dance costume (pirate) to Trick-or-Treat with friends. But Sam? What was a good cross between not-to-scary and cool? And then we found it. The Spider. To be clear, it's a soft, fluffy spider with cozy arms and a furry head. Quite possibly the cutest spider I've ever seen, but don't tell Sam. He's a spider with tombstones in his yard. It's Halloween. His bunny brother took him Trick-or-Treating to some cool houses, and he weighed in with 4.5 pounds of sugar-filled-chocolate-wonderful candy.

Scary Gravestone, Cuddly Spider

I watched my pirate girl, who was born the day after Halloween 14 years ago, run to greet her friends. (There will be cake tomorrow after this candy-fest tonight. And did I mention the candy corn?) I watched a giant bunny take a cuddly spider to a special Trick-or-Treat excursion before going to a party himself. And I watched the spider check out the scary scene in the front yard before he left.

Sweet. All the way around.

This won't last.

It's like finding a needle. . .

CC-Mom — Thu, 25 Aug 2011 19:30:20 GMT

"It's like finding a needle in a haystack." That's what I keep thinking, ever since this silly little thing happened.

I was straightening the basement a couple of weeks ago, doing a better job than usual since time allowed and since, for whatever reason, I had extra energy on my hands. An unexpected pairing, to be sure.

In the corner of the basement, we have a small version of a basketball Pop-A-Shot that the boys received for Christmas one year. As I was tossing the three small basketballs back into the Pop-A-Shot, I realized that each ball was low on air. Really low, like, they weren't even balls anymore.

Since I was in that cleaning/organizing mood, I went in search of the air pump. First, I scoured the garage, with no luck.

"Adam," I called, into the general vicinity of the family room, where there was a board game being played, "do you know where the air pump is? For balls?"

"Maybe in the shed," he said, "in the bucket with the toys." We had done a big clean-out of the garage, and some items were yet to be put away. Thinking back, it's kind of funny that Adam didn't ask what I was doing. I don't usually need an air pump in the evenings. Not for cooking dinner, for general cleaning, or even for a late night mani/pedi . . .

I went to the shed, and found lots of balls, Frisbees, swim noodles, and pool toys, and finally, at the bottom of the bucket, the purple plastic air pump. But it had no needle, and looking around the shed, with its assortment of toys, bikes, mulch and bags of outgrown clothes, I wasn't sure I was going to be able to find a stray needle. I felt around in the bottom of the bucket to see if it had dropped, and looked around the shed for a while, but finally took the pump and went back to the house.

"Find it?" Adam looked up from his game with Sam.

"Yep, but no needle."

"Hmm," he looked thoughtful for a minute. I was thinking, too.

"I really thought I had a pack of extra needles," I said. It was now becoming a bit of a "thing."

"I wish I knew," he said.

"Maybe in the laundry room," I said, going back to look. I searched the shelves and the basket of "found things" from the laundry. Nope. In the mitten and glove bin? Nope.

I know! Kitchen junk drawer! No luck.

Basement! I recalled last fall when I was on a bit of a work-out kick with my big giant aqua ball, I kept the air pump downstairs, so I could keep the ball inflated just the way I liked it. I remember hiding the pump on the top shelf in the basement storage room, where I would kick the ball (in frustration or when not in use) so I could find it later. I flipped on the light and began feeling along the tops of the shelf for a stray needle or an old pump. I found lots and lots of dust, Christmas wrap, and a Barbie, but no needle. I then did the entire circuit again- looking in the shed, the garage, the garage shelves, and the basement shelves, before I finally gave up and wrote "needles" on my To-Do list. And don't kid yourselves --I actually tried to blow the balls up using the pump with NO needle. It didn't really work very well, and in fact, just resulted in me slamming my wrist against the side of the ping-pong table when the ball rolled out from under the pump that was. . . um . . . pushed against the air hole. I searched the basement shelves a third time, and called it a day.

Just a very short while later, I was on to other things, needles and basketballs almost forgotten. I was carrying an empty laundry basket back down to the laundry room, and as I entered the small room, I stopped in the doorway. There, lying in the middle of the floor, all by itself, was one air-pump needle.

It's a short little story about three tiny basketballs that needed air, and a found needle that allowed it to happen after all. The end. Right? Right. . . except, seeing that needle made my heart skip in a weird way. I had walked through the space at least ten times in the course of the evening, back and forth to the shed, the garage, the basement, and there had been no needle. I had searched high and low for one tiny item in a haystack-of-a-house to no avail, and yet here, when I was no longer searching, it was right before my very eyes.

Later, I would wonder if that needle was on the air pump when I picked it up, if it fell off the pump, stuck to my shirt, and fell off into the laundry room. But I know I picked that pump right out of the bucket with no needle. I watched it happen.

I prefer to believe that the needle was given to me. Since finding my needle, there are words that continue to circle in my head, and though I'm not really sure if I'm hearing them clearly, they're along the lines of:

Here is your needle. If you can believe in something small like a needle, imagine what you could really believe if you let yourself.

I think I need to look for something bigger. Just imagine what I could find. . .

Beachology

CC-Mom — Thu, 11 Aug 2011 13:18:17 GMT

Beachology: (n.) the study of how a group of people packs for the beach, moves towards the beach, and relaxes on the beach. See also Beachologist, Beachonomics, and Beachism.

