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.

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.

I rolled into my driveway around 9:00 at night, greeted my family, and heated up some soup.

Then I pulled out my phone:

Texts from Charity Singleton Craig, my friend and coauthor. A phone call from her, too. A stream of emails, and on Facebook, an explosion of notifications. What happened?

SURPRISE! A virtual book release party!

Our mischievous, creative, unconventional publisher T. S. Poetry Press decided to try a mischievous, creative, unconventional approach to our book launch. Instead of sending books to the authors first and building anticipation leading up to the scheduled release date of December 1st, they quietly, secretly prepped it and made it available for purchase … without saying a word to us.

Meanwhile, as Charity and I busily moved ahead with plans for a December release, T. S. Poetry Press rounded up our friends online and invited them to a secret launch page on Facebook. I think they were waiting for a few days until either Charity or I figured out the book was available. As expected, at some point on Monday Charity found a link associated with our book and clicked through to Amazon.

There it was. Live. Available to purchase. “Our book is available right now!” Charity texted me while my phone was on mute.

Her inquiry to the publisher served as the mechanism to launch the surprise party—friends across the country and a few in other countries began congratulating us and celebrating with posts and photos that showed cupcakes and balloons! All day long, they inundated our Facebook stream with joy and affection.

“…lots of people are celebrating with us!” Charity texted.

All day long, this unfolded without my knowing it!

I almost missed my own surprise party! Thankfully, Charity kept up with all the notes on Twitter and Facebook and Google+.

Monday evening, after that long day of appointments, I opened my laptop and worked my way through the alerts, retweeting delightful tweets, clicking “like” on Facebook and thanking people and answering questions, laughing and feeling loved and celebrated in the swirl of surprise.

You got me, T. S. Poetry Press.

Thank you for the surprise. Thank you for the celebration. Thank you for making this book a reality. And thank you, Charity Singleton Craig, for sharing the pages of On Being a Writer.

Life is to be fortified by many friendships. To love and to be loved is the greatest happiness of existence.” (Sydney Smith, English clergyman from the 1800s)

Thank you everyone for fortifying my life and bringing me great “happiness of existence”!

The post On Being a Writer – Surprise! appeared first on Ann Kroeker, Writing Coach.

We might get voted weirdest, and I’m okay with that. But as the kids look back with frustration on times when mom “flipped out” about things, I imagine they’ll tell of ways I failed to parent as perfectly as they wished. Their friends will shake their heads and grumble, “Why do parents get so uptight about things?”

And I’ll be sitting at home, regretting all the times I failed to parent as perfectly as I wished and wondering why I got so uptight about things.

On a recent camping trip, I shared with the family an Oswald Chambers devotional called “The Discipline of Disillusionment.”

We talked about having illusions of how we think another person should behave, whether it’s a husband or wife, mom or dad, child or friend. Sometimes when a person doesn’t live up to our expectations, we are left disillusioned, feeling bitter, frustrated, and angry toward the person who has let us down. As Chambers puts it:

[I]f we love a human being and do not love God, we demand of him every perfection…and when we do not get it we become cruel and vindictive; we are demanding of a human being that which he or she cannot give. (July 30, My Utmost for His Highest)

God-given disillusionment, on the other hand, brings freedom to both the person who has been let down, and the person who has let others down. Chambers continues:

[D]isillusionment which comes from God brings us to the place where we see men and women as they really are, and yet there is no cynicism, we have no stinging bitter things to say…. There is only one Being Who can satisfy the last aching abyss of the human heart, and that is the Lord Jesus Christ. (July 30, My Utmost for His Highest)

I told the kids about a book by Leslie Leyland Fields called Forgiving Our Fathers and Mothers: Finding Freedom from Hurt and Hate. Leslie addresses this need to be disillusioned in order to offer forgiveness to others. As adults, we can begin to let go of illusions of how we wish our parents parented us; instead, we can realize our parents had hopes and dreams just as we do; we can recognize we’re all struggling, and we’re all messing up.

While Leslie’s focus is on parents, the same attitude can apply to relationships with any human who has let us down. When we see how much we have in common, for better or for worse, we can be more generous and understanding toward others, just as we hope others will be generous and understanding toward us:

We are pressed alike in the inescapable fist of time. We alike are made of humus, the dirt of the earth, and to dirt we alike will return. We alike are under bondage to ourselves, and we share a nature bent away from God.… We’re also made alike in the image of God, containing the very breath of God in our lungs. We each long for freedom, for a life that matters. We are equally the recipients of God’s love and mercy. We are all offered a new life, redemption, the removal of sins, the hope of heaven, the company of God’s Spirit within us. We share with our parents both in this “universal disaster of sinful brokenness” and in the universal offer of wholeness and restoration. (Fields 52)

With maturity comes also the freedom to offer love regardless of what we are given in return. Leslie references C. S. Lewis’s terms “Need-love” and “Gift-love.” She points out that as both we and our parents age, we “may still need their love, but as we’ve matured, we hope to grow toward a deeper kind of love, Gift-love, based on the simple desire to give and love another regardless of our own needs and the other’s response. This is how God loves us” (136-137).

As we talked about this around the picnic table on that camping trip, one of the kids engaged with the conversation more than the others. Most of them ate their pancakes rather quietly, contemplatively. Maybe they were processing this content; maybe they were eager to get past the devotional and on to other things. I hope, though, they will eventually embrace and live out what Leslie Leyland Fields encourages in her book and what Oswald Chambers observed in his devotional and what I have come to realize, as well:

When we trust that God is working in others and in us—knowing that people will fail us and will need our forgiveness—we find freedom for ourselves and offer freedom to others.

It’s not that we let people walk all over us, though; nor does this freedom give us license to hurt others.

It does make a way to break free from the crippling pain and abuse others inflicted on us in the past. Leslie says we can bless people like our parents or other authority figures from childhood, even if they never blessed us. We can create a new legacy. “We’ve been given all that we need to be whole people, people of peace, a forgiving people who won’t allow others’ sins to crush or smother us, who won’t let our love be silenced by neglect and selfishness” (152).

As I am learning to forgive people and reach out in love, regardless of the response I receive, I hope my kids forgive me, as well. In fact, I hope not only my kids but also my husband, my mom and dad, my in-laws, my nieces and nephews, and friends and neighbors will all forgive me for the ways I’ve failed them. I wish I could go back and do a lot of things differently, but I can’t.

At the very least, I can say I’m sorry.

Please forgive me.

* * * * *

Sources:

Chambers, Oswald. “My Utmost for His Highest: The Discipline of Disillusionment,” July 30. Oswald Chambers Publications Association. Oswald Chambers Publications Assn., Ltd. Web. 6 Aug 2014.

Fields, Leslie Leyland. Forgiving Our Fathers and Mothers: Finding Freedom from Hurt and Hate. Nashville, TN: W Publishing Group, Thomas Nelson, 2014. Advanced Reader’s Copy. Print.

The post Book Response: Forgiving Our Fathers and Mothers by Leslie Leyland Fields appeared first on Ann Kroeker, Writing Coach.

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…

[READ MORE at The High Calling where this story is featured in its entirety.]

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As the truck rumbled over the rugged African landscape, the villagers could hear it coming from miles away and were waiting to greet them. Bud and his dad began passing out the leaflets to the people, who were overjoyed to receive printed literature. They rushed to the truck to get a copy.

The small quantity was far from enough for everyone. Bud watched people walk away empty-handed, discouraged. Then he witnessed a fistfight break out between two grown men—fighting over a copy of the literature.

Standing in the bed of the truck that day, Bud was horrified. People should not have to fight over a copy of any piece of Christian literature—there should be enough to go around! If he could do something about it, he would.

That was the start of a dream. Bud decided to be a missionary printer, not knowing all that was involved in publishing.

In his teens, Bud moved from Africa to Oregon, where he stayed with friends of the family to finish high school in the States. From there, he went to Wheaton College for university studies. By then, the dream had grown into a plan: Bud and his father were forming a mission that would publish Christian literature in French specifically to distribute to French-speaking African nations for low-cost or free… (read more)

* * * * *

I recently wrote an article for The High Calling that featured my father-in-law, whose life experiences could fill a book, including adventures of growing up in Congo, traveling in the States, raising six kids in Belgium, and more recently, launching Congo Open Heart.

In the article I highlighted how he pursued his God-given dreams—my hope is that his courage and faith inspire you to continue pursuing your God-given dreams.

Read more at “Aligning Talents with Dreams: It Takes Courage.”

The post Pursuing Your God-Given Dreams 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.

Despite over a decade of committing to a slower, more sustainable pace, “hurry up” has crept into our family’s vocabulary. Then again, perhaps it is our more relaxed pace that prompts this call to speed things up a bit?

I wrote a book about slowing down, but we don’t live it perfectly. In fact, I revisit my own book periodically to evaluate our family’s evolution and identify where we need to adjust our pace, reclaim our schedule, and focus once again on what matters most.

My friend Dolly is interviewing me on Soul Stops today, asking about several topics covered in Not So Fast: Slow-Down Solutions for Frenzied Families. As I’ve interacted with Dolly, I’ve enjoyed reflecting on the principles of the book and where we are at in this new stage of life. I’m seeing once again how life goes by so fast. Why would I have wanted to rush through it and miss the beauty?

I’m glad we slowed down years ago, when the kids were little, as it gave us many moments like this:

That was taken in 2009. Today, our eldest is finishing up her freshman year of college, and the next-oldest is graduating high school this year. With only two kids at home this fall, we’ll be entering a new stage, a new phase. How will we adjust our pace?

Visit Dolly to read part one of her interview with me and follow the instructions to enter a drawing—she’s giving away not just one but two copies of Not So Fast!

Read more…

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

My junior year in college, I started scribbling each day’s to-do list the night before. I’d always include “wake up” so I would have the pleasure of marking off one item first thing in the morning: a visual sign of accomplishment.

I’ve always joked about how pathetic it was to include “wake up,” but I needed to see that I made progress.

Decades later, I want to establish some habits, to have a rut to run in, but I’m still the same at my core: I need to see that I’ve made progress.  Over the years I’ve continued using to-do lists to keep track of tasks, and you’d think that adding daily habits to the to-do list (so I can cross them off each day) would lock them in, but for some reason it doesn’t work.

Since January, I’ve been testing a habit-forming concept that marks progress visually: Jerry Seinfeld’s Productivity Secret, also known as “Don’t Break the Chain.” Before recommending it to my blog friends or writing coach clients, I’ve been waiting to see how it works for me, given that forming habits is such a personal struggle.

Guess what? It works.

At least, it works for me. And I heartily recommend it to anyone who struggles with how to form a daily habit.

In a complex, high-tech world, the simplicity of Seinfeld’s “Don’t Break the Chain” approach offers a refreshing alternative to buzzers and gadgets (though supporting apps are available). With this concept in place, I wake up motivated to follow through with the habit and feel pleasantly affirmed once I do.

What’s Seinfeld’s Secret?

