They’re Learning Anyway – Life Education from Bed

By gypsymemoirs | Posted on October 25, 2012 | Leave a comment

It’s a school day and I’m not feelin’ so hot.  In fact, the kids are just playing in their room while I’m lying in bed with my computer.  And by “kids”, I mean my two girls, and their two friends that come over three days a week that I home-school along with mine now that their mom has gone back to work.  It’s actually a pretty great set-up we’ve got going on.  My friend gets to work part-time in a field that she’s interested in, and I get paid to teach from home, PLUS, my kids get to have friends to play with for half the week, which means that I have the added benefit of a little more time to myself since they’re often entertaining each other.  It’s great.

Except that today is supposed to be full of school work, including Art, Calendar Time, Bible, Math, Story Time, Penmanship, Phonics, Grammar, Science, Geography, History & Spanish (generally, in that order).  Instead, I’m lying in bed because, otherwise, the room is spinning, and one cannot teach when the room is spinning.  But I’m not sweating it.  It would have bothered me last year, but I’ve grown, and I’ve learned to lighten up a lot and realize this:  they’re learning anyway.

Instead of a Bible lesson from the Good Book, the older kids are learning how to serve their younger siblings by toasting them some waffles.  Instead of a math worksheet on fractions, the kids are going to make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and figure out how the last four pieces of bread will make two sandwiches and how to divide them up to feed the four of them.  Instead of my art lesson on the technique of Pointillism, they will learn the art of drama as they play “house”.  There won’t be any science experiments about the three different kinds of rocks (igneous, sedimentary, and metamorphic), but they will be learning the mechanics and physics of Legos.  And who knows, Dora might even be their Spanish teacher today.

Sometimes, we home-school moms forget why we do what we do and start worrying about if we’re covering enough subjects during the day, or that our child isn’t interested in reading yet at age 7, or frustrated that all the kids are on edge today and apparently we’re “not going to get any school done.”  We forget that the reason we home-school is because there’s so much more to an education than what’s in the classroom.  In fact, I think we should consider eliminating the term “Home-schooling” from our vocabulary, since so often it becomes easier to just translate public school into a spare room in our house, when what we really want is “Life education”.  One of my favorite authors, Mark Twain, once said, “I never let schooling get in the way of my education,” and I think that’s the smartest one-liner philosophy I’ve ever heard.

Now, I’m no un-schooler.  It doesn’t fit the personality of me OR my children to be un-schoolers, and I’m not sure I believe in the philosophy in totum for anyone (though you can argue with me if you like).  I believe kids appreciate a certain measure of structure.  They take comfort in knowing what to expect.  And I think children need to be taught things that they don’t naturally gravitate toward so that they broaden their horizons a bit.

But kids also need flexibility.  They need to know that if they’re having a really bad day, and just don’t feel like they can sit and do a lesson, that we hear their hearts and give them the freedom and space to deal with their issues in their own unique way.  Or if mom or dad isn’t feeling well, to be flexible themselves and adjust their expectations.

They also need to learn that there are exceptions to the rules, and that while rules help us to live wisely, learning how to use the exceptions are what make life joyful and easier; like when it’s been cold and dreary for weeks, and the first warm, sunny day of spring breaks out on a Monday, sometimes it’s better to go for a bike ride than to read about the kings of England.

They need to learn independence – that you trust them to make their own sandwiches and keep an eye on their younger siblings at times.

We structure-schoolers who prefer to use the Classical method, and Saxon math, who have grammar lessons, Latin lessons, and memorize the state capitals – we can take some clues from the un-schoolers and remember that it’s okay if we’re behind in a textbook, or if mom is too sick to get out of bed, or that everyone is burned out on school every Friday.  It’s okay to lighten up, take a step back, look at our kids and realize:  they’re learning anyway.  Life is an excellent teacher.

Posted in Life Schooling, Uncategorized |

The Republic of Brilliant Morons – Population: Everyone

By gypsymemoirs | Posted on October 18, 2012 | 2 Comments

I took me a full two years, but I finally finished it on my birthday over a hot plate of Motuleño at my favorite Guatemalan restaurant.  Motuleño makes swallowing Plato’s Republic a little more pleasant.  I have hated, HATED this book – which is why it’s taken me two years to finish it in spite of my little “how to read a book a week” trick; I just couldn’t bear to pick it up most nights.  But I’ve been determined.  I have an odd obsession to finish books I’ve started (unless it’s just a really cheap, fluffy novel), and most of the time, I find that it pays off in the end.  I’m still on the fence about whether or not The Republic paid off.

What I did get out of the book was that human beings have always been brilliant idiots.  We have extremely sophisticated ways of coming up with really stupid ideas, and we’ve always been that way.  Before I started my chronological quest through classical literature , I had a somewhat elevated view of the Renaissance & Modern eras.  I figured that we humans had climbed upon the shoulders of our ancestors and found a way to see farther and with keener sight.  But really, humans have always been amazing, brilliant, visionary morons.

Take for instance, Socrates (if you’re not familiar with The Republic, it’s the philosopher Socrates having a dialogue with a friend, Glaucon.  Socrates had no writings of his own, but his disciple, Plato, wrote down many of Socrates’ philosophies).  He had some brilliant arguments as to why women and children should be held in common by all.  After all, it takes a village to raise a child – until you realize that upon birth, that child is snatched from it’s natural mother, taken to a state-run daycare, hidden from the parents for a couple of years as the child is trained according to the State’s determination of what occupation the child should grow into, and no parent will ever know which child is theirs, and no child will know who his real parents are so that perfect, equal care will be given to all children, and perfect, equal respect will be given to all elders.  Sounds like a fool-proof way to ensure that no child gets left behind.  And never mind that pesky emotional scarring, or lack of identity, or the ability to choose one’s own passion that is living in the depths of one’s soul.  Everyone is special while no one is unique.  Good thing we live in an age when those absurd ideas have been seen for the foolishness that they are.  Don’t we?

Hey Socrates, I have a great argument for why you should put your shirt back on...

I know I’m sounding just a tad cynical today, but Plato can do that to ya.  Philosophy can do that to ya.  But cynicism is also the gift of philosophy.  We want optimism and hope and progress – and we desperately need those things to keep us waking up each morning and doing those brilliant things we’re capable of as humans.  But we also need cynicism to keep us grounded in reality, to realize that humankind is just as desperate as it’s always been and we cannot invent enough new things, or come up with better methods or ideas to escape being complete idiots.  It helps to read Plato though, at least for the sake of knowing what NOT to do.  After all, I have no interest in being a common-property wife.

Posted in Uncategorized, Vibrant Minds |

I Promise I’m Not a Stalker, I Just Really, Really Want to See Inside Your House – Discovering Modern Architecture in OKC

By gypsymemoirs | Posted on October 17, 2012 | 1 Comment

For those of you that frequent here, you’ve probably noticed that I’ve been on a writing hiatus for several months now.  To be honest, I simply haven’t been inspired in a very long time, and over the summer, I felt like I was going to shrivel up and die of boredom.  I swear this summer we hit 47 million degrees outside.  I’m being completely scientifically accurate – the outside thermometer would read, “You’ve died and entered Dante’s Inferno.  Welcome to eternal misery.”  What?  You’re outside thermometer doesn’t go high enough to reference classical purgatorial literature?  Well then, you need to buy a special Oklahoma thermometer normally given to new residents who move here from habitats designed for actual humans.

Yeah, so basically, it was hot.  And the a/c in our beloved 14-year old truck no longer works, so while Lukus gallantly drove the truck to work for most of the summer, mopping up his pools of sweat when he got home was getting a little tiresome, so I finally suggested he take the car.  Being home every day with two kids, no car, an unhospitable backyard, and, well, two kids, had me crawling up the walls with insanity.  I need beauty like I need air.  I need to be out in the world exploring, observing the human race, discovering new places, drinking buckets of iced lattes in charming cafes.  I am NOT a homebody.

Growing up, my little family consisting of me, my mom, and my dad, had two activities that we did together:  we watched an unhealthy amount of television (which is why I remember an embarrassing amount of commercial jingles, and have gotten pretty good at making them up for daily life: “Oatmeal, bananas and bluuuueberries!  Fiber and potassium and antioxidants – it’s oatmeal, bananas and bluuuueberries!” was a favorite for my daughter’s breakfast), and we drove every square inch of Southern California.  My mom would get the itch to do something, and she’d say a very general, “Let’s go somewhere,” and we’d all get in the car, and my dad would just drive whichever direction my mom told him to go.  Big Bear and Lake Arrowhead, Hollywood Hills and the Santa Monica pier, the La Jolla coves, pie shops in rural mountain villages, Palm Springs, random residential construction sites where we’d wander through unfinished dream homes, the Queen Mary in Long Beach, the tide pools of Newport Beach, Coronado Island, Catalina Island….this is my childhood Saturday.  It wasn’t particularly fun as a kid to sit in the backseat alone for hours and hours of driving in one day, and my parents would actually get irritated that I spent so much of my time with my “head in a book instead of looking around at God’s creation,” but over time, it became part of my nature.  By osmosis, I became a “wannabe gypsy”.