My family has the beach thing down to a science. A sometimes awkward science, to be sure, but a science nonetheless. When we are traipsing in our colorful beach parade through the sea oats of the Hilton Head dunes, causing our teenagers to die a thousand deaths, I'm sure, I often wonder, how do those other people do it? The ones on bikes, or the ones I see with just a towel? Because getting ready for the beach takes a little bit of planning. Doesn't it?

The beach bag is open on the floor, ready to be filled. Everyone has certain favorite things that go along-- a splash ball, a frisbee, baseball mitts and a baseball. Five towels (wait, make that four, because the fifth one is MINE and that goes in my own beach bag-- you can be sure I'm not mixing my stuff in with that mess!) and, last, but not least, the umbrella corkscrew anchor. In my bag, I have the aforementioned towel, my book and magazine, Adam's book, phones in baggies for all who bring them, and all sunblock (except the solid face stick one, because that gets melty, so it goes in the cooler.)

Ah, the cooler.

"Make your own sandwich and put it in, please."

"Did everyone grab drinks?"

"Who has the sunblock stick? It was in here."

"Are there enough drinks-- yesterday there were not."

"Abby, did you choose your drinks?"

"Yes, I grabbed a water, a tea and a soda."

Did you get that? 3 drinks for one person. Multiplied by 5. That's 15 drinks. Poor Jono -- carrying that heavy cooler.

"You're lucky," I tell him. "Your load gets lighter on the way home. The towels just get wet and much heavier." Weirdly, he's not wearing his lucky face at the moment.

We hold a sunblock party on the deck before we leave. No one likes to do their first sunblock application at the beach. There is a minor hubbub because one sunblock is apparently "cold" and one is "stingy," but in the end, everyone is duly protected from the giant glowing orb. Phew.

We're heading out the door. Suits and cover-ups on. . .wait. . .

"Abby," yells Adam, "where is the rest of your swimsuit?!"

"Funny," answers Abby."

It's the inaugural year of the bikini. It's going really well.

Out the door again. Two beach bags, one cooler, two adults, three kids. From the small alcove outside the condo door, we grab three chairs, the umbrella, the Bocci set, and the tent. Sam grabs his beach toys and we start to walk.

"Sam?" I say, my foot still holding the door open.

"What?"

"A shirt, please."

He runs back in.

"Sam?" I say, as he returns.

"WHAT?"

"Your shoes, your sunglasses?"

"Oh."

We finally get Sam dressed, and off we go. We are more organized than I may be portraying. Bags over arms, chairs under arms, and Adam in the lead by such a large margin that we can no longer see him by the time the ocean is in view, which, thanks to the lovely proximity of our condo is only a minute or two. He is a man on a mission looking for a spot on the beach.

Dad is long-gone

"I have the heaviest load," he usually says. "I'm just going quickly so that I can put it down."

Jono, carrier of the 15 drinks, might argue.

When we do arrive, we go swiftly into beach action, and it is at this point that I find myself watching those around me. There are the beach-goers that I mentioned earlier, those on bikes with nothing but a towel and a water bottle, and then there are those far more encumbered than we. There are giant tents, structured metal canopies and screened gazebos. To be clear, our tent is no more than a little shade structure. To be clearer, I'm a little jealous of the big tents. There are beach camps with full volleyball courts, sand castle factories and lunch tables. Beachology is a wide study. It seems to range from Beaching for Dummies to Masters of the Beach. I'm not sure where we fall in the spectrum, but it's probably somewhere in the middle. Beach sophomores.

Within a very short time, our small half-tent shade structure goes up, the umbrella is secure, the chairs (one wobbly today) are protected from sun, and the shirts and towels are immediately tossed into the sand. Sam is playing in the water, Abby is peacefully listening to music in the tent, Jono is tossing a baseball with Adam, and I am reading a book

Beach Spot

I note to myself that everyone has moved their favorite things right to the beach, which can really only magnify their greatness. If you love to read, how can it not be better by the ocean? If you love to toss a baseball, how is it not better with sand under you toes and with girls in swimsuits walking by?

The chaos of packing, prepping, and sunblocking all melt away like the sand between my toes. The cooler begins to empty, the towels are damp and sandy, the children are damp and sandy, and as the hours wear on and both the sun and the tide rise higher and higher, the idea of any of this not being worth it , the idea of not doing this all again in 24 hours, becomes increasingly ridiculous.

I turn page after page in my book, and this year, I decide to try someone else's favorite thing, so I head down to the water and play a few games of Splash ball in the ocean. I'm not usually a big big ball player, but with the waves breaking around me, the sun at my back, and my favorite people with me, it's hard not to get in the game.

Three of my favorite people

It's been a vacation for walking and talking, resting and relaxing, playing and splashing. We saw starfish and sand sharks, turtles and fish, sandcastles and sea oats. By the end of each day, we are suntanned but not burned, tired but not exhausted, sticky and salty, but somehow refreshed. We will go home five people rejuvenated from simply enjoying God's earth and what it has to offer.

Because after all of the packing and unpacking, the towels and the cooler, the beach bags, and chairs, it's not really about what you pack or don't pack, your bikes or your caravan to the beach. It's not even really about where you go. It's about who you're with and how you choose to spend your time. The world is there for the taking. It's all about how you take it in.

