The post The Mother Letters appeared first on Ann Kroeker, Writing Coach.

Several of my daughters’ friends work part-time at a fast food restaurant. Others fold shirts at retail clothing stores. We know a girl who dishes up ice cream, and a boy who repairs television sets.

My three teenage daughters work at a dog kennel.

They hoist 40-pound bags of dog food on their shoulders and lug poo buckets across the yard to hurl the contents into a dumpster. They hose down kennels and bathe breeds ranging from Labs and Boxers to Malamutes and Yorkies. They wash food bowls, launder blankets, and dispense medications.

At the end of their shift, the girls come home exhausted but excited to discuss the antics of each dog, referring to them by name as affectionately and familiarly as they would speak of good friends.

They describe endearing traits such as the way Berlin, a Great Dane, leans heavily against them while they hose down the concrete path, and how nearly blind Gator, a gray miniature poodle, will turn in circles, moving a little closer each time they call his name until they scoop him up in their arms and he wiggles with delight.

They talk about three-legged Hazel, a beagle mix who doesn’t let her handicap slow her down while she romps around the yard.

The girls love Lily and Teddy, two Australian Shepherds who race across the yard, thrilled to see them. When the girls have time to sit down, Cayenne, a brown husky mix, hops onto the bench and sticks her muzzle under my daughters’ arms, nosing for extra attention.

People leave their dogs in kennels because they’re heading out of town, which means my girls may work a shift on holidays like Thanksgiving, Christmas Day, New Year’s Eve, and Spring Break. They often work weekends, including some Sunday mornings.

They request Sundays off, but sometimes my girls are the only workers available. Those days, I remind them that doctors and nurses and veterinarians and parents and people who care for pets have a special job.

Someone needs to make the sacrifice to feed, water, and let the dogs out for a romp to stretch their legs. Someone needs to scratch the dogs behind their ears and reassure them that they are safe and loved.

“This morning,” I’ll remind them, “that someone is you.”

On those days, the girls wonder if they’d be better off scooping ice cream or folding T-shirts.

But when they come home, kicking off muddy boots and peeling off jackets covered in dog hair, they know they’ve finished some hard work. Hauling buckets of poo to the dumpster is hardly glamorous, but they love the pets in their care.

At the dinner table, we hear more stories of sly Shelby, a brown mixed breed who escapes from her cage, and Bailey, the tiny Dachshund puppy who slept in a cardboard box in the front office. They tell me about Gilligan, the tubby puggle dropped off for doggie daycare every single day, whose entire body waggles when he greets the girls.

As I set out plates to feed my hungry daughters, I’m grateful they find joy in this otherwise hard, thankless job. They delight in those dogs and call each by name. In a small way, they reflect the heart of their heavenly Father, whose eye is not only on the sparrow, but also on the three-legged beagle who lumbers across the yard, and on the neglected Great Pyrenees rescue dog with mats in his fur, and on three teenage girls who gave up their Christmas morning to haul dog poo to the dumpster.

Image by Sophie Kroeker. Used with permission. Post originally appeared at The High Calling in 2013 and is reprinted here under a Creative Commons license.

______________________________

Is every hour rush hour at your house?

Looking for a way you and your kids can live with less hurry and more purpose? Ready to redefine success?

Not So Fast: Slow-Down Solutions for Frenzied Families offers refreshing alternatives for a more meaningful family and spiritual life.

Find a pace that frees your family to flourish.

“Not So Fast is a gift to every reader who takes the time to slow down and breathe in its pages.”

—Lee Strobel, best-selling author of The Case for Christ

The post Called by Name: How My Kids Found Joy in Hard Work appeared first on Ann Kroeker, Writing Coach.

When I (Ann) wrote about family culture in 2008, I offered a few simple thoughts and personal examples on the topic. Curious to learn more about the concept of family culture, I interviewed Dr. Helen Fagan, leadership and diversity scholar and practitioner, to understand the topic better and offer readers a solid resource. The following are Dr. Fagan’s thoughts on understanding and navigating family culture.

What Is Family Culture – Interview with Dr. Helen Fagan

Dr. Fagan: Culture is complex and multifaceted. A lot of times what we don’t necessarily recognize about culture is that the very first culture we get exposed to is our family culture.

It is the foundation for our values, our beliefs, our perceptions, our attitudes, and our expectations. It is so much a part of us that we don’t recognize it and set it apart as a family culture.

We choose the type of entertainment, we choose the type of people we hang out with. Every part of our family is part of the culture around us. If you Google the word culture, you’d get lots of definitions, but if you boil it down to a few things, culture is the norms, the attitudes, the values, the beliefs, the customs of a group that is passed down from one generation to another. If you think about it in that broad sense, you can see where as a family we teach those things to our kids, to our grandkids, to our nieces and nephews. We tell our kids, “Well, other families might do that but our family doesn’t do that or talk like that.” That’s cultural training, but we’re not recognizing it. Culture has multiple levels.

Multiple layers between familial culture and societal culture

Between familial and societal culture, a whole lot of layers fall in. Whatever area or facet that makes you unique and stand apart from society as a whole, that becomes part of your culture, whether it’s religion or socioeconomic status. If you are a religious family, you have a religious culture you ascribe to. If your family is in a higher socioeconomic level, you travel and spend money on certain things; if your family is of a lower socioeconomic level and you’re having to scrape money to make ends meet, all of that becomes ingrained in you and part of your culture.

Culture is the fish in water that doesn’t know it’s in water until you take it out of the water, and then it senses something is wrong, something is different. When it gets exposed to something new, it knows something’s wrong but doesn’t know what it is. Our physical being is connected to our cognitive and emotional being. We have emotional reactions when our culture’s values are either violated or ignored, and we first begin to recognize those cultural differences when we come in contact with other people who are different than us, whether it’s our neighbor, all the way to our spouse’s family, to our classmates and their families.

From societal we move to national culture. There’s a fine line between those two but the thing that is different is what part of the nation you are in. In a vast country like the United States, the culture is different among, say, the northeastern United States, southwest United States, and Central United States. National culture is its own layer but it has differences.

Then between the national and societal cultures, you have things like organizational culture, education environment, the type of work you do. Again, it goes back to the language people use in that environment, what are the norms and customs in that environment, and where did we learn that. Being a writer, you [Ann] learned about being a writer from other writers [in the family, both parents were journalists], and it was passed down from one generation to the next. Those generalizations are where we create ideas of what a culture looks like.

Families Bridging—or Not Bridging—the Culture Gaps

What happens is we have to navigate the differences. We get exposed to differences and have emotional reactions: Why are you doing that? or Why are you saying that? or Why do you believe that? That’s a couple trying to navigate it and build bridges. If they do it successfully, they create a new family culture that is unique and different, that they then teach their children.

The bigger the cultural difference, the harder you have to work to bridge that gap.

If you’re successful at doing that, chances are you are going to be successful creating the subculture. If people aren’t able to navigate those differences, if you’re unsuccessful for whatever reason, chances are you walk away thinking that there’s something wrong with that person, or that way of doing it, or seeing the world, or being.

Navigating Differences in Family Culture

My husband was raised in a family where his mother was married and divorced five times by the time I met him. His idea of marriage looked different than my idea of marriage, where my parents lived together but ended up living in different countries for the sake of sacrificing for their children. That became really difficult to navigate when my husband and I decided what our family would look like, how would we solve problems, how would we communicate with each other. We had help from friends and other family members, but a lot of it we had to navigate on our own because we didn’t know a lot of couples who had similar family experiences to help us navigate. For example, how do you discipline your children? The concept in an Iranian family is so different in an American culture like my husband grew up in. My ideas were very different from his.

Figuring out how were going to do all this was a process of communicating, and trial and error. How we spend money—what is our idea of saving versus spending versus giving—we had to talk about all those things. What one person considers to be luxury versus the other person. I came from a higher socioeconomic background, and for me, to have a maid is not a luxury—it’s a necessity. My husband came from a working class family where they were barely making ends meet. Having a maid? That would never happen. That was not even on his radar. We had to navigate those kinds of things.

I was raised Muslim, he was raised as what we called Chreasters—his family would attend church twice a year, on Easter and Christmas. We found faith together. Finding faith and growing in our faith together set us apart from both of our families and their backgrounds.

The interesting thing for our family culture: To raise our children to be globally minded—to think beyond the boundaries of the United States, or Iran, to be a global citizen—takes intentional work. With everything we had going on day to day, we wouldn’t have time for it, but if it’s necessity of life, your children are naturally engrained in that without you recognizing it.

Understanding Family Culture in the Context of Culture as a Whole

Navigating family culture is one of the most misunderstood areas of family dynamics. I would say that people—even in the world of professional counseling, psychologists, therapists, and life coaches—have not been trained to think of culture beyond race, ethnicity, nationality, religion. So when we come across the idea that all human beings are cultural beings, that seems like a foreign concept. When you take that and put it together for families, it seems there aren’t many resources available in that area.

And yet, whether people are trying to blend a family culture, or students are looking for resources on the topic of family culture, or business people are dealing with issues and trying to understand culture, or psychologists and therapists are trying to find resources to help family dynamics, understanding family culture in the context of culture as a whole is vital.

While I don’t conduct research of families crossing cultures and blending family cultures, nor do I teach in that, I do work with individuals in the area of cultural diversity, and my work with them has enhanced their ability to make those bridges with family members. One student was from Haiti getting his bachelors in nursing. He met his wife in the program, and they got married. On the last day of my class [on cross-cultural issues and cultural diversity], he said, “I just want to thank you. I believe this class has helped save my marriage. The cross-cultural differences I’ve been able to apply with my wife.”

People’s actions and decisions make sense to them. They may not make sense to me, but they make sense to them. Human beings do things for multiple reasons, so when I have a challenge with someone in my family, whether it’s my spouse, my mother, my children—whoever it is—if I’m challenged in my interaction with a family member, instead of assuming I know what they are doing or saying, I may want to pause and really reflect on the fact that what they’re doing and saying makes sense to them. It would help our relationship if I would pause long enough to try to understand things from their perspective instead of forcing my own ideas onto them.

We never know what’s going on for another person emotionally or cognitively. We assume we do because we’ve known them for a while. But we don’t. Human beings are constantly in a state of change and growth and development, from the point where someone treated me at the last light, or the grocery store, or how a family member talks to me at the house is affecting me emotionally and cognitively, but I’m not paying attention to that and I walk around wanting people to understand me when I’m not taking the time to understand them.

I think it really helps people to navigate relationship challenges to just pause long enough to take a deep breath and realize I’m seeing things through the lense of my own experience. I wonder what’s going on with this person? That would really enhance relationships.

* * *

Though not much scholarly research exists specifically on the topic of family culture, Dr. Fagan recommends the following for further reading:

• “The Challenge of Cross-Cultural Family–School Communication” – Article by Elise Trumbull, EdD, an Independent Educational Consultant and co-creator of the Bridging Cultures Project
• “Cultural Sensitivity and Diversity Awareness: Bridging the Gap Between Families and Providers,” an article in a 1996 publication from the University of California, Berkeley.
• Explore books on cross-cultural issues from Nicholas Brealey Publishing and Intercultural Press
• Learn more from Dr. Fagan about developing cultural sensitivity and competence

______________________________

Is every hour rush hour at your house?

Explore the jarring effects of our overcommitted culture and find refreshing alternatives for a more meaningful family and spiritual life.

Find a pace that frees your family to flourish.

“Not So Fast is a gift to every reader who takes the time to slow down and breathe in its pages.”

—Lee Strobel, best-selling author of The Case for Christ

The post What Is Family Culture – Interview with Dr. Helen Fagan appeared first on Ann Kroeker, Writing Coach.

When my childhood friend returned home from vacation, I’d run to her house and ask about the trip. She hiked in the mountains and slept in a tent and fell asleep to night sounds of crickets and tree frogs and hooting owls. They cooked meals wrapped in foil and roasted marshmallows on sticks.

Fascinated, I asked my parents one night, “Can we go camping?”

It was uncivilized and dirty, Dad said. And black widow spiders lurked in the bathhouses and snakes slithered into sleeping bags, and bears and criminals hid in the woods. So, no, we couldn’t camp.

Our family stayed at Holiday Inns.

I longed to sleep in a tent and listen to night sounds and cook meals in foil and roast marshmallows, but I was afraid of the spiders and snakes and bears. So campgrounds remained both a tantalizing and fearful mystery to me well into adulthood.

Years later, when my husband and I had our first child, I remembered my friend’s foil meals and marshmallows and tents. My husband grew up camping, so maybe we could pull it off.

“Let’s camp,” I proposed.

He agreed, so we bought a big tent, borrowed a two-burner Coleman stove, grabbed a pot and frying pan and threw it in the trunk. With some Kraft macaroni and cheese, peanut butter and jelly, and a bag of marshmallows, we were ready.

We drove south and stopped in Chattanooga, Tennessee, for my first night of camping.

The light was fading fast when we drove to our campsite situated along the edge of the woods at the bottom of a hill. We set our 14-month-old daughter next to us strapped in her car seat while we wrestled the tent up. As I started clipping the rainfly to the tent poles, I looked into the dense, dark woods. Before we left, Dad had reminded me of the bears and poisonous spiders and snakes. We were foolish taking our little girl into the woods to sleep in a flimsy nylon tent, he’d said.

“What’s wrong?” My husband asked.

I glanced at the woods. “What about bears?”

“We’ll put the food in the car. They won’t bother us.”

I whispered, “We’re right by the woods. What if someone’s waiting there, ‘til we’re in the tent, sleeping?”

He touched my arm and whispered, “Nothing’s going to happen.”

We finished assembling the tent and then I fumbled with the stove to heat water for macaroni. I thought about abandoning our tent and calling around for a hotel. Or we could sleep in the car and drive home the next day. Just then, a stranger came to our campsite and invited us to the group shelter where they were hosting a spaghetti dinner. No cost. Just come.

“Can we bring our daughter?”

“Of course!”

“Should we bring something to contribute?”

“No, just come on over. We’d love to have you!”

I wondered aloud to my husband: Are they going to poison us? He insisted we at least walk over, so I scooped up our daughter, and as we approached, we looked up at a giant banner stretched out across the shelter.

“Look!” my husband said.

They were a Christian climbing club. He whispered, “I’m hungry—come on! I think their spaghetti will be safe.” We joined the line, and as I was loading my plate, I heard someone call my name. I looked up and saw a friend from college filling the big drink dispenser.

“Hello! What are you doing here? Are you part of this group?”

She said her husband was an avid climber, so she came along to help with the meals. “We take up so many campsites, as a gesture of gratitude we always offer a meal on the first night.” We chatted about climbing and camping, and I admitted it was my first time to camp. She sensed my nerves, or maybe I told her.

“I’ll pray for you,” she said.

We had to get our little girl to bed, so we said goodbye and walked down the hill to our campsite. We checked that all the food was in the car before we climbed into the tent. I patted the outside of the sleeping bag with a shoe, feeling for snakes.

“It’s amazing you met your friend here,” my husband said. “Your first night camping, and God surrounded you with Christians—including someone you know. Will you sleep a little better?”

I smoothed out my flat, snake-free sleeping bag. “A little.”

I lay in the tent listening to crickets and tree frogs, just like my childhood friend had described. But I also listened for snapping twigs and suspicious rustling in the leaves, praying over and over for safety. My daughter’s breathing grew slow and even. My husband rolled over and fell asleep.

Finally, I drifted off, too.

The next morning, my husband asked how I slept. Our daughter was just beginning to stir.

“Fine. Some weird dreams, but we’re still alive and that’s all that matters.”

He laughed.

I crawled out of my sleeping bag and whacked the heel of my shoe against the ground to shake free any poisonous spiders that had crawled inside overnight. Nothing scrambled away, so I pulled them on and hiked up the hill to the bathhouse, breathing in the fresh morning air and watching squirrels scamper across the gravel road and up the tall oak trees that shaded the campground.

Tomorrow night, I thought, we’ll roast marshmallows.

* * *

Reprinted with permission of The High Calling, from Best Vacation Stories: Tomorrow Night, Marshmallows, by Ann Kroeker.

The post First Time Camping – Tomorrow Night, Marshmallows appeared first on Ann Kroeker, Writing Coach.

Then, a year after college, I met a guy named Philippe who grew up in Europe and spoke fluent French. The son of American missionaries in Belgium, he grew up speaking English in the home and French everywhere else.

Within an hour of meeting him, I made a request. “Say something in French!”

“What should I say?”

“Anything,” I urged. “Anything at all.”

He looked up at the sky and said, “Uh, Le ciel est bleu; le soleil est brillant.”

I melted. Although his passport indicated American nationality, as far as I was concerned, this guy was a foreigner.

Less than two years later, I married him.

After our stateside ceremony, we flew to Europe for our honeymoon and another wedding reception—a seven-course meal with his family and friends. His two brothers-in-law, an Italian-Belgian and a French-Dutchman, told animated stories that my new husband translated for me. I quickly learned the standard greeting among friends—a light air kiss, la bise—and observed how the Belgians hold their forks in the left hand during meals, tines down, without switching to the right.

We returned to Belgium a year later for a more relaxed visit. I could say a few French phrases by then and had practiced holding my fork the Belgian way. Late one evening, Philippe and I sat in his parents’ living room with some of his siblings. Everyone spoke English so that I didn’t need a translator. They drank Belgian beers while I sipped tea.

I asked what it was like growing up as Americans in Belgium.

“Well,” his older sister began, “the years I was growing up, Mom was still adjusting to the culture, making embarrassing language and social faux pas.”

“Like what?”

She chuckled, “Okay, one example would be her coffee. She couldn’t seem to make good coffee for visitors, and every Belgian mother knows how to make good coffee. It was mostly little stuff, I guess, but we felt different.”

“All our friends loved her American chocolate chip cookies,” his brother interjected.

“True,” she conceded. “But my point is that by the time you two boys came along, Mom was fluent in French and made pretty good coffee. So you and Philippe seemed much more Belgian. In fact, compared with the rest of us, Philippe seemed to be the most Belgian of all.” She turned to her siblings. “Don’t you agree?”

His brother nodded, “It’s true.” Philippe grinned and shrugged.

“We figured he would come right back after college and settle in,” she said, “so imagine our surprise when he was the one who went and married the foreigner.”

I stared at her. Foreigner? Who’s she talking about? I glanced at Philippe. I thought I was the one who married the foreigner?

I lost track of what anyone said for a minute—my head was swirling, spinning, cracking open, it seemed. I gripped my teacup and absorbed the dizzying realization: I’m the foreigner!

It was like I’d glimpsed a Europe/Asia-centered map that splits the United States in two—the world I’d always known just shifted. I never saw my country, my family, or myself the same way again.