By 16, I was ready for my driver’s license, and after school or on weekends, my friends always wanted to be in my car.  We never told our parents where we were going, or how far, but I think my mom was secretly proud that I’d inherited the explorer gene.  I’d drive my friends to the Del Mar fair, or we’d drive 45 minutes up the mountains for pie.  We left no gelato shop in San Diego county un-patronized, no thrift store unexplored.  Whether man-made or natural, it was all ours to behold.  And when Lukus and I moved to San Diego for a year, we relived the adventures together and spent every spare moment exploring.

But Oklahoma?  For all the good that there is here, Oklahoma does not leave much for the gypsy soul to feast upon – even when the weather is feels like a Jane Austen movie set.  I have come to appreciate the merits of Oklahoma more than I originally did upon moving here, but there has been little to nothing to inspire exploration and adventure.

Which is why nights like the one below are like Christmas for me.

It was Date Night – our Friday night ritual for 10 years running, 8 years worth being in Oklahoma City.  Now, in 8 years, a couple can pretty much exhaust all there is to do in OKC, but every now and then, something comes along that’s different from the usual “dinner and a movie” routine.

While driving around town with our dear friends, Hannah and Hunter one night, we happened upon a little café/independent movie theater on old Film Row.  We wandered inside and were greeted by three excited ladies who had recently opened the place up for showing old movies and serving coffee and snacks.  It was surprising to find such a new gem in OKC, and when they invited us to their grand opening the following weekend, we made plans to come.  So we did, and it was nice, and we left.

But on our way to find somewhere else to pass the time, the explorer in me took over and I started telling Lukus to “turn left”, or “go down that street”, or “what’s that building there?” Lukus spontaneously drove down one of our favorite obscure streets that has about five new uber-modern homes – a rare find in Oklahoma City, especially the older part.  We “oohed” and “aahed” like we always do, dreaming of our modern-style home we’ll build when I make a fortune off my coffee farm, and Lukus discovers gold left in a closet in our garage.  But as he ended the block, I couldn’t leave the street.  I HAD to see inside one of those homes.  I NEEDED to explore somewhere I hadn’t already been.  With windows for walls, I couldn’t help but notice that someone was home in one of them.

So I did what any completely-normal-not-weird-at-all-person would have done, and went and knocked on the door  (well, anyone but Lukus who sat in the car with the engine running pretending to be on the phone because he was ready to die of embarrassment).  It was a big, glass door, with big, glass walls, and a man just on the other side of the glass watching the Olympics.  It. Was. Awkward.  But I tapped on the glass anyway, quickly prepared my introduction, and took a nervous breath as the man opened his door to a total nutcase.  “Hi, my name is Elle, and my husband and I were driving through the neighborhood, and we just LOVE these modern homes.  I was wondering if it was a collaboration effort, or if it all sprung up like this organically?”  The gentleman kindly shook my hand, introduced himself right back, and explained that it happened all quite organically.  He pointed out his architect’s house, and described the neighbor’s homes and when each was built, and then he said what I hoped he’d say all along, “If your husband wants to come up, I’d be happy to show you my place.”  And then he said something else that immediately explained why he was taking my insanity in stride – he grew up in Los Angeles.  Either he was a kindred spirit, or was simply used to nut-jobs on the street.

His home was what all bachelor’s homes should be: simple, elegant, comfortable while still being minimal – in other words, no puffy, black leather couches with beer coolers in the armrest.  The stark strength of concrete walls was perfectly balanced with glass walls that let in the warmth and softness of nature.  The turquoise stairs were a hint of boldness with the serene wood floors.  Low, cozy furniture gave casual comfort amidst the elegant high ceilings.  Glass wall met glass wall, and through the walls was the best view there is of OKC.  Because of the clean lines and open floor plan, 1700 square feet could still accommodate a sizeable party without people bumping into each other.  A skylight graced the work station in his bedroom; a frosted-glass window illuminated the shower for a touch of sun in the morning; a deck, accessible from both living room and bedroom, looked out upon the neighborhood and the city lights beyond.  Everything was clean, simple, uncluttered, intentional, perfectly arranged, and yet inherently comfortable.  Throw pillows and curtains would have been superfluous and unnatural.  All essential comfort for pleasant and efficient living was provided.  I wish could have taken pictures, but then I really would have been a weirdo.  But if you’ve ever opened up a Dwell Magazine, you get the idea.

I felt honored as he proudly displayed his home to us.  As a young person growing up in Hollywood Hills, he had looked admiringly upon the up-and-coming mid-century homes being experimented with in L.A., and he knew that someday, he would build his own.  And in sharing that dream with us, he gave me something I’ve been craving for weeks, months, years since living in OKC – the chance to explore something new, discover something secret and beautiful, the opportunity to observe what makes human beings so magnificent within their environment.  He gave me a feast for my gypsy nature, a reward for my chutzpah, and best of all, a great story to tell.  Like water in a design desert.  Heck, it was enough to pull me out of my uninspired, blogging hiatus!

I dare you to go explore today.  It’s fall, the air is just starting to get crisp, and the world is inviting you to have an adventure.  Just, please don’t hit up the same gentleman’s house.  It was kind of a “once is great, twice is super-annoying” kind of thing.  Be a fellow gypsy traveler and tell me what you discover this week, will ya?

Posted in Artful Homes |

Pancakes, Mustaches, And The Family of God

By gypsymemoirs | Posted on October 16, 2012 | 6 Comments

Rome:  March 2009  Lukus and I are standing in Saint Peter’s Square.  He holds the video camera as I attempt to recount a story we overheard from one of the tour guides.  I’ve gotten the facts of the story wrong.  We are politely interrupted by two young men dressed entirely in black with white collars.  One has a distinctive handle-bar mustache, the other a kind face.  They’ve come over to correct my inaccuracies.  Forty-five minutes later, we are shaking their hands good-bye.

Oklahoma City:  July 2012  Taytem and Eisley are hungry after the service, and going to the pancake breakfast might be a good way to meet people and see if we like this church.  Lukus and I find a table across from two old men and one young man.  The young man introduces himself.  One of the old men explains that the young seminarian is just helping out for the summer before returning to Rome. We tell him that it was two young seminarians like himself that had sparked our interest in the Church while in Rome.  He asks their names.  Sadly, we do not know.  All we remember is that handlebar moustache.

Last night, I had a nightmare – the worst nightmare of my life, the kind that’s so especially awful because it seems like something that could actually happen (as opposed, say, to being chased down by Soviet spy alligators that are angry because you beat them at chess).  I had such a hard time shaking it off that I didn’t want Lukus to leave for work.  I turned on some worship music from my phone to restore some peace to my rattled mind.  There was a break in the music as my phone informed me that I’d just received an e-mail.  I opened it up, read it aloud to Lukus, and for a moment, we were back in Rome as the story of God’s providence over our lives was recounted from precise memory from a young priest in Boston.

Three years ago, Lukus and I took a vacation to Italy – our first ever overseas trip for either of us, and with one two-year-old and a five-month-old belly, we knew it would be a long time before we’d see Europe again.  We had changed our plans from my dream of seeing France to Italy.  My weird obsession with doing things “in order” meant that if I wanted to learn history in order (skipping ancient times) then we should travel the world “in order”, beginning with the center of the Roman Empire and the origins of the Christian faith.

When we gave my parents our itinerary, my dad was baffled as to why we’d want to visit the Vatican.  Because it’s the Vatican, one of the biggest tourist sites in the world, the center of the Christian faith for at least a millennium, the location of the infamous Sistine Chapel ceiling, and it’s the Vatican!  In my family, we were Christians – NOT Catholics.

Italy was a dream come true: from the historical sights of Rome, to the artistic treasures of Florence, to the mystery and romance of the canals of Venice, it was more than we had even hoped for.  And yet, out of all that Italy had to offer, it was one brief conversation with two strangers that changed our lives.

We were disappointed that we had picked the wrong day to visit the Vatican.  It was St. Joseph’s Feast Day (whatever THAT was), and the Sistine Chapel was closed for the occasion.  We weren’t going to get to see Michelangelo’s masterpiece, and we were hugely disappointed.  We toured St. Peter’s Basilica anyway, wandered among the graves of the former popes below, and stood for a last few minutes in the Square before heading back to the city.  I was trying to get my story straight for our video camera, when two young seminarians approached us.  They were American, and for all my love of trying to live authentically in foreign lands and exercise my language skills, it was simply nice to meet some Americans after a few days of wrestling with broken Italian.  They’d overheard my story and came to correct me.  They asked what had brought us to St. Peter’s, and we explained that we were non-denominational Christians, but we appreciated the Catholic Church, and wanted to see the origins of our faith.