Just a few of the many things I am grateful for. . .

"The earth is the Lord's and everything in it, the world, and all who live in it; for he founded it upon the seas and established it upon the waters."

Psalm 24: 1-2

Summertime, Summertime, Sum-Sum-Summertime!

CC-Mom — Tue, 05 Jul 2011 21:31:00 GMT

Let's see. . .we're almost a full month into summer and I haven't heard it yet. Not once. Not one child has uttered those three little words. . . "Mom, I'm bored!"

I hadn't given it much thought until last night, when both of my older children were busy making their own plans for the week, and my youngest was expounding on the movie, "Cars 2," which is #4 on his Summer Fun List of Things to Do.

"Mom," said Sam, "on the next rainy day, we really should go see that movie."

"We don't have to wait for a rainy day if that's one of the big things on your list," I said.

"Mom," he said, "you wouldn't want to waste one of these beautiful days!"

No, I wouldn't. And that's when I realized what's been going on. My children are not wasting their summer days, not the rainy ones or the beautiful ones. They are the ones directing their own fun, their energy is steering the days, and it's been great. To be clear, there are moments that I feel like a bit of a hired driver (less now with Jono being an ACTUAL driver- yay!) and moments when I'm even a little freer than I'd like to be on these long summer days. I miss the days of wading pools and ruffled swimsuits. Thank goodness Sam still likes sidewalk chalk and EVERYONE loves a squirt gun and water balloons. Summer evenings hanging out in the yard? Can't beat that!

Jono plays baseball most days, and is traveling for tournaments most weekends. Whenever possible, we go to his games as a family, albeit sometimes with a grumbling 13-year old girl in tow. We drag a full cooler of drinks and snacks, frisbees, chairs, umbrellas for both sun and rain, sunblock, bug spray, ice, first aid kits, and money for any and all concession treats. There are blankets, forts, extra mitts, foul balls, and everyone fights for the smallest bit of shade. Bad umps, good teams, hot dogs, and people watching--all just a bonus as we watch another great baseball game. Truly, when the day comes that I don't have a son playing summer ball, I don't know what I will do with myself! [Note to my friends: please don't allow me to become a crazy old lady stalking baseball fields.] Summer nights at a baseball field? Anytime.

Abby and Sam are each in a youth theater production this summer, rehearsing during the days, enjoying the theater life and all it has to offer. When they're not under the lights, they're hanging out with their friends in the auditorium, working backstage, enjoying what has really turned into their own space. Abby heads downtown on her breaks with Libby, Emma or any number of the usual suspects. Sam is making friends and allowing his big sister to teach him the waltz for "Sleeping Beauty." (That, my friends, can only be a summer miracle.) Come performance weekend, there are tickets and flowers, grandparents and friends, lights down, curtains up, and we're there every night, you couldn't keep us away. Summer weekends at our favorite community theater? You bet.

We're nearly a month in, or, as I like to say, still almost two whole months of summer to go! There's still so much fun to be had. We're going to the Lake to see grandparents, heading south to the beach, and don't forget, we've got to see "Cars 2." There are more baseball games to play, two opening nights to applaud, plenty of fireflies to catch, popsicles to drip, S'mores to eat, and relaxing days to lounge at the pool.

It's summer, and no one is bored. Everyone is doing their own wonderful thing, but we're connecting and enjoying. At the end of the day, we fall back into place, relaxed from the sun, tired from the day. Pool bags and bat bags pile up in the laundry room, and there are 10 pair of flip-flops by the door. Towels, swimsuits, uniforms and scripts litter the house. . . this is the stuff of summer at my house. There's usually and Indians' game on in the background (which should surprise no one!) and we catch up with the usual questions. How was practice? How was the game? Your rehearsal? Playing outside? Work? How was your day?

Tonight I think I'll ask if anyone wants to run through the sprinkler after dinner. After all, we wouldn't want to waste this beautiful night.

Creature of Habitat

CC-Mom — Wed, 25 May 2011 16:11:00 GMT

Stop.

Take a breath.

Close your eyes.

May is almost over.

Everyone who knows me is aware that I don’t really. . ahem. . enjoy the month of May. I complain, I whine, I expound upon the unbelievable amount of activities that are crammed into each day. I even write poems to express how I feel about this particular month. I wonder if my particular sign of the Zodiac (cancer) is not meant to align well with Taurus and Gemini. . .

I’m a creature of habit. Every year, when May rolls around, I profess to really, really be waiting for June. Too many concerts, too many programs, too many rehearsals, teas, cookies, games, practices. And this year, with all of this rain, it’s been so EASY to be mad at May.