Several years later, Philippe and I flew to Belgium with our kids to attend the wedding of that same sister-in-law, the one whose story rocked my world. She married an Ecuadorian man. Friends and family feasted, sharing stories that were translated throughout the room into French, English, Spanish, and Italian. I listened to the laughter of men, women and children from several nations, tribes, people and languages—celebrating. Together. At a marriage supper, no less.

I felt I’d glimpsed what’s yet to come, and never saw the world the same way again.

* * * *

This post originally appeared at The High Calling and is reprinted here under a Creative Commons license.

______________________________

Is every hour rush hour at your house?

Explore the jarring effects of our overcommitted culture and find refreshing alternatives for a more meaningful family and spiritual life.

Find a pace that frees your family to flourish.

“Not So Fast is a gift to every reader who takes the time to slow down and breathe in its pages.”

—Lee Strobel, best-selling author of The Case for Christ

The post A Foreigner Sees the World appeared first on Ann Kroeker, Writing Coach.

We took him straight to the hospital, where they admitted him for tests. While there, he ran into some complications, but they stabilized him and helped me arrange for Dad to stay in a rehab facility. Weeks later, rehab prepared him to return home where he would attempt to take care of himself.

He tried, but it was too much. Even with frequent visits from home health care nurses and therapists, he panicked one night and phoned 911. The ER doctor called me at 2:00 a.m. and said nothing was physically wrong with Dad; the doctor said Dad kept repeating one line: “I can’t take care of myself!” My brother was out of town, so my husband and I drove to the emergency room an hour away and arranged a return to rehab while we tried to form a plan.

We thought assisted living might work, so I toured a nearby facility. The director took me on a tour, dropping her voice to a whisper as we tiptoed past the bingo players in the dining hall. She pointed to the drink station. “Available 24/7,” she whispered.

Dad would like that, I thought. I could imagine him coming down for an afternoon cup of coffee and staying to chat with another resident. I snapped photos of the coffee station, sent them to my brother along with pictures of the library, lounge and room. He agreed it all looked good. We decided to add Dad’s name to the wait list.

But within days, Dad continued his descent—not another tumble to the ground, but a fall nonetheless. He keeps falling deeper and deeper into an emotional and mental abyss—a prison of his own fears. He imagines anatomical impossibilities to explain his symptoms and clings to bizarre self-diagnoses. Reason can no longer reach him, though maybe it never did.

Assisted living is no longer an option. In November, one facility transferred him to another designed to handle complications like his. From there, he landed back in a hospital. Finally, we’ve got him situated in a place where trained medical staff can answer his call day or night and tend to his needs, whether actual or perceived.

I accompany him to doctor visits, explaining symptoms he can’t remember and taking notes on the doctor’s diagnosis and treatment plan to refer to later. He often mishears, misquotes, misconstrues, or misunderstands what they say, and even my careful notes cannot convince him otherwise.

He phones and begs me to bring him something, so I show up with his request. Soap and shampoo. A belt. Q-tips. Note pads and pens. Batteries for a hearing aid he doesn’t wear. One time I showed up with floss and spent an hour assuring him they weren’t throwing away his clothes. I helped organize the five rolls of plastic trash bags he’d demanded from one of the aides. At his orders, I straightened his newspapers and magazines into tidy stacks, fetched the TV remotes, and adjusted the front legs of his walker a notch or two.

No matter how long I’m there, I can’t show up often enough or stay long enough to suit him. The nurses and aides can’t come quick enough when he punches the call light. He wants someone constantly by his side.

I try to talk him to a quieter, calmer space, inviting stories of his grandfather, aunts and uncles. He occasionally drifts into memories, and I listen; usually, though, he fixates on something that worries him—most often it’s his catheter, but it could be a bit of flaky skin, a tiny spot on his arm, the ideal position of his hospital-style bed. When he’s in that mode, nothing can distract or relax him. Eventually I have to leave to pick up my son from school or meet a client or eat. When I begin to excuse myself after spending an afternoon with him, he says I’m too damn busy.

Today he phoned. He phones often. Today he wants more socks, special ones for his varicose veins. He demanded them, he begged for them, he made sounds like he was crying. I said I’d try to bring them over in the afternoon. He abruptly stopped the unnatural crying and said he’d be dead before I got there. Then he hung up.

I’ll sort through the tub full of clothes we brought back from his house. I’ll dig through and find what he wants. I’ll leave behind the bills, the baskets of laundry, the editing projects, the cluttered bathroom counters and the splattered kitchen floor, and this afternoon, I’ll take Dad his socks.

* * * * *

Note to readers: Thank you for your patience. I know that some of you have wondered why I’ve fallen silent for such long stretches in this online space. This is why.

The post A Prison of His Own Fears appeared first on Ann Kroeker, Writing Coach.

My mom would tie a garland of plastic holly to the stair railing and pull out a ball of fake mistletoe that she’d have Dad hang from the ceiling light in the hallway. We’d plug in plastic molded candelabras with orange bulbs and place them in the sunroom windows.

We’d drive into town and pick out a tree from the Methodist Church lot set up on Main Street and haul it home, where Dad sawed off the trunk and screwed on the metal base. The rest of us would be sorting through boxes, checking the over-sized string of lights dating from the 1960s, screwing in bulbs to find the one that wasn’t working, replacing them, slowly, while Dad manhandled the tree into the corner and turned it around to find the most presentable angle.

Finally, after disagreements and a fair amount of adult swearing, he advised us how to best weave and clip the lights onto the tree before we could begin decorating with a mixture of homemade and store-bought ornaments. We finished it off while Dad slumped on the sofa, directing the ideal placement of each strand of icicle that we draped over the branches for shimmer.

During the Christmas season, my brother and I would watch the TV guide and figure out when we would grab pillows and flop on the floor to watch the stop-motion Rudolf and animated Frosty specials on TV. We made lists and hung stockings, and I sustained such elevated excitement in anticipation of Christmas morning gifts, I sometimes felt like my head would pop off like a Barbie doll’s. Mom and Dad saved—and borrowed—in order to lavish us with gifts, which they piled under the tree each year. Santa brought a “big” gift each year, like a bicycle or an aquarium. The rest of the items weren’t necessarily extravagant in and of themselves, but the sheer quantity astounded us.

In the midst of our secular décor and activity, Mom would pull out a sturdy brown cardboard box from the storage closet and carry it carefully downstairs. Wrapped in double layers of tissue paper and nestled into soft packing material lay the delicate pieces of our family Nativity set.

Inherited from my grandmother, this collection was set off to the side, away from the hubbub. We were allowed to set it up, but after that we were never to play with it, as it was old and precious and a little rickety. That alone gave it an air of holiness.

Mom would let my brother and me take turns placing the characters in the stable. We sometimes switched things up and put the manger in the bigger area on the right, but usually Jesus seemed to best fit in the alcove, with Mary close by and slightly to the left, so she could gaze down at the baby while clutching her hands to her breast, heart swelling with adoration. We pondered the best arrangement of animals and organized the wise men carefully so that they leaned and tilted their heads in the right direction.

At some point, we imported a camel from another, lower quality set. And a sheep lost its ear that we super-glued back in place. Other than that, the scene stayed more or less the same.

As we grew older, my brother lost interest, and the job of arranging the scene fell mainly to me. I happened to be growing more and more interested in spiritual things at that time, and the holy seemed holier; the scene from Bethlehem, more precious than ever.

One day, I gave my life to Christ and the set took on a deeply personal meaning. That one symbol of my Savior in our otherwise secular celebration was a place where I could pause and be reminded of Emmanuel, God with us.

In high school, one of my friends gave me a gift, a porcelain clown playing a wind instrument something like a soprano sax, recorder, or clarinet. She thought of me, she said, because I played clarinet in band. I thanked her and brought it home to show my parents before heading off to do homework. A few days later, the clown disappeared.

I found it.

In the Nativity set.

Tucked in the shadows, staying respectfully at a distance back by the donkey, stood the diminutive clown playing his mournful little tune.

The person who placed the clown amongst the animals meant it as a funny, if irreverent, joke. But my heart fell. The only sacred space set aside in the Christmas season had been invaded by a clown.

My mom, sensing my disappointment—or perhaps herself disturbed—plucked the figurine from the scene and placed him above, on a shelf, to allow the jokester some fun while maintaining a sense of dignity for the Holy Family. When we put away the set that year, we debated what to do about the clown. I guess we wrapped him up and tucked him into the box. At any rate, the next year he returned, secretly added to the barn after the other characters settled into their places.

Year after year, the clown continued to appear in or around my parents’ Nativity scene, as much a tradition as the standard-issued parts. My college boyfriend suggested the clown serve as a symbol of how we are fools for Christ, and after that I found myself more comfortable with the clown’s presence.

Still later, years later, my sister-in-law recommended I read Clowning in Rome, by Henri Nouwen. In it, he explains:

Clowns are not in the center of the events. They appear between the great acts, fumble and fall, and make us smile again after the tensions created by the heroes we came to admire. The clowns don’t have it together, they do not succeed in what they try to do, they are awkward, out of balance, and left-handed, but…they are on our side. We respond to them not with admiration, but with sympathy, not with amazement but with understanding, not with tension but with a smile. Of the virtuosi we say, “How can they do it?” Of the clowns we say, “They are like us.” The clowns remind us with a tear and a smile that we share the same human weaknesses. (3)

Suddenly, that perspective offered meaning to this annual visitor. It seemed good to have a clown near the Savior…even to be a clown near the Savior, associated with the King of kings while remaining real and humble, even awkward.

The Lord didn’t come for those who were healthy, but for the sick; he didn’t come for the righteous, but for sinners. He came for the lame, the weak, the lowly. He came for the awkward, out-of-balance people who don’t have it together.

He came for the clowns.

* * * * *

Reprinted and slightly modified from the archives.

Work Cited: Nouwen, Henri. Clowning in Rome. New York: Doubleday, 1979, 2000. Print.

Image credits: All photos by Ann Kroeker. All rights reserved.

The post The Christmas Clown appeared first on Ann Kroeker, Writing Coach.

My writer mom worked as the editor of our local newspaper, covering news all over the county. If a reporter couldn’t make it to an event, Mom would grab her camera, reporter’s pad, and pen—and quite often her daughter—to capture the news herself.

This meant that whether I wanted to or not, I visited sporting events, live nativity scenes, church bazaars, festivals, fairs, horse pulls, pie-eating contests, and a lot of parades. Most kids would relish frequent outings to festivals and fairs, but apparently I grew tired of being dragged from town to town. Even though it was an era when the Girl Scouts and local celebrities riding in Model T cars or standing on floats would heave generous gobs of candy to the spectators, apparently I moaned one time, “Not another parade!” Ah, what a cross I had to bear!

All because my mother was a professional writer and editor; a committed, working journalist.

When she was a child, her dream never wavered: she wanted to write. Mom majored in journalism at university and worked for years at our metropolitan newspaper, The Indianapolis Star, as a writer, editor and columnist. Her work in the lifestyle department allowed her to meet and interview movie stars as they came through town for a show or event. I always enjoyed telling my friends, “My mom met the woman who plays Ethel on I Love Lucy.” Mom said Vivian Vance was gracious and charming—one of her favorite interviews. And one of the most challenging? Jack Palance.

But continuing to work full-time at the Star became a challenge when my brother was born. When I came along four years later, Mom adjusted her writing life to accommodate motherhood … to accommodate me.

She gave up her work at the Star to take that position at the county newspaper in order to be available to her children; she gave up being the journalist she wanted to be, in order to be the mom she wanted to be. She could have been interviewing movie stars. Instead, Mom stood all day on Mondays, scrambling to get the county paper ready, making editorial decisions about which photo of the fair queen should make the front page, trimming school lunch schedules with scissors and pasting down stories of council meetings and road construction.

But because Mom didn’t drive downtown to Indianapolis—because she was willing to work hard at a less prestigious job that was flexible and kept her close by—she was there to cheer me on at softball games and track meets. She could see my plays and band concerts.

She was around for school award ceremonies where I received some minor recognition—nothing newsworthy that would draw a reporter, but Mom would come … as a mom.

And I didn’t appreciate her sacrifice one bit when I was young.

When I was little, I woke up early to watch morning kids’ shows, which would have been limited to Captain Kangaroo, Sesame Street, and a few cartoons. Mom says one morning I slipped into her bedroom in my jammies and asked, “Mommy, can you watch car-coons with me?”

Touched that I requested her presence, she dragged herself out of bed, pulled on a robe, shuffled into the living room, and eased herself onto the green vinyl chair as I snuggled down on her lap.

After a few minutes, I chirped, “That’s good, Mommy. You can go back to bed. The chair’s all warmed up now.”

For a lot of women, it takes becoming a mother to appreciate their mothers. It takes a humbling vinyl chair moment to realize everything our moms put up with.

For me, I think that the tension and pull between motherhood and writing has opened my eyes to my mom’s sacrifices. Mom sought to balance work and motherhood, respecting and honoring both.

Now I’m attempting the same thing.

I’ve grown to appreciate the challenges she faced to make her life work. Mom knows all about “imperfect conditions.” I think I finally feel the pang of those compromises she made, of her grief at the loss of a position that really fit who she was as a writer in order to choose a life that allowed her to be there.

For me.

And my writer mom has celebrated the life I’ve chosen, which is also the life of a writer-mom, seeking a both/and instead of an either/or life.

Thanks for modeling how to write in the midst of motherhood, Mom. Thanks for being there. Thanks for supporting and celebrating my work while carrying on your own. You deserve a bigger tribute than this, but it’s a start. And it’s…

For you.

This bouquet of memories honors my writer mom, who creates a kind of virtual bouquet these days with her camera, shooting the glorious flora (and fauna) of the Low Country.

For more mom-inspired memory bouquets, visit Laura Lynn Brown, author of Everything That Makes You Mom: A Bouquet of Memories and follow her #mombouquet tour (now through Mother’s Day) via social media channels.

(Post modified from the archives)

The post For My Writer-Mom: A Bouquet of Memories appeared first on Ann Kroeker, Writing Coach.

[youtube_sc url=”https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TBQxG0Z72qM”]

When you’ve settled into that unexpectedly happy place, mosey over to Soul Stops. Dolly’s interview with me on the subject of slowing down has spilled into a second post, and you can enjoy another chance to win a copy of Not So Fast. Yes, I’m giving away two copies of Not So Fast. (Congratulations to Alecia Simersky for winning the first copy!)

In part two, you’ll find out how we’ve handled technology with our kids. Have we always been this low tech?

Click through to find out.

The post Not So Fast at Soul Stops, Pt. 2 appeared first on Ann Kroeker, Writing Coach.

__________________________

One of my daughters started babysitting for a morning moms’ meeting. The first week, a woman came up to her and asked if she was Ann Kroeker’s daughter. When my daughter said she was, the woman said, “Your mom spoke to our group years ago, and I’ll never forget what she said.”

My daughter expected to hear a profound quote so powerful and life-changing, it was worth holding onto for seven years.

The woman smiled. “She said sleep deprivation is a classic torture technique, so if you’re a young mom feeling like you’re being tortured…you are!”

My daughter laughed as she told me the story later that day.

“You had no idea I was so very wise, did you?” I remarked. She laughed again. My “wisdom” was cracking her up.

For the record, my daughter added that the woman insisted my message helped her get through the early, exhausting days of parenthood, realizing that if she felt like she was being tortured by late-night feedings and lack of sleep, it wasn’t her imagination. Hearing that, I’m glad I talked about torture that day (it was, by the way, just one small point in a larger presentation).

I remember with a shiver those lonely, depressing, sleep-deprived, mush-mind days. Back then, I told people my mind felt no more lively than a bowl of cold, congealed oatmeal. I began to fear I’d never write again. As you can imagine, writers need functioning minds to do their job. Bowls of cold oatmeal offer little to the world.

Author Kimberlee Conway Ireton knows this feeling. When she felt her mind dissolving to mush and her emotions going haywire while her newborn twins consumed every waking (and sleeping) moment, her psychological health waned. She felt like she was cracking up.

Yet, her book Cracking Up: A Postpartum Faith Crisis provides concrete evidence that even during the darkest times of her postpartum struggles, she could write and laugh. The “Grace Notes” she faithfully scribbled down reflect word artistry and the eyes and heart of a poet. The jokes interspersed reveal the humor that lifted her sagging spirit.

Margie, her spiritual advisor, asks “where has God been meeting you.” Kimberlee says she is grateful for laughter. She tells some stories and she starts laughing so hard she’s crying. “Oh man,” Kimberlee says, “I have to stop laughing. I’m going to pee my pants.” Then she remembers another story that makes her laugh even more. Margie’s laughing, too, and says, “[D]on’t you see God?”

“God?”

“Yes, God!” Margie exclaims. “I see God in all of this laughter. So clearly. I see his delight in your laughter…It’s still Easter. I think it’s just perfect that this season of laughter in your life is happening during Easter.”

…I tell Margie, “Anne Lamott says that laughter is carbonated holiness.”

“I like that,” she says, and smiles. “Carbonated holiness. Yes.”(47, 48)

Throughout the book, Kimberlee is open about details associated with pregnancy and nursing mom issues and describes gadgets including the breast pump, nipple cream, and the “baby hugger” support system she wore during pregnancy. Her husband sees her putting on this contraption and says he’s going to miss these days. She knows how unattractive she must appear at that moment. She makes a face at him.

I pull the baby hugger’s suspenders over my shoulders and down to my belly. It’s a bit of a stretch, even for the elastic. When I fasten the suspenders to the girdle, the velcro doesn’t hold. The suspenders fly up and hit me in the face.

Doug laughs again. “Yep,” he says, “I am definitely going to miss this.” (72)

She deals with problems far more serious than being thwacked in the face by elastic suspenders (and teased by her husband). [SPOILER] She deals with health complications during the pregnancy and a neonatal emergency after the twins’ birth, adding stress to an already stressful situation. She and her husband carry this anxiety with them into life at home caring for twins and two older kids.

As her subtitle states, Kimberlee was hit hard. Her depression is complicated by her desire to succeed as a writer (and her inability to do so). She declares quite honestly that she dreams of being a bestselling author (which seems unlikely given that her first book is, in her words, “tanking”). Consumed by 24/7 demands of feeding, changing, nurturing two newborn twins and two older children, Kimberlee wonders if her writing life may be lost forever.

Her fears intensify far beyond the baby blues. Kimberlee’s story reveals a mom in the midst of postpartum depression unable to recognize her need for medical intervention. Though she seems to have revealed to family and friends glimpses of the mounting anxiety she carried, I’m guessing no one knew how bad it was.

Tears drop onto my hand, onto Ben’s little swaddled back. How do I hold those things in tension? The goodness of my life, the many gifts I have, and the fact that I still find my life so difficult? And the most sobering fact that it could easily be so much harder?