Software developer Brad Isaac explains via Lifehacker that Seinfeld shared the idea of “Don’t Break the Chain” with him years ago when they met briefly at a comedy club. Brad asked for some tips, and Seinfield told him his system for ensuring he writes new material every day. A second, more in-depth article offers an explanation for how it’s done. Here’s how I understand it:

1. Pick a Habit: Decide on a habit you’d like to establish. Something simple. Something you want to do daily. Something you can actually accomplish every day. I recommend absolutely no more than two habits when starting out. Better to attend to one or two and really lock those in than to try four, feel overwhelmed, and give up. Let’s say you want to write 500 words every day. That’s doable.
2. Calendar: Purchase or print off a one-year calendar for that habit (or download a supporting app, though visual people will benefit from having the calendar posted where they can see it as a reminder). One calendar per habit. Print one for your 500 words and write that at the top.
3. Post the Calendar: Hang up your calendar where you see it, as a reminder to follow through with the habit by end of day. You can see why the app may not work as well—out of sight, out of mind.
4. Marker: Buy a big marker in a color of your choice (Seinfeld recommended red, but anything bold would work). If you’re using an app, you won’t need the marker. Also, the app may come in handy if you travel a lot.
5. Daily X: When you complete the habit, mark a big X on that day. The next day, be sure the tips of the X touch the previous day’s X. After two days—certainly by day four or five—you’ll start to create a satisfying chain effect.
6. Don’t Break the Chain: Now your goal is to mark an X every single day, so you don’t break the chain of X’s. Something about seeing that continuous chain offers visual and internal satisfaction, reinforcing the habit.

“Don’t Break the Chain” Resources

• A young man named Charlie McDonnell created a short video in 2012 explaining how he stays motivated to create a video every day using Seinfeld’s “Don’t Break the Chain” technique.
• Karen Kavett has designed some nice “Don’t Break the Chain” calendars (here’s a set for 2014, with color options so each habit can have its own color per your whim). I wish hers had squares, though, as it’s easier to make an X in a box.
• At CalendarLabs.com, you can pick your favorite calendar to download and print. Scroll down to find some full-year calendars (and some have the days in boxes).
• Download the extremely simple Android “Seinfeld Calendar” app or iPhone equivalent (such as the Don’t Break the Chain app).
• Chain Calendar and Don’t Break the Chain require signup to track your habits online.

Consider developing a system for marking sick days or vacations when a habit like “Wipe kitchen counters” will not be performed. Perhaps you’ll draw an outline around the calendar’s box so that you still create connections to the X. Or you could draw an “A” for “absent” and let the bottom of the A touch the bottom of the X. In any case, it’s smart to build in a plan that accommodates real life.

Someday you won’t be sick or on vacation…someday you’ll feel ornery or overwhelmed and fail to do the thing you set out to do. Someday you’ll get busy and just plain forget about it. On that day, you won’t outline the box or draw an A for “absent.” On that day, you’ll leave that square blank and the chain will show a gap.

On that day, you’ll break the chain.

But you know, it’s human to feel ornery, overwhelmed, busy and forgetful. And it’ll be a break, but it’s not the end. Don’t stare at that broken chain and feel like you’ve failed. Don’t rip down the calendar and give up.

Instead, pick up the habit again the next day and start a new chain. See if you can create a longer streak than before. You can see from my calendars that I’ve done that. A new day can be the start of a new chain, and I still find satisfaction looking back at those long stretches before I missed a day.

If habits are hard for you to form, give the Seinfeld Secret a try. Pick a habit, maybe two (but no more than two until you establish a solid month of X’s) and then Don’t Break the Chain.

The post How to Form a Daily Habit: Don’t Break the Chain appeared first on Ann Kroeker, Writing Coach.

When I read that years ago in a book about home education, I bristled. A rut? People get stuck in ruts and never change, never take risks, never explore new possibilities. Ruts feel like tedium. Monotony. Boredom. Ruts seem unimaginative and unattractive. Everything in me yearned to break out of any rut I might run the risk of tumbling into—my random-abstract personality craved variety and spontaneity for myself and my kids.

I wanted us to experience a life of adventure, flexible enough to enjoy exploring the world of science and art and literature in novel ways, so to speak. I had an overall vision and plenty of books to support my ideas, but I didn’t want to feel constrained and I didn’t want the kids to feel that way, either. I wanted my kids to grow up with a sense of curiosity, adventure, and freedom. No ruts for us, no way.

But the longer I home educated, the more I came to realize that a rut—formed by established routines and habits—would simplify life. If we had a rut to run in, we wouldn’t have to reinvent every single day. If we established a routine, the kids could wake up and know what to expect. They could get straight to work on sequential, daily subjects like math, handwriting, or spelling. Well-conceived, a routine could provide a sense of peace, order and regularity—a steadying framework. After too many inefficient, unpredictable mornings, they began to crave a rut to run in. And as much as I resisted—as much as I hated to admit it—so did I…

My writing partner, colleague, and friend Charity Singleton Craig invited me to write about my word of the week over at her place. Click through to read the rest of the article.

The post Simplify Life with Habits appeared first on Ann Kroeker, Writing Coach.

Stefan Mumaw, creative director at Callahan Creek and author of Creative Boot Camp, said in the May 2013 issue of How magazine (“Jumping 5 Creative Hurdles,” by Julie Ann Sims):

Inspiration, like routine, is behavioral. It’s an internal result of an external action. We have to do something to be inspired. Creatives often think that inspiration hits them unprovoked. This simply isn’t the case. We have to put ourselves in positions for inspiration to come. We have to be exploring, discovering or seeing. We have to be listening or thinking or moving. It’s a result, not a random act. (30)

You want ideas? Need inspiration? Help your mind break free from routines: Do something. Mumaw offers a starter-list of ideas to get you in motion:

• Read a book
• Take a walk
• Watch a video
• See a movie
• Throw a paper airplane
• Wear a headband
• Stand backward in the elevator
• Draw a stick figure
• Tell a joke
• Find a new blog
• Disassemble a stapler
• Create a paperclip monster
• Solve a new problem

Each of those will create opportunities for mental exploration, discovering, thinking, moving or doing. Each of those, Mumaw points out, launches with a verb—each requires doing something. “Inspiration,” he concludes, “is found through verbs. So verb” (30).

Next time you need some inspiration, seek creative stimulation—like Julia Cameron’s Artist Date, modeled regularly at Tweetspeak Poetry. Or for a more dramatic creative boost, take your verbs to the next level so that they require a risk—keeping in mind that risk is relative.

When you need inspiration throughout the year ahead, make your own list of verbs and do something. Who knows? You might find creative inspiration in the middle of a snowball fight, a trip to an art museum, a tour of an apiary, or a walk on the beach.

______________

Source Cited:

Sims, Julie Ann. “Jumping 5 Creative Hurdles.” HOW May 2013: 26-30. Print.

The post Need Inspiration? Don’t Just Sit There – Do Something! appeared first on Ann Kroeker, Writing Coach.

Five Writing Strengths

1. The ability to sit still for long stretches of time.

Not everyone can do this, you know. Some people get antsy, restless. After a few minutes of sitting still, they fidget and have to get up and make hot chocolate or call a friend. Writers need to be able to sit still for hours in order to get their work done. Dorothea Brande in her book Becoming a Writer said:

Writing calls on unused muscles and involves solitude and immobility. There is not much to be said for the recommendation, so often heard, to serve an apprenticeship to journalism if you intend to write fiction. But a journalist’s career does teach two lessons which every writer needs to learn—that it is possible to write for long periods without fatigue, and that if one pushes on past the first weariness one finds a reservoir of unsuspected energy—one reaches the famous “second wind.” (71)

I can’t help but think of that famous advice writers hear at conferences and in books: How does one become a successful writer? “Apply [bottom] to chair.” I can do that. I admit that I do head into the other room to grab a handful of nuts now and then or fix a cup of tea. But I can sit still when need be and write for long periods without fatigue.

2. Curiosity.

Each person I meet knows something that I don’t—I can always learn something new if I ask the right questions. All it takes is a little curiosity. Whether working for a newspaper or corporate client to write an article or blog post, finding interest in some aspect of a new industry, person, story, or methodology is a strength—if I myself am interested in it, the way I write about it will probably be more interesting, as well. I value curiosity so highly in writing and in life, I publish a monthly Curiosity Journal, documenting and sharing my discoveries.

3. A Commitment to Lifelong Learning.

I’ve abandoned the pursuit of higher education in a formal sense, but Autodidact Ann lives (and reads and researches) on. The more I learn, the more I have to write about.

4. Love of Reading.

Numbers 2, 3, and 4 are suspiciously interrelated. It might seem that I’m taking one idea and stretching it out to fill space—which might be yet another strength in itself—but I do think they deserve to be singled out. Curiosity often leads to learning and reading, and one often learns via reading. But there are other ways to learn and satisfy curiosity, and there is more than one motivation to read.

Yet (and this is the point) reading inevitably enhances writing—the content may inspire (or not); the writing style may be worth imitating (or not). Either way, reading widely only helps a writer. In his memoir, On Writing, Stephen King says:

If you want to be a writer, you must do two things above all others: read a lot and write a lot. There’s no way around these two things that I’m aware of, no shortcut. (139)

and

Reading is the creative center of a writer’s life. (142)

Storylines linger, nonfiction facts inform, ideas from texts comingle with others in my mind to form something new. A writer who doesn’t read is doomed to compose in a narrow style and draw from a limited library of ideas. I relish a good book, and I believe that makes my writing richer.

5. Perseverance.

Never, never, never give up. Stick with it. Persist. I may not have been born with the greatest writing talent, but I’ve stuck with it. I work to improve and learn from mistakes, forging ahead a little smarter, wiser, and more skillful. As a friend of mine said (I paraphrase), the most successful writers are not necessarily the ones with the greatest talent; they’re the ones who persevere.

What are five of your writing strengths?

Modified post from the archives.

You might like to read:

• Writing Conditions are Never Perfect 
• Write in the Midst of Motherhood series

The post Developing a Writing Life: Five Writing Strengths 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=5b89166f-1b7d-4bac-b09a-a5df87bda0f1]

Food on Fridays with Ann

My husband grew up in Belgium. Until age 9 he lived in a town called Strombeek, home of Douwe Egberts coffee. This Belgian coffee is occasionally found in America in dispensers like this one.

The machine doesn’t look like much but the coffee tastes great. If you see the Douwe Egberts logo, grab a mug and fill it up, quick. You will not be disappointed.

Of course, my husband is always so tickled to see Douwe Egberts in the States, he might be a little biased.

* * * * *

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: Douwe Egberts Coffee appeared first on Ann Kroeker, Writing Coach.

We arrive late afternoon at the Grand Canyon, just in time for lovely lighting.

The overlook with protective railings is packed with people, all snapping pictures, the sounds of chatter and shutters filling the space directly around us.

An exhale, a sigh.

We linger long, much longer than most people, and the noise level drops. I hear my son ask a question and my husband advise my daughter on the best position of her tripod. I look around and realize…

It’s just us.

I point this out to my family and we fall silent a moment, letting space fill the space. I breathe slowly in the fading light, drinking in the silence.

Vast silence.

Then one of the kids asks when we’ll leave.

Spell broken, we discuss dinner plans and head back to the RV, debating whether or not to wake in time for sunrise. We decide to do it. Once in a lifetime and all that.

In the morning, we hustle to the overlooks where, again, crowds gather, though not as many as at sunset. It is, after all, five in the morning. As the sky lightens, we wait for the moment the day’s first shafts of light streak over the far side of the canyon.

And shutters snap nonstop like paparazzi.

I snap, too, feeling guilty for contributing to the noise, but unable to stop, hypnotized, mesmerized. People slowly leave the overlook, finished capturing a digital dawn, but we’re still here, lingering despite a few weary moans from the few who preferred sleep over sunrise.