But I have a secret. I kind of think I love all the stuff. That’s right. I’m out of the closet. (She says in a whisper: I might love May.) It’s okay to be overwhelmed by the amount of stuff that goes on, but still love the stuff, right? Because everyone who knows me is also quite aware that I love a good program, I cry not only at recitals but at rehearsals, and I’m a super-fan of my kids’ sports. I love concerts, teas, and cookies. This May, I’ve enjoyed choir concerts, talent shows, baseball games, baking, planning, committees, you name it, I’ve enjoyed it. So am I bashing May? Or am I bashing the number of hours in a day? If they could play baseball in February, they would, right? (Oh wait. . . they do

Yesterday was my daughter’s dress rehearsal for her eleventh dance recital. I packed three bags of costumes, tights, shoes, and make-up. To be clear, she gets most of her things ready, but then I spend some time making it “just right.” This is all because she says one sentence to me each year. “I love when you pack my make-up, Mommy. You get it all right.” Compliment or con-job? It doesn’t matter. I love doing it. We practiced her hairstyles, double-checked labels and costume order, packed some snacks and prepared to spend quite a few hours together at the auditorium. I love dress rehearsal day. It was there, sitting in the auditorium (front row, center, of course) that I realized, “I don’t hate you, May. In fact, tonight, I think I love you.”

This morning, there was a chipmunk swimming in our hot tub. We never leave the cover off, but we did, since it’s broken and being replaced, so I’m feeling guilty and sad about this creature, quite out of his normal habitat, panicked and overtired. I rescued him with a dustpan, and he jumped off and into my garden. I’m hopeful that he wasn’t swimming in the too-hot water for too long.

I want to take a walk later, but first I will check in the garden in case the chipmunk is there. Resting or dead, or even if I can’t see him, I just would like a visual “yes or no” to the chipmunk question. Years ago, there was a chipmunk on our porch, and my son Jono, young at the time, named him “Hotdog.” Now, every chipmunk my children see in the yard is Hotdog. They remain convinced, or at least Sam does, that Hotdog returns, year after year.

My first thought this morning was, “Are you kidding me? A chipmunk in the hot tub? Hotdog in the hot tub? This is a May morning at it’s finest!” Then Sam and I pulled our rescue mission off, and Sam gave me a big, unexpected hug of thanks for saving the chipmunk, and I realized that it’s not about May. It’s about what I do with May. I need to stop being a creature of habit, and be a creature enjoying my habitat, rain or shine, busy or idle, at work or at play, saving my sanity or saving Hotdog. Even (especially?) in May.

So the errands will wait, the housecleaning will wait (maybe until June.) I have a walk to take and a chipmunk to check on this beautiful May afternoon.

Stop.

Take a breath.

Close your eyes.

May is almost over.

I don’t want you to miss it.

He was a very good fish . . .

CC-Mom — Mon, 25 Apr 2011 20:09:00 GMT

Diddo

Sometime in 2006 or 2007- April 24, 2011

He was a very good fish.

My son Sam had a fish. In a house full of various and assorted allergies, a fish is about all you can have, and he had a good one. Diddo (pronounced "Ditto" but spelled "Diddo," I checked) had beautiful gold scales and a very large tail. His bulging eyes weren't that of a regular pet store goldfish. They were extra large and extra. . . beautiful.

It's a funny thing about fish. When you first bring one home, you prepare for the worst. But Diddo was here to stay, and he outgrew tank after tank. Sam entertained him with different plastic plants, stickers of skateboarders, and different views from the dresser.

We had our ups and downs, for sure. Diddo gave us a few scares, especially in the last few months. He often liked to float to the top of the tank, which is not a good place to find a goldfish, but there he would float, on his side, breathing, floating, breathing, floating. Causing me, the newly appointed "fish whisperer" to hold midnight vigils by the tank, gently poking, and sometimes petting. There were several nights at 2:00 am where I would be down in the kitchen with Diddo, cleaning the tank, hoping that a complete tank re-do would revive a wilting fish. It was worth it in the mornings when I could triumphantly proclaim victory, watching Diddo happily swimming mid-tank, yet again. All of the Chafe family visited Diddo in Sam's room, fed him, and gave him his crushed green peas when he was floating too much (it's true, and it worked!) I am quite certain that when I took Sam's laundry into his room, Diddo would swim to the side to say hello.

Almost always, after a scare, Diddo would earn a new tank, or a plant, or an improved filter. (Come to think of it, he was probably a very crafty fish, indeed!) I would bet (or at least hope) that an improved habitat would refresh and invigorate this tiny pet. Sam would come home from school to find the new tank with blue gravel, the tank with the wavy background, or best yet, the tank with the light. Sam loved the tank with the light, but when it grew too small for our fish, we had to let the lighted tank go. Our most recent tank came with a light again-- Sam was thrilled! But it lasted one day and burned out. And before we could even replace the bulbs, Diddo died.

Diddo died on Easter Sunday. We found him very peacefully resting on the bottom of his tank, which was a place that Diddo never went, being the fish that liked to float at the top of the water. Everyone distracted Sam so that I, the fish whisperer one last time, could remove Diddo to a tiny, prepared box (we do not flush fish in this family, not ever) and then take the tank from the room. I asked Sam if he wanted to leave the tank and get a new fish.

"No. Not yet."

So the tank is gone for now. Sam wants to bury Diddo outside in a special garden he plants every year under the lampost. That's perfect, I think. Diddo will have his light.

Mirror, Mirror, on the Wall . . .

CC-Mom — Wed, 30 Mar 2011 03:49:00 GMT

Who's the fairest of them all? Not me. Ick. Ew. Yucky. Nice hair (NOT!) I hate my outfit. I'm going back to bed.