…My tears fall harder, and my heart feels like it’s cracking right open and all the fear and unfairness and suffering is leaking out my eyes. And then, it fills my mouth, and I want to scream, but I can’t—I’ll wake my almost-sleeping babies, I’ll scare Jack and Jane who are in the living room waiting for me to read to them—so it erupts in a silent scream of pain, anger, anguish, as if I could rid myself of those things simply by opening my mouth wide enough, by crying hard enough. (Ireton 194, 195)

Thankfully she has help. Her husband, her mom, her sister, her spiritual director, and her friends step in and help carry her burdens in tangible ways, listening, bringing her meals, and keeping her laughing and praying. This network of support impressed me, as does the way they steer Kimberlee to truth in a way that does not offend or seem trite. As fear almost paralyzes her, she clings to threads of faith.

Life is precious, each moment a gift, and my best self—the self that I long to live out all the time—believes that God holds each moment, eternally present before Him, and when we stand before Him face to face, we will get those moments back, purified and perfected. We will. And if we don’t, God will have something even better for us—something more than all we can ask or imagine.

I believe. Oh help my unbelief.

Oh Jesus, cast out my fear. (177)

[PROBABLY THE BIGGEST SPOILER] Finally, fortunately, after months of sleep deprivation and postpartum hormonal flux, she gets the medication she needs to balance out her system. The twins start also to sleep through the night.

She’s medicated. She’s rested. She’s back. She’s believing. She’s writing.

She’s going to make it.

[END OF SPOILER] Kimberlee’s humor throughout the book offers occasional respites from the weight of her struggle, but it’s scary at times to read about her fears and anxiety, her soul-echoing emptiness.

Nevertheless, I recommend that people read this book to better understand postpartum depression and how it sets in and grows. And if you know someone with a newborn, especially twins, assume that she is sleep-deprived and needs your help in practical ways. She may also need you to discern her level of anxiety and depression.

When you drive over to drop off a meal and rock the baby, bring her a copy of Cracking Up: A Postpartum Faith Crisis, as well. Leave it with her. It’s a sobering read, but her humor and quality writing make the topic accessible. Later, ask if she feels like Kimberlee. And if she sort of deflects it with humor, shrugs a little, or breaks out in tears, get her help. Pick up the phone and make the appointment for her, if need be. Help her load the kid(s) into the car and drive her to the doctor’s office, for her to get a diagnosis.

Cracking Up: A Postpartum Faith Crisis is a reminder that postpartum depression is no laughing matter. It’s more like torture. Kimberlee handled it with humor and grace, but she struggled and suffered, and no one needs to feel that, carry that, try to survive that alone.

Kimberlee writes for two online organizations I’m part of: The High Calling and  Tweetspeak Poetry. As an editor of her work, I can assure you Kimberlee’s got her mind back. And her faith. But she needed people to step in and help her see what to do.

You can be that person for someone like Kimberlee. Let her story change other women’s stories. Maybe even your own.

* * * * *

BOOK GIVEAWAY!

If you would like a copy of Cracking Up for yourself or to give away, I’m going to send my copy to one lucky commenter. If for some reason you don’t want to be in the drawing (maybe you already have the book, for example), let me know (but feel free to leave a comment anyway!). To be included in the drawing, leave your comment (with some way to contact you) by 8:00 p.m. ET Friday, December 20, 2013. I’ll do the random drawing and announce the winner on Saturday, December 21.

________________

Work Cited:

Conway Ireton, Kimberlee. Cracking Up: A Postpartum Faith Crisis. Seattle, WA: Mason Lewis, 2013. Print.

The post Book Response – Cracking Up: A Postpartum Faith Crisis appeared first on Ann Kroeker, Writing Coach.

For the Food on Fridays carnival, any post remotely related to food is welcome—though we love to try new dishes, your post doesn’t have to be a recipe. We’re pretty relaxed over here, and stories and photos are as welcome as menus and recipes. When your Food on Fridays contribution is ready, just grab the button to include with your post. It ties us together visually. Then fill in the boxes of this linky tool to join the fun!

[simplylinked list=558b6d62-65b4-4b25-9987-14c74303856e]

Food on Fridays with Ann

Through social media and texting I’ve stayed in touch fairly well with my college-aged daughter, but I’ve been advised to send letters, because who doesn’t love snail mail?

Back in early September I sent her a newsy letter along with a self-addressed, stamped envelope (SASE). Inside that SASE (to be clear, I addressed the inside envelope to my home address), I slipped a version of the following form letter that my husband and I invented late one night when we thought we were very clever.

All she had to do was fill out a few lines, circle appropriate responses, fold it up and stick it in the SASE to mail home. No fussying with stamps or thinking up stuff to say. And though it took a few weeks for her to send it off, it eventually worked! Just yesterday I received her response, and now I know her favorite food at the dining commons (French toast sticks).

Wondering how the first weeks of school have gone for your college kid (or any person you’d like to hear back from)? Create your own Form Letter and send it off with a friendly note. Why? Because it’s fun to send college students mail and imagine their delight at receiving it, and it’s fun to receive snail mail from your college student, even if the handwriting on the envelope is your own.

September ______, 2013

Dear Mom and Dad,

I can’t wait to tell you all about my first weeks at ________________ (school name)!

My favorite activity so far is ___________________________________________. I’ve already made ______ (#) friends, like _____________________________ (name) and ______________________________ (name). I met them in the dorm/in class/at the coffee shop/other ____________________ (circle one). The date of my first opportunity to meet the president was __________________________________. I  did/did not (circle one) speak with him.

I did a pretty good job packing, but I forgot _________________________, so I had to buy it at Wal-Mart/Target/local hardware store/other ________________ (circle one). Speaking of forgetting things, next time you come, I hope you don’t mind bringing me __________________________________________. Thanks!

The food here is delicious/tasty/edible (circle one), and my favorite thing they serve is _________________________________________. I usually sit with _________________________________ (name) at lunch and ______________________________ (name) at dinner. I’ve gone with friends for ice cream/coffee/pizza/Splurpees/other _____________ (circle all that apply) ______ times already.

One activity I really look forward to is _____________________________. My classes are awesome/interesting/tough/confusing (circle all that apply). My favorite class is __________________________________ because ____________________________________.

I’m so glad that you made it possible for me to attend ______________________________ (name of school). I can’t wait to see you as soon as possible/on Parents’ Weekend/sometime in December (circle one).

Later, dude/See you around/Love/Ciao/Until we meet again (circle one),

____________________________________________ (signature)

* * * * *

Photos by Ann Kroeker. “Pin” these images in a way that links back to this particular page, giving proper credit.

Smaller button for various uses

The post Food on Fridays: College Kid Form Letter appeared first on Ann Kroeker, Writing Coach.

That’s what my college-bound daughter answered when I asked, “Is there anywhere else you’d like to go before you leave next week?”

She said she wanted to ride the rides, and when she said “rides,” her eyes lit up like they did when she was four and wanted to ride “Sandy,” the mechanical horse in Meijer that gently galloped while she held onto the leather straps and stared straight ahead, focused. A ride on Sandy cost a penny.

I bought $20 wristbands for my daughter and her siblings and took them to the Indiana State Fair where—after pausing for a snapshot in front of the World’s Biggest Popcorn Ball—they rode the rides for hours, taking only two breaks: one to slurp a chocolate milkshake from the Dairy Barn and another to eat an elephant ear.

While they rode, I sat on a bench next to the Deep Fried Twinkie seller and read a book. I looked up every once in a while at the tallest rides that rose above the roof of the Ag building, imagining the kids swirling, spinning, circling to the top.

By this time next week, that girl on the Ferris wheel snapping selfies with her sister will be spreading out her comforter on the twin bed of her dorm room and propping up the pink plush pillow we bought at Target. She grabbed the pillow and hugged it when we rolled past it in the store.

“Can I get it? For my bed?” She leaned her face against the fluffy fabric, and I nodded and she grinned and put it gently in the cart on top of the extension cord and Kleenex boxes and shower caddy.

I couldn’t see the kids from where I was sitting, reading, next to the Deep Fried Twinkies, but I saw their snapshots later taken on the swings and the Ferris wheel. They came back to me when they had ridden every ride as many times as they wanted. When I asked about their favorites, and the kids described a ride called “Alien Abduction,” and how they couldn’t tell from the outside what the ride would be like. They climbed inside without knowing what to expect, and it started spinning, pressing them against the wall until it was spinning fast and they started to rise up, as if floating in space.

“I saw the other seats going up,” my daughter said, “so I could see what was happening, but you don’t realize you’re rising until all of a sudden you realize you’re not on the floor anymore,” my daughter said. “You try to lift your arms but you can’t do anything and even though you know they test it, you’re still a little afraid.”

I laughed, and as I walked to the car with the daughter I’ll leave on a college campus for the first time ever with her pink plush pillow and her comforter and her Kleenex boxes, I realized I’m not on the floor anymore—I’m floating in space, and I can’t do anything, and even though a million others have been through this before, I’m still a little afraid.

The post Preparing to Send Off a College-Bound Child appeared first on Ann Kroeker, Writing Coach.

My work as Administrative Coordinator for a start-up church—my first job out of college—included restocking the supply cabinet at the end of the hall. I’d swipe the church charge card to pay and load everything into the trunk of my junky Olds Cutlass to drive back to the office….

* * * * *

Read “From Office Administrator to Family Manager” in its entirety at The High Calling.

Image by Jason Jones. Used with permission. Sourced via Flickr.

The post From Office Administrator to Family Manager appeared first on Ann Kroeker, Writing Coach.

Reading

Not much reading time available during this speech and debate tournament.

Playing

For my birthday last Friday, we ate at Noodles & Company where I ordered Pad Thai. Because of an unexpectedly long wait, they gave us free drinks.

When we came home, the family threw together chocolate fondue. My son stirred the chocolate and soy creamer for the sauce, the girls cut up fruit, and my husband squished together three marshmallows to hold up my birthday candle.

An amusing, playful cupcake substitute for a girl avoiding gluten.

Writing

Not much writing happening during this speech and debate tournament.

Learning

My eldest daughter did a great job on her speech—the best she could possibly do—yet did not advance. My youngest daughter advanced to semifinals in the event she thought she had flubbed up, and didn’t advance in the categories in which she thought she might have a chance.

They are learning (and I’m reminded) that all you can do is prepare, practice, tweak, practice more. Then go out there and do the best you possibly can, trusting God with the results.

You can try to predict the outcome, but in the end, you just never know.

Reacting

If you told me last year that my kids would develop speaking, organizational, research, writing, editing, creative expression, and critical-thinking skills through participation in only one “class,” and that this class would accomplish all of this without grades or standard academic rewards—I’d have responded, “Impossible!”

And if you told me that my kids would also, in this same class, discover inner motivation, confidence, poise, and respectful interaction with both peers and adults while proudly dressed in professional attire, I’d say, “You’re kidding me! I’ll believe it when I see it.”

Well, I’m seeing it.

My kids joined a speech and debate club, and throughout fall, I continued to doubt. Would my daughter ever truly know enough about the United Nations to debate the team policy resolution (“Resolved: the United Nations should be significantly reformed or abolished”)? Would she and her sisters really be able to act in these skits or write and memorize ten-minute speeches?

When the kids missed deadlines and appeared unmotivated, I questioned whether or not we should even continue. I went ahead and bought a debate box (pictured above) for my daughter’s December birthday, all the while worrying, Maybe this isn’t a good fit? What if she quits?

But then tournament season began, and something awakened in my kids.

They wanted it.

They wanted to do well. They wanted to improve, to feel proud of their work, to overcome their fears, to stand tall and proud that they took a risk and grew stronger for it.

They wanted to hear their name called when semifinalists are announced.

Semifinals, you see, are the ticket to regionals, which is a by-invitation-only tournament.

Our third daughter originally focused on debate, but by the third tournament, she decided to try her hand at some speeches. She added a duo (a two-person skit, performed with her debate partner), and then a humorous interpretation (a one-person skit). Later she added impromptu (pick a topic, take two minutes prep time, then walk in and give a five-minute speech using no notes).

Another of my daughters wrote a persuasive speech and delivered it multiple times at two tournaments, gaining confidence as she locked it in her memory. Each time she presents it, she’s practicing eye contact and emphasizing certain words to add a more urgent tone and call to action. This girl who hates to get in front of people discovered she can do more than survive giving a speech: she can give it multiple times, better and better each time.

I never imagined myself in this world of speech and debate, but here we are…I mean, literally, we are at a tournament even as I type. And though I am exhausted from the grueling schedule, and though we incur travel expenses, and though I feel inadequate as a judge when recruited, and though my heart sinks when I witness their disappointment at not advancing, I still feel this is the best investment of time and money I have ever made in my kids’ K-12 education.

The club is a Christian organization, and leaders point the students to Christ throughout the experience.

All of these skills the kids are developing? Give them to Jesus. Letdowns, disappointments and mess-ups? Give it to Jesus. Any wins? Any glory? Give it all to Jesus.

For from him and through him and to him are all things. To him be the glory forever! Amen. (Romans 11:36)

The post Curiosity Journal: March 6, 2013 (Speech & Debate Edition) appeared first on Ann Kroeker, Writing Coach.

Not long ago, I wrote of the paucity of play in my life and decided to launch The Play Project. I hoped to begin integrating more fun, laughter, and simple pleasures into everyday life. This is the first official follow-up to my introductory post.

We followed my mom along the boardwalk edging the waterway in Port Royal, South Carolina. She was eager to show us this path, one of her favorite places to walk and linger. I’d attached my long lens and lifted it to snap a few pictures when we spotted fins sliding out of the water.

“Dolphins!” my son exclaimed, racing up the lookout tower steps, a pair of binoculars dangling from his neck. He lifted them to his eyes and shrieked again, pointing. “Dolphins! There!”

My daughter asked to borrow my camera, which I handed over. She followed her brother up the tower stairs and started snapping each time hints of shadowy grey surfaced.

Mom and I watched from down low, eyes following every movement.

The dolphins grew bolder and more animated around the boats.

And then, as a bigger boat passed through, they began to burst out of the water, arcing in the air, their sleek grey bodies shimmering in the sun.

Eyes wide with awe, we gasped and laughed and clapped our hands in delight at their powerful leaps.

After the boat motored past, the dolphins eventually retreated to the water’s depths and shifted in the other direction, rising only briefly to slurp air through blow holes.

The kids descended the tower stairs breathless and animated, my photographer-daughter gesturing us over to show us her best shots. We slowly made our way along the boardwalk, and as we stepped from the wooden slats onto the parking lot sand, I realized I had been grinning the entire way, heart still pounding strong, energized by the dolphins’ play.

* * * * *

Photos by S. Kroeker.

The post The Play Project: Dolphin Joy appeared first on Ann Kroeker, Writing Coach.

We’d drive into town and pick out a tree from the Methodist Church lot set up on Main Street and haul it home, where Dad sawed off the trunk and screwed on the metal base. The rest of us would be sorting through boxes, checking the over-sized string of lights dating from the 1960s, screwing in bulbs to find the one that wasn’t working, replacing them, slowly, while Dad manhandled the tree into the corner and turned it around to find the most presentable angle. Finally, after disagreements and a fair amount of adult swearing, he advised us how to best weave and clip the lights onto the tree before we could begin decorating with a mixture of homemade and store-bought ornaments. We finished it off while Dad slumped on the sofa, directing the ideal placement of each strand of icicle that we draped over the branches for shimmer.

During the Christmas season, my brother and I would watch the TV guide and figure out when we would grab pillows and flop on the floor to watch the stop-motion Rudolf and animated Frosty specials on TV. We made lists and hung stockings, and I sustained such elevated excitement in anticipation of Christmas morning gifts, I sometimes felt like my head would pop off like a Barbie doll’s. Mom and Dad saved—and borrowed—in order to lavish us with gifts, which they piled under the tree each year. Santa brought a “big” gift each year, like a bicycle or an aquarium. The rest of the items weren’t necessarily extravagant in and of themselves, but the sheer quantity astounded us.

In the midst of our secular décor and activity, Mom would pull out a sturdy brown cardboard box from the storage closet and carry it carefully downstairs. Wrapped in double layers of tissue paper and nestled into soft packing material lay the delicate pieces of our family Nativity set.

Inherited from my grandmother, this collection was set off to the side, away from the hubbub. We were allowed to set it up, but after that we were never to play with it, as it was old and precious and a little rickety. That alone gave it an air of holiness.

Mom would let my brother and me take turns placing the characters in the stable. We sometimes switched things up and put the manger in the bigger area on the right, but usually Jesus seemed to best fit in the alcove, with Mary close by and slightly to the left, so she could gaze down at the baby while clutching her hands to her breast, heart swelling with adoration. We pondered the best arrangement of animals and organized the wise men carefully so that they leaned and tilted their heads in the right direction.

At some point, we imported a camel from another, lower quality set. And a sheep lost its ear that we super-glued back in place. Other than that, the scene stayed more or less the same.

As we grew older, my brother lost interest, and the job of arranging the scene fell mainly to me. I happened to be growing more and more interested in spiritual things at that time, and the holy seemed holier; the scene from Bethlehem, more precious than ever.

One day, I gave my life to Christ and the set took on a deeply personal meaning. That one symbol of my Savior in our otherwise secular celebration was a place where I could pause and be reminded of Emmanuel, God with us.

In high school, one of my friends gave me a gift, a porcelain clown playing a wind instrument something like a soprano sax, recorder, or clarinet. She thought of me, she said, because I played clarinet in band. I thanked her and brought it home to show my parents before heading off to do homework. A few days later, the clown disappeared.

I found it.

In the Nativity set.

Tucked in the shadows, staying respectfully at a distance back by the donkey, stood the diminutive clown playing his mournful little tune.

The person who placed the clown amongst the animals meant it as a funny, if irreverent, joke. But my heart fell. The only sacred space set aside in the Christmas season had been invaded by a clown.

My mom, sensing my disappointment—or perhaps herself disturbed—plucked the figurine from the scene and placed him above, on a shelf, to allow the jokester some fun while maintaining a sense of dignity for the Holy Family. When we put away the set that year, we debated what to do about the clown. I guess we wrapped him up and tucked him into the box. At any rate, the next year he returned, secretly added to the barn after the other characters settled into their places.

Year after year, the clown continued to appear in or around my parents’ Nativity scene, as much a tradition as the standard-issued parts. My college boyfriend suggested the clown serve as a symbol of how we are fools for Christ, and after that I found myself more comfortable with the clown’s presence.

Still later, years later, my sister-in-law recommended I read Clowning in Rome, by Henri Nouwen. In it, he explains:

Clowns are not in the center of the events. They appear between the great acts, fumble and fall, and make us smile again after the tensions created by the heroes we came to admire. The clowns don’t have it together, they do not succeed in what they try to do, they are awkward, out of balance, and left-handed, but…they are on our side. We respond to them not with admiration, but with sympathy, not with amazement but with understanding, not with tension but with a smile. Of the virtuosi we say, “How can they do it?” Of the clowns we say, “They are like us.” The clowns remind us with a tear and a smile that we share the same human weaknesses. (3)

Suddenly, that perspective offered meaning to this annual visitor. It seemed good to have a clown near the Savior…even to be a clown near the Savior, associated with the King of kings while remaining real and humble, even awkward.