And once more, we are alone out here. The six of us and the Grand Canyon. I stop snapping pictures, as does my daughter. In the second silence, we pause and take it all in.

There’s nothing to say. There’s only the silence, the space, and us.

In time, it seems right to leave. We stand up and move toward the parking lot, passing a young couple heading toward the empty overlook to take our place on the rocks.

Posts about our trip:

A Trip Across the USA

RV Trip West: Heading into the Unknown

RV Trip West: Convergences

RV Trip West: Route 66

RV Trip West: Petrified Forest

RV Trip West: Winslow, Arizona

RV Trip West: Grand Canyon

Photos by Ann Kroeker.

For about a year, I’ve followed this blogger with interest. His stories and photos inspired some of our planning.

The post RV Trip West: Grand Canyon appeared first on Ann Kroeker, Writing Coach.

“Hey,” I say to my husband as we leave Petrified Forest National Park, “Winslow, Arizona, is just down the road. Can we stop? Please?”

He’s grinning. Of course he’ll stop, especially because I’m giddy. I don’t know why I’m so excited, because I don’t fit the Eagles demographic, but I doggedly search the Internet on my phone for the lyrics to “Take It Easy” and when I find them, I sing the entire song a cappella as we drive to the Winslow exit.

When I finish, my husband says if I’m ever at a gas station and a guy invites me to sing karaoke, I should pick that song.

“It’s not really a song for a girl to sing,” I point out. “The narrator is a guy.” When I suggest that he be the one to stand on the corner, since he’s a guy, he shakes his head. “We can both stand on the corner.” I look up and smile, then turn to my phone again to track down a YouTube rendition of the song. I play it, trying to get the kids interested. They ignore me.

We drive through town in search of the corner, spotting plenty of vintage Route 66 sights.

Someone in Winslow realized potential for drawing tourists into town and created a park on a corner in town. An artist painted a mural that depicts lines from the song and they parked a flat bed Ford curbside.

I peer down streets as we move through intersections, and we finally spot it.

We park a couple of blocks away, so I try to talk the kids into coming but they decline—all but one daughter who agrees to be our photographer. We bound down the street and find the mural and the flat bed truck and a small tour group—several of them wear coordinating shirts and caps that suggest they’re on a Route 66-themed trip. They’re posing for photos.

Our daughter stands on the opposite corner, ready to take our snapshot, but we have to wait. The visitors are taking turns snapping pictures of themselves by the statue and the lamppost. We wait while they wander around studying mural details, taking it all in.

Finally we tell our daughter to go ahead and snap a few, knowing we’ll end up with peopled shots. A quick glance confirms that I am on the young end of giddy tourists.

We wait and eventually it’s just the two of us.

Except for a couple of guys on Harleys who lingered nearby.

We’re trying to make it to the Grand Canyon before sunset, so the three of us run back to the RV.

“Thanks for coming with us to be our photographer,” I tell my daughter as we rush down the sidewalk. “I know this was kind of boring for you.”

“It wasn’t boring. I loved that Route 66 sign on the road,” she replies. “This was a lot more cool than I thought it would be.”

We climb up the steps into the RV and one of the kids who stayed back looks up from the sofa. “Why did we stop here?”

“For a song,” I say. “Just a song.”

______________________

Posts about our trip:

A Trip Across the USA

RV Trip West: Heading into the Unknown

RV Trip West: Convergences

RV Trip West: Route 66

RV Trip West: Petrified Forest

RV Trip West: Winslow, Arizona

RV Trip West: Grand Canyon

Photos by Ann Kroeker.

For about a year, I’ve followed this blogger with interest. His stories and photos inspired some of our planning.

The post RV Trip West: Winslow, Arizona (Standin’ on a Corner) appeared first on Ann Kroeker, Writing Coach.

Before we left on this trip, our friend “Helen’s” eyes lit up when we described our itinerary. She and her husband had visited most of our destinations on their honeymoon in the 1940s, and years later they returned to several of them with their kids. “You are going to love it!” she assured us. She pulled out a photo album to show us the vintage black-and-white snapshots of Petrified Forest and the Grand Canyon. She ran a finger over the page. “You are going to have so much fun!”

I’d never heard about Petrified Forest National Park until my husband and I watched a PBS series on the history of our national parks. Helen described how beautiful all the colors were in the Painted Desert and how each piece of petrified wood almost glittered with its own streaks of colors.

“Bright colors?”

“All kinds of colors,” she said. “I’ll show you. I have a piece.”

“You have a piece? You own petrified wood?” Sure enough, she owns a petrified log, the size you’d toss into a fire to burn for a couple of hours. “Feel how heavy it is,” she said. She rolled it into my arms and it was as heavy as a stone…because that’s pretty much what it is.

“I bought that on my honeymoon,” she said, “for ten dollars.” The bark was smooth and cool to the touch; the colors, subdued, shimmery. “You’ll see all kinds of colors,” she promised.

Because of the dreamy look on Helen’s face, I decided this national park would be well worth our time to visit.

We wake up in Holbrook and remark how the land seems to stretch out forever on one side of the campground. While the girls finish getting ready, my son and I walk to the office where several impressive specimens of petrified wood are on display—a collection of fat stumps and long logs; entire trees, it seems. I snapped photos with my phone, amazed.

When everyone’s ready, we drive about 20 miles to the north entrance. We stop at the visitor’s center to buy a Petrified Forest sticker and get our National Parks Passport “cancellation stamp” along with suggestions from the ranger for what to view along the 28-mile scenic drive through the park.

One of the first stops is the view behind the Painted Desert Inn. Have we landed on Mars? Or the moon?

We snap several photos and read informational signs, brochures, and pamphlets that explain how Petrified Forest National Park is situated in a broader region known as the Painted Desert. We learn that the colors come from minerals in the soil and rock and that this is technically grassland rather than desert. We see very little grass, but I’ll take their word for it.

We’ve been reading a lot of signs and taking a lot of pictures. Someone’s getting bored. He’s studying the path with binoculars, so I suggest we visit the Inn.

The Painted Desert Inn, built in the late 1930s, no longer handles guests other than park visitors who come through to tour, but years ago lodged travelers passing through on Route 66, which ran directly through the national park land. I see a petroglyph on display and the ranger standing nearby explains that it’s famous. “Haven’t you seen it on hats and bags and things?”

I shake my head and tell him I’m from the Midwest. He says, “You’ll see it everywhere now. A lot of people use it for their logo or something without knowing where it’s from. It’s a cool story.” He points at the sign but then proceeds to paraphrase what it says, adding that it was face down in a bunch of rubble. It could have so easily been overlooked, but they flipped it over to discover this beautiful work of art.

I snap several photos as the ranger talks, and ask, to confirm, “So this is the original, right?”

“Oh, yes! A lot of people don’t know that. It’s right here in the Inn. Right here in Petrified Forest National Park.”

“And you don’t care that my camera is just a few inches away from this national treasure?”

“Just don’t touch it with your fingers.” The stone is standing upright on a low shelf. A small child could easily swipe a pacifier or slimy finger along its surface.

The ranger is eager to show us around, so he invites us into the dining area and explains that the murals are by Hopi artist Fred Kabotie.

I’m charmed by the vintage furnishings, decor and artwork and snap pictures of the kids sitting at the stools. The ranger lets my son slip behind the counter and pretend to serve the girls, and we’re all laughing, delighted.

We work our way through the building and then climb back into the RV to continue our tour of the park. Next stop: Route 66.

Actually, it’s the spot in the park where Route 66 used to cut through. A park ranger is standing nearby to chat with curious visitors, and he lines me up to see where the roadbed used to be. It’s kind of hard to tell, but I snap a picture anyway, since the ranger is standing right next to me to point it out. I snap a few more shots of an old car they’ve mounted in memory of the highway’s heyday, but the dilapidated state of the car emphasizes times long gone.

We thank the ranger and continue, driving a while.

“Life is a Highway” starts rolling through my head, and I realize this is trouble. It will be running through my head for a long time.

We stop at the Puerco Pueblo ruins, where we see the village remains and then petroglyphs.

One fascinating set-up is a petroglyph that marks the spot where, on the summer solstice, sunlight streaks between two rocks creating a narrow band illuminating a round drawing looking like a bullseye. We are at the park just days before the summer solstice, and just a couple of hours before the right time, but don’t have time to linger.

In this photo above, I think I’ve captured the line of light on the left rock inching closer to the circle, which is hard to discern on the right rock. As I attach my long lens and try to get closer shots of the artwork, a man standing nearby says to anyone within earshot, “Someone sure had a lot of time on his hands!”

He says it again, because no one responds. “Someone sure had a lot of time on his hands!”

I ignore him, trying to take it all in, trying to imagine these early artists creating figures and shapes. No one knows exactly the purpose behind all of these designs. Perhaps the person who made them just loved creating art.

Maybe it was one person with lots of time on his or her hands, or maybe that person had to make time for it after returning from a hunt or fishing expedition.

Sometimes people do that. They work around day-to-day obligations to create art. Sometimes they have lots of time available, sometimes they don’t. Sometimes they make the time, because art is a priority.

While I’m snapping pictures and thinking of the artist or artists, the man says it again. He shakes his head almost disparagingly. “All I can say is, someone sure had a lot of time on his hands.”

All I can say is, I’m glad someone had time on his hands. He or she or the community of artists who created all of this has left behind some charming, whimsical images for us to ponder.

These people carved a life out of this barren land, building a village that looked out across a valley to a long mesa. Everyday life must have been hard sometimes. Yet, long ago, someone took time to climb down and etch onto rocks the shape of a hand print, a bird with a frog in its beak, spirals and lizards. Someone called this home and added something more than a container to store provisions through the harshest months. Someone took time to tell stories in pictures, to give the villagers something to look at besides mesas and cacti. Someone added beauty.

The buildings are mostly gone. The outline of their foundations is all that remains. But the art…we can still see the art as clearly as ever.

We finally load into the RV and continue. The kids are grateful for air conditioning. Before long, we see cliffs streaked with color, and I remember what Helen told me, that the Painted Desert has all kinds of colors.

We find ourselves in the midst of a bunch of these mounds. To the right and left, these eerie shapes encroach upon the path.

“Have we seen any petrified wood yet?” asks one of the kids.

“No, we haven’t,” I say, equally perplexed.

“It’s funny this is called Petrified Wood National Park and we haven’t seen any petrified wood.”

“I agree.”

But we’re on the lookout for the Agate Bridge. I’ve wanted to see this since renting the PBS national parks series. The Agate Bridge is a spot where a tree fell and formed a bridge, and people used to get photographs of themselves standing on it or walking across. The agate tree began to crumble over time, so workers shored it up with concrete support underneath. But today, in the name of preservation and safety, people are no longer allowed to put weight on the bridge.

We read the sign carefully to confirm, and it stays to stay off the bridge. So we climb down a different way and touch it, instead.

We get into the RV and continue toward a spot where the ranger said we could view lots of wood. I see logs dotting the landscape. “Look! There’s a bunch of petrified wood!”

“Finally!” one of the kids exclaims. Everyone’s excited. We get out and walk among the logs.

We drive on, because we’re told there’s yet another viewing area with lots of wood where we can get up close. We stop along the way, in case this mound is Blue Mesa. I don’t think it is, but find it interesting nevertheless.