After a few more pleasantries, the conversation stalled, and yet, I wasn’t ready to leave.  Blunt-and-curious-me decided to just go for it, and ask these young priests-to-be why Catholics are so weird.  After all, these guys were intentionally spending their day in the Square to help out English-speaking tourists – I figured they must be prepared for these kinds of things.

“Can I ask you guys some blunt questions about Catholic beliefs?”

“Sure, we’d love to answer them if we can.”

“Why do you pray to saints?”

They grinned.  Apparently, my questions were pretty typical – probably boring.

“Well, we don’t actually pray to saints in the sense that we’d pray to God.  The Bible says that God is the god of the living, not the dead, so if we believe that those who have persevered in their faith are now with God, and they are even more alive than you or I, and that they are witnessing our lives on Earth, then just like you might ask me to pray for you to God, then we often ask the saints to pray to God for us as well.”

“Hm.”

It was a good answer.  A very good answer.  So were their answers about Mary, the infallibility of the Pope, their approach to Scripture, and on and on.  They were patient with us, we had a few laughs, and at the end of it all, they asked if they could pray for us before we left.  Of course we said yes.  And we prayed for them.  And we said goodbye…without getting their last names or any kind of contact info, which we would regret many times over the years to come.

From that moment on, our curiosity regarding Catholicism increased to hunger for knowledge and truth, and eventually, the desire to actually become Catholic.  It took 3 years from that day in Rome, and along the way, we met other Catholics that were a strong testament to their faith and love for Christ, and not only that, but their genuine love for one another.  The words of Jesus replayed over and over in my head as I witnessed the fellowship of Catholics, “They will know you by your love for one another.”

We researched, prayed, debated with others, and simply remained open to whatever God had for us.  In the meantime, those two young men were always a part of our story, our reason for getting interested.  They were the fork in the road for us, and we often thought and spoke of them, regretting that we did not get their information, and couldn’t even remember their first names.  I remember praying a couple of times that somehow, somehow, God would make a way for us to cross their paths again so we could tell them thank you.  Of all the absurd things to actually pray for!  But I did, nevertheless.

It was time – time for us to make the leap.  We were already Catholic in our hearts, we only lacked the initiation into the Catholic Church.  We attended Mass a couple of times in the suburbs because we had friends there, but decided it wasn’t for us.  We were city people, and wanted to find a parish in the city.  On our first visit to Our Lady of Perpetual Help, we really enjoyed it, and they were offering a pancake breakfast fund-raiser after Mass.  We were actually in the car leaving the parking lot, when I decided it would be a lot easier to just feed the girls lunch at the church, so we re-parked the car and went back.

As we sat down next to Chris, the young seminarian from Rome, and told him how our faith journey included two young seminarians from Rome, we never could have expected the results:  Chris knew the guy with the handlebar moustache – he didn’t just know him, he had his e-mail address!  An amputee could have grown a leg right in front of us and it would have had no more affect on us than the miracle of finding a guy in Rome from three years ago through a guy in Oklahoma City based on a moustache.  Had God really just answered one of the most absurd prayers I’d ever prayed (God seems to PREFER answering my absurd prayers more than my legitimate prayers, I’m tellin’ ya!)?

We had one name and e-mail address out of the two, and I immediately went home and wrote an e-mail describing who we were and recounting the event in case the guy (now I knew his name was Father Stephen) had trouble remembering us.  I included a picture of myself and Lukus while in Rome.  Lukus was worried I was being too forward in my first e-mail, just in case it was the wrong person, or that he wouldn’t remember at all and might think we’re weird.  Silly Lukus!  Doesn’t he know by now that I don’t give two cents what any stranger thinks of me?  I sent it anyway.

This was the response I received the very same day (the second half freaking made me cry, so just wait for the “Holy Cow” to come):

Ellany and Lukus:

“I planted the seed, Apollos watered it, but God made it grow.” 

I vaguely remember the encounter you describe…I think.  The picture helped…I think.  We talked to so many people over such a long period of time.  It’s hard to tell.  Doubtless it was me – the moustache truly was unique.  I think I remember having the audacity to correct someone’s video narration, but I fear my mind may be constructing that memory based on your description.  Does that footage still exist?

I appreciate you contacting me.  It’s very rare that God gives us glimpses of how he can cause the seeds we plant to grow.  Your story is remarkable, and I’m glad to have been part of it.  I’m also glad that over the years meeting pilgrims and tourists at St. Peter’s, I developed the courage to be able to approach people I’d never met before and witness to our faith.  (I say OUR faith, quite deliberately, since we now have it in common, thanks be to God.)  I was not always as capable as when I met y’all that day.  I dreaded going out there and having to put myself out in front of people.  God was definitely planning that meeting between the four of us well in advance, because when I first arrived in Rome, I never ever would have been able to talk to you.  

I really can’t be sure of who was working with me that day – we changed up the pairs pretty often.  What month and year were you there?  I might be able to figure it out.  It couldn’t have been any more recent than the spring of 2010, because that was the last semester I was working in the Square.  Do you remember what he looked like?

As you know, I’m now a priest in the Archdiocese of Mobile.  I was ordained in June of 2011.  I live my life completely assured that I am doing what God has called me to do.  I love being a priest.  I love people.  I love the sacraments.  

I ask you for your prayers.  It is no accident that your email came at this time.  After a year of being a priest, the stresses and difficulties have really set in, and it is sometimes a struggle to keep up and keep healthy (though I love it all no less for that).  Your email was very uplifting and reaffirming.  That God would use me as his instrument, as weak and flawed as I am, is a strange thing to consider.  You just happened to go to that pancake breakfast and happened to sit next to Chris, all in time for you to get in touch with me to remind me right now, at this point in time, that what I do matters a great deal – the Lord is in control.

Keep me abreast of your progress through RCIA, and if there are ever any questions you want to shoot my way, we can always continue that conversation we started.  Among my favorite ministries last year was teaching RCIA.  I ran half of the sessions, and it was a life-giving experience.

And of course, if you ever come down to the Deep South, you’ve got a friend down here.

HOLY COW – it just hit me, and I’m not going to change anything I just wrote above (partly out of laziness, but I guess I just want you to imagine this moment of realization).  I remember you now.  I remember your names.  I used to pray for you BY NAME.  (regrettably I stopped, I don’t know why)  It’s the name Ellany that sticks out – as unique (in my experience at least) as the moustache I used to wear!  We would keep a record of how many people we met each time we went out, what materials we passed out, etc., all to report back to the group, just to see what all was going on.  And usually, we’d jot down people’s names in case there was anyone in particular we wanted to pray for.  The reason I’ve suddenly recalled is that I remember not knowing how to spell Ellany, in fact, I remember thinking I must have heard you wrong when you said it!  Brilliant!  But anyway, the point is that there was a period of time where I was praying for Ellany and Lukus everyday.  HOW COOL IS THAT!?  And now, I’ll pick up where I left off and start praying for you again–sorry I ceased.

Thomas Merton once wrote:  “I have the immense joy of being man, a member of a race in which God Himself became incarnate.  As if the sorrows and stupidities of the human condition could overwhelm me, now that I realize what we all are.  And if only everybody could realize this!  But it cannot be explained.  There is no way of telling people that they are all walking around shining like the sun.”

There were times in Rome, particularly in Piazza Navona, that I would ponder those words, look around at the crowds of people and think, “one day, I will see these people in the Kingdom, and I will tell them: I remember being with you that day, seeing your smile, seeing you pass by, wondering what joys or sadness you were then enmeshed in, and I’m glad to be here with you now.”  You, Ellany and Lukus – I guess I had the spelling of both your names wrong! – you have just given me a taste of that hope that I have.  There are no chance meetings.  There is no insignificant part of our lives.  There is nothing that God will not use to his advantage.  No matter what lies we’ve heard or even the ones we believe, the deck is stacked against Satan.  God is in control.  With Paul we should all shout: “If God is for us, who can be against us!?”

I’m totally blown away by this.  Awestruck before the God who knows me and the two of you and everyone else so completely.  He’s so preoccupied by us, thinking of us all the time.  He just sits around thinking of new and different ways to remind us that he’s there with us, carrying us all the way.

I’ve really begun to write something substantial…was this what it was like when you were talking to me?  I remember your names, and I think your faces, but I still don’t really remember the conversation.

Whatever.  It is so providential that we met that day and that we’ve come back into contact.  Thanks for writing.  I found y’all on facebook, but I couldn’t friend you…

Lukus and I both teared up upon reading this response – okay, I did a little more than just “tear up”.  To know that he remembered us, prayed for us by name, and that we were finally able to say “Thank you!” meant so much to us.  But those words are so small.  What it really felt like was a brief glimpse into eternity – the revelation that time and distance does not separate the family of God.  And it reminds me of their answer in Rome as to why they “pray to saints.”  Why would we not?  When we are all held together in God’s hand, time and distance are not the only obstacles overcome by the Children of God, but death itself cannot even separate us.  We are part of something so much bigger than we could ever comprehend, and in the midst of this big, lonely world where we pass in and out of people’s lives every day, we live unaware that we are weaving ourselves together in intricate and purposeful ways.  God takes each choice we make, whether to grow a funky moustache, or eat a pancake breakfast; he takes our odd little eccentricities, whether it’s an OCD obsession with doing things “in order”, or an inability to pass by without asking those gnawing awkward questions of someone; he uses the accidents, like feast days that alter your plans, or the story you misheard, or forgetting to get the contact info of some new friends – and He actively responds and maneuvers and works until it all comes together as something our untrained eyes can finally recognize as masterful.