The Lord didn’t come for those who were healthy, but for the sick; he didn’t come for the righteous, but for sinners. He came for the lame, the weak, the lowly. He came for the awkward, out-of-balance people who don’t have it together.

He came for the clowns.

* * * * *

Reprinted from the archives.

Work Cited: Nouwen, Henri. Clowning in Rome. New York: Doubleday, 1979, 2000. Print.

Image credits: All photos by Ann Kroeker. All rights reserved.

The post Christmas Clown appeared first on Ann Kroeker, Writing Coach.

Even with my limited language skills, I could tell after a minute or two that my husband and the neighbor said nothing about their work. So I quietly and casually asked my father-in-law in English, “What does he do?”

My father-in-law paused. Then he whispered to me in English, “In America, one of the first questions people ask each other when they meet is ‘What do you do for a living?’ But here in Belgium, people don’t ask that.”

“Why not?”

He thought for a minute. “Unemployment is high in Belgium, so they must want to avoid putting someone in the position of admitting they aren’t working.”

Suddenly, I worried that my husband, steeped in American culture for most of his adult life, would slip up and ask what the man does. Fortunately, he kept to topics such as the weather and our travels. But I’ve never forgotten my father-in-law’s observation. Even to this day, here in the United States, I hesitate asking people that question. After all, I myself struggle to answer it simply or confidently. Why would I force someone else to?

When waiting to board a plane a week or so ago, I stood behind a young woman who turned and grinned at me. “I should have stayed in my chair a little longer,” she observed, nodding at the long line ahead of us. “I had plenty of time.”

“Me, too.” I replied. “Boarding was just as backed up on my last flight.”

Our interaction shifted to the then-recent election. She said her friends were watching throughout the day as results rolled in, but she couldn’t because she was so busy. “I didn’t have time to turn on a TV,” she exclaimed. “I was working!”

Curious, I decided to throw caution to the wind. I asked her the question: “So, what work kept you from watching? What…do you do?”

“Oh, I’m a lawyer.” For some reason, I didn’t anticipate what would naturally follow. “So, how about you?” she asked. “What do you do?”

I hemmed, I hawed. My first thought, especially given her impressive career, was to admit that I don’t work—at least not in the way she thinks of it. Then I wondered if I should mention home education or the composition class that I teach once a week. I thought about borrowing Kathy Peel’s term and calling myself a “Family Manager.” Finally, because I was on my way to meet up with The High Calling editorial team, I blurted out two of my many roles: “I’m a writer and editor.”

She asked what I write, but before I could elaborate, we were funneled single-file into the narrow airplane aisle. Our conversation abruptly ended as she slid into her seat.

After inching past a few more rows, I shoved my backpack into an overhead bin and plopped into 23A, considering my “work” in more detail.

I’m a writer, yes. And an editor. But most of my daily life focuses on domestic tasks and family needs. I’ve stayed home to care for my children, planning and preparing meals, educating them, organizing birthday parties and vacations, hosting Thanksgiving and counting down to Christmas, doing the dishes, cleaning the bathrooms and buying toilet paper again and again and again.

Above the clouds, soaring toward an editorial retreat, I tried to imagine life as a full-time editor. I dreamed of an office with a door that shuts, a desk, a rolling chair, and a dog-eared copy of The Chicago Manual of Style readily accessible on a nearby shelf. What would it feel like to work all day long with words, with authors, with people who love stories and ideas? My part-part-time work with The High Calling provides a glimpse. I think I’d like it.

But reality is that for 18 years I’ve scrunched my writing and editorial tasks into any little gap I can find in my days, and the combination of it all—the school lessons, dishes, parties, toilet paper and emails about upcoming “Family” articles—all of that together adds up to “what I do.”

Indeed, I flew home to dirty dishes, misplaced study guides, and the sudden realization that Thanksgiving was a week-and-a-half away. After a few days, I managed to release career envy and wistful canyon memories, focusing once more on life right here on our suburban cul-de-sac.

I knew I was back in stride when one day this past week, I proctored a test, accompanied my daughter to physical therapy, contacted two authors about articles for The High Calling, fixed lunch, cleaned up from lunch, folded a load of laundry, mediated a sibling dispute, and then drove to Kroger to buy a turkey, toothpaste, and toilet paper.

Yes, I thought, as I heaved the turkey into the freezer. This humble work is what I do…and it is good.

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For the Food on Fridays carnival, any post remotely related to food is welcome—though we love to try new dishes, your post doesn’t have to be a recipe. We’re pretty relaxed over here, and stories and photos are as welcome as menus and recipes. When your Food on Fridays contribution is ready, just grab the button to include with your post. It ties us together visually. Then fill in the boxes of this linky tool to join the fun!

Food on Fridays with Ann

My son wanted cupcakes at lunch on his birthday. I failed to put it on my calendar and forgot to fix them in time.

Fortunately, he wasn’t upset in the least. In fact, he shooed me when I offered to help, assuring me, “I’ll take care of it.”

He strode to the pantry, pulled out the box of Funfetti cake mix and whirred it together with eggs, oil and water. He confidently dropped paper liners into the muffin tins, plopped batter into them, and baked the entire batch himself.

“It’s fun,” he said.

“A person might as well do fun things on his birthday,” my husband observed.

“Exactly!” the birthday boy exclaimed, grinning big while bits of batter dripped from the edge of the bowl onto the counter.

And just like that, as if his last name was Baker, he made his own wish come true: cupcakes after lunch.

Happy birthday to my capable, confident, 11-year-old son!

* * * * *

Photos by Ann Kroeker. “Pin” these images in a way that links back to this particular page, giving proper credit.

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The post Food on Fridays: Cupcakes Courtesy of the Birthday Boy Himself appeared first on Ann Kroeker, Writing Coach.

Each Wednesday (or thereabouts) I’ve been recording a Curiosity Journal to recap the previous week using these tag words: reading, playing, learning, reacting and writing.

Reading

I started a couple of books while we were at family camp last week, but didn’t get far before people or activities pulled me away.

I left my book bags leaning against Adirondack chairs near the lodge as I conversed, kayaked, hiked and snapped photos.

Learning

The family camp we attend is simple, with minimal programming. They feed us, offer waterfront activities, host a square dance, and organize a campfire singalong with s’mores. It’s a week where a person could do next to nothing, or spend hours on the water or in the woods.The flexible schedule builds in two days to explore the area. We chose to visit Mackinac Island the first day.We rode on the ferry alongside some sailboats finishing the annual Race to Mackinac (Chicago to Mackinac Island).Motorized vehicles are not allowed on Mackinac, so people rent bikes to explore the island or simply stroll around town. Due to the influx of visitors associated with the big race, sidewalks were packed with people, and horse-drawn carriages were loaded down with tourists. What a relief to escape the crowds.We headed out on the eight-mile perimeter “highway.”I randomly lifted the camera to snap shots along the way.We cut inland halfway around, fighting to make it up steep hills.High on the island, we parked the bikes and walked out on a platform attached to Arch Rock for some lovely views.The bicycle rental dude told us that Sugar Loaf, a big limestone rock (the information sign called it a limestone “stack”), was a spot that the ancient inhabitants of the island believed to be the center of the universe.”Really?” I said. “Wow. Must be amazing.””You’ll see when you get there,” promised the dude. “It’s my favorite place on the island.”Intrigued, we wound our way through woods and struggled up inclines, following signs to Sugar Loaf.We finally found it.We stared at it for a moment, then looked at each other and shrugged.”Looks like a big rock,” one of the kids observed.”Let’s investigate,” I proposed.We ran up the little path and circled around the stack. On the back side my daughter discovered a little ledge where she climbed up to perch for a few minutes. Sadly, Sugar Loaf did not inspire a spirit of sharing or generosity, as she sort of kicked her brother away when he tried to join her.He and I continued around Sugar Loaf, leaving her at the perch. Three-quarters of the way around we spotted this guitar-shaped hole.If only my son could have made it to that little keyhole and squeezed through…who knows what he would have found?Alas, he is not a skilled climber, so we left Mackinac Island without unlocking the secrets of Sugar Loaf.The other day away from camp, we drove to “The Soo,” or Sault Sainte Marie, where locks control water levels between Lake Huron and Lake Superior, allowing ships to pass from one lake to the other.Back at camp, the simplest things delight. 

Playing

At this campground where we stopped along the way, two of my daughters enjoyed the playground.

Reacting

At the end of the week, on our way home, we found our way to Sleeping Bear Dunes. Sunsets at the Empire Village park inspired us all.

Writing

Write? Sometimes you just have to live.And L-O-V-E.

* * * * *

All images by Ann Kroeker. All rights reserved. You may “pin” in a way that links back to this post.

The post Curiosity Journal: August 1, 2012 appeared first on Ann Kroeker, Writing Coach.

The following story is adapted from

 * * * * *

My grandfather joined the Army in 1917 and was overseas with the Motor Transport Corps in France doing a lot of convoy work.

One assignment was to transport to Paris some high-powered Cadillac and Buick cars for General Pershing’s staff, and my grandfather was in charge of assigning the drivers. He decided it would be nice to see Paris, so he assigned himself to drive one of the cars—one version of the story has Grandpa driving Pershing’s personal vehicle.

Well, the convoy was flying down the road at top speed, and Grandpa had never driven a fast car like that. He had trouble keeping up.

Speeding down a hill, he suddenly saw that the entire convoy had stopped for some trucks to pass.

“I knew I couldn’t stop in time and had just about decided to ram the rear truck,” Grandpa explained one time (adding that he probably would never get out of the guardhouse for wrecking Pershing’s car), “when I spotted a possible way out. Just before I crashed into the convoy, I veered to the side, careened along the convoy and ran upon a pile of cinders that had been left by the roadside for winter emergencies.”

The soft landing left the Cadillac undamaged, wheels spinning as it perched atop the heap.

When Grandpa got out, the convoy leader ran up, shook his hand and said, “That was one swell piece of driving!”

Grandpa was too weak to answer, but said he was thinking, “You mean that was one swell piece of luck!”

Pictured above: my grandfather, the man who very nearly crashed General Pershing’s car. Photo was taken in France.

He returned from the war and married his sweetheart, my grandmother. Together they raised four wonderful children—my three uncles and my mom.

All three of my uncles served in World War II.

Thank you to all who have served or are serving in our armed forces.

Please share your stories with someone today.

(modified from the archives)

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Watching my baby grow up so fast, I face a thousand goodbyes.

Every day, my baby leaves behind a trail of change.

Those changes morph into memories that I scramble to save and savor.

I light candles on birthday cakes and snap pictures, laughing at my child’s delight—all the while swallowing back a lump in my throat forming at the thought of the thousand little goodbyes that day represents.

Goodbye, pacifier, blankie, sippie cup, toddler bed. Goodbye, Little People and Playmobil.

Goodbye, Dr. Seuss and Dora the Explorer.

Goodbye, childhood.

I know I’ve deepened and matured through this life of goodbyes, but it doesn’t make them easier.

When he was little, my son called oatmeal “opa-meal,” the Pledge of Allegiance the “fledge” of allegiance, and pancakes were “pampakes.”

For a long time he said “pomatoes” for tomatoes.

We were working on letter sounds with him one day. Studying black-line drawings of nouns that start with the “t” sound, he understood that each word began with that hard “t-t-t.

“T-t-tire” he said while looking at the picture, then proudly glancing up for affirmation.

“That’s right.”

“T-t-turtle.”

“Yep.”

“T-t–what is that flower?”

“A tulip.”

“Oh! It’s pretty. T-t-tulip.”

Keeping the rhythm, he looked at the next picture and said “P-p…” He stopped, realizing that he wasn’t making the “t” sound, even though he was pretty sure he was looking at a pomato. He started again, “P-p…” He stared at it. “What is this thing?” he asked.

With the pang that accompanies goodbyes, I reluctantly said, “A t-t-tomato. It’s a to-ma-to.”

“Tomato?” He was perfectly capable of saying it.

“Yes,” I sighed, “a tomato.”

“Oh. T-t-tomato.”

Goodbye, pomato.
__________________________________________

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Thirteen years ago, our real estate agent, Bob, opened the door of a blue-gray house built in 1979. I didn’t expect much, though my first impression was generally positive—I liked the big trees and the country, cottage-y style of the front porch. As we crossed the threshold, the inside seemed spacious because the owners had already moved and left the rooms empty.

But the first thing that caught my eye was the newel post.”It looks so worn,” I said, running my hand around the knob,
imagining kids swinging around each time they hit the last step. They must hang onto the knob and swoosh around “Singing-in-the-Rain”-style as they turn down the hallway, sliding their palms against the wood, wearing off a little stain each time.

“It rubs off from use,” Bob said.

“Can it be renewed?” I asked. “Can we re-stain it or something?”

“You can,” Bob said, “but I don’t think you’d want to. It adds character. Shows it was lived in.”

“Lived in and loved.” I nodded.

“Exactly,” Bob agreed.

He pointed out other features in the entry that he thought were notable and walked us through the upstairs and main floor, but I kept thinking about that worn newel post. When we came downstairs again, I slipped my hand around it again and could feel how smooth that curved wood felt against my palm. And then I remembered the scene at the end of “It’s a Wonderful Life,” when George Bailey realizes how much he wants to return to his imperfect life filled with family and friends. As he rushes upstairs to see his beloved Zuzu, the wobbly newel post knob pops off in his hand, but this time instead of being frustrated he kisses it as he sets it in place.

Suddenly I loved the worn knob for being worn.

And we bought the house.

For 13 years we’ve lived in this house, running up and down the stairs, swooshing around that newel post, running our palms around the knob every single time.

But we’ve talked about fixing up the stairs. Although they are structurally sound, they have several issues. We’ve lived with them in spite of those issues, wondering what to do.

For the past year, we’ve gotten more serious about it, prioritizing the work and discussing whether to sand down the old stair treads or replace them with new. Finally, just a few weeks ago, we took the plunge: We bought new materials and hired our friend to do the work.He started this past week and made progress quickly.

Before long he had to head home to get a jigsaw for the bottom four steps. When he left, I returned to my laptop in the kitchen. He came back with his saw and called to me from the stairs. I couldn’t quite hear him.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“I’m taking this out!” he announced.

I walked down the hall and saw him pointing to the short section of handrail, spindles, and newel post. “Oh! It’s coming down!” I said. “Wow, I guess that’s really final.”

“Yep. I’ll cut it here and here,” he explained, pointing to the spots where the rail met the wall and newel post.

I nodded. “Sounds good!” I turned to go when the worn knob caught my eye. “Oh!” I exclaimed. “The knob!”

“Yep, that’s next. It goes too.”

“Ohhhh…” I sighed. “The knob….” I reached out and ran my fingers around the smooth, worn spot. “I bought this house in part because of this knob right here.” I told him about picturing kids swooshing around and reminded him of the scene from “It’s a Wonderful Life.” I bent over and kissed the knob. And when I kissed it, I almost cried. I thought of our own kids running their hands around it, how they were so little when we moved in and now our oldest will be turning 18. I wanted to freeze time. I wanted to keep the newel post. The knob. The memories.

But I couldn’t keep it. It had to go, or else he couldn’t replace the bottom four stair treads.

He saw me getting sentimental and offered, “I can cut it here for you, if you want.” He made a motion with his finger to show where he could slice off the top just below the knob.

“Can you cut it a little lower, so it’ll have a little square stand?”

“Sure.”

“But I can’t watch,” I admitted. So I pointed once more, “right there,” and then scurried to the kitchen to wait. First he sawed off the railing. He came through the kitchen holding it in one piece, the spindles still attached and dangling like the legs of a caterpillar marionette. I ran to open the door to the garage where he could lean it against some other old wood.

“The newel’s next,” he said. “Think you can handle it?”

“If you can save the knob, I’ll be okay.”

“I’ll save the knob.”

He disappeared while I sat down at the computer trying to distract myself. I heard the saw rev up. A few minutes later he walked back in.

“Here’s your knob.” He plunked it on the kitchen counter.

My heart swelled. “The knob!” I picked it up and turned it around in my hand. “I love it!”

“Is that what you wanted?”

“It’s perfect! Thank you so much!”

He grinned big and went back to work sawing and prying out the bottom half of the newel. While he was hard at work, I gazed at my wonderful old knob, picking it up and turning it around to look at it from various angles.

I left it on the counter all day and touched it now and then. And once, when no one was looking, I picked it up and kissed it.

__________________________________

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The post The Old, Worn Knob appeared first on Ann Kroeker, Writing Coach.

Each Wednesday (or thereabouts) I’ve been recording a Curiosity Journal to recap the previous week using these tag words: reading, playing, learning, reacting and writing.

:::

Reading

Hey, I finished grading papers! Maybe soon I’ll read something written by a person over the age of 18?

Playing

Our weekend away with friends was so relaxing, so rejuvenating, so restful.They know how to create a sanctuary.

root beer

Learning

Life is better with abundant sunshine and temperatures in the 80s.Of course, I’m not really learning that. I’m simply experiencing it—joyfully embracing, even wallowing, in this unexpected explosion of warmth and light—confirming what I’ve always known to be true.

Reacting

I jogged the other day down a path shared by scooters and bikes. As I plodded along, I heard a man’s sharp voice behind me, “Snap your helmet on. NOW.” Then he roared even louder, “Do it! NOW!”Two boys about eight or nine years old maneuvered around me, the second boy fumbling to click his bike helmet strap with one hand while steering wobbly with the other. Next in line, the father. Wearing a baseball cap. Behind him, another boy, his helmet straps dangling.Stern and fierce, the dad looked back at the boy behind him, who quickly felt for both ends of his loose straps and scrambled to snap them together.The dad glared at him, grabbed his baseball cap by its bill and lifted it from his head to wipe his balding head; then he stuck it back on and wiggled it back into the comfort spot.I almost said something to the last boy as he passed me—something about adult bike helmets on sale at Dick’s—but I thought better of it and stayed quiet. I watched them cycle ahead of me, those four boys—two of them still fumbling with their helmet clips—and the dad in his bright yellow baseball cap. They biked single file, the dad still barking commands, his voice fading as they rode up the trail.I wondered how many years will pass before the boys leave their helmets in the garage, assuming they’ve outgrown them.

Writing

My work appears in Mother Letters. I’m honored to have taken part…and, wow, I’m in good company.

* * * * *

All images by Ann Kroeker, except for the one of Ann Kroeker, which was taken by her husband. All rights reserved. You may “pin” in a way that links back to this post.

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The post Curiosity Journal: March 21, 2012 appeared first on Ann Kroeker, Writing Coach.