That's how I feel some mornings. Relate? Maybe you don't, and I hope not! That puts you in the category of the really, really lucky! Oh, those crazy voices I hear when I look in the mirror some days. But the other night, after a wonderful (yes, I said wonderful) encounter with my bathroom mirror, I started to think that it's not really me after all. Perhaps it all has to do with the particular mirrors into which I am choosing to gaze. ("Gaze?" That's a little too fairy-tale. "Cast a sidelong glance" may be a little more like it, or even better, "glare.") I'll tell you what happened in just a second. . . but first, a brief history of mirrors.

Mirrors were invented in. . . okay, I really don't know. . . but they go back to fairy tale days, and that's a long time ago, (or once upon a time) and they've been torturing girls and women ever since.

The evil queen in Snow White looked into a nasty mirror that talked back to her. Unfair, don't you think? She asked a simple question. . . and got a big slap in the face! A mirror in a girl's OWN castle should at least tell some little white lies. "You're the fairest of them all, duh! The most beautiful. Your hair looks great today, and your outfit totally rocks. You've lost weight, you did a super job with the kids this morning, and hey, when did you start looking younger everyday?" But no, they often criticize, uninvited, and on very specific topics. Offering unsolicited, harsh opinions from their flat, shiny, glass surface. How many outfits have I tossed back in the closet because my mirror said one week it was a great pick, but the next, not so much? How many hairstyles redone, how much time wasted?

I might glance at a mirror in a friend's home to check my hair, and suddenly, I'm awash with insecurities. Thanks, mirror. I wasn't worried about my complexion five minutes ago.

In a restroom while out to dinner, I'm washing my hands, checking my lipstick. . . "Oh?" says that giant, decorated mirror. "You picked that lipstick? And where's your concealer?" And did the restaurant honestly need to install a full length mirror right here? They're the loudest ones of all.

A note to mirrors in fitting rooms: I am not wasting the time or energy writing about you. Besides, I fear you will use my words against me in the future when I am shopping for jeans or bathing suits. And tell your friends, the evil fluorescent lights that they don't scare me. Much.

But the other night, something amazing happened. . . . my bathroom mirror said something nice. At the weirdest possible time. This is when I realized that these voices I've been hearing all these years really ARE the mirrors, and not my own crazy self. Here's what happened: I had just returned from Spring Break (literally, off the plane at midnight, and it's now 1:00 AM). The mirrors had been chatting all week, questioning my outfits, wondering why I hadn't packed better, worked out more, or gotten a haircut. The rest of my family had fallen asleep. My suitcase was was open on the floor, the clothes from the airplane were thrown aside. After a long day of travel, my feet ached, but I had put on cozy socks. My face was washed clean of make-up, but my cheeks were pink from the sun. My teeth were brushed, my nail polish removed. My hair was combed, but not "done." Finally, it was time for bed. My body felt like one deep sigh. In a t-shirt and pajama bottoms, alone, quiet, ready to climb into my own bed in this quiet house, my mirror stopped me as I reached for the light switch.

"You look pretty tonight," it said.

What?

I had to look again. Because I felt pretty. Or, rather, I felt comfortable. In this mirror, in this light, in this space, in this room, in this time. In my own skin. The mirror was reflecting me. I was happy to be home, glad to be clean, grateful for the sleep that was about to come, thankful for the family all around me. . . and there is beauty inherent in these things. There is beauty in simply being without trying to be anything else. The mirror was reflecting all of this, too.

Perhaps we push too hard against the mirrors in our lives, trying to work too hard to create a look here, or an image there. Maybe we need to listen to what our mirrors are saying. If you hear voices sometimes, or often (like I do) don't blame yourself. You're not crazy. They're not just in your head--those mirrors are reflecting opinions and feedback from a lot of different sources. Find a mirror that better reflects YOUR beauty, and listen. Don't be shocked if you are caught at your most vulnerable, your most relaxed, your most peaceful, your most quiet. Your most you. I look forward to glancing into a mirror at a party someday (soon, I hope) and seeing that girl again. Well, maybe not wearing pajamas, but wearing the peace and ease of a girl who is growing everyday into her true reflection.

As I turned out the light that night, I was stunned to realize that this was, in fact, a new mirror that we had purchased and hung just a week or so before Spring Break. Mirror, mirror on my wall. . . I think you're a keeper after all.

So God created mankind in his own image, in the image of God he created them;

male and female he created them.

Genesis 1:27

All things bright and beautiful

All creatures great and small

All things wise and wonderful

The Lord God made them all.

-Cecil Alexander

Shower Power

CC-Mom — Thu, 10 Mar 2011 14:59:00 GMT

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh. I’m clean again. I just took my first shower in three-- count them-- three days. It might even be three nights and FOUR days, but I’m trying to make it sound better for public consumption.

I’m not sure how it happened, really, how life got the best of me this week. Or am I?

My husband and I had just returned from a week away, so I was relaxed and rested. But re-entry comes with a price. And that price was a sick nine-year old waiting in the wings.

I thought I would look back on my Mexico trip remembering the sun, the ocean, the beautiful restaurants and the wonderful friends. But for the last few days, I’ve been remembering it more as a week when I could bathe at will.

It wasn’t just that normal “I have a cough” kind of sick. I knew it from looking at Sam’s flushed face and his droopy little eyes. He was a third-grader-down. It was all too reminiscent of the toddler days, being up all night with a sleepless child, spending an hour in a steamy bathroom, checking and rechecking for fever, celebrating any brief time of peaceful sleep.