After offering Stephen a description of the other seminarian and the date, he was able to figure out that it was Eric, and he wrote to him.  I wrote to him as well, but this time, it took a full seven days to hear back.  But it was the best time to receive his response.  The nightmare I’d had really shook me up.  Fear was overwhelming me, even in the light of morning.  But opening up that e-mail instantly reminded me of reality – of HIS reality:  that He is with us, that He is actively working for our good, and that we will reap good in the end if we do not lose heart.  There is nothing to fear – not even Soviet alligators.

Ellany,

Fr. Stephen did ask me if I remember having met you and this was my reply to him:

Steve,

Thank you for sharing this. This has made my day! This is truly a prayer answered. Absolutely. I remember them very well and I have thought about them often over the past 3 years. In fact, they are one of the few people I do remember. We went to the square on St. Joseph’s day 2009 and on our part we realized when we got there that it was not strategically the best day to go because the Vatican and St. Peter’s were closed and there were very few people there. You and I were standing there and we saw this couple filming/photographing the Holy Father’s apartment. From what we heard them saying they did not know exactly what they were looking at and I remember you saying something to the effect, “Let’s go and see if we can help them out with what they are seeing.” We had exchanged pleasantries and told them what they were seeing. We told them who we were. They told us they were Non-Denominational Christian and then…I remember like it was yesterday. We were at an awkward pause in the conversation (It seemed like they were about done with us) Ellany was looking at what presumably was the Holy Father’s apartment (or at something across the other side of the piazza) and she said to us, “Can I ask you a few blunt/honest (some word to that effect) about what Catholics believe. I remember you saying something like “Sure, we’d love to.” She proceeded to ask us every single Protestant question about Catholic practices (saints, Mary, Scripture…). By the end of it it was at least 45 minutes if not an hour that we were talking. I remember them being so direct with their questions and open/hungry to hearing our answers. At the end of it all they both proceeded to tell us how they had come to Rome in order to see where the Church was first living. I think (if I am remembering correctly) that Ellany told us that they had left their child (who I think was two) with their parents during their travels. She told us about the conversation that she had with one of their fathers as he was dropping them off at the airport and how he asked why they wanted to go to see the Catholic Churches. At end they thanked us for answering those questions and she even admitted then that she had received some biased/wrong information about what Catholics believe. I remember sensing that we had just been a part of their faith journey in a very real way.

That is so great to hear how they have been so open to the Holy Spirit for so long and are now planning to start RCIA! I would love to send off a hello and let them know that I am praying for them. Perhaps, you can let her know that you found the other guy and let her know that I will be sending an e-mail? (I just want to make sure that when she sees a random e-mail from me she does not think it to be spam mail) If you could reply to this and let me know that you have contacted her I would greatly appreciate it.

It is truly a joy to hear from you again. I am sorry to hear about the loss of your mother. What is her name? As you know there are often people in our life that have influenced our life in some way and we lose touch with them. In being in contact with you again and hearing how God has been working in your and Lukus’ life, God has been so generous! I remember that day we talked very clearly and it has left an impression on me. It is one of the few interactions I remember having in St. Peter’s Square and I believe that the reason I go back to it is that it is one of those instances that I can remember the presence of the Holy Spirit strengthening my faith in Christ and helping me to share that with others who are desiring to know and love the Lord. I am so grateful for you having made the effort to get in touch with me for two reasons. 1) It is a privilege to hear how the Lord has been molding your hearts. How you have come to know Him better and the act of faith you have made in response to His grace. 2) To thank you for being docile to God’s will and asking those questions that day. It was a memorable moment from my time in Rome as it was another moment in which God was shaping my heart to be His servant.

As for me, you already know the big change that God has brought about in my life in making me His priest. I was ordained on June 23rd of this year and I have been in a parish in South Boston since then. I love being a priest and it is an absolute privilege to serve the people of God as a priest of Jesus Christ. There is so much to say about these couple of months but the most present word on my lips is the great devotion that people have to follow Christ. Day after day I am humbled with the opportunity to witness the faith of God’s people, which in turn calls me forth to give more of myself as one of his sons and as a priest to serve Him more perfectly so that His love might be known more present to the world.

I will be going back to Rome in September and will be there till next June. The archbishop has asked me to return to Rome for one more year in order to complete the Licentiate degree (Master’s-like) in moral theology that I starter last year. After June 2013, I will be in Boston full time.

You mentioned that you started RCIA last week. Am I correct in assuming that you and Lukus plan on entering the Church this Easter? Through the intercession of St. Joseph (I am almost positive that it was on his feast day that we met) please be assured of my prayers for both of you as you run this next leg of your pilgrimage here on earth. May you know His love for you through His Church and in knowing this love, through His grace, may you respond with generous hearts. I hope that we can stay in contact and, if it is God’s providence, that we might see one another again in the future. If you have any questions about anything at all, be just as bold as you were that day in 2009 and fire away!

In Christ,

Fr. Eric Bennett

P.S. If you find yourselves in Rome in the next 10 months…I will be there!

Eric’s response was completely different than Stephen’s, but no less amazing and encouraging.  Indeed, I agree with Lukus’ response after hearing both e-mails:  Is this what the next generation of priests is like?  These guys are incredible!

But what’s truly incredible are the extraordinary lengths God will go to to draw us near to Him, to show us that He loves us enough to answer silly prayers and the deepest cries of our hearts alike.  The love of God astounds me, and this family He is at work to create – for all it’s flaws and inadequacies in this life– is absolutely beautiful.  This is our hope for eternity – that our love for one another would be made complete and perfect, that we would be united in perfect harmony with one another; a family of total acceptance, of joyful interaction, of complete appreciation of how we all fit together, and with strange and fascinating stories to tell.  This is the Family of God, and it is miraculous!

Mobile, Alabama: August 2012 – Lukus and I are sitting in an oyster shack sharing fried green tomatoes with Father Stephen, the one who had had the handlebar moustache.  There’s no handlebar moustache anymore, but a full beard instead.  We were on our way back from a convention in Florida, and the route home just “happened” to go right through Mobile, where Father Stephen now serves as priest.  We have never been to Mobile, and have never had a reason to go there.  And yet, only a couple of weeks of being back in contact with that seminarian from Rome, and we are driving right through his hometown.  As he lays his hands on our shoulders to give us his blessing before we depart, I can’t help but begin to weep at the beauty and the blatant display of God’s hand at work, and the beauty of His family.

Posted in Thriving Spirits |

Because 6-year-olds Can’t Have ALL the Fun! (A Birthday Giveaway)

By gypsymemoirs | Posted on October 15, 2012 | 2 Comments

I don’t understand why so many people I know don’t make a bigger deal out of their birthdays.  They still go to work, they cook dinner, they MIGHT get together with a few friends, but most seem to stop caring about their birthday somewhere in their 20′s or early 30′s – especially if they have kids.  I really don’t understand why.  Are they bothered about getting older?  ’Cuz I kinda thought that was part of the point of living – to actually get older.  You can’t be afraid of both dying young AND getting older, that’s just irrational.

Do they feel like it’s too self-indulgent?  I’d say that funerals are self-indulgent.  Taking a day to celebrate the fact that you haven’t forced your family to have to pick out your casket is really a present for THEM.

Is it because it’s a reminder that they haven’t accomplished much in the last year? Are you kidding me?  You’re ALIVE!  That, in and of itself, is a massive accomplishment!  You have managed to not cut yourself on a soup can, get tetanus, and die (I’m not sure if you can actually die from tetanus, but whatever it is, I’m sure it sucks).  You have not pissed off a biker at a bar and had him tear you limb from limb.  You have not had your stomach explode from trying to button skinny jeans.  You have not attempted a Liam Neeson stunt, because we all know that only HE can survive an explosion on a snowy mountain, a car wreck off a bridge into a river, AND a plane crash.  You have not torn the tags off any pillows (and if you have, let’s keep our fingers crossed, because I heard pretty serious &*%$ can happen if you do).  You have managed to dodge, thwart, prevent, and outwit this scary, scary world, and lived to die another day.  Dammit, you deserve a cake.

Even if it’s a cake made by a 6-year-old who is attempting to co-opt your 33rd birthday (Hmm, are the two rows of 3 supposed to represent “33″, or are they supposed to add up to “6″?).