Each Wednesday I’ve been recording a Curiosity Journal to recap the previous week using these tag words: reading, playing, learning, reacting and writing.

:::

Reading

Still reading The Thinking Life: How to Thrive in the Age of Distraction. It’s a short book. Seriously, it’s so short I should already be finished, but I only have time to nibble a few pages at a time. It’s okay to go slow, though, and ponder his ideas. That is, in fact, one of his points: take time to reflect.I was pleased to read at the end of Chapter 2 a few words about the benefits of writing about our lives:

By the way, science has determined beyond a doubt that writing about your life—present and past—can be good for both your body and your psyche. Among other things, it strengthens your immune system and reduces the damages of stress. (Forni 28)

I knew writing about life was good, but I didn’t know it strengthened the immune system. All the more reason to blog, right?In a section about multitasking, Forni refers to a woman named Linda Stone (whom he described as “a distinguished expert on the impact of the new technology on our daily lives”) and borrowed her phrase “continuous partial attention” to describe how many of us spend our days (32). It’s a wordy way of saying “inattentive,” but the phrase sticks with me, reminding me of the importance of devoting my full attention to people and tasks. I don’t want to give my family, friends, and work “continuous partial attention.” I want to be fully here.He does, thankfully, assure readers that a person’s power of attention can be strengthened with training and practice. Among other things, he advocates taking time to reflect and write down the activities of the day. Preserving them in this way honors each moment we’ve been given. Engage with life, Forni advises, so that it doesn’t slip away:

What remains of all our yesterdays if we spent them without attention and conviction? It is as though we never lived them…We did not value life enough to pay attention to it as it was happening…The more you value life, the more you engage with it. (37, 38)

Oh, let me cherish the moments.

Playing

I personally hate surprises, but I love surprising others who love to be surprised.See “Learning” (below) for details.

Learning

This weekend I arrived at a local elementary school to celebrate a friend’s 75th birthday. Her family concocted various excuses that led her to the school cafeteria where we were waiting, trying hard not to whisper too loud in the dim, echo-y space. As the school nurse, she has keys to the building and could let herself in. She walked down the hallway toward the room, and when she stepped through the doorway, someone flipped the light switch and we all shouted “Surprise!” and her face, oh, her face, her whole self, seemed overcome by a wave of love.One of the highlights of the afternoon was the open mic. Friends and family took turns at the mic telling stories, praising the birthday girl, rising up and calling her blessed. She has never been rich from the world’s perspective, and she’s never taken to a hobby, but “she collects people,” one of her daughters said.There we were: her collection, perched on metal folding chairs, sipping orange punch, eating slices of chocolate cake, delighting in her.Under the fluorescent lights of the elementary school cafeteria, I realized this is how I want to celebrate my own birthday in 30 years: Laughing with friends, telling stories, scanning the room and marveling at God’s treasures placed in my life for a year…or a lifetime…to love well.

Reacting

This morning my son and I started down the front hallway in opposite directions. As he turned sideways slightly to pass, I reached out to hug him. He turned to me and wrapped his long, thin arms around me: first one, then the other, then a squeeze, then a tighter squeeze. He leaned into me and I had to reach out and press my hand against the wall to keep from falling over. Finally, he pulled away first one arm, then the other. He looked up and smiled sweetly.”You know what?” he asked.”What?””I think God chose the perfect mom for me,” he said, eyes intent on mine.”Really?”He nodded.”How interesting,” I said, “because I think He chose the perfect son for me.”He stared at me, his chapped lips stretched taut across his face in a smile that wouldn’t stop. I held his loving gaze until he finally nodded slowly and skipped into the living room.

Writing

I’m enjoying my work editing the “I Do” series at The High Calling. Today’s post by Seth Haines—the final in the series—is a call to preserve the truth about our marriages.

* * * * *

Note: Affiliate links included.Works Cited: All images by Ann Kroeker. All rights reserved. Forni, P. M. The Thinking Life: How to Thrive in the Age of Distraction. St. Martin’s Press: New York, 2011. Print.

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The post Curiosity Journal: February 29, 2012 appeared first on Ann Kroeker, Writing Coach.

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Each Wednesday I’ve been recording a Curiosity Journal to recap the previous week using these tag words: reading, playing, learning, reacting and writing.

:::

Reading

I gave up on Bonhoeffer—Bonhoeffer: Pastor, Martyr, Prophet, Spy, that is—and returned it to the library. Too thick for me to get through at the moment.

Playing

We had pizza with friends. That was fun.

Learning

One afternoon I was at Kroger with my youngest daughter. The two of us were browsing eye shadow, looking for a neutral color combination that I could try. I don’t wear much makeup, and she doesn’t wear any, so it was one of those blind leading the blind moments.I pulled out a little container that showed three colors together. “How can I know which color goes where?” I wondered aloud.My daughter shrugged. We moved down the line and found another pack that had instructions. On the back were diagrams of an eye that indicated where each color would be applied, one, two, three; base, lid, crease. On the colors themselves—on the actual makeup—the company had stamped the words “base,” “lid,” and “crease.””Look!” I exclaimed. My daughter raced over. “Look how simple they made it,” I continued, pointing to the diagrams and markings. “Step one, two, and three. It’s all labeled and everything.”She flipped it to the back and then to the front. Then she looked up with a huge grin and exclaimed, “Idiot-proof makeup!”I laughed out loud. “Perfect!”

Reacting

On Sunday, our pastor reminded us of the beautiful reality that Jesus made it possible for us to have His Father as our Father. Through Jesus, we’re adopted into the family of God and can be called children of God.We are precious, so precious. “See,” God says to His people, “I have engraved you on the palms of my hands.”Seth Irby wrote a song that we sang that morning. Part of the chorus says:

You were not ashamed to call us Your brothersGiving us Your Father as our own.Your mercy is enough for us to sing Your praise,But You give so much more. You give so much more.

And from the bridge:

You did not leave us orphaned, Lord, cleansed of sin and nothing more.You called us “children of the King,” gave to us the family ring.And that same power that raised You up lives in us and fills us up,Teaching us to cry out “Abba Father!”

As the pastor spoke, I scribbled a quick drawing of a hand in my notebook—an open hand, palm up. On it, in very small print, I slowly wrote the three letters of my first name…a shy reminder of my Father’s love.

Writing

Hm…not much to report.

* * * * *

Credits: All images by Ann Kroeker. All rights reserved.

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The post Curiosity Journal: February 1, 2012 appeared first on Ann Kroeker, Writing Coach.

Each Wednesday I’ve been recording a Curiosity Journal to recap the previous week using these tag words: reading, playing, learning, reacting and writing.

:::

Reading

A few articles, mostly about brain-sharpening:

• “A Sharper Mind, Middle Age and Beyond” from The New York Times
• “Buff Your Brain” from Newsweek (via The Daily Beast)
• Though I disagreed with a couple of the suggestions, I appreciated several ideas mentioned in “31 Ways to Get Smarter in 2012,” from Newsweek (via The Daily Beast)

Also, unrelated to the mind, I really enjoyed the article in The New York Times about Finders Key, the horse who starred in “Seabiscuit” and “War Horse.”

Playing

It’s been a big week for games. We’ve been playing Rummy and Bananagrams with my mom, who recently moved in with us, and one of my daughters has been challenging me to electronic Scrabble and Words with Friends.By the way, the first idea in that Newsweek article about getting smarter in 2012 recommends playing Words with Friends to help reduce risk of Alzheimer’s and dementia, so…what are we waiting for? Anyone up for a round?

Learning

See “Reading.”

Reacting

As I mentioned, my mom moved in with us recently. Because the kids call her Grandma, I will on my blog here, too.She and my son were playing rummy at the kitchen table the other day, candles left lit from mealtime still flickering. Sometimes Grandma would win, sometimes he would win. They’d laugh together, jokingly groaning if the other played a good hand.As I puttered around the kitchen cleaning up, my son looked up and asked me, “How long is Grandma going to stay with us?””As long as she needs to,” I answered.”You said it would be at least a week,” he said, “and tonight makes it exactly a week. And so I just wondered how much longer.””Well,” I said, “the doctor said she would need us to be nearby to check on her until she gets better, for at least a week. So she’s with us as long as she needs us, and she can stay as long as she likes.”He nodded and grinned. “I like that,” he said. “I like that a lot.”

Writing

No writing projects of consequence to note this week.

* * * * *

Credits: Banana Splits/Bananagrams photo by Sophie Marie. All other images by Ann Kroeker. All rights reserved.

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The post Curiosity Journal: January 26, 2012 appeared first on Ann Kroeker, Writing Coach.

Later, at dinner, I looked down at my lap—a layer of glitter speckled my pants and sweater, as if my lap were a cookie decorated with a few shakes of colored sugar. I shimmered a little in the candlelight.

Must be from some of the wrapping paper, I thought, flipping the scarf around my neck again, as it had unwound itself, one end dangling down, the fringe scraping my forearm.

That night, I shook out the pants and sweater and tossed them into the laundry. I set the scarf on the floor of the closet and didn’t wear it again until the temperatures dropped a week or so later. That first cold day of the new year, I flung the scarf around my neck and noticed glitter sliding down the front of my leather coat.

The scarf! I thought the strands of yarn were themselves glitzy, but they were dropping flecks like dandruff all over my coat and clothes as if someone had simply rolled the scarf in a pile of glitter before shipping it to the store. Everywhere I went, whether I sat, paused, or leaned against something or someone, I left a trail of fairy dust.

I amused myself with visions of young girls, wide-eyed with imagination, concocting stories of the Tooth Fairy tapping a wand against the chairs in the library or in the waiting room of the dentist’s office, but the glitter had to go. I couldn’t live with it dropping into the computer keyboard, let’s say, or the chili.

So I decided to launder the scarf. That’ll wash away the loose glitter, I surmised.

The kids had just sorted their dirty laundry, forming a mountain of sweatshirts, sweaters, socks and jeans in the basket of darks. I tossed them into the machine along with the scarf, measured out the soap and pressed start.

A few hours later, I plucked a few items from the top of that load and tossed them in the dryer or hung them up to dry. The deeper I moved into the layers, however, the more the items seemed to gleam. By the time I reached the last few T-shirts and jeans that had been sitting against the washer tub, I realized they were coated with glitter. Absolutely coated.

I left the shiniest stuff in there and ran a rinse cycle, hoping that would loosen up the clingy bits, but when I pulled them out a second time, those clothes still sparkled. I hung up most of them on the closet rod, hoping the glitter would drop off as they dried, but I checked the next morning. Each fleck stubbornly held fast to the fabric.

My son’s T-shirt has a rock star vibe; my daughter’s corduroys shimmer.

For a while, it seems that we will look a little flashy, like junior high girls dressing for a Justin Bieber concert.

And yet, when we head to church on Sunday morning, I like to think that our very presence, reflecting the light as we stand to pray or praise, might remind the people sitting behind us to head back into the world and shine like stars.

:::

Credits: Photos by Ann Kroeker. All rights and glitter reserved.

The post Shine appeared first on Ann Kroeker, Writing Coach.

We wander through the European gallery, pausing here and there to admire a piece that catches someone’s eye.

My son favors three-dimensional art like vases, bowls and sculptures.

My camera-toting daughter is capturing her favorite works in megapixels, often murmuring, “I really like that one.” Curious, I slip over and take a look. She seems to prefer muted colors, landscapes in soft grays and browns.

The sketch-pad girl creates her own quick pencil-on-paper version of a blue boat against an other-worldly yellow background and later, a sculpture of two gamboling deer.

I prefer paintings, leaning in to admire thick brush stroke’s texture, wondering how the artists saw not once but twice—first the actual scene or subject matter, and then the version in their minds that they committed to canvas using lines, curves, splotches and color.

Along the way, I find I’m unexpectedly moved by some of the works, though I don’t have much time to ponder why. The effect is as subtle and brief as the tapping of a pond’s still surface, which stirs a series of ripples that nod and flatten. I feel it, and then it fades.

I know that art can do this: it can tap the water’s surface and even cause a splash.

Art, I’m told, can awaken, unlock and touch deep and secret places inside us. I feel that these artists invite me to stop and stare. I can stand where they stood and see what they saw…or what they want to reveal.

But I don’t have time to explore this deeply or wonder about its power, because on this family outing, not everyone is drawn to the same thing, so we keep moving along.

As we work our way through the American gallery, the kids’ interest fades dramatically each time we turn a corner and encounter another collection. I am lingering near a Tiffany stained glass window, pondering the words—a passage from Ephesians 5, to be precise—and soon hear someone in our party sighing heavily. I leave the window to find the youngest actually curled up on an empty bench as if to nap.

Art can awaken, and art can put some to sleep. I notice that even the sketchbook has been slid into a bag and the camera tucked away.

It’s time to leave.

As we pull away, the kids are visibly tired; yet, though I can’t explain it, I find myself more awake than ever.

The post Art Can Awaken appeared first on Ann Kroeker, Writing Coach.

Each Wednesday I’ve been recording a Curiosity Journal to recap the previous week using these tag words: reading, playing, learning, reacting and writing.

:::

Reading

The equivalent to what I would have posted here went live yesterday: “Season of Creativity.” When I began to re-read Rumors of Water: Thoughts on Creativity & Writing, by my friend and colleague L.L. Barkat, I found myself pulling out art supplies…

Playing

After a brief survey of my meager collection of pencils, charcoal and conté crayons, I determined a pencil sketch was in order. A sketch…of a pear.So I pulled out the only pear in the fruit bowl, a bosc pear. Kind of old, but edible. And sketch-able.Turns out its stem was broken and a few dark spots marred its skin. At first I was bummed about the imperfections; then I decided those sort of added charm, like a beauty mark.And then, for the first time in years, I picked up a drawing pencil and sketched.Following the recommendations of this post, I decided to sketch it four different times from four different angles.And I quickly realized I need a refresher course in shading and, perhaps, in the whole process of sketching. Thankfully, online tutorials provide helpful and inspiring instruction.

Learning

Even though the author seemed hesitant to make definitive statements, I enjoyed an article from onlineuniversities.com entitled, “15 Scientific Facts about Creativity.” One thing they said was:

Unlike intelligence, creativity tends to thrive when thinking slows down, although “flashes” of inspiration and insight occur with the speed of flashes.

I was also pleased that I managed to use the elliptical machine the same morning that I read “fact” number nine, “Aerobic exercise increases one’s creative potential”:

When brain fog starts rolling in, try a moderate amount of aerobic exercise to try and clear it up. Rhode Island College scientists noted that the two hours after engaging in such rigorous physical activity proved some of the most mentally fertile in a 2005 study.

I sort of ignored the observations that creativity and mental illness may correlate and that creative people are more likely to be dishonest.

Reacting

I’ve never been too good about setting and meeting goals unless they are very simple and short-term, like, “finish folding laundry,” “clear desk,” and “clip nails.” When I was in college, I would make a daily to-do list, and at the top I would always write “get up.” This ensured a sense of success and productivity because immediately upon waking, I could cross something off.So you can see that when it comes to goal-setting, I haven’t exactly aimed high.Yet year after year I find that during the days between Christmas and New Year’s, I’m considering goals, intentions, resolutions, rhythms, habits, patterns, curiosity, creativity, productivity…and dreams.I’m wondering how can they all weave together.Indeed, weaving together is important because the lines between work and play and teaching and learning blur and merge in my life. Due to this blurring and merging, clear and measurable goal-setting becomes a bit more of a challenge.But I formulate plans and talk them over with the Belgian Wonder. I sort them out in my journal. I pray. I wait. I try to listen as best I can to Divine direction, remaining open to new ideas.If nothing dramatic or substantial presents itself, I tend to focus on maintaining existing rhythms of life—perhaps tweaking them slightly—and listing projects that make sense to launch in this calendar year. Otherwise, a lot of life is about the quotidian activities that keep our family fed and clothed, and our home livable.But I do love to dream.

Writing

I’m practicing writing with my left hand, to unleash creativity.

:::

Credits:Photos: Images by Ann Kroeker. All rights reserved.

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The post Curiosity Journal: December 28, 2011 appeared first on Ann Kroeker, Writing Coach.

(names obscured for privacy)

(name obscured for privacy)

Temperance PledgeWe hereby solemnly promise, God helping us, to abstain from all distilled, fermented and malt liquors including wine and beer and to employ all proper means to discourage the use of and the traffic in the same.

Though I have obscured my great-grandmother’s name, you may notice that she signed and dated it on April 15, 1889. You may also observe that the spot for a signature on the left remains empty. She recorded her commitment on the right, leaving that left area open and available, just in case anyone decided to join her in the pledge. I guess in her household, the plural pledge of “we” ended up being a singular “I.”I wonder what held back my great-grandfather? The possibility of sipping bubbly cider that accidentally fermented on a late fall afternoon? The hope of sharing a beer with his buddies?There is more to the story, I’m sure. The names and dates are nothing more than facts, statistics. Behind them lie the stories.The Bible with its lush illustrations and family notations is lovely, but stories? Those are what I crave. Both the family stories…and the Bible’s.

:::

Credits: All photos by Ann Kroeker. All rights reserved.

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We’d drive into town and pick out a tree from the Methodist Church lot set up on Main Street and haul it home, where Dad sawed off the trunk and screwed on the metal base. The rest of us would be sorting through boxes, checking the over-sized string of lights dating from the 1960s, screwing in bulbs to find the one that wasn’t working, replacing them, slowly, while Dad manhandled the tree into the corner and turned it around to find the most presentable angle. Finally, after disagreements and a fair amount of adult swearing, he advised us how to best weave and clip the lights onto the tree before we could begin decorating with a mixture of homemade and store-bought ornaments. We finished it off while Dad slumped on the sofa, directing the ideal placement of each strand of icicle that we draped over the branches for shimmer.

During the Christmas season, my brother and I would watch the TV guide and figure out when we would grab pillows and flop on the floor to watch the stop-motion Rudolf and animated Frosty specials on TV. We made lists and hung stockings, and I sustained such elevated excitement in anticipation of Christmas morning gifts, I sometimes felt like my head would pop off like a Barbie doll’s. Mom and Dad saved—and borrowed—in order to lavish us with gifts, which they piled under the tree each year. Santa brought a “big” gift each year, like a bicycle or an aquarium. The rest of the items weren’t necessarily extravagant in and of themselves, but the sheer quantity astounded us.

In the midst of our secular décor and activity, Mom would pull out a sturdy brown cardboard box from the storage closet and carry it carefully downstairs. Wrapped in double layers of tissue paper and nestled into soft packing material lay the delicate pieces of our family Nativity set.

Inherited from my grandmother, this collection was set off to the side, away from the hubbub. We were allowed to set it up, but after that we were never to play with it, as it was old and precious and a little rickety. That alone gave it an air of holiness.