During the days, we were counting the hours between medicines, eating crumbling saltines and 7-UP and propping the hot water bottle against his infected ear (an added bonus.)

At night, I would listen for the first cough, knowing that if I heard one, it would lead to one million.

Last night, there were none. Amen. Hallelujah. I am so grateful for his peaceful chest.

I once texted my dear friend Beth when I had to cancel plans because a child was sick. I had texted something to the effect of, “Oh, how day can turn.” Her reply has stayed with me. “And oh, how we are blessed with the flexibility to turn with it!!”

The things we take for granted. Sleep, showers, and the blessing that it is to care for a child.

Dear Lord, I am grateful for a bed to lie in, even for short moments. For hot water and for healthy children. For those who are ill, hold them in your healing arms. For those who need rest and comfort far more than I, may they seek it in you. For Mexico sunshine, and for rain over Cleveland, and for good friends with wise advice, I am truly thankful.

It's a Slippery Slope. . .

CC-Mom — Wed, 26 Jan 2011 19:29:00 GMT

It was a slippery slope this morning, both literally and figuratively. That second hill today at Boston Mills Ski Resort, where I found myself, rather unwillingly, skiing. And the bad attitude that grabbed hold of me this morning which would not let go (or was it I who would not let it go?) The ski hill was named Buttermilk, and I might have been named "Christy of the Temper Tantrum" which would have been fine if I had been a toddler, but alas, I am 42.

Allow me to start from the beginning.

These past 12 months have been a time period when I have stepped out of my box. And, because it bears repeating, I mean this both literally and figuratively. Figuratively in that I am not actually in a box, and literally, because all of the things I am trying have involved taking steps. Literal steps over different types of terrain. I have snowshoed and I have skied, both more than once, both on purpose, both outdoors. I have hiked trails in the summer, fall and winter and enjoyed it immensely. I have purchased equipment, borrowed equipment (thank you, Peg!), signed up for lessons, and pushed myself to limits I didn't know existed, and I have done it joyfully and without hesitation.

Until this morning, but I'll get to that in a minute.

Over the course of a rather loud and outspoken 42 years, I have established, accidentally on purpose, the reputation of being an indoor girl. I do silly things like wear tiaras and deem myself a princess, and I claim to not know much about the great outdoors. I like make-up, shopping and shoes. But the truth of the matter is this: I love being outside. I love the sky, the wind, the water and the snow. I love the sunset and the sunrise, and I love lakes, ponds, oceans and sand. I love hot sun and cold air. I love being in the water and on boats. I love water skiing. I love walking, hiking and sitting outside until the sun goes down. I have tried running, and so far, I don't really love that, but I did enjoy the journey of figuring it out, outside.

Today was my 3rd ski lesson with my friends Lisa and Peg in a series called "Women's Snow Discovery," and it's been wonderful. I've surprised even myself with my Peekaboo Street-ish skills and my natural whooshing abilities. I have fallen twice, both times at the top of the chairlift, and today, it wasn't really even a fall. It was more of a "I have to sit down right at this particular second as I am exiting the lift because I am obviously so very tired." But I have not fallen while skiing, even though my father, who knows me as a girl who can fall flat on her face while walking across and empty room with no obstacles, cannot seem to grasp me as a girl who can ski effortlessly down a mountain, ski poles at my sides, blades parallel, wind in face. Not falling. Not once.

Okay, perhaps I've painted a more beautiful ski picture of myself than was actually true, and perhaps "mountain" is a bit of a stretch, but it is my blog, so allow me to continue. . . for I haven't told you about the tantrum.

It started with a text from my friend Cindy, asking what time she should meet us for skiing after the lesson.

Skiing after the lesson? I had no intention of doing THAT. I'm taking lessons. I can get through the 10:00 to 11:30 time period, swhoosh a little, whoosh a little, and then it's onto the lodge for boots off and diet Coke ON. There will be no skiing. Not now, maybe not ever. One thing at a time.

I text back. "I'm not skiing, I'm lessoning and lunching." I text this to all involved. No answer. I text again.

"Why isn't anyone listening to me???"

I pick up Lisa, load her skis in the car, and pout and sulk all the way to Boston Mills. My anxiety is buliding.

"I'm not skiing today."

"Of course you're not," she says.

"I'm just taking a lesson. That's all I can do. It's all I want to do. I'm a baby skier. I'm not kidding."

"Okay, baby." She is petting me on the arm. Maybe I am a toddler.

The lesson ensues, and it's a good one. As we make our way down the hill the last time, I see Peg and Cindy waiting in their skis. Why do they have skis on for lunch?

Lisa points me toward the chair lift. "Up we go," she says.

I am angry. But with two friends behind me on skis, I can't make a graceful exit.

We ski for an hour. Peg and Cindy go first each time, and wait at the bottom to clap and cheer, and tell me they can't believe how good I am, but really I think they are mostly just blocking my way to the lodge. Lisa is behind me on the hill every time. She is singing Run DMC, Madonna, and all things to make me laugh. I ride the chairlift at least once with each of them, and it doesn't escape me that they are all giving me good tips, good ideas, and good support. Support, literally and figuratively, for each of them had an arm on me at least once that day, for a pat, a high five, a fist pump, a hug. None are patronizing. All are meaningful.