Today is MY birthday – although, I’m sure you probably already knew that since you probably got the day off of work, and heard all the news stories about it.  Plus, there were the fireworks…

I like my birthday.  And 33 sounds good to me – much better than 32.  I’m not sure why, since my most immediate thought upon turning 33 is that it was also the age Jesus was when he was crucified, so the optimism is a bit incongruent.  Maybe it’s the fact that this is the first time in 5 years that there hasn’t either been a campaign to work on, or schoolwork for Lukus to do to earn his master’s degree.  Maybe my body has finally rebalanced after having had Eisley 3 years ago (she was brutal on me!).  Maybe it’s my new job homeschooling my friend’s two kids along with my own, or the fact that Taytem can now toast some waffles for herself and her sister.  Perhaps it’s the fact that I’ve been slowly plodding through Plato’s Republic for the last two years and FINALLY finished it today.  Or it might be because I have the trip of my life coming up (more on that in another post).  Who knows?

What I do know is that this is going to be a good year, and I’m going to celebrate it, and I hope you’ll join me because I’m going to start this year and my “back to blogging” day by giving away a copy of what Lukus got me for MY birthday:

Leave a comment below about the best birthday you’ve ever had since you’ve been a grown up and you’ll be added to the drawing.  Considering how many people read this blog, you’ve got like a 1 in 6 chance of winning, so just go for it.  We can’t let six-year-olds have ALL the fun!

Posted in Uncategorized |

Punching Life in the Face

By gypsymemoirs | Posted on January 3, 2012 | 3 Comments

Did anyone else out there have a really crappy Christmas?  To be quite honest, I did.  We didn’t have very big plans this year, just a small, simple Christmas at home.  I was extremely fatigued the week leading up to Christmas, and a lot of my gift projects (which I’ll share in a later post), didn’t get completed until the last minute.  My dad came for a visit and we got into an argument, the girls were so restless during our Christmas eve service that we had to leave in the middle, then on Christmas morning, I awoke with the worst case of strep throat I’ve ever had.  I literally blacked-out trying to get out of bed.  It was just terrific.

I don’t think I’ve mentioned this before, but we have international students living with us – one from South Korea, and one from Saudi Arabia – and they were to be spending Christmas with us (as well as another Saudi student who had lived with us & gotten his own apartment).

Aren’t they cute?  I love our students.  For our Saudi students, it was to be their first Christmas ever, and I really wanted it to be special for them.  But by the time I was able to drag my faint and dizzy body out of bed on Christmas morning at the crack of 11, all we managed to do was open a few presents, then it was off to bed for me, and everyone went their separate ways.  I felt so bad for our students, who were probably left wondering what the big frickin’ deal is about Christmas.

To make matters, well, not any better at all, the next day I had to go in for an MRI to check on some pain in my right side.  The morning after that, I got a scary freaking phone call saying that my doctor wanted me to come in right away to get several CT scans done.  No explanation, just a receptionist telling me that the MRI showed something and I needed to come in THAT day and they would find a way to squeeze me in.  Great.  Urgent CT scans needed.  I was officially freaked out.  I was already feeling sick as a dog with strep, and now I had to go get inside some big scary machine that I’d only ever seen on Grey’s Anatomy.  Let me tell you, they are bigger and scarier in person.

After urgent attempts by me and Lukus to get a hold of my doctor to see what was going on, he finally called back.  The MRI had showed a spot on my lung, and he wanted to check it out.  Shouldn’t be a big deal, and he was sorry he hadn’t gotten back to me sooner.  Yeah, thanks doc.  I was just planning my will is all.

I wasn’t allowed to eat all day (which is just wonderful for someone who’s also hypoglycemic), but they did let me drink a chalky “berry” concoction to illuminate my insides for the scans.  I was disappointed that I couldn’t see my veins glow in the dark like I’d hoped.  And I love how the hospital staff just assumes that you already know you’re going to have an I.V. put in too.

As I got onto the table to get the scans done, with a machine telling me when to inhale and when to exhale, I couldn’t help but think how ridiculous it all was; that I’m too young for this crap, and I should only know what a CT machine looks like from Grey’s Anatomy and not from experience; that it was the week of Christmas and New Year’s, and I was already sick, and couldn’t I catch a break?

But Life doesn’t work that way does it?  Life isn’t on the same schedule you are.  Life doesn’t take holidays, and Life doesn’t feel sorry for you and cut you a break because you’d already had a bad day.  Life doesn’t care that you’re scared because you’ve already buried your mom too young, which has brought you to the realization that you have no control over pretty much anything.  Sometimes Life is beautiful and generous, and sometimes she hits you with a powerful right hook, and as you lie there, you just have to follow instructions from a machine telling you: “inhale”, “exhale”.

That night, after the tests were over with, Lukus and I got dressed up and went to a wedding.  The bride was beautiful, as brides always are in their own unique way when they’re full of hope and love.  We had some laughs with family members, and I danced with my husband, who had to hold me extra tight since I still wasn’t feeling my best.  I have yet to hear back from my doctor, which I’m assuming is good news.  But I’m learning that this is how it goes:  weddings follow CT scans, a bright new year follows a crappy Christmas, hope follows fear, and as soon as you’ve got your strength back, it feels pretty damn good to plant your feet on the ground, clench your fist, and swing back at Life with everything you’ve got.  So to everyone else who may have had a lousy, no-good, sorry little Christmas, I wish you a bright and merry ordinary Tuesday, full of wonder, beauty, happiness and hope!

 

Posted in Gypsy Souls |

Polite Title: Post-Holidays at Home – Real Title: Ungrateful Hag of an Ugly Jerk-House

By gypsymemoirs | Posted on January 5, 2012 | 4 Comments

Whelp, the big, dramatic, sexy, six-month make-over of The Ugly House is still a year and a half in progress, and so far, it feels like all we’ve done is remove a hairy mole when we’ve still got an entire facelift, hairstyling, butt-firming, and Paula Abdul teeth whitening to do.  Figuratively speaking.  I honestly don’t know how some of those DIY/Home bloggers (which I’m not) turn their houses around so quickly, but it quite disgusts me.  And it doesn’t help that I live with a messy (though he makes up for it in good looks) husband, two college boys, and two small girls who could find a way to make a bigger mess out of a hurricane-ravished site.  At least our two international students aren’t messy (though I’m possibly in denial because I haven’t stepped foot in their bathroom all week).  I just keep reminding myself that the extra income from housing them, as well as their cute faces, make it worth it.  The cute faces of my girls though, are starting to wear thin.

After the chaos of Christmas and me being sick for over a week, this is what our house looked (okay, still looks) like:

Wop-wop-wop.  How does anyone get any major projects done (like building an arched wall to cover the exposed beams in our dining room, or DIY-ing some concrete countertops, etc.) in the midst of THIS?  I feel like I’m constantly falling behind – constantly picking up after children, constantly fighting a mountain of laundry, constantly having to rearrange rooms to accommodate a new student, constantly hanging up my husband’s jacket from off the dining room table….the list goes on.

If it just felt like normal chores – like cleaning a bathroom, or mopping the floors – it would be one thing.  Those things can go at least a week without HAVING to be done again.  It’s the dailiness of the massive messes that gets to me; feeling like there’s always a pile of SOMETHING that needs to be faced down.  And those piles are always telling me in such a snarky way, “You can’t even manage to face me, how do you think you’re ever gonna get another real house project done?”  It’s like trying to offer a complete make-over to a bitter, ungrateful hag.  If only my house knew what I was trying to do for it – give her a lighter feel, an updated look, a new self-esteem to compete with all the younger, thinner houses out in the suburbs.  But no, every time I try to detox my house and get it on a healthy diet of regular sweeping, bathroom cleaning and dish-scrubbing, I turn around to find my house gorging on piles of junk.

But no more!  I am NOT going to let those piles intimidate me anymore.  I’m goin’ Jillian Michaels all UP in their bidness.  Either the piles go, or the piles go ignored and I start on my big projects anyway.  We’ll turn this ungrateful hag of a house into a charming Taylor Swift of a house whatever it takes.

Please tell me there are others of you out there with rebellious houses that refuse to clean up after themselves and put on a nice smile for company?  Lie to me if you have to, but please tell me, that in spite of all the amazing blogs I see each week where they’ve renovated an entire kitchen in 4.5 minutes, or built a beautiful wrap-around deck with paperclips and recycled cardboard while blindfolded, that I am not too painfully slow and a total failure at keeping house?  I can’t let this Ugly House get to me.

 

Posted in Artful Homes |

The Oatmeal Pot & The Dumbest Thing a Husband Can Say

By gypsymemoirs | Posted on January 12, 2012 | 2 Comments

My husband still has his nose this morning – but barely.  I’ve talked about this nose before, how strong and handsome of a nose he has.  I tend to marvel at his nose because noses are not typically a noticeably attractive feature, what with it being surrounded by the “windows to the soul” and “winning smiles” and such.  But it’s the thought of his endearing nose that restrains me in those rare moments when I want to give him a good punch.