Mom would let my brother and me take turns placing the characters in the stable. We sometimes switched things up and put the manger in the bigger area on the right, but usually Jesus seemed to best fit in the alcove, with Mary close by and slightly to the left, so she could gaze down at the baby while clutching her hands to her breast, heart swelling with adoration. We pondered the best arrangement of animals and organized the wise men carefully so that they leaned and tilted their heads in the right direction.

At some point, we imported a camel from another, lower quality set. And a sheep lost its ear that we super-glued back in place. Other than that, the scene stayed more or less the same.

As we grew older, my brother lost interest, and the job of arranging the scene fell mainly to me. I happened to be growing more and more interested in spiritual things at that time, and the holy seemed holier; the scene from Bethlehem, more precious than ever.

One day, I gave my life to Christ and the set took on a deeply personal meaning. That one symbol of my Savior in our otherwise secular celebration was a place where I could pause and be reminded of Emmanuel, God with us.

In high school, one of my friends gave me a gift, a porcelain clown playing a wind instrument something like a soprano sax, recorder, or clarinet. She thought of me, she said, because I played clarinet in band. I thanked her and brought it home to show my parents before heading off to do homework. A few days later, the clown disappeared.

I found it.

In the Nativity set.

Tucked in the shadows, staying respectfully at a distance back by the donkey, stood the diminutive clown playing his mournful little tune.

The person who placed the clown amongst the animals meant it as a funny, if irreverent, joke. But my heart fell. The only sacred space set aside in the Christmas season had been invaded by a clown.

My mom, sensing my disappointment—or perhaps herself disturbed—plucked the figurine from the scene and placed him above, on a shelf, to allow the jokester some fun while maintaining a sense of dignity for the Holy Family. When we put away the set that year, we debated what to do about the clown. I guess we wrapped him up and tucked him into the box. At any rate, the next year he returned, secretly added to the barn after the other characters settled into their places.

Year after year, the clown continued to appear in or around my parents’ Nativity scene, as much a tradition as the standard-issued parts. My college boyfriend suggested the clown serve as a symbol of how we are fools for Christ, and after that I found myself more comfortable with the clown’s presence.

Still later, years later, my sister-in-law recommended I read Clowning in Rome, by Henri Nouwen. In it, he explains:

Clowns are not in the center of the events. They appear between the great acts, fumble and fall, and make us smile again after the tensions created by the heroes we came to admire. The clowns don’t have it together, they do not succeed in what they try to do, they are awkward, out of balance, and left-handed, but…they are on our side. We respond to them not with admiration, but with sympathy, not with amazement but with understanding, not with tension but with a smile. Of the virtuosi we say, “How can they do it?” Of the clowns we say, “They are like us.” The clowns remind us with a tear and a smile that we share the same human weaknesses. (3)

Suddenly, that perspective offered meaning to this annual visitor. It seemed good to have a clown near the Savior…even to be a clown near the Savior, associated with the King of kings while remaining real and humble, even awkward.

The Lord didn’t come for those who were healthy, but for the sick; he didn’t come for the righteous, but for sinners. He came for the lame, the weak, the lowly. He came for the awkward, out-of-balance people who don’t have it together.

He came for the clowns.

And so I still find solace in that vintage manger scene, the Nativity with all the expected elements, and that one unexpected clown tucked in the corner, reminding me of my humanity…reminding me of my need for a Savior.

:::

Work Cited:

Nouwen, Henri. Clowning in Rome. New York: Doubleday, 1979, 2000. Print.

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Image credits: All photos by Ann Kroeker. All rights reserved.

The post Send in the Clown appeared first on Ann Kroeker, Writing Coach.

Each Wednesday I’m recording a Curiosity Journal to recap the past week. Tag words are: reading, playing, learning, reacting and writing.

:::

Some of you have mentioned that you’re keeping a Curiosity Journal, as well. If you do, leave your link in the comments so that we can visit and enjoy your weekly review.

Reading

Several years ago, a friend of mine and I were browsing shelves at a used bookstore, and I reached up to pull down Staying Put. That title, Staying Put: Making a Home in a Restless World, represented a kind of resignation; I grabbed it knowing I needed to accept my fate, though my heart crumpled into a little wad as I placed the book in my bag and brought it home.Having lived my entire life in the same state, I’ve always wondered what it would be like to pack up my books and my clothes and shed a lot of my clutter in order to try a different state—even a different country. I married this Belgian-born guy and always thought I might get a chance to live overseas; alas, I’m still here, staying put.I figured Sanders might convince me to bloom where I’m planted, or at least refuse to wilt.In his chapter entitled “Settling Down,” he describes an afternoon when he and some friends opted to stay on the porch as a storm blew in:

Above the trees and rooftops, the murky southern sky crackled with lightning. Now and again we heard the pop of a transformer as a bolt struck the power lines in our neighborhood. The pulses of thunder came faster and faster, until they merged into a continuous roar.We gave up on talking. The four of us, all Midwesterners teethed on thunderstorms, sat down there on the porch to our meal of lentil soup, cheddar cheese, bread warm from the oven, sliced apples and strawberries…In the time it took for butter to melt on a slice of bread, the wind fell away, the elm stopped thrashing, the lightning let up, and the thunder ceased…We gazed at one another over the steady candle flames and knew without exchanging a word what this eerie lull could mean. (97-98)

They debated about heading to the basement when the civil defense sirens wailed, warning residents to take cover. Sanders and his wife and friends ended up staying. He reports on the rushing of wind, his physical reaction, his momentary sensation that he was riding the wind even though they simply sat there in the candlelight.The tornado missed them by half a mile.He goes on to describe the Millers, a family from his youth who suffered from three tornadoes tearing apart their home, yet they refused to budge. They rebuilt each time.

Psychologists tell us that we answer trouble with one of two impulses, either fight or flight. I believe that the Millers’ response to tornadoes and my own keen expectancy on the porch arose from a third instinct, that of staying put…These tornado memories dramatize a choice we are faced with constantly: whether to go or stay, whether to move to a situation that is safer, richer, easier, more attractive, or to stick where we are and make what we can of it. If the shine goes off our marriage, our house, our car, do we trade it for a new one? If the fertility leaches out of our soil, the creativity out of our job, the money out of our pocket, do we start over somewhere else? (101-102)

Sanders acknowledges that mankind exhibits nomadic tendencies, citing early man crossing the land bridge to North America, explorers and the like. The United States formed because of those pilgrims and immigrants who ventured from the Old Country to the New, and frontiersmen and prospectors who explored and headed out to test the possibilities of new places.But, he wonders, what about those who choose to attend to a given place?He writes:

To become intimate with your home region, to know the territory as well as you can, to understand your life as woven into the local life does not prevent you from recognizing and honoring the diversity of other places, cultures, ways. On the contrary, how can you value other places if you do not have one of your own? (114)

Toward the end of the chapter, after he discusses ecology and the need to preserve our place, Sanders recreates a scene from King Lear, when blind and wretched old Gloucester begs his son, Edgar, to lead him to the edge of a cliff so that he can leap to his death. Edgar tricks the old man into thinking they are at the brink of a bluff at the edge of the sea:

Gloucester kneels, then tumbles forward onto the level ground; on landing, he is amazed to find himself alive. He is transformed by the fall. Blind, at last he is able to see his life clearly; despairing, he discovers hope. To be enlightened, he did not have to leap to someplace else; he only had to come hard against the ground where he already stood. (118)

I am still here, living on the hard Midwestern ground I’ve always known. Many times I dream of leaping someplace else—not to my death; rather, I think of a move as a potential rebirth to a new, warmer climate, perhaps, closer to the sea. It’s probably nothing more than wanderlust based on the reckless notion that the grass is greener on the southern side of the country.Staying put is probably the thing to do, but I do so long to sit in the sunshine somewhere…to walk barefoot on warmed sand…to eat fresh seafood and snap pictures of blooming flowers and green leaves.But for now, I’m here, same as always, trying to make what I can of it.

Playing

Decorating the tree really does feel a little like playing……although our eldest fell asleep in a chair. I don’t think she was bored; I think she was honestly exhausted.I always have the honor of hanging the bronze-colored “Sputnik” ornament my mom let me have from my childhood.One disappointment: discovering that a shiny pink globe that I loved was broken. I was too sad to photograph it.

Learning

Advent creates healthy pauses, slowing us, pulling us together for a few moments to pray and, however imperfectly, sing.

Reacting

At our homeschool co-op, I lingered late, chatting with a friend. One of our board members grows poinsettias to sell at her orchard store. She had extras after the store closed for the season, so she gave each family a poinsettia as a Christmas gift. As I wandered to the front of the church after my chat in order to claim my potted plant, she handed me two extras. “Take them,” she urged.”Really? Three?””Yes. Take them. I’m done with them. I don’t want to haul any back home.”Delighted, I asked the kids to carry them to the van, where we tucked them into the trunk area and wedged in our backpacks so they’d stay upright.Now I can give one to my friend Charity, and have two on display at my place.A splash of color to brighten dreary winter days.

Writing

The “language arts department” of our homeschool co-op has been putting together recommendations for next year’s writing, literature, worldview and logic courses. I’ve volunteered to consolidate our discussions and create the proposal for the board. Lots of e-mails flying back and forth as we finalize the document.

:::

Credits:Photos: All images by Sophie Marie. Used with permission. All rights reserved.Sanders, Scott Russell. Staying Put: Making a Home in a Restless World. Boston: Beacon Press, 1993. Print. (Amazon Associates Link)

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:::

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About two-thirds of the way into the church service each week, one of the pastors invites the children to join him up front. He presents a little object lesson or tells a story, then we recite the verse of the month together—a verse the entire congregation is memorizing.This week, the pastor held up between his forefinger and thumb something small and oblong.”Can you guess what this is?” he asked the kids.”Candy!” one of the kids called out.”It’s not candy,” he said. My family and I were sitting toward the back, so I leaned forward and squinted. Maybe a vitamin, I speculated. Then he can say something about how vitamins nourish us when we take them daily just like God’s Word nourishes us when we take it in daily. “Play-dough?” a kid offered.”No, it’s not Play-dough,” he answered, still holding the small item up for them to consider.I began to doubt the vitamin idea. Maybe it was a bullet? The room was quiet as the kids exhaled other possibilities in shy, preschool whispers that I couldn’t make out. We all wondered.Suddenly, without a word, the pastor popped it in his mouth.Is he going to swallow that? I wondered. How can he get it down without any water?*chomp*  *chomp*  *chomp*Oh, it’s a chewable vitamin, I reasoned.”Gum!” he exclaimed. *chomp*  *chomp*  *chomp*”It’s chewing gum,” he managed to say between chomps.“Gum!” I said out loud, my voice mingling with the murmuring crowd. People nodded as he explained that chewing gum is like meditating, because when you’re meditating, it’s like you’re chewing on something, thinking about it over and over just like you chew gum over and over. He said sometimes he would chew on the same piece of gum all day long. Adults gasped and giggled.That piece of gum was big, requiring him to open his jaw wide to work it around in his mouth and soften it up, so he would say a few words and then pause to chew.*chomp*  *chomp*  *chomp*His jaw working that gum, chomping, teaching, modeling. Of course. So simple.We recited the verse in unison:

Do not let this book of the law depart from your mouth; meditate on it day and night, so that you may be careful to do everything written in it. Then you will be prosperous and successful. (Joshua 1:8)

Our pastor prayed for the children with that gum crammed in the side of his cheek and then, with a smile, he dismissed them to children’s worship, inviting the rest of us to turn and greet one another. And I remembered that gum, that chomping, that verse, all day long.

:::

I’m sharing this with Hear It on Sunday, Use It on Monday, hosted by Michelle Derusha and On, In, and Around Mondays, hosted by L.L. Barkat at Seedlings in Stone.

The post Chew On That appeared first on Ann Kroeker, Writing Coach.

Each Wednesday I’m recording a Curiosity Journal to recap the past week. Tag words are: reading, playing, learning, reacting and writing.

:::

Some of you have mentioned that you’re keeping a Curiosity Journal, as well. Leave your link in the comments so that we can visit and enjoy your weekly review.

Reading

I started up Sophie’s World again, which I had abandoned several months ago; I also began reading Scott Russell Sanders‘ Staying Put: Making a Home in a Restless World.

I love the details Scott uses to remember the place of his youth as he drives to revisit it as an adult. He writes of Mr. Ferry, who used to let the neighborhood kids swim in his pond:

We knew that when we knocked at Mr. Ferry’s door, raising money for school or scouts, he would buy whatever we had to sell. He was a tender man. He loved his wife so much that when she died he planted a thousand white pines in her memory. The pines, spindly in my recollections, had grown into a forest by the day of my return. (7)

And while details like forsythia and willow trees bring his writing to life (show; don’t tell) I also appreciated this more straightforward observation:

One’s native ground is the place where, since before you had words for such knowledge, you have known the smells, the seasons, the birds and beasts, the human voices, the houses, the ways of working, the lay of the land, and the quality of light. It is the landscape you learn before you retreat inside the illusion of your skin. You may love the place if you flourished there, or hate the place if you suffered there. But love it or hate it, you cannot shake free. Even if you move to the antipodes, even if you become intimate with new landscapes, you still bear the impression of that first ground. (12)

Playing

I was planning to take a snapshot of this coffee mug one morning. It’s my favorite for coffee.

The Belgian Wonder’s sister gave it to us when we visited her in 2008. I admired it while sipping Douwe Egberts one morning in her kitchen.”Douwe Egberts coffee in a Douwe Egberts mug. I love it! It’s so retro, so fun,” I exclaimed. “Plus it’s not too big and not too small.”

As we were leaving to fly back to the States, she handed it to me. “We can get another here in Belgium,” she said. “Take it.” I almost cried. Not because of the mug, but because she was so generous. And, well, maybe a little because of the mug, too, because I loved it so.

Learning

My youngest daughter, 13 years old, jokes that most of what she’s wanted to learn, she’s learned from YouTube videos.

Curious about crochet, she watched several tutorials and followed those steps to perfect the basic stitches.

Then she found a pattern, worked on it quietly in her bedroom, and one day came down to reveal her creation:

Another day, she came down to model this:

She’s looked up recipes and discovered patterns to sew things, like a doll she needed to make for history class.

She sewed the doll from a soccer sock, and used a pattern found online to cut out clothes to be worn under a knight’s armor. She never did get around to making chainmail by bending bits of wire into circles using needle-nose pliers, but she did construct an interesting helmet from a plastic water bottle covered in duct tape.

And then there was the ukulele.

She didn’t follow a pattern for the ukulele. She just made it up as she went along, using discarded plastic jugs, rubber bands, and paper towel tubes plucked from the recycling bin.

It didn’t last long, nor did it actually make music. But she had fun making it.

Too bad she didn’t find this video by a man named Colin Webb of Homegrown Guitars. His accent is lovely, and his “shoeboxulele” is amazing. If you don’t have time to listen to him describing the parts he used (scrap wood, toothpicks, and fishing wire attached to the shoebox), at least scroll to 2:37 to hear him play “Has Anybody Seen My Gal?”

Reacting

Last Saturday morning, I dragged myself out of bed, pulled on running clothes, and plodded downstairs to use the “Richard Simmon’s Dreamstepper” I’d purchased used last winter. I know. Go ahead and laugh. Despite the name, it turned out to be a no-frills, functional stair-stepper that helped me get some exercise in the frigid, icy, bleak midwinter, when I wasn’t about to jog outside.

As I mentioned, Saturday morning I wasn’t in the mood to exercise, but I knew I needed to. So I grabbed some books and climbed onto the Dreamstepper and started stepping, stepping, stepping as I read. Yes, I read as I step. Anyway, about ten minutes later, I glanced at the shocks and saw liquid streaming down the metal frame.

Upon closer examination, I realized lubricant was squishing out of the shocks with each step.

Not good.

I phoned the store where I bought it and asked if they had any advice. “Bring it in and let me take a look,” the technician offered. So we hauled it over there, pulled it out of the minivan and set it on the parking lot. The technician climbed on and with the first step, fluid gushed out like a lazy geyser—bloop.

“Whoa!” he exclaimed, jumping off and looking closely. He pressed down on the step and more liquid oozed out the top. “This is shot. There’s no fixing it. It has to be trashed. I can take care of that for you,” he offered.

Sure, but now what?

He offered to discount something in the store to make up for the busted Dreamstepper, so we poked around looking for another stair climbing machine of some sort. They’re usually cheap, because stair-steppers are not very trendy.

Apparently stairsteppers are so out of style, the store didn’t even have one to try.

So we climbed on stationary bikes and ellipticals and pogo sticks and treadmills and one of those mini trampolines. The pogo stick was silly, the mini trampoline was too small, and the treadmill seemed noisy.

But after a few minutes on an elliptical, I started to sense potential. An elliptical could be something on which to cross train—something to get me through the winter months. While adjusting to the fluid motion of the elliptical, I felt like I was hovering, dreamlike—almost flying, like in the bamboo forest scene from “Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon.”We bought it.

We rarely buy impulsively. We usually spend months researching brands and hunting for coupons or discounts. That day, though, we just did it. We plunked down our credit card and bought an elliptical machine. It’s not a high-end model; in fact, it’s rather simple, slender, and inexpensive. Still, we sort of surprised ourselves by pointing at the machine and saying, “We’ll take it.”

“Today?” the guy asked.

“Today,” I answered. “Right now, before we change our minds. Load it in the van and we’ll drive it home.”

And that afternoon my husband, with help from the girl who constructs helmets out of duct tape, assembled the machine. It’s the first piece of exercise equipment we’ve purchased new, unless you count running shoes and soccer balls.I used it this morning, thinking how fun it feels to wake up and fly.

Writing

On Facebook, my friend Lloyd Work reminded me how fun it is to write haikus by posting this:

Haikus are easy.

But sometimes they don’t make sense.

Refrigerator.

So I am writing some haikus, too. Three lines: first is 5 syllables, second is 7, third is 5.

a powerful forcewind gusts strip leaves from maplebare trunk stands exposed

flickering candleone lone flame brightens the roomwe are not alone

:::

Credits:

Photos: Octopus image by Sophie Marie. All other images by Ann Kroeker. All rights reserved.

Book: Sanders, Scott Russell. Staying Put: Making a Home in a Restless World. Boston: Beacon Press, 1993. Print. (Amazon Associates Link)

The post Curiosity Journal: November 9, 2011 appeared first on Ann Kroeker, Writing Coach.