Then we realize that the last spot to walk among the petrified wood is just this side of the exit. We hop out and walk the path a ways, but the kids are feeling hot and have run out of steam. I’m sad, because this is the last big collection, the last chance to get up close and personal with the wood out here in its natural habitat. We may never pass this way again.

The kids say that the only thing they want to see here is “Old Faithful,” the largest log in the park. On the way, I snap a photo of a cactus in bloom and then see a particularly colorful chunk of rock and think of how Helen tried to find words to prepare us. “All kinds of colors,” she had said.

I can’t get a good shot of Old Faithful, so I try to capture the place as a whole, and even that doesn’t do it justice.

I want time to explore everything and take better pictures than what the midday sun is able to offer, but everyone else seems ready to move on. We’re on our way to the Grand Canyon, so we do need to go. I would, after all, like to try capturing this evening’s soft light illuminating the Grand Canyon. But I’ve enjoyed this place, and I’m glad that people like John Muir pushed to have it preserved as a national park.

We stop at the gift shop and one of my daughters spends her souvenir money on a Petrified Forest National Park T-shirt. She shows it to me when we’re in the RV getting ready to go. “We saw so many different things in one park,” she says. “I really liked this place.”

______________________

Photos by Ann Kroeker.

Posts about our trip:

A Trip Across the USA

RV Trip West: Heading into the Unknown

RV Trip West: Convergences

RV Trip West: Route 66

RV Trip West: Petrified Forest

RV Trip West: Winslow, Arizona

RV Trip West: Grand Canyon

Photos by Ann Kroeker.

For about a year, I’ve followed this blogger with interest. His stories and photos inspired some of our planning.

The post RV Trip West: Petrified Forest National Park appeared first on Ann Kroeker, Writing Coach.

Late at night, after negotiating an awkward turn onto a quiet side road in Oklahoma City, a police officer pulls us over. Apparently we’d overlooked a stop sign just after exiting the freeway. He asks where we’re headed and we explain our confusion over the way to a campground. He listens and nods, and then proceeds to give us precise directions without even a warning about the stop sign. “Have a good trip!” he calls out.

The friendly officer drives off, so we roll down the road to the campground where we settle in for the night. In the morning, we continue west through New Mexico toward Arizona.

I realize that several of these exits would take us onto portions of Route 66. I want to drive at least some segment of the old road, so my husband turns off at Tucumcari, and to get the kids to pay attention, I refer to Cars. They’re suddenly interested and start snapping pictures of Route 66 memorabilia.

I’m excited to roll down part of the great American highway, but sad, too. This town has preserved some of the old gas stations and motels seemingly as nothing more than opportunities to paint vintage-style signs with Route 66 in bold, black lettering. Most of the businesses themselves are bricked and boarded up; and those still offering services, aren’t exactly booming.

Still, we enjoy the mini-tour and promise to watch Cars sometime on the trip when we aren’t exhausted.

We get back on Interstate 40. “Interesting sky,” I say to my husband.

It looks like it’s a long way off, and maybe we’ll miss it if it’s moving away from the road as we approach.

The closer we get, the stranger it looks. The wind seems to have lifted sand off the desert before releasing the rain, so we’re witnessing a mysterious, mingling swirl of brown and gray in the distance. We begin to feel the strong plow winds pushing against us. A tumbleweed rolls across the road, lightly touching the asphalt before lifting up again, spinning and tumbling into the field on the other side.

“I’ve always wanted to see a tumbleweed tumble!” I shout over the noise of the wind. “But I forgot that wind is what makes them tumble—this is nuts!”

My husband can’t even respond, he’s so focused on keeping the RV steady. Soon we’re heading into an impressive storm. He’s slowing down as the winds slam against us intensely. We consider pulling over. He decides to slow down even more, instead, and drive on high alert. After several miles, we see the sky clearing in the distance and as we move toward it, the force of the wind and our tension lessen. Finally, we’re on the other side.

“I’ve never felt wind that hard before,” my husband says as the skies calm.

“My heart is still thumping,” I admit.

Our daughter shouts, “A rainbow!”

I turn to look, and with those dark storm clouds as a backdrop, the rainbow seems lit from within.

We snap many pictures, as the rainbow slowly fades.

The last miles on our way into Holbrook, Arizona, are tiring. We’ve been slowed by the storm and now, construction. This time, however, I did arrange for our late arrival. The office manager at the campground picked out a spot for us not too far from the bath house. We try to get everyone ready for bed right away, because tomorrow we visit Petrified Forest National Park.

______________________

Posts about our trip:

A Trip Across the USA

RV Trip West: Heading into the Unknown

RV Trip West: Convergences

RV Trip West: Route 66

RV Trip West: Petrified Forest

RV Trip West: Winslow, Arizona

RV Trip West: Grand Canyon

Photos by Ann Kroeker.

For about a year, I’ve followed this blogger with interest. His stories and photos inspired some of our planning.

The post RV Trip West: Route 66 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=57397f7f-b75e-49d1-8b85-a96fcce09bd1]

Food on Fridays with Ann

These little crackers are pretty good. They taste like…crackers.

As people stuck eating gluten free can attest, this is not always the case. Sometimes a gluten-free cracker does not taste like a standard cracker.

I’m enjoying this treat. Well done, Glutino. Well done.

* * * * *

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: Glutino Crackers appeared first on Ann Kroeker, Writing Coach.

“Bugs and rainbows,” my husband observes as I lean across the RV dashboard to get the shot. “That’s life right there, isn’t it?”

“Always some of both,” I agree.

“Did the camera focus on the rainbow or the bugs?”

“Both, I think.” I lean back in my seat and return to my primary responsibility. A friend who has made several RV trips warned me to secure at least two or three campground possibilities before 5:00 p.m. local time each day. “Do it while rolling down the highway,” she said. But we left so late on Friday that it was practically 5:00 local time when we first pulled out of our driveway. I’m rolling down the highway with nothing lined up for tonight.

Construction slows us down in spots, making it hard to estimate where we’ll be at bedtime. I have a list of names, addresses and phone numbers of campgrounds located along our route. I phone all of the places with decent reviews, but no one answers. The offices must be closed for the night.

Finally, we see that we aren’t going to make it to the city, so we stop at one campground east of St. Louis (but not East St. Louis) billed as a “resort.” It does look nice, actually, with a pretty fountain out front and plenty of fancier RVs than our old Bounder. My husband hops out and studies the papers and posters taped to the office door, hoping to spot a late registration process. Nothing.

It’s close to 10:30 our time, and we have to move on. Nothing is guaranteed; we just have to drive to the next campground and hope for the best. I’m still uptight about the problems we might encounter along the way. Like not finding a campground.

My phone navigation guides us to the next one on my list, but we’re running out of options. Just in case the next campground doesn’t work out, I start scouring Google maps for a Wal-Mart, where RVs are often allowed to stay overnight for free.

The next campground proves difficult to find in the dark, but we eventually turn a corner and discover it tucked behind some buildings. We pull next to the office and find late registration instructions. Yay! We locate a pull-through campsite close to the bath house so that our three teenage girls can conveniently access the showers. After everyone cleans up, we level the RV, pull shut the curtains, and drop into bed.

In the morning, we fix bowls of instant oatmeal before continuing toward the Gateway Arch. Weeks ago, my son insisted, “We have to stop at the Arch. It’s the Gateway to the West! We can’t go west without passing under the Arch!”

As we’re cruising down the highway toward St. Louis, one of my daughters speaks up from the couch. “Mom? Dad? I just realized I forgot to pack my leg brace.” She had ACL surgery last fall and the surgeon advised her to wear—for a full year after surgery—her custom-made leg brace during sports and while hiking unsteady surfaces. We’ve planned hikes in several national parks and assume most will be unsteady surfaces.

After we all sit quietly for a moment in disbelief, the reality setting in, my husband says, “I’m sorry, but we’ll have to evaluate each hike along the way. If some seem too rocky, we may have to ask you to stay in the RV while the rest of us go on without you.” I glance back and she stares straight ahead. I ache for her. I want to turn back time and nag her to grab that brace before we leave, but here we are on Interstate 70, hours from home, just about to enter St. Louis. And the brace is in her room somewhere.

Then I think about my dear friend and neighbor. She has a key. Maybe I could ask her to grab the brace and meet up with our good friends who will be heading to Colorado in a couple of days? We have a special day-long Colorado hike planned with those friends toward the end of our trip. If we could get the brace to those friends, my daughter would at least have it for the longest, rockiest hike.

I contact my friends and launch a flurry of texts and phone calls, learning that my friends aren’t leaving for Colorado later in the week—they’re leaving today. In fact, they just left their home and ask if I can arrange for my neighbor to meet them at a nearby freeway exit in 20 minutes?

My dear neighbor is willing, and so, God bless her, she finds the brace in my daughter’s room and converges with my Colorado-bound friends at the agreed-upon exit—it couldn’t have been more perfectly orchestrated. My neighbor and this family have met in the past, so they aren’t total strangers, making the leg brace hand-off less awkward. I promise to buy my neighbor dinner when I get back, and I thank my new leg brace transport team profusely for taking it to Colorado for us. They text, “Are you going through Tulsa?”

“Yes,” I text back, “but first we’re visiting the Arch in St. Louis.”

She phones and explains, “This never happens, but we’re stopping in Tulsa to see family before going to Colorado. Let’s keep in touch—who knows? Maybe we’ll be close enough to meet up?”

“That would be crazy!”

“Crazy-fun!” she exclaims. “It would be so fun to see you. Plus, wouldn’t it be helpful to get this brace to you for the first part of your trip with all those hikes?”

“Yes! Absolutely!”

I thank her again and ask if I can call her back, because we’ve entered the city and spotted the Arch.

We have trouble maneuvering the RV through the city due to some low overhangs. At one point, my husband has to back up, turn around in a tight spot, and head the wrong way down a one-way street. Fortunately, the street is short and the one car we encounter seems to understand our dilemma and backs up. The driver doesn’t even seem annoyed, and I’m grateful. I look down from the RV window and mouth, “Thank you!” She looks up, smiles, and nods.

The city doesn’t seem crowded on this Saturday morning, so we could park in several lots. We choose a deserted lot with only one attendant—a guy wearing a reflective vest, sitting on the bed of a pickup truck. He asks for $20, five dollars cheaper than the lot down the street, closer to the Arch. My husband asks if he would accept $10 since we are staying only a couple of hours. The attendant agrees to $10 and my husband feels good about his negotiating skills. We lock up the RV and head to the Arch.

We catch glimpses of it between buildings as we make our way to the grounds and start snapping photos from all different angles. Then we round a corner and see the whole thing, like a rainbow arcing across the sky, both ends within sight. The kids run their hands along the cool metal, snap pictures of each other leaning this way and that against it, and then lie on the grass and stare up at it.

We visit the museum and get our National Parks Passport Gateway Arch/Jefferson National Expansion Memorial sticker and stamp, buy our America the Beautiful Pass, then head back out.

We hear Dixieland jazz playing on the vintage steamboat docked below. The kids admire the Mississippi and my son announces he wants to take a riverboat ride. We have neither the time nor the money, so we tell him it’s time to move on; to go west, young man.

All four kids turn resolutely toward the west and walk, together, under the Arch. I’m next to one of the girls. “There,” she says. “Now I’m totally ready to go west.” My son shouts pretty much the same thing. There’s some discussion of Lewis and Clark heading out on their expedition as we stroll up the stretch of green grass to the sidewalk.