There came a point in the day when I had to think about why I was cranky, and stop that particular slide down the slippery slope. I know was scared of falling while exiting the chairlift, but I mastered it, kind of, once with each friend guiding me off the chair and onto the snow. I know I didn't want to hold back my skiing friends in case I wasn't ready to go forward down that bigger hill. But friends don't feel held back --friends stay with you where you are. And I know I didn't want to feel like I was being pushed when I wasn't ready. But I was more than ready, and I didn't recognize it because it was out of my box. When I step into a different box, I need to be open to others who know that box better than I do. Yes, I was more than ready.

"You're a natural," said Cindy.

I'm a natural?

Cindy is a true athlete. I'm going to carry her words with me for a long time. And, truth be told, I kind of knew I would be able to keep my balance on the hill. With the wind in my face and my friends at my back, how could I fall?

Let the power of the living God work through you and savor those moments when He lets you know you've made a difference!

"Hi Honey, it's Mom . . ."

CC-Mom — Tue, 14 Dec 2010 21:35:00 GMT

I received a voicemail message from my mother, after phoning her between services on Sunday to tell her she could view the 10:30 service "live-streamed" to her computer. Sam's choir was singing, and I knew my parents would love the "Lessons and Carols" service (which they truly did, every bit.) I was so excited that our services could be shared in this way! Thankfully, my parents are completely computer savvy-- just ask their Facebook and Farmville friends.

Anyway, this message (edited only slightly for length) arrived in my voicemail box at 11:45 Sunday, after church:

"Hi Honey, it's Mom. I just wanted you to know that we all went to church with you today. Your dad and I, your Aunt Cindy and Uncle Eric, your Aunt Nancy and Uncle Mike, and your Aunt Susie and Uncle Herb. (Note: Aunt Susie and Uncle Herb are my Jewish aunt and uncle, which somehow moved me even more.) We loved all of it, and we could see Sam perfectly. We could see the back of all of you, too. I'm sure you're not answering because you are at First Cafe having breakfast in Fellowship Hall, and we are going to have our fellowship here, too. We will be watching next week--I think we've found our new church! But just one thing--next week, could you turn around and wave?"

"Lessons and Carols" was a wonderful Sunday -- for me and apparently for my entire family in the Greater Cincinnati area. My parents don't currently have a regular church home, which is contradictory to how I grew up. And I know that that one thing they truly miss is the music, especially this time of year. Knowing that this December, they can flip open a screen and join my church family, from the warm comfort of their family room, fills a part of me that I didn't know was empty. Sam, as Shepherd #1 will be able to project his line during the Christmas Eve Pageant all the way to Southern Ohio.

If you can't make it to the 9:00, the 10:30, or the 11:59, turn on your computer, go to www.hudsonucc.org, and you will be directed to click to watch live worship. And watch closely-- if you see someone sneaking a wave to the camera during the service, that's just me, sending a little love back home.

The Things I Carry

CC-Mom — Tue, 30 Nov 2010 01:13:00 GMT

The idea for really taking into serious account "the things I carry" came to me on the Sunday after Thanksgiving. I was attending a family brunch, and my daughter handed me a somewhat puffy paper towel.

"Can you put this in your purse?" she asked.

"Sure," I said. "What is it?"

"My retainer." (Um, YUCK.) "I don't want to wear it for the family pictures," she explained. Ah, the family photos before breakfast.

I tucked her lovely packet into a safe side zipper in the interior of my bag and tried to forget.

Suddenly, my son appeared before me.

"Mom, can you put my socks in your purse?"

(Um, WHAT?)

"Which socks and why?"

"Dad says I have to take off the white socks I wore with my loafers."

"You wore white socks with your loafers?"

"I forgot the right color dress socks."

"Dad is right. I will meet you by the bathroom." Two minutes later, I deposited the small bundle of laundry into my, thankfully, large purse.

Walking back into the dining room, I am greeted by my daughter.

"Can you put these in your purse?"

Are you kidding me?

She held out two hair bands.

I opened up the bag and let her drop them in.

Last year, I read a book called The Things They Carried by Tim O'Brien. This book was about soldiers fighting in Vietnam and the actual items they carried with them. A bible. A photograph. A backpack. Of course, it also was about those things that are carried that cannot be seen or touched. Emotions, fear, pain, guilt, love.

I know that we all carry things seen and unseen, but my purse has been on my mind all weekend. It is, perhaps, time, to lighten the load. Shall we take a look?

I am currently carrying the following items, every day, no more and no less:

One large zipper wallet, containing cards, cash, coins, and tiny lucky ladybug

One pink pouch with receipts and holiday coupons, because I'm a girl who loves a deal

Two wet wipes

One check book

Hand lotion

Hair brush

Headphones

Inhaler

Antibacterial gel

Nail file

Motrin

Three pens

Phone

Keys

One flower pin for sudden accessorizing

Two sparkly bobby pins

Two aforementioned hairbands

Face powder

Lipstick

Two lip glosses

One perfume

One lip gloss and perfume combo

Carmex

Altoids

Two migraine relief medicines

One pair of earrings

One aforementioned pair of socks

One beautiful drawing given to me by my niece

There's a theory that if given a smaller plate, one would eat a smaller meal. I'm thinking that I need a smaller purse.