“this is a pen,” “this is a rose,” “this is a card.” It is assumed that the pen must be recognized as a pen so that a person can get on with the business of writing…What if a number of ordinary household objects were introduced to a child in a conditional way: “This could be a screwdriver, a fork, a sheet, a magnifying class”? Would that child be more fit for survival on a desert island (when the fork and screwdriver could double as tent pegs for the sheet, near a fire made by the magnifying glass)? (Langer 124)

I didn’t have to teach my kids that a pen was only a pen or a magnifying glass was only used to look at items up close. They quickly realized they could use a capped pen as a DS stylus and a magnifying glass to catch the sun and burn a hole in a piece of paper. When my kids were little, I would find pieces from board games mingling with Playmobil and money from Monopoly in a cash register that they used to play “store.” It drove me crazy; the banker was always short of money when playing Life and we never did locate all the jewelry from Pretty Pretty Princess when they merged it with their dress-up collection.But they were learning to make-do and solve problems. I sometimes wish I’d insisted they leave the board games intact, but I would soften as I watched them think—literally—outside the box, making new associations and spotting creative uses for all those plastic bits and pieces.Years ago, our friends had a cool set of nylon tunnels that could flip open for little kids to crawl through.After visiting their house and rolling around in those tunnels, our kids remarked that they’d love to have some tunnels, too. We didn’t buy any. Instead, our kids used clothespins to attach sheets to the couch and chairs for a makeshift tunnel that later morphed into a fort filled with pillows.They did so because they knew that big piece of material could be a sheet.Or it could be a tunnel.Or it could be a fort.Or it could be a cape. Or a toga. Or a cover for the bird cage. Or a tablecloth for the picnic table. Or an ocean for stuffed animals to sail across.

:::

I’m linking to The High Calling Book Club this week, as they work their way through Mindfulness, by Ellen Langer.Credits: Forks and clothespins by Ann Kroeker. Milk Crates Stacked by limonada (Emilie Eagan), used with permission.

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The post Could Be appeared first on Ann Kroeker, Writing Coach.

One time we were making plans to have another family over for dinner. As we were discussing the get-together, they said, “So, after we eat at your house, what will we do? I suppose we’ll just sit around and … talk?”

“Um, yes. What would you do at someone else’s house?”

“Watch a movie or maybe a football game.”

“Oh, well, we just talk. I hope that’s okay. We’ll ask lots of questions if things drag a little!”

They came over and not only did they survive an evening without “entertainment” filling in the slower, quiet moments, but I think they actually had a good time.

I’ve thought a lot about their concern that we would just talk. They wondered what we would do and how we would fill all that time. We Americans are so used to noise and entertainment, this may be one of many challenges to building community and conversation in our culture.

The speed of our “microwave-fast culture” is also a major hurdle. Few of us take time to stop and sit down and talk, whether as a family or with friends. The culture itself works against this value, so we have to be intentional to make it happen.

This is so important and so hard.

Sometimes I take inspiration from my European relatives, who are located in Belgium and France. When we’re visiting, we’ve been part of multi-course meals that stretch out all evening.

And what do they do during each of those courses and in-between? How do they fill all that time?

They talk.

If you long to slow down, you can do the same.

Invite people over.

Share a meal.

Talk.

It’s a way to counter the culture without making a dramatic, disruptive, long-term change. Plus, you’ll have a chance to build community while you’re slowing down!

Try to schedule a dinner in the next few weeks with some friends.

Don’t schedule it around a football game (I know that’s almost impossible this time of year, but try).

Don’t rent a movie as a backup plan.

Just plan a meal (it doesn’t have to be a multi-course affair; in fact, Americans don’t seem to mind a pitch-in).

And then?

For one night, reclaim conversation.

Does the thought of sustaining that much conversation intimidate you like it did my friends? Here are some slow-down solutions to help you enjoy connection and reclaim conversation:

• Ask curious, open-ended questions. Decide how in-depth this group of people will want to go. If this is a group of friends from church intending to dig deeper into each other’s lives, you can ask different questions than you would with a group of neighbors who are just getting acquainted. Either way, however, open-ended questions are the way to get people responding with more than one sentence or one word.
• Listen. Our culture is influenced by creative media presentations on TV and film that overlap images, sound and text; plus, almost everyone is accustomed to multi-tasking and dividing attention, half-listening to a conversation while texting someone else, for example. This encourages and supports interruption, which stifles and shuts down meaningful conversation. Fight the urge to overlap or interrupt. Try to focus completely on the speaker and listen carefully and actively to what he or she is saying. Even repeat back part of what was said to be sure you understood completely.
• Ask follow-up questions. Sometimes people will cut themselves off for fear of dominating the conversation. If everyone seems to be enjoying the direction of a person’s story or response, ask a follow-up question to bring them out a little more.
• Encourage stories. When people tell their stories, we get to know them better. Plus, one story may spark a memory in someone else, leading to more stories.
• Use pre-fab questions. Check out Garry D. Poole’s The Complete Book of Questions: 1001 Conversation Starters for Any Occasion (you should be able to sample 99 “Light and Easy” questions from the book at this link). Though it might seem a little contrived to pull out a book of pre-printed questions, this simple tool can get people laughing and sharing right away, should things drag a little. Pinpoint five to ten questions ahead of time that may fit the group that’s gathered around your table (or living room, if the meal is finished and you’ve migrated to couches with coffee and dessert). There are other books of questions available, but Garry’s is organized so that the questions go deeper and deeper as the numbers go higher, moving toward more spiritually focused topics.
• Be vulnerable. Without overwhelming or over-sharing, be willing to offer something a little vulnerable to take a conversation deeper than small talk. The appropriate depth depends upon the group and the goal of the evening. You can lead the way without hogging the conversation by modeling a vulnerable response.
• Relax and have fun! Regardless of the flow of conversation or topics explored, one key to reclaiming conversation is to be relaxed and enjoy yourself. If the host is uptight, the conversation might be stilted and awkward, as guests might be concerned about doing something upsetting. Lead the way with a smile, mood and tone that encourage a comfortable atmosphere.

I invite you to report back on your gathering with observations, recommendations, and lessons learned.

Photo of European young people, copyright 2005 by Ann Kroeker. This post contains affiliate links.

_____________________________________

Is every hour rush hour at your house?

Explore the jarring effects of our overcommitted culture and find refreshing alternatives for a more meaningful family and spiritual life.

Find a pace that frees your family to flourish.

“Not So Fast is a gift to every reader who takes the time to slow down and breathe in its pages.”

—Lee Strobel, best-selling author of The Case for Christ

The post Reclaim Family Conversation at Mealtime appeared first on Ann Kroeker, Writing Coach.

Each Wednesday I’m recording a Curiosity Journal to recap the past week. Tag words are: reading, playing, learning, reacting and writing.

:::

Some of you have mentioned that you’re keeping a Curiosity Journal, as well. Leave your link in the comments so that we can visit and enjoy your weekly review.

Reading

Well, I started reading What Does It All Mean?: A Very Short Introduction to Philosophy, and even though it is very short and relatively simple, I’m not at all sure what any of it means. Why is my mind unable to wrap itself around philosophy?

David Dark’s The Sacredness of Questioning Everything, which I mentioned last week, came in the mail.

Still reading and enjoying Anna and the King with the kids.

Playing

Our homeschool cross country team competed in its first middle school meet on Saturday morning, running against several Catholic teams.

Standing alongside the course, I like to encourage runners from other teams as well as our own, so I glance at the shirts and call out the name of the school. If an athlete racing toward me wears a jersey printed with, say, Wheaton Middle School, I would shout, “Good job, Wheaton! Keep up the pace! You look strong!” If the runner is from Bloomington North, I might say, “You look great, Bloomington!”

As the Catholic runners tore around a corner on the home stretch, I got to shout things like, “Good job, Christ the King!”, “You look strong, Joan of Arc!”, “Keep it up, Saint Mark,” and “Way to go, Holy Spirit!”

This pleased me to no end. I mentioned it to another coach. “It’s so fun,” I said, “to be shouting, ‘Way to go, Christ the King!'”

She laughed and nodded. “I never thought of that, but it’s like we’re proclaiming truth all along the course.”

Keep it up, Holy Spirit!

Reacting

In the 1950s, my mother-in-law worked for a summer at HoneyRock Camp in northern Wisconsin. After hiking to the bath house one night, she stepped out and stared in wonder at the sky—ablaze! Unlike a sunset, this luminous color shifted and shimmered mysteriously across the night sky. She hesitated only a second before racing back toward the cabins, sounding the alarm.

“It’s Jesus!” she cried out. “Everyone, come quick! The Lord is coming back! It’s the Lord! He’s returning!“

People scrambled from their beds as she continued shrieking with joy at His return.

They staggered out, rubbing their groggy eyes, and stared where she was pointing.

“It’s not Jesus,” they informed her. “It’s the Northern Lights.”

What a disappointment! To think you were witnessing the Second Coming of Christ only to be told it was just an aurora?

Ah, but those auroras…Though I’ve only seen them through someone else’s lens, I’m mesmerized by the fluid motion of those wafting, swirling green lights.

And, moved core-deep by my mother-in-law’s youthful thrill, joy, and delight in the coming of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, I long to watch for Him with the same anticipation and readiness.

Writing

Monday’s post compels me to write raw.

How much will I manage to share on the screen, though?

:::

Credits:

Question mark photo copyright 2011 by Ann Kroeker.

Note: This post contains Amazon affiliate links.

• There’s always more to come: subscribe to Ann Kroeker by e-mail

_________________________________________________

Is every hour rush hour at your house?

Explore the jarring effects of our overcommitted culture and find refreshing alternatives for a more meaningful family and spiritual life.

Find a pace that frees your family to flourish.

“Not So Fast is a gift to every reader who takes the time to slow down and breathe in its pages.”

—Lee Strobel, best-selling author of The Case for Christ

Buy your copy

The post Curiosity Journal: September 14, 2011 appeared first on Ann Kroeker, Writing Coach.

While wiping the counters, I watched him, debating whether or not to say something. Should I recommend a better way?

My mind flashed to a summer day at the farm house where I grew up. After Dad and my brother finished mowing near the house, my job was to sweep the grass clippings from the back porch, a concrete slab about four by six feet.

I grabbed the straw broom from behind the door and started sweeping. I probably wasn’t working very quickly; I was likely daydreaming. I might have been gripping the broom awkwardly, sliding it across the concrete in wide, inefficient motions.

Suddenly, a shout. “Not like that!” Dad yanked the broom out of my hand. “You’re doing it all wrong! My mother taught me the right way. You have to make quick, short movements like this!”

Flick. Flick. Flick. Flick.

He handed me the broom. While he watched, critiquing, I had to practice it his way—or, rather, his mother’s way—adjusting my motions until I achieved the perfect flick. Finally satisfied, he returned to the mower. I  flicked the broom a few more times for effect, then ran inside and shoved it behind the door.

The grass was gone; so was my self-esteem.

Watching my son in the kitchen as he managed to corral the crumbs, I decided to keep quiet. Perhaps in the years to come he’ll watch others at work and learn to adjust his hold on the handle; or maybe he’ll figure out how to sweep quickly and thoroughly by experimenting on his own.

But for now, he was collecting most of the dirt. Wasn’t that the goal?

Anyway, who was I to criticize? After wiping the counters, I left streaks.

:::

Related reading at The High Calling: “Do the Job Your Way” by L.L. Barkat.Photo by Ann Kroeker, copyright 2011.

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The post A Better Way appeared first on Ann Kroeker, Writing Coach.

By the time I was 13 or 14 years old, I realized the children’s department couldn’t provide the depth of information I craved. Shyly, I began browsing the adult nonfiction shelves for exercise books, vegetarian cookbooks, step-by-step drawing tutorials, and a series that taught survival skills, in case I ever acted on my dream of living by myself in the woods, like the kid in My Side of the Mountain.

One afternoon I glanced through books on writing. A title caught my eye: Write to Discover Yourself.

I looked both ways and plucked it from the shelf, running my fingers over the green cover with the fuchsia gerbera daisy poking out of a cup of pencils. It was a little cheesy, but…

Write. Discover.

I desperately wanted to understand myself and unearth who I was meant to become. And deep down, I wanted to write.

Cheeks flushed, heart thumping, I tucked the book under my arm to hide the title from anyone who might question my right to write or ridicule my search for self.I feared my family’s response most of all. In a household of word-people—both parents were journalists and my brother would eventually become an advertising executive—I was the vegetarian runner who asked for art supplies at Christmas. Compared with my family, I had never demonstrated noteworthy writing talent. I lost every game of Scrabble, and at that point, my latest story was about a ladybug in search of a home.

Me? Write?

Yes, I resolved. I would quietly write to “discover myself.”

This became my secret. I retreated to my room, scribbling responses to the author’s writing exercises in spiral-bound notebooks that I would stuff deep into my closet so that no one would peek.

I kept a journal and followed instructions to “portrait” the important people in my life, exploring memories, capturing life.

I sat on the wooden floor of my upstairs bedroom scratching out a word-portrait of my father, struggling to express the way his resonant voice, rising from deep within his barrel chest, could build and fill—even shake—the entire house. Or was it just me, shaking? On page after page of the book, the author encouraged me to continue being specific, to use concrete details and metaphor. On page after page of my notebooks, I poured out stories from my little world.

Digging into yourself requires a depth of honesty that is painful, she said, but imperative (Vaughn 25). She quoted a professor who said that a writer “is the person with his skin off” (24). This is how I began to decipher my life—on the pages of a journal, I wrote with my skin off: bare, raw, vulnerable.

My journalist-parents didn’t write like that, nor did my quick-witted brother. At least, I was pretty sure they didn’t.

Of my family, I alone seemed to practice this private outpouring of words and deeply personal stories that would form a base for future work. With the help of a stumbled-upon writing book, I privately peeled back layers to stare at my heart, my soul. And I began, through practice, through pain, through prayer, the lifelong process of finding myself.

:::

Work Cited

Vaughn, Ruth. Write to Discover Yourself. Garden City, New York: Doubleday, 1980. Print. (currently out of print)

Note: this post contains affiliate links.

______________________________________

Is your writing life all it can be?

Let this book act as your personal coach, to explore the writing life you already have and the writing life you wish for, and close the gap between the two.

“A genial marriage of practice and theory. For writers new and seasoned. This book is a winner.”

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For the Food on Fridays carnival, any post remotely related to food is welcome—though we love to try new dishes, your post doesn’t have to be a recipe. We’re pretty relaxed over here, and stories and photos are as welcome as menus and recipes.When your Food on Fridays contribution is ready, just grab the broccoli button to paste at the top of your post. It ties us together visually.Then fill in the boxes of this linky tool to join the fun!

Food on Fridays with Ann

One Christmas, my mom gave me a set of glass dessert dishes.She said her mom, my beloved Grandma, bought them in Chicago.Grandma thought they would look pretty filled with strawberries.Afraid I would break such delicate glassware, I left the bowls wrapped in tissue paper and tucked them in the back of a storage shelf for safekeeping.I came across them when I had to rearrange the kitchen and realized that if I left them on the shelf,we would never see them filled with berries.

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Photos by Ann Kroeker.

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The post Food on Fridays: Safekeeping appeared first on Ann Kroeker, Writing Coach.

Each Wednesday I’m recording a Curiosity Journal, a recap of the past week. Tag words are: reading, playing, learning, reacting and writing.

:::

Some of you have mentioned that you’re keeping a Curiosity Journal, as well. Leave your link in the comments so that we can visit and enjoy your weekly review.

Reading

Now that home-school classes have begun, I find that I’ll be devoting several chunks of my week to reading and commenting on student papers. With only six kids in High School Composition, however, I can give their work close attention and provide what I hope to be valuable input.In our family, the kids and I are starting to read aloud Anna and the King, by Margaret Landon, and A Praying Life, by Paul E. Miller. We selected Anna and the King because the Belgian Wonder’s great-grandparents were missionaries in Siam and became acquainted with the author (I have yet to sort through those details, but that’s the bottom line). Reading the book seemed like a fun way for my kids to become familiar with a place that is woven into their heritage.

Playing

Soccer season has begun.Some of us play; some of us chat. Some of us snap pictures or cheer; and a lot of us relax and read.

Learning

My son signed up to run with the middle school home-school cross country team this year. Though he’s one of the youngest runners, he said he wanted to try. When those first practices started up in the sweltering weeks of late July, he slipped on his running shoes and shorts, stuck on a cap, and came out to log a few miles with the team.But he’s slow. So slow, in fact, that he’s often passed by people walking. And he complains a lot. And as the season has progressed, he sometimes just quits halfway through the practice and sits on a bench, chatting with the moms.One day, when I was frustrated at his complaining, I told him that there’s a place inside all of us, a spot, that we all have to draw from.”What’s that spot?” he asked.”It’s the ‘I-don’t-want-to-do-it-but-I’ll-do-it-anyway’ spot. You won’t learn about it in anatomy class, and it’s not a very good name—doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue—but it’s a very important spot.”He nodded.”You have to draw from that spot for homework, for chores, and you really have to draw from it for cross country practice.””My spot is reeeeeeeally tiny,” he said.”I know,” I said, nodding. “It’s very small, but it can get bigger. And the great thing is that every time you do something you don’t want to do, it gets a little bit bigger.””It’s just a teeeeny-tiny sesame seed,” he said, holding his finger and thumb together so that they almost touched.”But if you go out and do the whole workout,” I assured him, “the spot will get a little bit bigger, and then the next time you have to do something you don’t want to do, it’ll be a tiny bit easier.””No, it’s a poppyseed,” he interrupted, trying to land on the best metaphor.”So,” I continued, “are you going to finish the workout today without complaining? Because I guarantee you that not one of these runners wants to go out and run two miles in the hot sun, but they’re going to do it anyway, and they aren’t going to complain about it.””Their spots must be huge!” he said.”Not necessarily. But their spots will be a little bigger when they’re done, that’s for sure.”He agreed to finish the workout, and he did it with only minimal complaints. After, he announced, “I think it’s a sesame seed now. It went from a poppyseed to a sesame seed.””That’s progress,” I said. “Good job.”Weeks have passed, and some practices go better than others. The other night, we were running around a track, one hundred meters fast/one hundred meters slow, for a minimum of eight laps. It was tough, but the air temperature was cool and tall trees offered lots of late-afternoon shade. My son did six laps and was threatening to quit. The last few runners were coming in, and the assistant coach was passing out team shirts. I had told my son earlier that if he didn’t do the workouts, he wouldn’t get a shirt.”Am I going to get a shirt, Mama?” he asked as he rounded the curve and came up to where the team was grabbing water bottles and cooling down.I moved close to him, so the others wouldn’t hear. “You’ve done some of the workouts, but remember at the park last week? You just ran a little bit and gave up. So, no. You aren’t putting in enough miles to run a meet, so there’s no reason for you to have a shirt.””I’ll finish the workout tonight! I’ll do two more laps!””You have to do the fast 100s fast. And you’ll have to do every workout between now and the first meet or you won’t be ready.””I’ll do it!” he exclaimed, taking off like a flash. I watched him go around, and he was really working. I realized that up until that night, he’d never really pushed himself; but right then, he was moving along strong. When he completed the final lap, he came in breathing hard, sweating.”Now that was a workout!” I said. “That’s what it feels like to run. You actually look flushed and sweaty, like you pushed yourself.””Can I…get…a shirt?” he asked between intakes of breath.I hesitated, not knowing if he’d done enough to pull off a meet. But there he was in front of me, heart pounding after earnest aerobic effort, walking around a little to cool down. His fast-twitch muscles were probably twitching for the first time, in a good way.Even though the shirts are overpriced, and even though he has a long way to go, I said yes. “Yes, you can have a shirt.”He clapped his hands and the assistant coach handed him an adult small, which was a little bit big, but not too bad. He pulled it on over his T-shirt. When his head popped through, he was grinning big.I was talking with two parents when he strode over and stated, “Tonight, I think the spot inside of me has grown to the size of a volleyball!“Then he skipped back to his sisters.The two moms looked at me funny. I grinned. “I suppose I should explain about the volleyball-sized spot?”