We’re making our way toward the RV when I hear the snapping of a flag and look up.

An American flag furls and unfurls above us. I take a series of photos and hope at least one captures these artistic swirls. “Yesterday was Flag Day,” I say out loud to whoever is listening, but my son is jumping this way and that to avoid stepping on a sidewalk crack, and the girls are laughing about something. My husband smiles. “It was Flag Day?”

“Yes. We were packing and driving on Flag Day.”

He nods and looks up. I think about the flag and how we’re about to explore this great land of ours.

When we arrive at the parking lot, the RV is still there but the attendant is gone.

I turn to my husband. “I think that this was always just an empty lot and the guy was some local dude who came up with a great way to get some spending money.”

He nods. “And all he had to buy was a reflective vest.”

We look over the RV exterior and the compartments seem secure, so we head out of the city, west, toward Tulsa. I phone my friend and we compare distances, reading off signage. After our long stop in St. Louis, they aren’t that far behind. “Let’s stay in touch.”

Somewhere in Missouri we encounter a thunderstorm with torrential rain, and to cope with the wind, we slow down to 40 miles per hour. I’m researching campgrounds, but once again we’re unsure how far we’ll get. Meanwhile, our friends text us. They’re closing the distance between us and so we agree to meet in Tulsa, even if we have to wait an hour or so. It’ll be worth it to have that brace and see our friends.

We emerge from the storm front and find ourselves on a clear stretch of road. Sunshine. We’re close to Tulsa, so I text my friend again—we’ve been sending silly notes about the leg brace offering bionic strength, like the Six Million Dollar Man, but now we actually make plans to meet at Coney I-Lander, a local hotdog place.

We exchange texts, and the closer we get to Coney I-Lander, the closer our friends are to us.

We pull into the parking lot outside the restaurant and wait maybe five or ten minutes at most before we spot our friends. We wave and laugh and tumble into a big mess of kids and grownups hugging one another, the leg brace held high over their heads and passed into the grateful arms of my daughter. We head into the hotdog place together, talking about the thunderstorm and the brace and the amazing timing of arriving within ten minutes of each other in Tulsa, Oklahoma. I keep giggling and can’t help bursting out again and again, “This is crazy! This is so crazy! I can’t believe we’re together in Tulsa!”

We’re a little giddy as we eat together, but we can’t linger. On this day, their schedule is tighter than ours. Thankfully, the leg brace transport and transfer has not slowed them down, but they have to visit someone, so we all hug each other again, every combination of adult and child reaching out for another set of arms.

My friends roll down their minivan windows and call out, “In Colorado?”

“In Colorado!” we exclaim. We wave them off and then climb into the RV to continue west, toward Oklahoma City. We’re all smiles when we joke with our daughter, “So you have the leg brace in this RV, right? It’s not driving off in that minivan?”

It’s right next to her on the couch. She grins and pats it. “I have it right here, safe and sound.” We laugh and sigh and settle in for another couple of hours. With all the leg brace hubbub, I forgot to secure a campground for tonight. But we found a place to stay last night. I’m sure we’ll find one tonight.

______________________

Posts about our trip:

A Trip Across the USA

RV Trip West: Heading into the Unknown

RV Trip West: Convergences

RV Trip West: Route 66

RV Trip West: Petrified Forest

RV Trip West: Winslow, Arizona

RV Trip West: Grand Canyon

Photos by Ann Kroeker.

For about a year, I’ve followed this blogger with interest. His stories and photos inspired some of our planning.

The post RV Trip West: Convergences appeared first on Ann Kroeker, Writing Coach.

Before we plummeted, I woke up.

I told my family about it at breakfast.

“Gee, Mom. Nervous about the trip?” they replied. It doesn’t take a clinical psychiatrist, I guess. We were planning a two-and-a-half week RV trip out west in June, and my mind was conjuring up scary scenarios, even in my sleep.

This trip would involve a lot of unknowns: I’ve never felt the steady push of the Great Plains’ high winds nor traversed the long, barren stretches of uninhabited deserts; and I’ve never journeyed over the heights of the Rocky Mountains. And I’ve certainly never done any of that in an RV. My husband would be the driver, but he’s never been any of these places, either. Plus, our RV has some age on it. Would it make it across the country and back?

We made lists and packed and quizzed people familiar with some of the areas we would be visiting. Should we stay longer at the Grand Canyon, Zion National Park, Bryce, or Arches? Should we bother with the Petrified Forest? We weren’t even planning on Lake Powell, but a friend urged us to consider. We had to give up Mesa Verde and Rocky Mountain National Park due to time constraints. Would we regret it? People offered opinions—and each opinion was different.

I guess you just have to head out and decide for yourself.

The Sunday before we left, my husband and I were walking through the parking lot with friends from church. They had traveled quite a bit, so I asked, “I’ve never been in an arid environment, nor has my body experienced altitude. Any last-minute advice?”

“Drink lots of water,” the husband said.

“And put on lots of lotion,” the wife said.

“Okay,” I said. “That’s some tangible advice. Water and lotion.”

“Lots,” she repeated.

I thanked them, then asked, “Anything else?”

They thought for a moment. “No, I don’t think so. Just drink lots of water,” he said. “And have fun.”

We said goodbye and headed to our cars, then I heard her call out, “And wear a hat!” The husband nodded and shouted, “But don’t forget the water. Drink lots of water!”

We loaded our RV with jugs of drinking water, bought hats at Wal-mart, and grabbed some travel containers of lotion in addition to large bottles of sunscreen I’d already picked up. We invested in hiking boots and socks, and thought through different layers that people recommended (one fleece, a rain jacket, a pair of jeans, hiking shorts). I planned simple meals for the family and prepared some gluten- and dairy-free food I could eat on the way.

Then Friday afternoon, June 14, I’d cleaned out the fridge and wiped down the kitchen counters one last time. When my husband finished work, we climbed into the RV to drive off. Our own trip out west was about to begin, for better or for worse.

After merging into traffic on I-70 and settling into the long haul ahead, my husband asked, “Are you nervous about anything?”

I remembered my dream and felt a small gasp in my gut. I swallowed. “Just the mountains. I guess I’m worried about the RV in the mountains.”

“It’ll make it,” he said. “I read up on how to use the engine’s gears instead of relying on the brakes. I know what to do. We got the RV checked over, and it’s ready to go. We’re gonna be fine.”

I nodded. But every once in a while, as we headed west toward the slowly setting sun, I would remember that feeling from my dream, of being suspended, mid-air.

______________________

Posts about our trip:

A Trip Across the USA

RV Trip West: Heading into the Unknown

RV Trip West: Convergences

RV Trip West: Route 66

RV Trip West: Petrified Forest

RV Trip West: Winslow, Arizona

RV Trip West: Grand Canyon

Photos by Ann Kroeker.

For about a year, I’ve followed this blogger with interest. His stories and photos inspired some of our planning.

The post RV Trip West: Heading into the Unknown 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=5153de50-d6d3-44e3-86f7-b59c48451c51]

Food on Fridays with Ann

Three weeks ago, our family of six loaded up our used RV with provisions and clothes and hiking boots, climbed in and claimed various areas (couch, dinette bench, La-Z-Boy recliner), spread maps across the expansive dashboard, and slowly worked our way through the subdivision and onto the bypass around the city, to merge with traffic on I-70.

We were heading west toward such sites as the Grand Canyon, Zion National Park, and Colorado. Our family has never seen any of the places on our itinerary, so this would be a shared adventure. We would feel awe together. We would hike difficult trails together. We would live in this mobile home for two-and-a-half weeks…together.

Now I’m trying to unpack not only the RV, but also the trip itself. Traveling always changes me, but I’m not always sure how until I’ve spent some time reflecting on the trip. So over the next days, maybe weeks, I’ll post about some of the places and experiences. To the reader, these thoughts may feel part travelogue, part journal, and part poetry. I can’t really say, as I’m not sure how this will unfold.

One fun project I undertook was to document the traveling Chia Bars. My mom shops at a South Carolina farmer’s market and sent me some Frommer’s gluten-free chia granola bars to taste-test. I gave them a big thumbs up, so she purchased a giant box full of them for my trip and shipped them to me. Frommer’s asked if I could photograph the bars at various locations out west—kind of a Flat Stanley project you can eat. That sounded like fun, so I always had a chia bar on hand.

But I didn’t just carry them for the photo ops—I tucked them into my backpack for my hiking snack. The bars provided sustenance as I explored the country.

We drove off on Flag Day, and returned home a few days before the Fourth of July—patriotic days book-ending our trip across this great country. As we stopped at these national treasures, I occasionally sang the chorus of “This Land is Your Land.” At one of the national parks, my son listened to the words and exclaimed, “That’s the perfect song, because this land really is yours and mine and ours!” He gestured with arms stretched wide to include the landscape, our family, and all the hikers in front of us and behind.

This land is yours and mine and ours. And not just because we’re American taxpayers contributing to the national parks. Indeed, this land was made for you and me, a gift from the Creator above. We laughed about our chia bar project.

But we couldn’t help but stand in awe of this land of ours.

______________________

Photos by Ann Kroeker.

Posts about our trip:

A Trip Across the USA

RV Trip West: Heading into the Unknown

RV Trip West: Convergences

RV Trip West: Route 66

RV Trip West: Petrified Forest

RV Trip West: Winslow, Arizona

RV Trip West: Grand Canyon

Photos by Ann Kroeker (Grand Canyon model: one of my daughters). “Pin” these images in a way that links back to this particular page, giving proper credit.

Disclosure: Frommer’s offered to give me a discount on future orders in exchange for this photo project.

Smaller button for various uses

The post Food on Fridays: Frommer’s Gluten-Free Granola Bars (and a trip across the U.S.A.) appeared first on Ann Kroeker, Writing Coach.

Last year I visited the Indianapolis Museum of Art where “Angel of the Resurrection,” a Tiffany stained glass window, hangs as part of its permanent collection. Captivated, I snapped several pictures, including closeups of the inscription.

Awake thou that sleepest, and arise from the dead, and Christ shall give thee light.
(Ephesians 5:14, KJV).

The post Angel of the Resurrection appeared first on Ann Kroeker, Writing Coach.

Today I needed this poem, to remember that God knew that very moment…and this one, too.

Remembering Crawdads

Sixteen miles from my home,

the White River curves slightly to the south.

In the fall, we sat near its edge,

as my friend’s two boys caught crawdads

that scrambled under stones in a puddle

formed by the roots of a sycamore.

The two boys, so patient, so fast, raced toward us,

rewarded by the catch of a crawdad no bigger than my thumb,

flipping in the net.

At first shrieking with delight, they quieted to study the feelers;

the wet, beady eyes;

the armor-like tail, curved and flipping.

My friend and I leaned in to admire.

I stared.

I stared, because I had forgotten about crawdads.

I forgot that there were nearly translucent crustaceans

whisking along the murky mud of the White River,

snapping their pincers and slipping under rocks.

I forgot that God planned it all, from the beginning,

that He cared about tiny crawdads

and eager preschoolers

and their mothers

and fall afternoons in Indiana.

I forgot that He knew that very moment,

when two young boys forming the bones of manhood

would feel the thrill of the chase, the hunt, the catch.

He knew those boys, holding up crawdads for us to gaze and admire.