Finding a small purse is the fun part, at least for me. And I'll bet we could all easily empty our bags and briefcases and feel an instant weight lifted. But I wonder about the other things we carry. Those emotions, fears, worries, battles and fights that we can't seem to put down. Is it time to give them to God, so that we can feel a TRUE weight taken off our shoulders, allowing us to walk more lightly through this holiday season?

Consider lightening both loads, and I will, too. The things we carry don't define us, but they can both describe us and weigh us down. Maybe it's time to stop digging through so much stuff to find what's really inside. Maybe it's time to just lighten up.

Happy Thanksgiving

CC-Mom — Thu, 25 Nov 2010 16:53:00 GMT

"Make a joyful noise unto the Lord, all ye lands.
Serve the Lord with gladness: come before his presence with singing.
Know ye that the Lord he is God: it is he that hath made us, and not we ourselves; we are his people, and the sheep of his pasture.
Enter into his gates with thanksgiving, and into his courts with praise: be thankful unto him, and bless his name.
For the Lord is good; his mercy is everlasting; and his truth endureth to all generations."

~Psalm 100

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone. Know that I count you among my many, many blessings!

Outdoor Girl

CC-Mom — Mon, 08 Nov 2010 13:33:00 GMT

I’m feeling the need to check the alignment of the planets, feel my husband’s forehead for a fever, maybe feel mine for a fever, and to look around me to see if I’m in the right house. Something has been said out loud that can’t possibly be true. In fact, it is so innately against all other things that have ever been said that I am wondering if I have heard it correctly. And it’s been said about me.

“Christy, maybe you’re more of an outdoor girl than you think you are.”

WHAT? These profound and unexpected words from my husband, Adam, after a long chat about spinning classes, yoga lounges, and gym memberships. We had this conversation on the day when a group of my friends ran a half-marathon - - yay, friends!! I’m not a runner. In an archived blog, you will see that I have tried, but at least right now, it’s not my exercise of choice.

“But you love to hike,” he said. [Note: he did not just say “walk,” which I also love, but in the last year, my friends and I and I have been adding some hiking trails into the mix. I appreciated the distinction.]

“I do,” I said. “Especially in winter.” It’s so beautiful, those trails. The snow on the trees, the ice on the leaves, the blue sky, or even the gray sky. I can hike and talk to my friend Peg, walk the hills, see the beauty, and suddenly, nearly two hours have passed and we’ve lifted our spirits, raised our heart rates, and cleared our heads.

“And you signed up for ski lessons.”

This is also true, and although it was an idea brought up by Peg and Lisa, two friends who ski a little more than I do (not hard to do, since I have not skied sine 1994, and even then, it was only twice) I was excited about it. There was a quick moment where another friend tried to scare me with the idea of puffy, fat pants, but I’m not afraid.

And there’s the snowshoe proposition. Peg puts on her showshoes and walks some days when we don’t hike. I can’t wait to try this. Flat expanses of snow that we can track up and move across while Lance (Peg’s dog that usually tries to kill me with his twisty leash tricks) runs free through the field. That sounds awesome.

“So,” continued Adam, “why are you trying to find classes and gyms and schedules? Why can’t you do what you love?”

Why CAN’T I just do what I love? As girls/teens/women do we always feel pressured to do do what our friends/peer group/lunch table is doing? Do we feel left out of the running group, the yoga class, the gym crowd, even if it isn’t our “thing” to begin with?

When I was cleaning the basement over the weekend, I found boxes of essays from college classes, old notebooks, and a pile of old journals, at least ten, from as many different time periods of my life. Each one began on page one with a plan. Exercise, diet, goals. Some journals celebrated the smallest achievements. Some were filled with negative self-talk. My wish is to throw them all away. But I probably won’t. The truth is that I still write down goals for every new plan, each new experience. I should do more writing (yes, I write that down), eat less, hike more, find a work-out video, ski, snowshoe. I have binders and spirals and beautiful leather books filled with nothing but failed plans. There are similar notes on my iPhone and beside my bed. And the only expectations I have ever failed to meet were my own.

Tucked into these twenty-year-old journals were pictures. And, oh, when I compare the picture of that lovely girl to those not-so-lovely writings, how I wish I could tell her to stop wasting time. Twenty years from now, I don’t want to have wasted any more time.

So, back to the unexpected statement. I’m an outdoor girl? When Adam first uttered the words, I laughed at him. I’ve been called many things over the years, but an “outdoor girl” is not one of them. Not once, not ever. “You know,” I said, “I need to write more, too. If I could commit to hiking three times a week and writing at least. . .”

“You’re planning again,” he said. “Just do.” Just do. There are no classes to get to, there are no fees, no big plans, nothing but me, my thoughts, my prayers, my music, God’s big green (or snowy) Earth. That sounds simply. . . simple.

And what popped into my head next (hello, God?) was this. “Do what I love, beauty will follow.” Not physical beauty, but His beauty all around me. Nature’s beauty. The beauty of not worrying, not planning. The beauty of letting some things go, finally. The beauty of just being who I am. Maybe. . . an outdoor girl.