Reacting

The writing class I’m facilitating is going to be challenging at times, but I guess I’m going to draw from that spot inside of me and just do it. My spot’s pretty big, I think. Maybe the size of a soccer ball.

Writing

Though much of my writing has been prep work for the class, my part is mostly done. Now it’s up to the students to do the writing and revision.And I can get back to a writing schedule and rhythm of my own.I’d like to be a more reliable blogger and contribute to The High Calling more often.I did write a little post for Writer…Interrupted about families and scheduling.I’ll leave you with a shot of the soccer fields I mentioned in that piece. This shows the line of trees where the children pick up nuts.

:::

Credits:Question mark image: “Question Proposed” photo by Ethan Lofton. Used under a Creative Commons license via Flickr.com.”Litchfield Track” by Jamison A. Kissh. Used with permission via Flickr.All other photos copyright 2011 by Ann Kroeker.Note: This post contains Amazon affiliate links.

There’s always more to come: subscribe to Ann Kroeker by e-mail

Want to slow down in our fast-paced world? Check out Not So Fast.

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The post Curiosity Journal: August 31, 2011 appeared first on Ann Kroeker, Writing Coach.

On Saturday I roamed the farm where I grew up, camera swinging from my neck, lens cap tucked in my pocket, eyes peeled for texture and angles; soul searching, too, I suppose, for memories, for clues to who I am…even why I am who I am.

I studied flaking paint on aging sheds, slowly stripped by winter wind and snow down to raw wood, warping.

Near the barn stand gates in disuse, leaning, rotting, rusting.

I photographed two old tractors parked under an overhang.

Every once in a while, Dad would let me lean against the fender and ride with him into the fields. I gripped the edges, petrified I’d fall. I’d feel the Bush Hog® power to life and the blades engage, spinning, hacking down weeds.

The tractors sit quietly in the barn lot, parked in the spot where Black Angus cattle used to eat from the manger.I stepped gingerly into the barn, on the lookout for spiders, swallows, mice and ‘coons. An old box car ladder was mounted to the wall years ago, maybe a hundred years ago, for farmers to get to the loft. I climbed it.

In the filtered, cloudy midday light, I studied the floorboards coated with a loose, thin layer of chaff mingled with bird droppings and layers of dust. Later my sister-in-law scolded me for going up there, thinking it can’t be good for a person with asthma.

One look at the loft and I remembered an afternoon in the ’80s when I carried up my silver boom box and turned on the radio waiting for “Footloose.” Within a few short minutes, it played. And I danced. The loft was almost empty, so I spun and leaped and it’s a wonder I didn’t slam a shoe right through the rickety boards.

A shaft of deep yellow afternoon sun streaked straight in as the sun set that day. I remember the shape defined by the window, how I danced through the beam, stirring up chaff, until I was sweating and spent. When the song ended, I sagged to the floor.

All these years later, I lifted and placed my feet slowly, deliberately, careful not to stir up dust. I am long removed from the days of dancing in the loft; I climbed back down, wondering how long it’s been since my dad kept cattle, when secure gates were critical…

…when bright white out buildings stood straight, boards nailed secure…

…when the tractor rumbled down the lane to hack down weeds.

I was prowling in the weeds out by the tool shed, focusing on old red fuel tanks and the corrugated roof of the dog house when my brother showed up to help my dad move some soil and cinder blocks.

While he emptied the wheelbarrow of rainwater and shoveled some soil, I was out looking for myself.

I pondered questions posed by a photographer:

1. Who made up your DNA?
2. Where do you come from?
3. What object is precious to your past?
4. What memory resonates most deeply?
5. What moment in history marks your childhood?

In the barn lot and loft, I’d hoped for a flood of vignettes and strong emotions. A psychological epiphany would be fun to report.

No vignettes. No powerful emotions. No epiphany.

No clues to who or why I am.

Only the dancing.

Dancing in the loft.

Alone.

* * *

All content and images are copyrighted © 2011 Ann Kroeker. These images may not be reproduced, copied, transmitted or manipulated without written permission.

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Each Wednesday I’m recording a Curiosity Journal, a recap of the past week. Tag words are: reading, playing, learning, reacting and writing.

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Some of you have mentioned that you’re keeping a Curiosity Journal, as well. Leave your link in the comments so that we can visit and enjoy your weekly review.

Reading

Slow summer mornings, sunshine streams through waggling leaves that cast dancing shadows on the kitchen table. The season spoils me; I relish this temperature, this pace, this flexibility, this time to rest…and read.I sit with my Bible, The Imitation of Christ, and My Utmost for His Highest. Sometimes I scribble notes or copy passages into my blank book. Sometimes I just read and sit at the table sipping creamy coffee from a small red mug and thank the Lord for reminders, for truth, for hope, for pointing me to Him.Slow mornings give way to school schedules, and the freedom to sit is snatched away—replaced by appointments, deadlines, expectations. It is time to shift gears to a more disciplined life; to organize the days and follow a plan.The hardest part, I think, is this time of transition.I read my last “whim” book—the last book I randomly snatched from the shelf because it caught my eye. Milkweed, by Jerry Spinelli. Set in Poland just prior to the Nazi invasion and written in the voice of a tiny street urchin whose naivete presents the atrocities endured by Jews in the Warsaw ghetto. Simply written, powerfully told. I’m going to give it to my junior high and high school daughters to read.

Playing

Claire Burge has given TheHighCalling photographers a PhotoPlay assignment:

For this month’s PhotoPlay, capture five images that represent your history. Each image must answer a question below, one question per image:

1. Who made up your DNA?
2. Where do you come from?
3. What object is precious to your past?
4. What memory resonates most deeply?
5. What moment in history marks your childhood?

Symbolism is important in recollection. To assist your photo search, find symbols to portray the memories that come back to you.

Claire may call this PhotoPlay, but it sounds more like PhotoWork. Deep, heart-probing work. I simply may not have the time or energy necessary to dig in and truly reveal who I am in this way; I doubt that in two weeks’ time I can isolate defining objects or moments from the muddle of memories that tumble in the recesses of my mind. Can I cope with what I unearth…at one of the busiest times of the year?We’ll see.Maybe I’ll participate, maybe not.But it does open up a set of questions and curiosity about myself.Reminds me of a phrase from Write to Discover Yourself that Ruth Vaughn proposed a writer ask herself. In chapter two, “The Diary/Journal,” she writes:

When I taught creative writing in college, I used to write two words on the board for the students’ first assignment:I WHY?I offer you that question as your first and ever-ongoing assignment in writing creatively. (Vaughn 7)

She recommends writing about one’s parents—descriptions of physical characteristics, memories, portraits of the past and how one feels about them. Write about the earliest memories: times you laughed or cried, times in a secret childhood spot, times in school that marked success…and failure. “Probe. Remember. Write it out,” Vaughn advises (11). Write in total honest and freedom, she says, with that diary or journal as a constant companion on the journey to discovering the answer to “I WHY?”

Take the time and effort to go back and try to capture the memories of your life from earliest childhood to present. Let nothing be too trivial to explore. It if survives in your memory, it was significant in some way. From such inner exploration will come self-knowledge, life-understanding, and increasing dimensions of wisdom…Also, you will be forming a reservoir of material which will provide the “stuff” of your writing in all future years. (11-12)

Because, she posits, as we write our way to the answer, we will be free to write creatively and powerfully for ourselves, for God, and for others.

Learning

I asked my doctor about the dangers of using a steroid inhaler for a long time, as she is recommending it for treatment of my lingering cough. She conceded that there are definitely some concerns, such as loss of bone density, though that is associated more with oral steroids than with inhaled. In any case, she said, “I’m more concerned that we need to be treating your lungs at this point. There are more serious side effects if they are left untreated.””Like what?”She looked me in the eye and said, “If you can’t control your asthma, you won’t be able to breathe.” She paused and stared at me.”And if I can’t breathe…” I said, nodding slowly, beginning to understand the severity of my diagnosis.She began to nod, as well, and then just said it: “If you can’t breathe, you die.”I now carry an albuterol inhaler with me all the time.

Reacting

Not a fan of Fall (Fall, after all, descends into stark, bleak winter), I grieve a little every day the morning temperatures feel the least bit crisp. I am clinging to every streak of sunshine, soaking it in, trying to absorb bone-deep memories of warm.

Writing

These days it seems I’m busier with start-of-school stuff than writing. Also, preparing to facilitate a high school writing class, I’m entering a coaching mode. But I squeak out a blog post now and then.

Works Cited:Vaughn, Ruth. Write to Discover Yourself. Garden City, NY: Doubleday & Co., 1980. Print.Question mark image: “Question Proposed” photo by Ethan Lofton. Used under a Creative Commons license via Flickr.com.All other photos taken of a friend’s flower garden by Ann Kroeker.Note: This post contains Amazon affiliate links.

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The post Curiosity Journal: Aug 17, 2011 appeared first on Ann Kroeker, Writing Coach.

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Credits: Photo of Anns taken by P. Kroeker. All other photos taken by S. Kroeker.

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Each Wednesday (except this week, when I missed my deadline) I’m recording a Curiosity Journal, a recap of the past week. Tag words are: reading, playing, learning, reacting and writing.

:::

Some of you have mentioned that you’re keeping a Curiosity Journal, as well. Leave your link in the comments so that we can visit and enjoy your weekly review.

Reading

The July 28 entry in My Utmost for His Highest:

What we call the process, God calls the end…His purpose is that I depend on Him and on His power now. If I can stay in the middle of the turmoil calm and unperplexed, that is the end of the purpose of God. God is not working towards a particular finish; His end is the process–that I see Him walking on the waves, no shore in sight, no success, no goal, just the absolute certainty that it is all right because I see Him walking on the sea…God’s end is to enable me to see that He can walk on the chaos of my life just now. If we have a further end in view, we do not pay sufficient attention to the immediate present: if we realize that obedience is the end, then each moment as it comes is precious. (Chambers 152-153)

This has helped me gain perspective in the midst of a massive traffic jam, patiently await the conclusion of a complicated business issue that has stretched out unresolved all summer, and accept various symptoms and flare-ups of a prolonged respiratory ailment. If I can stay in the middle of the turmoil calm and unperplexed, with absolute certainty that it is all right because I see Him walking on the chaos of my life just now, that is the end of the purpose of God. When I realize that obedience is the end, then each moment as it comes is precious.I’ve also been reading Breath for the Bones (not “Bones for the Breath,” which I learned from an Amazon search equates to doggie dental treats). As I look ahead to the chapter “Beginning with Journal Writing,” I see how critical it is as a writer—as a human being in this moment, in this place, in this world at this time—to capture sounds, colors, images, conversations, and follow them where they may lead. This is how I can go back and recreate a scene or interaction to tell the story rich with detail. This is how I can preserve and process life.Luci Shaw quoted Henri Nouwen as saying, “Writing is a process in which we discover what lives in us. The writing itself reveals what is alive…The deepest satisfaction of writing is precisely that it opens up new spaces within us of which we were not aware before we started to write. To write is to embark on a journey whose final destination we do not know” (Shaw 95).I must start writing and see where it leads, asking for the Holy Spirit to direct my steps and then pay attention, following His lead.Luci also quoted William Saroyan, “The task of the writer is to create a rich, immediate, usable past” (Shaw 96). Where and who I’ve been can be right here with me, in my journal, in my blog posts, in any personal narrative writing project.Luci describes a consistent, personal journal as a form of prayer, as the words poured out on the blank white pages “can free us, nudging us into the kind of confidence in the process that eases our way into writing as a way of discovering and articulating who we are before God” (Shaw 96). I have experienced this. Many of my journal entries slip from straight narrative or questions into prayer. This is why I am shy for people to peek, for how personal it can be.But it’s also a lively spot where the creative process unfolds; where I explore early project ideas. As Luci points out, in a journal we see how where we’ve come from and how we’ve grown.I’m glad to have bought the blank book with white pages, no lines. Just space. I can position the book vertically or horizontally, I can write diagonally or in swirls. I can doodle. I can make lists. I can jot phone numbers in a little unused corner of the page with sermon notes. It can be messy or organized; creative or ordinary. I can be any of those things at any given moment—why not have my journal serve as a true reflection of my curious, creative, messy, multifaceted self?

Playing

Haven’t played Bananagrams since we returned from vacation, but my family and I sure have enjoyed playing with photography. Will you humor me with a little slide show of sorts, a photo album, of our week of family camp? Despite all my talk of detailed journal-keeping and how that leads to powerful storytelling, I’ll spare you narrative and let the photos tell the story.

Learning

At family camp, I sat on one of the Adirondack chairs to talk photography with my friend, award-winning photographer Bill Vriesema, someone who knows the craft well. I learn so much from him, not only during these impromptu discussions, but also by enjoying and studying his images and reading how he approaches his work.

Reacting

My health status makes for riveting entries under “reacting.” Seems my respiratory system is always reacting for better or worse to something: allergies, exercise, medication, infection. For example, the doctor thinks that the sinus infection reacted well to the antibiotics but aggravated asthma. The result? Coughing spasms that sounded like a crackling bonfire was aflame in my lungs. Doctor has me taking more stuff. So far, so good. Coughing is calmed. For now.

Writing

Writing in my journal, per Luci’s inspiration.And here.Works Cited:

• Chambers, Oswald. My Utmost for His Highest. Westwood, NJ: Barbour and Company, Inc., 1963. Print.
• Shaw, Luci. Breath for the Bones: Art, Imagination, and Spirit. Nashville, TN: Thomas Nelson, 2007. Print.
• Question mark image: “Question Proposed” photo by Ethan Lofton. Used under a Creative Commons license via Flickr.com.
• Butterfly and sparkling water w/rock photos by N. Kroeker, used with permission. Cove, lamp and Ann-leaning-on-post photos by P. Kroeker, used with permission. All other photos by Ann Kroeker. All copyright 2011.

• There’s always more to come: subscribe to Ann Kroeker by e-mail
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The post Curiosity Journal: August 4, 2011 appeared first on Ann Kroeker, Writing Coach.

The only flash of memory I retained from the trip is stepping out of a dressing room to model a cute Canadian dress that Mom had me try on. Though I generally hated dresses, I loved that one; perhaps because it felt a little less like a dress and a little more like a costume. She bought it.

I don’t remember the falls at all.

I know I was there, though, because I have photographic evidence:

(I am not, by the way, wearing the beloved dress in this photo.)

Dad doesn’t look like he’s paying a lot of attention to me, as I gaze out at the mist and roar of Horseshoe Falls—he may have been asking Barb, the tour guide dressed in blue, some fact about the water flow; or he may have been advising my brother how many Canadian coins were needed to use the telescope.

I am pleased to note, however, that Dad has wrapped his arm completely around me and pulled me close to his chest. So I think I was safe. Besides, Mom’s eye would have been watching intently through the camera lens as she snapped this photo. She had reason to be nervous, you see, because years earlier, Dad lost his balance and almost dropped my brother under the turning wheel of a Colonial Williamsburg carriage that unexpectedly lurched forward. And, once again while holding my brother, Dad was stepping onto a tour boat of some kind and lost his footing when the boat shifted in the water—again, very nearly dropping my brother into the dark, sloshing water of Charleston Bay just below.

But he was able to recover each time, and my brother survived those educational field trips, just as I avoided toppling into the crashing waters of Niagara.

Still, perhaps a deep-seated uneasiness kept me from visiting Niagara for several decades. I’m happy to report that I have overcome any trepidation with the help of the Belgian Wonder, who promised to hold tightly to the kids and me if any of us teetered next to that railing.

So after a week of family camp that ended on Friday, we headed out with passports in hand to drive across Canada to Niagara Falls.

Unfortunately, a pedestrian death caused a massive traffic jam on the QEW—all lanes were closed across the Burlington Skyway, the route we mapped out in advance. We naively forged ahead not knowing we would be trapped in stop-start (mostly stop) traffic for over an hour. Cars overheated.

In fact, the car directly in front of us stalled. The driver, agitated and seeming to get no help from her male companion who used the opportunity to step out of the car and light up a cigarette, tapped on car windows, asking if anyone had jumper cables. The Belgian Wonder jumped out of the minivan, ran back to our trailer, unlocked the door and retrieved ours.

About ten minutes earlier, we had noted a black truck with off-road wheels as the source of a deafening bass beat. The driver of that same black truck turned out to be the Good Samaritan who worked with the Belgian Wonder’s jumper cables to get the disabled Subaru running again. Shortly after, though, the car’s engine failed again and they coasted to the shoulder. The driver of the black truck pulled over and backed up, offering to tow them. That’s the last we saw of them, but the agitated driver seemed to be in capable hands. I have no doubt he stuck with them until they arrived at a service station.

Eventually we took an exit away from the QEW and skyway, proceeding to drive without a map or directions, simply “following our nose,” as the Belgian Wonder would say, in search of a highway heading east. On our little adventure, we admired a variety of Canadian neighborhoods, countryside and some small towns—not to mention several Tim Hortons drive-thrus.

We were pleased to see that Canadian packaging requires the French translation.

Our noses were failing us, however, because we couldn’t figure out where we were. We eventually stopped, bought coffee and a map, and asked for help. Happily, we were closer than we realized due to poor signage, so we quickly wound our way onto the 20 and made our way straight east to Niagara Falls.

First glimpse.

First reaction.(Please note the grassy area on the other side of the railing, making it a relatively safe place to stand on the stone and raise one’s hands).

The day unfolded with varying degrees of admiration, astonishment, awe, curiosity, and contemplation.

And as we drove away that night, we were sad to observe the flashy, excessive commercialism just one block from the thundering majesty of the falls.

But I don’t want to end on that man-made, money-making blur.

Let me leave you instead with one more look at this convergence of power that God created and man enjoys: the American Falls and Bridal Veil Falls.

And a close-up of Horseshoe Falls.

Mightier than the thunder of the great waters,mightier than the breakers of the sea—the LORD on high is mighty.

(Psalm 93:4)

Image credits: Vintage family photo by Lynn Hopper. All other photos by Ann Kroeker.

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