He knew that I would suddenly remember it all,

and give thanks.

* * * * *

© 2002 Ann Kroeker

The post Needing to Remember appeared first on Ann Kroeker, Writing Coach.

One week, the instructor said we had to take a risk and then return to class and report on it.

My self-imposed risk was to introduce myself to someone sitting next to me in one of the giant lecture halls. Normally, I slid into my seat, endured the lecture in order to take notes, and slipped out as quickly as possible without talking to a soul. On the day of my risk, with heart pounding and face flushing red, I managed to introduce myself to a stranger. The girl said hi, turned around and left. Nothing more happened, but I did it.

In the next acting class, before I could share my quiet success, a guy piped up and announced that for his risk, he left his apartment, drove from one side of campus to the other, got out of the car and walked up to the door of a friend’s apartment…naked.

You can imagine how lame my story sounded, following that.

But I did learn a memorable lesson: risk is relative

* * * * *

Note: This story first appeared in the comments at Amy Sullivan’s place when I responded to her post, then she highlighted it alongside other stories that people shared.

The post Risk is Relative appeared first on Ann Kroeker, Writing Coach.

“Where’s that?” I asked, pointing to the image that so enthralled me. His mom explained it was an island south of Treasure Island—two islands, actually: Sanibel and Captiva—which contained a large wildlife refuge.

Quite a contrast to the family fun of Treasure Island’s condo- and hotel-lined beach. That spring break, I recall the fun of shopping for swimsuits, playing Putt-Putt, and munching a hotdog outside while the strong sun freckled my shoulders. But I remained curious about Sanibel Island and its wildlife refuge. The idea of a quiet, natural, protected, set apart space captivated me ever since I first saw the words Sanibel-Captiva printed on that poster.

Over the past two decades, I’ve traveled with my family to Florida multiple times, usually camping in state parks. While the parks may not be official wildlife refuges, park officials and rangers work hard to maintain a habitat for birds and animals to make their homes that can also serve humans and their desire to enjoy a more natural setting for their outings. Still, as beautiful as the parks have been, I longed to visit Sanibel-Captiva.

Finally, two weeks ago, my husband whisked me away to that place of intrigue, and together we stayed on Sanibel, walking the shell-coated beach, tasting our first ever conch soup, and visiting the J.N. “Ding” Darling Wildlife Refuge where we saw gulls (below), egrets, ibises, ospreys, Anhingas (below), and Yellow Crowned Night Herons.

One afternoon, we stood along the beachfront of our hotel along with several other people when suddenly a dolphin swam so close, it was only a few yards from us.

“Look!” we pointed. And while we stood gaping at the glistening creature slipping in and out of the water, another man started walking toward it. The dolphin slid up, curved, and just before diving under, it slapped the surface of the water with its tail: slap-slap-slap.

The man smacked his palm against the water in response: smack-smack-smack.

I turned to my husband. “What’s wrong with us? We’re just standing here, and that guy’s going to have a dolphin encounter!” My husband just laughed, but we didn’t move. We just stood and watched.

The dolphin slid up out of the water again and slapped with its tail: slap-slap.

The guy smacked back: smack-smack.

One more time, the dolphin popped the water’s surface three times, and the man mimicked.

Then the dolphin worked its way further down the beach, away from us, toward Captiva. All of us stood in the water looked at each other wide-eyed, amazed, and the bold guy gazed at the dolphin for a long time, watching its dorsal fin surface as a small, dark shadow blending with the waves.

That man interacted with a dolphin in the wild, while we stood by and watched.

We’ve been home a few weeks, but I’ve continued to think back to that moment and wonder why I didn’t wade out, as well. I could make excuses, saying that I was afraid that too many of us would scare it away or that the water was so murky I couldn’t tell if I’d be stepping on some funky sea creature. But maybe I’m just afraid of risk.

Then again, this wasn’t meant to be a risk-filled, adrenaline-pumping vacation. After a full season of parenting and life, my husband and I intended for this to be a restful, relaxing respite. And it was. The island of refuge gave us refuge to refuel and return home filled.

But even now, sitting at my desk next to an empty cup of tea, I keep thinking of that dolphin, just a few yards out of reach, slapping its hello to the man bold enough to reach out.

The post Island of Refuge appeared first on Ann Kroeker, Writing Coach.

On our trip to South Carolina a few weeks ago, we visited the Chapel of Ease, built circa 1740 as a place of worship for planters on St. Helena Island who lived too far to participate regularly in services at the parish church in Beaufort.

On the grounds stands a mausoleum where some members of the Fripp family were laid to rest. This place of ruins, tombs and crumbling tabby walls quieted us.

Some say the grounds are restless.

Murmured stories contribute as much to the atmosphere as long strands of Spanish moss wafting from tree branches.

The dilapidated iron fence and the chapel itself reinforce a sense of loss.

I lingered at the stones lying near the mausoleum—one slab told the story of “an affectionate companion, a fond parent, and a sincere friend.”

I made out only snippets, but they were enough to tell me something about the woman buried somewhere on the grounds, whether in the mausoleum or under the slab itself:

“By the mercy of God, brought to a saving knowledge of the truth, she was in…accumulated sufferings, enabled to…a lively faith in Christ as her only Savior, which resulted in the fullest experience…truth of his promises, inducing her…resign..her earthly prospects…glorious hope of a blessing…immortality.”

A lively faith in Christ as her only Savior, which resulted in the fullest experience of the truth of his promises.

I left pondering the heart of this testimony etched in stone; though cracked, the essence of its message has survived since the 1800s.

What a joy and honor to be known on this earth for “a lively faith in Christ.”

Miles removed from this sun-dappled spot, I still feel peace and hope that chases off any sense of restless, unsettled, unfinished business. And I delight in the inspiration of this woman’s “lively faith in Christ.”

I don’t know exactly what “a lively faith” might look like in me, but I can tell you I’m eager to know my only Savior more intimately and express my faith in Him more actively every day through study, prayer, and action.

Can you describe someone you know who exhibits a “lively faith in Christ”?

The post A Lively Faith 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=ecb04487-8fb1-4632-a53b-c5dbd683b1ff]

Food on Fridays with Ann

On my recent trip to the south, I visited some relatives, including my cousin and his daughter (also a cousin, of course). While there, we discussed grits, a staple in their household. I’m an anomaly up here in the North, as I love grits. Some Northerners have never heard of grits. Most have never eaten them. And those who have actually tried grits don’t seem to like them.

But I do. I like them a lot. Until my visit to South Carolina, I’d been cooking them something like this method, using water, butter and salt.

Then my cousin, who works at Blackstone’s Cafe in Beaufort, informed me that the restaurant always makes them with some cream. She didn’t know how much, so when I got home I decided to experiment, following Blackstone’s lead by adding some Silk creamer (dairy-free).

The grits turned out smooth, creamy and rich.

Delicious.

If you like grits.

* * * * *

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: Creamy Grits appeared first on Ann Kroeker, Writing Coach.

This morning,
I cradled empty eggshells
in the palm of my hand
where they rested:
smooth
fragile
broken.

I touched one of the points
of their jagged edges
and then
lay them gently
on a soft
white
kitchen
towel.

Midwinter sun
filtered through clouds—
through windowpanes streaked by rain—
shed muted light
on silent mourning.

* * * * *

Image and poem by Ann Kroeker

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

Make a short list of things that make you feel as though you’re taking a break – maybe even things you fight feeling guilty about. Taking a walk, taking pictures, reading a good book, maybe for the 2nd or 3rd time, seeing a movie, getting a manicure, taking a bubble bath, jumping on a trampoline, taking a bus or a train to somewhere new – from simple to complex, have a little list of things that nourish you. Then try to add at least one simple thing each day and one more complex thing each week. If you make a project out of it – you might just luck into playfulness!!

Diana, thanks to your encouragement (and precise instructions), I’m now going to make that list and launch The Play Project.

The Play List

The short list of “things that make you feel as though you’re taking a break.”

1. Snap pictures (especially of family)
2. Sleep in
3. Take a walk
4. Read a book
5. Read the newspaper
6. Browse shelves at the library to discover interesting books
7. Learn something new
8. Share what I learn with someone else
9. Make a big breakfast (and eat it at a leisurely pace)
10. Bake muffins, cookies, or brownies
11. Ride my bike on a warm day
12. Write in a journal
13. Write a blog post
14. Write a friend
15. Chat with a friend
16. Laugh with family
17. Laugh with a friend
18. Solve someone’s problem
19. Wander around an art museum
20. Sketch or draw something
21. Meander the Internet reading blog posts and commenting where appropriate
22. Attend a writing event (conference, seminar, author reading)
23. Vacation with family
24. Lounge on a beach on a hot, sunny day
25. Walk along a beach on a hot, sunny day
26. Read a book on a beach on a hot, sunny day
27. Snap pictures of the beach on a hot, sunny day

Other than the series of beach-related activities, the list seems simple, attainable. Unfortunately, I live far from beaches in a part of the country that grows increasingly cold and dreary this time of year; therefore, the beach play will have to wait.

I’m realizing that the list lacks any type of high-energy, high-speed play. To illustrate, I’ve not listed any adventures like boating, swimming, parasailing, mountain climbing, or sky-diving. I guess play, for me, for the moment, doesn’t require surges of adrenaline to feel playful. If anything, I seem to equate play with a sense of calm and quiet.

Claire Burge, adventure girl, would be so sad about my low-energy list. Don’t despair, Claire…perhaps with practice, my playfulness will evolve to one day include water walking and zorbing?

In the meantime, I must start somewhere, even if all I do is read one chapter in a book.

I shall launch The Play Project this week by implementing some of the simplest items on the list, one a day, and periodically report back on my Play Progress.

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

Care to join me?
[simplylinked list=7f9eaed0-0254-4043-b9bc-20c8377ec9a3]

Reading

A few months ago, a representative for an author contacted me asking if I would like to receive a copy of a new book release. The publicist said I could have an electronic or hard copy.

“Sure!” I agreed. The book sounded interesting, so I was sure I’d find some positive things to say about it. “Could I have both? That way I could quickly read the electronic copy myself and then arrange for a giveaway of the hard copy on my blog.” I told her I felt that my readers fit the author’s target demographic perfectly.

The publicist thought that was a great idea, so I sent my mailing address. She sent me via e-mail a file that was, presumably, an electronic copy of the book. But when I opened the file, it was not: it was about five pages of materials related to the book, but not the book. I wrote a pleasant note explaining the file mix-up but never heard back; they neither replied nor sent a replacement file. What’s more, they never sent a hard copy of the book.

The book went on to become a great success, so my few words of support would not have made much difference. I assume that the publicist arrived at the same conclusion—why bother sending out a free book when already so many people are paying real money for it?

I understand that business decision, but the experience left me feeling very small and insignificant. And compared with the author of that book, I am small and insignificant, but why rub it in?

Writing

Numerous deadlines loom.

Learning

Sharing our stories can bind us together. I haven’t landed precisely on the best principles to follow in telling stories publicly, but I experienced this week how friendships can deepen when we risk privately sharing the things we’ve locked deep inside our hearts for safekeeping.

The trouble with long-term safekeeping is this: silently storing all of it away like that is often not safe at all. Sometimes the best decision is to gently and honestly tell the stories—the truth—of our lives. Though opening up is not without risk, we may find life, intimacy, trust, and freedom.

Playing

One afternoon last spring, I was walking across the soccer fields with my eldest daughter.