I’m not a violent person.  I’ve only ever hit one person in my life and it was a creepy boy in youth group that kept trying to slide his hand up my leg, so after one very clear warning, I stood up and slapped him square across the face – my one, solitary encounter with physical violence.

But sometimes, the people we love the most can also get under our skin the most, and if they keep crawling under our skin, they eventually find that trigger under our arm that makes us want to haul off and make violent contact with their flesh.

Last night was one of those nights.  Lukus and I were both extremely tired, Eisley was being especially difficult as she kept demanding to eat some non-existent chips, and Taytem was stalling on her bedtime.  We were barely holding on to patience, with every word being carefully measured out of our mouths.  Now, in our early days of marriage, we took every little moody tone as a personal offense, not allowing the other person to ever speak with irritability without taking great offense.  After a few years, we learned to extend some grace to one another, that it was not worth taking personally, and to give the other some space until the irritability passed.  We’ve been fairly successful too, when the irritability descends into disrespect, to be able to say, “I understand you’re frustrated about something, but please don’t take it out on me,” and the other will say, “You’re right, I’m sorry,” and we move on.

But every now and then…every now and then, someone says or does something so insensitive that it’s almost like they’ve turned into a caricature from Everybody Loves Raymond.  Like when a husband has gone to great lengths to provide a romantic evening, and when it comes time to turn the lights down low, the wife puts on her sweat pants and rolls over to go to sleep.

Last night, my husband’s body was momentarily possessed by the spirit of Raymond.  I had been working for two days straight on some major cleaning projects around the house.  I had carried large pieces of furniture downstairs by myself to complete the project.  Not to mention that I had been taking care of my girls all day, cleaned their bathroom, put away some laundry, and actually made our bed for the first time in four months.  I had worked really hard that day, and was fairly satisfied with my efforts, hoping that they would be noticed and appreciated.  And they were.

By our Korean student.

But in a moment of weakness, in that stressful window between getting home at bedtime with the girls and actually getting them into bed, my husband chose that moment to complain about a pot of day-old oatmeal that was sitting on the kitchen counter.  Granted, my husband is very helpful around the house, and he doesn’t ask for much, but he really hates dirty dishes building up on the counter.  He often does them voluntarily, and all he asks is that I don’t let the pan of eggs sit until it’s like stripping 40 year old wallpaper, and that I don’t let things like oatmeal turn to glue.  It’s a perfectly reasonable request, and I should have taken care of it.  But I just hadn’t gotten to it, and it wasn’t like I was expecting him to take care of it.

But I, too, succumbed to tiredness, and with a fair amount of defensiveness, said, “Well, I’m sorry, but I had to change Eisley immediately after breakfast, and then I spent the rest of the day doing those two big cleaning projects, as well as cleaning the girl’s bathroom and putting away laundry, not to mention that the girls kept me pretty busy all day.”

And then, to my astonishment, he said it – something every clear-headed husband knows not to say to his wife.  Ever.  EVER.  ”Yeah, but none of those things are very important.  I’ve done all of that before.”

Now, I’m not the kind of gal who bursts into tears when something hurtful is said to me.  Instead, I get hot all over, and my eyes settle into an angry stare that makes even me uncomfortable.  And I get sort of Incredible Hulk-angry.  I waited for Lukus to realize his mishap and to apologize, but he remained stubbornly on the path that he was perfectly justified in what he had said.  He said it all very calmly and rationally, which only made me more angry.  This is when I started fixating on his nose, trying to remember how much I loved it, so I told him he really needed to leave me alone that instant.

I set myself to taking my anger out on the dishes, scrubbing furiously with scalding hot water, not out of spite, but because, ironically, washing dishes is what I do when I’m very angry and attempting to think rationally and objectively.

I allowed myself to cycle through all of the angry things I wanted to say, all of the self-justification, and then, I eventually slipped into mindless scrubbing.  When my thoughts turned back on, I began to consider how to be objective.  I was definitely hurt by what I interpreted as ungratefulness and lack of respect for what I do every single day, so I knew it wasn’t something I could just let go of.  So I set about trying to find the healthiest way to express my hurt, because I have an innate tendency to want to argue a case, and I’m very good at arguing a case – stacking up the facts, what was said, making comparisons about why my position is more right and his is wrong.  I’m very, very good at it, possibly because I watched a lot of Law & Order growing up.

But I remembered a marriage seminar we had attended last year, and how they talked about that the facts don’t matter – the feelings do.  Stating a case like a lawyer only makes the other person feel like they’re on trial, and people are always prepared to defend themselves when they’re on trial.  The most effective and honest way to handle those hurtful moments with someone is to simply tell them how you interpreted their words, and how that made you feel.  Simple enough, right?

At least it should be.  But when you’re angry at someone, it’s one of the hardest things to do to be vulnerable and simply say, “I’m hurting right now.”  Women seem to be a little more capable of this than men, but I seem to be one of only a few women that was born on Mars rather than Venus, so I tend to dislike gender generalizations.  Getting angry is what is instinctive to me, and it’s also what’s instinctive to Lukus, so we have to work extra hard sometimes because we don’t always naturally balance each other out.

Still angry, I went to find him to tell him how I felt: that I felt like I had worked very hard that day, and he hadn’t noticed my progress.  That his complaint had been annoying, but even more so, to say that nothing I had done that day was important was very hurtful.  He was already waiting with an apology; but I had just scrubbed a sink-full of dishes trying to figure out my approach, and I couldn’t let him off that easy, so there were a few sarcastic comments from my corner of the living room before I let myself simply be honest.  But he heard me, and the spirit of Raymond left him, and Lukus returned to his senses without losing his beautiful nose.

And I had washed the oatmeal pot.

But tomorrow, tomorrow I will be calling around about the cost of outsourcing for just dishwashing.

 

Posted in Blissful Families, Uncategorized |

Coming Home from a Blog Party

By gypsymemoirs | Posted on February 10, 2012 | 7 Comments

Maybe it’s the second vodka-infused peach bellini talking, but tonight I’m making a major, official declaration.  Someone call channel 4, because I think everyone will want to know that, as of tonight: I officially don’t hate Oklahoma anymore.

I know, shocking, right?  But it occurred to me while I was on the way home from a blogger’s party (yeah, I didn’t know those existed either, but my friend Evie invited me spur of the moment, so I figured, “Sure, why not go to the locally-owned cosmetic store where they’ll serve some hors de’ouvres, give me a free bra-fitting, an eyebrow waxing, and let me mingle with some other local OKC bloggers over an open bar?”).

It was while I was talking with all of these multi-faceted women that I realized that I have now lived in Oklahoma for almost eight years.  Eight years!!!  After attending 13 different schools and moving back and forth between Texas and California about half a dozen times (and no, my parents were NOT in the military) this is officially the longest I have ever lived in one place.  And it was somewhere between talking with the shopping blogger, the food blogger, my fourth potato puff, and that second peach bellini, that I realized that maybe, just maybe, I’m kinda becoming okay with OK.  I mean, THESE people are here – throwing things like “blogger parties” and making things like “potato puffs”.  I mean, how great are potato puffs?!

I do remember that it was somewhere around our sixth year here that the edge of constantly longing for California, or Italy, or heck, even Arkansas started to not feel so sharp in my gut.  A new coffee shop had just opened that made lattes to my satisfaction, and had comfortable enough seats so that I could park myself for some time and just stare and daydream while being somewhere outside of my house.  A few new shopping developments popped up that weren’t heinous to look at.  Some really decent, non-steakhouse restaurants opened up.  And I think we made it pretty big-time when Whole Foods finally opened up a store right here in the city.  We’re practically the New York City of the Midwest right now.  Well, besides Chicago.  And Dallas.  And Kansas City.  And…well, we’re the New York City of Oklahoma at least.

But it’s more than that.  We have a church home for the first time in the history of ever.  We have neighbors that make us feel like we’re on the set of Desperate Housewives (without the murder and adultery – we’re pretty much just talking nice people who don’t mind if you park your bike in their yard for the afternoon).  We’ve got dear, wonderful friends who are taking our kids for the weekend so we can go to our 10-year-college reunion, and new friends who invite us to things like “blog parties.”

And it’s taken eight years.  Eight long, painful, boring years.  And in the meantime, I’ve been learning to not run away.  Because that’s what it felt like we did when I was growing up.  If a place was too boring, or not beautiful enough, or the economy wasn’t great, or everything didn’t just fall into place right away, we moved on.  And we moved on and on and on.  And to this day, I tell people that my home is a town on the coast of North San Diego County, where I no longer know a single soul and not a single family member has lived there since the day I moved away.  My hometown is a place where there is no sign that I was ever there except for an underground drainage pipe where I used to smoke stolen cigarettes and draw rainbows on the cement walls with my crayons – you know, the awkward PG-13 stage between coloring rainbows and stealing cigarettes.

It’s been eight years of me internally chanting to myself, “Only boring people get bored, and you’re NOT boring, so stop being bored!”  Eight years of me waiting for European vacations that never come, of the “big job” that will make us move, of drawing my own “perfect cities” on sheets and sheets of graph paper.  And all the while, Oklahoma City is growing up around me, gathering to herself other creatives who find food and fashion and design that’s worth blogging about right here in the place I’ve been all along.

Suddenly, I realize that the reason I love to travel so much is because everywhere I go, I like to imagine being home there.  Wherever I go, I’m looking for home, except for the place I’m at.  Even the place I’m at for eight years.

So I’m sure that there will always be the perpetual gypsy inside of me that wants to simply grab my toothbrush and tell the perky lady at the airport ticket counter to “surprise me” with my destination, but as this city evolves, so do I, and so will this blog.  Changes are coming just as soon as I can figure out the back-end of this site, but mostly, the changes are in me.  I’m learning the definition of “home” for the first time in my life, and it’s maybe not as boring as I thought it was for so long.  It’s maybe kind of OK after all.

Alright, that last line was so cheesy I have to blame it on the peach bellini.

Anywho, these are some of the blogs by the nice people I met tonight.  Won’t you check them out with me?:

Evie @ http://evie-s.com/news/

Sarah Gray @ Joyfully Gray

Allison @ Shopcrawlr

Brandy @ Bella Vita Jewelry

Rachael @ Rachael Really

Sally @ Sally Spins

Melissa @ Sassafrass 2.0

Brigette @ Settling West

Marek @ Mareks Musings

Whitney English

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Help! There’s a Foreigner in My House! – Awkward Moments with Our Students

By gypsymemoirs | Posted on February 13, 2012 | 1 Comment

I mentioned around Christmas time that we’ve had some students living with us while they attend classes to learn English so they can enter American universities.  It’s been such a rewarding experience in so many aspects:  our family gets to learn about another culture; we get to share our faith along with our home; it’s a decent financial help; it makes our house feel more like a home in sharing it with others…..I could go on.

However….

Fairly often, there are those awkward moments that arise from 1) Living with college-age boys; 2) Dealing with another culture, their beliefs & customs; 3) Dealing with another culture’s standard of hygiene and manners; and 4) Having a talkative little girl who doesn’t know when to keep her mouth shut.

Since last July, we have had 3 students live with us, usually 2 at a time.  Two of them have been from Saudi Arabia, and the other from South Korea; all young men in their early twenties.  And since then, we’ve had our share of awkward moments.

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“You tell him.”  ”No, YOU tell him.  YOU’RE the GUY.”  ”But you’re better at confronting people than I am.”  ”Still, on matters of hygiene, I think it’s best that he hears it from you.”  ”Fine.”  Lukus lumbers up the stairs, dreading to tell our first Saudi student that he absolutely MUST take a shower.  The odor from his room is creeping down the stairs in an almost visible form, his presence at the dinner table makes me nauseas, and in two weeks’ time, we haven’t heard the shower run once.  And yet, Lukus goes for the subtle approach.

“Hey Houssen!  Uh, do you have any deodorant?  Like this?  I’ve got some extra if you need some.  Have you figured out how to work the shower knobs?  Oh, okay, good.  Alright, see ya.”

Two hours pass and the shower hasn’t run, and Houssen comes downstairs, walks out the kitchen door to take a smoke in the backyard.  I’m painting our pantry.  Houssen comes back inside, adding the smell of cigarettes to his personal odor, and I stop him.

“Hi Houssen.  You need to go take a shower.  Right now.  You stink.  You need to take a shower at least 3 times a week, okay?”

Houssen smiles his charming boyish smile and says, “Okay Mom.  Thank you.”

The next month, he moves out, saying that he’s moving to Houston to be near friends, but we see him a few weeks later at the school.  At least when he accepts our invitation to spend Christmas with us, it’s obvious when he shows up that he showered that morning by his huge, fuzzy Afro.

———————–

“Taytem!  Stop that smacking right now.  You’ve got better manners than that, but you sound like a dog slurping up his food.”

“Mom, I’m not eating.”

I turn around from doing the dishes to realize that that dreadful slurping is coming from Kun, our Korean student.  I choose to believe that his noisy eating habits must be his cultural way of saying that the food is delicious – since he’s never actually verbally complimented my cooking, even after his fourth helping.

————————

We’re at a Cajun buffet.  I’ve looked over Rusul’s plate and only noticed chicken.  I go back for a second helping of jambalaya, and he follows me, getting his own helping of jambalaya.

“Oh Rusul, you don’t want to eat that.  It has pork in it.”  Rusul is a devout Muslim who prays 5 times a day in his room and absolutely does NOT eat pork.

“Really?  Really?!”

“Yes, see?  There’s pork right there.”

“But I’ve had two helpings!”

He tries to be polite, but he immediately rushes to the bathroom and we spend the next 15 minutes at the table trying not to think about what he’s doing in there.

—————————-

In a discussion about politics, the troubles in the Middle East and Jews:

“But Hitler was an evil, evil man,” says Lukus.

Rusul shrugs.  He’s not a fan of Jews and doesn’t necessarily agree.  We have no idea what to say after this.

—————————–

It’s Monday.  Lukus is at work and has taken Kun and Rusul to school as usual.  So I’m walking around downstairs in my underwear to get some water, singing my tribute to Whitney Houston in my silliest American Idol audition style.  I go upstairs to put on some pajama pants and get the girls up.  I come downstairs, and almost pee my pants because a shadowy figure is standing in the kitchen and I’m trying to estimate how quickly I can get to the shotgun upstairs.  A moment later, I realize it’s Rusul, who stayed home that day.  He’s probably heard my Whitney Houston impression, and fortunately, barely missed seeing me in my underwear.

——————————

“Kun!  We’re ready to go to the restaurant!”  Taytem yells through Kun’s door.

“Okay.  I’ll be five minutes,” says Kun.

“Taytem Bjorn!”  I whisper/yell frantically.  ”We were just going as a family!  That’s why we ordered pizza for the guys!”

“Oh.  Sorry.”

Rusul and Kun are ready to go.  The pizza arrives, goes straight into the fridge and we have to shell out an extra $30 at the restaurant.

—————————–

This is the wonderfully, awkward life of living with foreign college-age guys who don’t speak English very well.  And every day, I’m thankful that this is my life.  Well, almost every day.

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Waiting for Grace

By gypsymemoirs | Posted on February 15, 2012 | 6 Comments

It’s quite fortunate for me that God still loves me when I’m pissed off at His whole beautiful world for no good reason.  I woke up angry this morning.  I can’t explain it except that maybe it’s because all of last week I had strep throat and wasn’t able to take my anti-depressant vitamins.  They were really working there for a whole five weeks, and it was starting to feel like I was learning how to live life without punching innocent stuffed animals in the face when no one’s looking.  I wonder if that Care Bear still cares?

But apparently, that week off of the vitamins took it’s toll, and this morning, the best I could do was throw some frozen waffles in the toaster for my girls, and turn on some cartoons so I could retreat to my bedroom in solitude.  Most days, I can push through the stress, the depression or the anger, but there are a few days that I just plummet to the bottom of a cave and don’t want to come out.  Today has been a cave-day as I wait for my vitamins to start taking effect again.  But I’m also waiting for someone to show up.

It was around the same time that I confessed here on my blog that I struggle with depression, that God also began showing me the immensity and constancy of His grace.  It used to be that whenever I had a chemical meltdown that sent my emotions running in fourteen different directions that I would feel incredibly guilty and like such a failure.  If I REALLY knew God, I could never be depressed.  I just knew He was disappointed in me because I hadn’t mastered a joyful spirit.  Compounded with that sense of guilt was a great deal of anger with God for his disappointment in me over a problem that I felt like I couldn’t find a solution for.  It wasn’t until He revealed to me my own prideful heart in the parking lot of a hot dog restaurant that I literally felt his grace rush into that car with me and wrap me in tight hugs.  It was like God, for the first time that I was aware of it, took me by the shoulders, stared me in straight in the eyes, and with ferocious tenderness told me, “I love you – NO MATTER WHAT!  Don’t you get it yet?  I love you!”

And something in me heard Him for the first time.  Grace suddenly became not a word, but almost a person – a person who, when I began to feel alone, she’d whisper, “I’m here, and I think you’re hilarious and wonderful.”  Or when I felt like I’d really f***** up (probably for saying the f-word) Grace would take my hand and say, “That’s what I’m here for.  No one has ever expected you to be perfect on your own.  Here, let me help you wash those dishes,” and strangely, I’d find that I had the strength of ten grandmothers in me.  Grace has ridden in the car beside me, giving me the patience to listen to 27 straight minutes of Taytem talking.  Grace has reminded me that I don’t have to do it all, I just have to put one foot in front of the other while I hold her hand.