“Mom,” she began, “I have a question. I’ve seen kids in public schools and private schools wearing sweatshirts with ‘2012 Seniors’ printed on the back. Have you seen them?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I wondered if it would be possible to have something like that next year.”

She’s homeschooled, you see, so it’s not like we could just show up at the school office, plunk down twenty bucks for a 2013 Seniors school shirt, and be done with it. If we are interested in something, we have to make it happen.

“I don’t see why not,” I said. “You and your sister could create some logo designs for our homeschool co-op and add the 2013 Seniors thing as an option. We’ll have to phone around to find places that print shirts and get prices. Then we’d have to be sure the co-op leadership would agree to it. It’ll take several steps, but I think it could be done.”

Her face lit up. “Cool!”

Throughout summer, I completely forgot about it. Then, about a week before school began, that scene on the soccer field back in April flashed across my mind and I realized we’d better hop on it. Next thing you know, my artistic daughters designed two or three co-op logos for the front, and I phoned some local companies to get quotes for affordable silkscreening. We decided to go with The Art Press.

The girls gained approval from the co-op leadership, presented the designs for a vote, prepped the winning design for silkscreening, selected the colors, finalized placement for names and that ever-important 2013 Seniors print for the few who wanted it (non-Seniors chose to have a name/nickname printed on the back…or left it blank).

For just under two weeks, the co-op members could make selections and pay through a secure ordering page online (one of many reasons I’m thrilled with this company’s great work is because their ordering system, mySHIRTsize, made collecting group orders a snap). The Art Press scrambled to fulfill the orders—over twice as many as we’d expected.

What a delight to pass everything out this week! The shirts were a big success and my daughter got her wish…by making it happen.

Reacting

I awoke to a headache this morning, so I didn’t feel like wearing anything cute or slapping on makeup. I barely brushed my hair before pulling on my new co-op hoodie and heading out with my son for his cello lesson. On the way home, I drove past the library to drop off a book. My son asked to go in. Due to my haggard appearance, I hesitated. Then, when he begged to check out books, I reluctantly agreed. Who doesn’t want to support an 11-year-old boy’s reading habit? “Okay, but let’s not take too long. I look terrible,” I said. “I hope I don’t see anyone I know.”

“It’s okay,” my son assured me. “I’ll only take a couple of minutes.”

The instant we entered the lobby, I spotted a local news cameraman setting up a shot.

I can’t explain why—blogging instinct, perhaps?—but I pulled out my camera and snapped some photos of him (didn’t take time to think through lighting, composition or white balance, however). I justified my intrusion by figuring if he feels comfortable shooting footage of people in a public place, he should realize how it feels to have the camera turned on him in the same setting.

He looked at me with surprise.

“What’s going on?” I asked. “Controversy at the library?”

“No, no. It’s all good. You can ask Kevin.” He gestured toward the stacks, but I only saw a mom rounding the corner with her young child. Instead of hunting down the reporter, I simply headed to another part of the library, avoiding the cameraman’s lens.

Everywhere I turned, he was setting up for another shot from another angle. As my son and I checked out our books, I couldn’t resist snapping one final shot of him, since he was standing right there. He looked at me out of the corner of his eye as soon as he heard the loud ka-chunk of my Canon’s shutter/mirror. I grinned big. He nodded slightly and smiled.

Then my son and I skedaddled out of there before he turned his focus on us where we stood at the electronic checkout. Although I don’t think I should have worried. I believe that man and I held a tacit agreement that we both prefer to work quietly behind the lens, rather than be caught in front of it.

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The church shared a fence with Mr. Bowman’s field, where he grew corn, soybeans, and hay. One summer in particular I remember gazing through those windows at the hay field, its grasses growing higher and higher from week to week.

In the stifling summer heat, we juggled worn fans and frayed hymnals that flopped open to this congregation’s favorites: “Trust and Obey,” “Great Is Thy Faithfulness,” “It Is Well with My Soul,” “Wonderful Words of Life,” and “Blessed Assurance.”

During these songs, I sensed a surge of something flow through the congregation—it may have been as simple as familiarity that inspired robust participation, or as profound as a movement of God’s presence in our midst. Whatever it was, I loved hearing the volume rise at the chorus as farmers belted out truths of the Savior and their wives reached for those high notes with joy.

I stood in the midst of the music, searching for a note that my low voice could handle, longing to harmonize with this family of faith.

Sometimes I dropped out and simply listened, staring at the bucolic scene framed for me by the tall church windows. Wind swept over the hay field that undulated and shimmered in the Sabbath’s morning sun. The uncluttered view offered visual space for me to think, to pray, and the hymns served as a soundtrack to my silent questions, their lyrics sinking deep into my soul.

Mr. Bowman cut the hay one summer day, leaving it in the field to dry before baling. On a Sunday, that smell drifted through the open windows, earthy sweetness filling the sanctuary.

At some point that summer, whether on that summer-sweet day or a week later when the hay was baled, I tasted the sweetness of eternity. Like the breeze that slipped through those windows to be stirred by fans and praise, the Holy Spirit entered in. In that church, I found Christ Jesus; or, I should say, He found me.

And that was the start of my song.

(Many thanks to my church for including “Blessed Assurance” in the worship music this past Sunday, one of many hymns that I associate with my spiritual roots.)

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Reading

Last week I read and commented on 14 student papers.

Writing

Today I wrote a vision piece for the Family channel at The High Calling. Well, “vision piece” might be too fancy and formal for what it is. Using posts we have published in the last year or so, I tried to illustrate how we tell stories about the work of family as well as those about the intersection of work and family.

Learning

At the start of composition class this week, I wrote on the white board: “There is a cat that sits on the fence every afternoon.”

“This sentence is grammatically correct,” I said, “but in terms of style, it’s weakened by ‘there is.’ Eliminating that phrase and any like it will—well, wait a minute. What are some variations on this?”

The kids stared at me for a minute.

“We’re using ‘there is’ here…’is’ is a form of ‘to be,'” I reminded them. “Can you think of some other form of ‘to be’ that could also be used with ‘there’?”

Someone timidly raised her hand and offered, “There are?”

“Good! Another?”

“There were?”

“Sure. And all the other forms of ‘be,’ like, ‘there would be’ and ‘there will be.’ All of those can often just be plucked right out of the sentence. You’ll have to switch things around a bit to rephrase, but nine times out of ten, the sentence will be stronger. Let’s work together to figure out a different wording for this one. How can we eliminate ‘there was’ from this sentence without changing its meaning?”

The kids tossed out alternatives, like, “The cat sits on the fence every afternoon,” and “Every afternoon, the cat sits on the fence.”

“Good!” I said. “Can you see that the sentence is stronger and simpler with the cat sitting? There are several ways to create a stronger sentence.” No one blinked an eye when I used “there are.” I had to point it out to them. Then they kind of chuckled.

Back home at my desk, I hear myself use “there are” all the time and watch myself type it onto the screen—not that it’s wrong, mind you. I think I made it clear that sometimes a “there are” construction will turn out to be the best choice. But the lesson reminds me to hunt those babies down in my own work and at least consider a revision. When I do, I’m almost always happier with the result.

Playing

On a sunny afternoon after our co-op let out, kids ran and played in the grassy area beside the church where we meet. A high school boy tossed a football to two elementary students, one of them a sweet little first grader. A junior high kid skateboarded through the parking lot, a pied piper trailed by a line of younger boys racing after him on foot.

Along the sidewalk moms chatted while girls and guys laughed. One teen from my writing class sat on the hood of her car to catch some rays. The scene felt like it was lit for a movie production, everyone glowing.

Reacting

My daughter and I headed over to Whole Foods to grab a couple of items. After we wove through the parking lot and arrived at the entrance, we discovered men and women standing outside the door next to bins of apples and locally grown tomatoes—their arms crossed, brows furrowed—staring into the store.

The lights were out.

I stepped right up to the doors and peered inside. Sunlight angling down from high windows in the front provided the only illumination—enough that I could see people milling around. Cashiers were bagging food. Turning to a man with a Whole Foods tag pinned to his shirt who looked sort of like a bouncer, I asked, “Can I just run in? I know exactly what I want and where it is.”

“No, I’m sorry, but no one can go in. The lights are out. It’s dangerous for you to be in there in the dark.”

Quite a few people were navigating the front of the store just fine, but I didn’t argue. My daughter and I gave up and left the small crowd of hopeful onlookers who were waiting for the moment the lights would switch on. As we stepped out into the bright sunlight, I heard someone sigh heavily.

Later that night, we told the story to the rest of the family, and they laughed about the danger. Another of my daughters said, “They just didn’t want people to steal anything!”

“Could be. But what would people take?” I asked. “Organic flour?”

“Protect the wheat germ!” my husband exclaimed.

I pretended to be a news announcer: “During a recent power outage at Whole Foods, people all over the north side were looting the place, stuffing gluten-free pasta and organic vegetables under their shirts in the darkness and then rushing home to live healthier lives.”

“How terrible!” my son declared.

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In winter, I did the same with hot cocoa mix. I’d heat water in the kettle, spoon cocoa mix into the mug, and then stir, keeping an eye open for the unmixed cocoa blobs. When mixing chocolate milk, I could easily see the dark against white; in a mug, I found it harder to spot unmixed cocoa under the creamy film that formed at the water’s surface. No matter; I’d trust my tongue to feel for them. I loved the sugary sensation as the cocoa separated into granules and dissolved in my mouth.

One cool afternoon I pulled out one of my favorite black mugs, poured in a packet of hot cocoa mix and waited for the water to boil. I pulled out a spoon and spun it between my fingers, waiting. As soon as the kettle burbled, I lifted and poured. Absently, I stirred and watched it blend, anticipating my ritual of hunting down undissolved pockets of cocoa floating to the surface.

Leaning against the kitchen counter, I lifted the mug to my lips, blowing a little to cool the surface, and began sipping. Several sips in, I spotted a blob and sloshed the liquid, working that tempting pod front and center, to suck in and press against the roof of my mouth.

As soon as it was within sipping distance, I tilted the mug, drank it in, and with my tongue pressed up. But it didn’t give when it hit the roof of my mouth. It didn’t dissolve into a hundred granules of sugar. It was…hairy.

I rushed to the sink and spat.

A fly.

A dead fly.

I dumped the contents of the mug into the sink, pushed the faucet and scooped water into my mouth with my hands as fast as possible to rinse, and rinse, and rinse, and rinse. As I rinsed, I had to stare down into the sink where the fly rested against the stainless steel drain basket strainer, the stream of water rinsing specks of cocoa from his lifeless black form.

I started to cry.

To this day, I can still recall the unexpected sensation of hair…legs…wings.

To this day, I always press the curve of my spoon against every pocket of unmixed cocoa, running it against the side of the glass or mug, to ensure that it bursts and blends with the liquid.

To this day, I avoid dark mugs. But if I don’t have a choice, I always peer in, turn the mug upside down, and shake.

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I can’t tell you…not precisely, that is.You have to decide for yourself.

Each person must ponder this, because transformation looks different for each person.

Will one of the decisions be a single act that immediately empowers, such as setting boundaries to protect oneself from a toxic relationship? Will a person decide to eliminate a destructive pattern? Or will the list represent a commitment to four daily habits that change a person a little at a time?

I can’t tell you.

Your four decisions are yours to make. You may need to: (1) make one bold decision that will change the course of your life forever, (2) decide to stop a deadening habit in its tracks, and (3, 4) invite two new life-giving activities into your daily routine. Your life has different challenges than mine; you are at a different place in life. Your four decisions will, most likely, be different than mine.

But isn’t it exciting to think that even one decision faithfully implemented could set a powerful course for the future?

Allow me to pass along what I’ve heard. On Sunday, the guest preacher at our church was our pastor’s 81-year-old dad whose energy and enthusiasm for memorizing Scripture and spending time with the Lord made it hard not to listen to his message and want what he’s got.

A pastor himself, he said that many years ago he was reading a secular book that asked the reader what four decisions could you make that, should you implement them, would transform your life? Though the book was secular, he answered each one with a spiritual emphasis.

Pastor Kirk’s Four Life-Transforming Decisions:

1. Work out/exercise daily. He joined a gym and I think he said that decision has stuck. His trim build, lively mind, and boundless energy attested to the benefits of daily exercise.
2. Journal daily. He said this lasted about three years. I guess it’s not for everyone.
3. Memorize Scripture daily. This decision, he said, he has faithfully implemented for decades. Memorizing the Word of God—and believing it—absolutely transformed his life.
4. Give the Lord the first hour of every day. This, he said, he has probably done about 60 percent of the time since he first committed to it. And now that his pastoral duties have lessened as he nears retirement, he gets to spend even more time with the Lord and exclaimed how rich it was. “I don’t even have words to describe it,” he said.

Ann Kroeker’s Four Life-Transforming Decisions:

1. __________________
2. __________________
3. __________________
4. __________________

Exercise:

Obviously I haven’t finalized my four life-transforming decisions, but I’m pretty sure daily exercise will make the list. After reading Brain Rules, I’m realizing the importance of a lifelong commitment to regular exercise for improving brain function as well as maximizing physical, psychological and emotional health.

Scripture Memory:

Pastor Kirk inspired the daily discipline of Scripture memory. I used to host Mega Memory Month, but when others began providing so much more direction and encouragement in the area of memorization, I decided to leave it in better hands. So I won’t be leading the call to memorization anymore.

I will, however, be plugging away on my own. As Pastor Kirk said, “It’s believing the word of God—and the Holy Spirit at work—that transforms us. It’s not just knowing the Word of God—you have to believe it. But before you believe it, you have to know it…you can’t believe that which you do not know.”

Our church is memorizing one verse per month. “I always say take one verse a week,” Pastor Kirk said. “You have a verse a month. And that’s good. Now master it…and let it master you.”

Solitude:

Would I over-complicate the list if I include sub-points? Under the umbrella called “solitude,” I’d like to squeeze daily journaling, prayer, Bible reading, and time alone with God.

Art:

I’m pondering the transformational power of art: making it, experiencing it, appreciating it, practicing it through fine arts and/or photography on a daily basis. How would that change me?

Writing:

I’m also wondering how I might commit to a daily writing discipline—what might that look like? A number of pages or words per day? A type of writing? A project-oriented approach? How can that be framed in a way that it becomes a lifelong practice, a habit, a commitment?

Miscellaneous:

• What about my curiosity and love of learning? Is there a decision that could feed that value and keep my mind lively?
• How shall I approach dietary habits?
• What decision will transform relationships?

As my list of possibilities grows longer and I contemplate what to include, how do I keep this from turning into something as meaningless as a list of New Year’s resolutions?

Like I said, I don’t have answers for myself quite yet—as you can see, at this point I have mostly questions—but I believe that committing to a few carefully selected decisions will set the course for my life.

This long-range thinking reminds me of a passage from The Pursuit of God, by A.W. Tozer:

The idea of cultivation and exercise, so dear to the saints of old, has now no place in our total religious picture. It is too slow, too common. We now demand glamour and fast flowing dramatic action. A generation of Christians reared among push buttons and automatic machines is impatient of slower and less direct methods of reaching their goals. We have been trying to apply machine-age methods to our relations with God.

I want to take my time, and choose well.

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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.

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Many thanks to our friends, for creating a quiet place to rest.

* * * * *

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:::

When the kids were little, we would fly to Europe to visit my husband’s family. The children loved living for a couple of weeks at their grandparents’ house eating Grandma’s homemade jam spread on slices of baguette, walking to the park holding Grandpa’s hand, playing with cousins without understanding a word of the French that poured out of their mouths and realizing this was all part of who they are, and these people they were growing to love so dearly were their people.And then, we had to leave. We had to say goodbye and fly away from it all, not knowing when we’d see them again.The kids, especially two of them, would weep so hard, torn from these relationships, that I’d have trouble maintaining composure as we walked down the corridor to go through security. They sobbed and sobbed, and I felt their pain as well as my own, double the heartache, or triple, or more.Getting close, building trust, and loving more deeply makes the inevitable goodbye so much harder. One could almost live at a distance to avoid some of the pain.But I learned that you can’t live like that. You go ahead and allow yourself to get close, to trust, to love more deeply even though you know that the pain will be bigger, later, at departure.I’m willing to deal with the pain, for the joy of having loved and trusted you as my friend and mentor. Thank you.

:::

Image of my and L.L.’s shoes taken at Calvin College on the day we first met in 2008. Taken by Ann Kroeker.

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The night before the meeting, I lay awake in bed and stared into the deep midnight-silence imagining worst-case scenarios and concocting a mental flow-chart of potential responses to those scenarios. By the time I awoke from what shallow rest I’d managed to secure in-between these restless planning sessions, I looked ragged and worn, like someone who stood outside a bar nervously dragging on a cigarette all night.

In the shower that morning, I remembered a verse I’d read a few days before, a verse that tries to adhere to my mind like press-on letters every time I encounter it. The morning I read it, I repeated it throughout the day, mentally tracing its words—its truths. I needed to cling to the words as they tried to cling to me.

But by the time I was gearing up for that dreaded meeting, I’d let the verse slip away. As it slipped away, so did its message, and I ended up wide awake on that troubled night when I welcomed worry instead of rest.

So after my shower, after breakfast, after loading the car, I drove to the meeting retracing the truth in my head and my heart, silently repeating it, owning it.

As it turned out, the meeting went about as well as it could have possibly gone.

Interactions were calm, uneventful.

Most of the time, I sat silent while the other talked. I listened, nodding, smiling serenely.

I needed only to be still.

When the meeting was over, I drove home, humbled.

Moses answered the people, “Do not be afraid. Stand firm and you will see the deliverance the LORD will bring you today. The Egyptians you see today you will never see again. The LORD will fight for you; you need only to be still.” (Exodus 14:13-14, just before the parting of the Red Sea, as the Egyptians were bearing down on them)

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Photo by Ann Kroeker, edited using Picnik.com. (Update 2/17/12: this photo image is replacing artwork that accompanied the post when it was first published; I couldn’t locate the original or the artist to credit, so I pulled it down.)

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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 didn’t get much reading done this week, and I’m trying to be okay with that.Sometimes I think a Kindle tucked in my purse would allow me to make the most of unexpected free time.

Playing

One of our kids is considering a career in the medical field, so we attended an orientation meeting at a local hospital to prepare her for a day of shadowing. We sat in the conference room facing a wall decorated with press-on letters that formed titles representing a variety of medical careers.My daughter listened closely to the presentation, while I practiced proofreading skills.How many errors can you find (click on photo for larger view)?

Learning

I signed up for Pinterest.I left up one of the default boards labeled “My Style,” because I realized I don’t really have a style. Maybe, I thought, if I collect enough pictures of outfits that I kind of like, I could actually develop a style. One afternoon last week I stopped by Goodwill and found a Gap sweater with the same neck as the sweater pictured in the first photo I pinned. On another rack, a gray jacket.So I’m trying to experiment and figure out what works.

Reacting

I stuck about 1/4 cup of popcorn kernels in a small paper lunch bag, folded it shut and sort of crimped it together.Then I stuck the bag of kernels in the microwave for about three minutes, but I stopped the microwave when the popping slowed.I pulled it out.Opened the bag.Inside?Perfect popcorn.The makers and marketers of microwave popcorn should be scared. Very scared.

Writing

Writing projects: Stories for The High Calling, a brochure for a local client, and a few blog posts.

:::

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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.

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(smaller button below)

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

Contrary to what this photo may suggest, the Kroekers do not serve sauteed dog food over noodles.It was after dark by the time we dished this beef stroganoff onto our plates, and we were eating by candlelight; so, I couldn’t get an appealing snapshot. But trust me: this simple dish turned out great.I had already browned some ground beef that was sitting in the fridge, awaiting its assignment. We’d eaten Mexican the night before, and I wasn’t in the mood for spaghetti with red sauce.A short Internet search turned up this recipe, which I modified slightly based on what I had available. The following is my version:Beef Stroganoff

:::

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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.

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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.

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Jesus Christ is born.Jesus shows us the way.Jesus is the way.Now let’s go…and tell it.

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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.

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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.

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Though I often crave caffeine, I can only tolerate it until noon, when I must stop drinking it or risk lying awake until two in the morning. Fortunately, I glanced at the clock on the stove: just after 10:00 a.m. I had time.

I spooned some caffeinated black tea into a paper loose tea filter, lowered it into the deep pottery mug, poured steaming water from the electric tea kettle over it and let it steep while I answered a few e-mails. A few minutes later, I returned to the kitchen and drizzled some honey into the mug and stirred. Breathing in the aroma, I knew this would keep me going for a few hours.

Both physical and virtual paperwork awaited, as well as phone calls and e-mails. Later in the day, an errand or two. The to-do’s of the day were flowing like the steady stream of a kitchen faucet—not as forceful as a fire hydrant nor as annoying as a drip, but I had to pay attention or the sink would fill and overflow, figuratively speaking.

So I kept at it, task after task, decision after decision, e-mail after e-mail, errand after errand. These things weren’t overwhelming; just steady. Somewhere in the afternoon, though, I needed a pause.

My cup, as it were, was empty.

I’d drained my literal cup of tea, and I had drained my figurative cup, my very self, of rest.

Life needs pauses.

I’d scheduled tire rotation and a medical test for my daughter, shopped for groceries and filled the gas tank; I printed off papers for my daughters’ schoolwork and agreed to bake brownies for a church function.

But…a pause. I needed a pause.

Late in the afternoon I returned to the kitchen and opened the cabinet to stare at my boxes of tea. I saw some chai tea. Decaf. By then it was past 3:00 p.m., so I could only handle decaf.

Filled the tea kettle.

Instead of racing around the corner to my desk, I leaned against the counter while the water boiled.

I waited.

Paused.

How easy it would be to check my phone for e-mail while the water boiled.

But, no. I paused.

And when the electric kettle bell dinged, I lifted the plastic kettle from its base and poured hot water over the tea bag, watching the bag rise with the waterline, all the way to the top, before it was soggy enough to sink. I took hold of the tag and dipped it down and up several times then let it settle at the bottom.

I briefly considered carrying my drink to the desk, but changed my mind. Instead, I walked to the table and sat for a moment, both hands hugging the mug to warm my palms.

Tea, I decided, is necessary.

Tea, I realized, is a slow-down solution.

Tendrils of steam drifted up from the glimmering dark surface of the tea and dissipated.

I lifted the mug and blew across the top, making ripples.

Then I tilted the mug and the tea touched my lips.

Slowly, I sipped.

_______________________________

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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.

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