But sometimes it’s hard to find that hand.  I don’t know why.  I know that David wrote some pretty heartsick and despairing psalms.  I know that Jesus wept in the garden and then asked God why He’d forsaken him.  I know that I have to take vitamins for depression and that when I’m angry, sometimes the only thing that even begins to help is to turn on some angry music and dance until I’m breathless.  Sometimes I have to punch a Care Bear.  Is that also Grace?  I suppose in some ways it is, though I’m honestly not sure.

What I do know is that whatever state I’m in, no matter how unjustifiably angry I am, I at least don’t have to try to pretend I’m something I’m not.  I get depressed, I get angry and stressed out, I let my kids watch too many cartoons sometimes, I’m not always very productive around the house, every now and then I’ve even said the f-word.  But Grace reminds me that I’m loved anyway.  Grace tells me that tomorrow is a new day and even then, I’m not expected to be perfect.  Grace reminds me that, it may not always look like it, but she’s making me perfect and I don’t have to do it on my own.  Grace advises me that there are moments that she’ll run and I’ll have to hold on tight to keep up, there will be moments that the going will be slow, but I just have to put one foot in front of the other, and then, there are days like today when it’s okay to just sit very still and wait while I keep my darn mouth shut.

So yeah, considering that the girls soaked my whole bathroom from their bath time, I just discovered red crayon all over my bedspread, and Eisley took off her poopy diaper by herself and walked all over the house with it, and that my fancy vitamins haven’t kicked back in yet, I think it’s fair to say that today, I’m just going to sit and wait for Grace.

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My Life as a TV Rerun

By gypsymemoirs | Posted on February 17, 2012 | 5 Comments

I bawled at my sixth grade graduation.  I’m not afraid to admit it.  Every other kid was grinning from ear to ear, ready to move up to junior high, then high school and off into the world.  But I blubbered like a baby through our entire hand-holding performance of “Friends are Friends Forever.”  The fact that we held hands and sang “Friends are Friends Forever” is the part that I’m ashamed of, along with this awesome 1991 photo of me and my Life Goes On glasses.

The girl next to me is Jill Cagle.  We weren’t friends.  I didn’t have a perm or Gitano jeans, so we weren’t friends.  The guy behind me is Mr. Hultberg, aka “Mr. H.”, the best sixth grade teacher in the history of the world.  This is a fact, because our class actually gave him a trophy that named him the “Best Teacher in the History of the World,” on Teacher Appreciation Day.  I organized the trophy purchase and the surprise party myself because, truth be told, I had a major crush Mr. H.  For one thing, he was a really incredible story teller, he played basketball with us during recess, and whenever Johnny Wallace made fun of my glasses or clothes or pimples, Mr. H. made fun of Johnny Wallace.  So yeah, now you know why I cried at my sixth grade graduation.

Years later, when Lukus and I visited a university in L.A. to pursue our master’s degrees, I walked by a faculty office door that had “Professor A. Hultberg” on a sign on the door.  I had a funny feeling it might be him, nudged Lukus and told him my suspicion, and that I absolutely HAD to find out.  Lukus knew there was no way it could be THE Mr. H., and the professor probably wasn’t in his office anyway.  I gathered some gumption, tried very hard not to feel like that awkward 12-year-old girl with giant blue glasses on, and knocked on the door.  The door flung open, and there before me stood a much shorter, much grayer, but much handsomer Mr. H. than I had remembered.  Of course he didn’t recognize me (thank God!) until I told him my name.  We chatted for a few moments until I realized that my experience in the sixth grade was much more special to me than it was to him; not to mention the fact that the room was about to explode from all of the tension of having the two greatest loves of my life in the same room together!

I tend to be immensely sentimental about the past, and I positively hate change.  By the time I would graduate high school, I would have gone to 13 different schools, lived in 9 different cities, and said goodbye to more potential best friends than I could ever count.  So when I got comfortable somewhere, leaving that place was like having a kidney removed each time.

It wasn’t any easier at my college graduation.  My lonely, constantly moving self had watched too many episodes of Saved by the Bell, and I had few ambitions in life beyond having my own posse to make innocent mischief with.  Home-life wasn’t exactly stable, so I constantly daydreamed of a time when my amazingly cool circle of friends would emerge as a surrogate family – kind of like a gang, except with more ice cream and less teardrop tattooing.

College fulfilled that fantasy.  I had the best roommate that any after-school special director could possibly hope for:  Mandy was responsible and clean, but hilarious and mischievous, and someone that I could spend all hours of the night talking with before we finally fell asleep.  Oh yeah, and she didn’t mind dressing up as Sidekick Stinky to my Captain Poopy for our hall meeting.  I really have no excuse for this…

I had a boyfriend who was in a band with one of my good friends who was also his roommate who was dating another one of my friends who turned out to be my long-lost sister from a previous marriage to my birth mom’s….okay just kidding about that last part.  But aren’t we just too cool for this leather couch?  I really miss those pants.

Nevermind getting a degree, pursuing a career, planning for my future…THIS was what I wanted out of college:  road trips, skipping class to play frisbee, going to concerts, pulling pranks on my roommate, having random girls that I didn’t know cut my hair in the dorm bathroom, ordering pizza at 2 a.m. to fuel my Spanish studies, making-out with Lukus in the student newspaper offices, stealing cafeteria trays on snow days to use to sled down the back hill with the rest of the student body…who wanted a future beyond that?!

So you guessed it – come graduation, I cried again.  At least I had the sense to do it in the privacy of my own apartment that I now shared with my new husband (a sloppy boy who refused to dress up as my toilet sidekick, who, instead of talking till all hours of the night, would fall asleep within 3.7 minutes of his head hitting his pillow).

With all of my fond college memories, and an already strong propensity to romanticize the past, I thought that our 10-year college reunion would be torture.  It would be like having a 30 minute lay-over in Paris and not getting to really experience the place where you are.  But with several of our friends attending, there was no way we were going to miss it, so last week, we went.

Turned out it was surreal, fun, and there wasn’t quite as much catching up to do as in the Olden Days before Ye Ol’ Facebook was invented.  But it wasn’t torture.  No, only fondness (the best fondness being that Lukus and I are still remembered as “the girl on the balcony who got proposed to by the guy playing guitar and singing an original song.”  Yeah, most legendary proposal evah!!!).

I’m not sure exactly when I crossed the threshold, but at some point in the last few years, I finally stopped missing college.  Stepping back onto the set of my old college show was about as fun as reruns get.  We know we loved that episode, but we’ve seen it before, and really, watching it again is just killing time until the new season of Mad Men starts.  It’s always nice to know that the old shows are still running and the old memories are still alive between friends, and that the people you shared a season with will always be a part of your life.  But really, who wants to watch Season 40 of Saved By The Bell?  Thanks to my 10-year reunion, I finally realized that I don’t.  I’m ready for new sets, new plot lines, some new characters mixed in with the originals, and perhaps, most of all, I’m ready for new wardrobes – Doc Martin knock-offs with a khaki skirt?  What was I thinking?!

Here’s a few of my favorite cast members…

And yeah, I’ll take the “now” over the past, even if it’s just for my sexy shoe upgrade.

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Purple, Painting & Plywood – An Art Project

By gypsymemoirs | Posted on February 22, 2012 | 7 Comments

Today is a nerve wracking day for me.  I may or may not be leaving at 6 a.m. to drive from OKC to Nashville for a blogger’s conference.  Problem is, I haven’t heard back from my friend about whether she’s coming with me or not, which is a deal breaker on the trip for me because I can’t stay awake driving for 12 straight hours – well, at least not without the help of some illegal substances anyway.  It’s okay if I don’t get to go to the conference though, because an almost equally exciting opportunity is happening this Saturday that I’d get to be a part of if I stayed.  Ron Paul is coming to town, and Lukus will possibly be speaking at the event, and I’d get to help out and meet one of my heroes.  Either way is a win-win.  It’s the not knowing if I need to be packing my suitcase, or just cleaning the bathrooms like a normal Wednesday that’s the itch.

So until my head is un-whirlwinded, I wanted to share a project I did back around Christmas that I keep forgetting to post.  This corner of our bedroom, which is Lukus’ side, was feeling a bit ho-hum, and not masculine and stylish enough for my guy.

Plus, it’s the first view one sees when walking up the stairs, and it just didn’t get my motor runnin’.  I wanted a big, dramatic statement piece on that wall and to fill in some of the blank space along the bottom part of the wall.

I’ve gradually been adding pieces of natural wood all around my house (being a tree-lover and all), and when I noticed a huge piece of pretty plywood in our garage from a project we decided not to do, the vision came to me.

I set up the plywood in the living room, grabbed my paints and paintbrushes, and got to work.

I love the simultaneous playfulness and drama of woodgrain.  I think it’s beautiful art in it’s own right, but I wanted to add my touch while high-lighting the natural beauty of the wood.  I took some black paint and a fine-tipped brush and began tracing the lines of the woodgrain in black.

It took me about an hour and a half, and when Lukus came over to take a look, he was purdy impressed, and he’s not easily impressed.  I was feeling quite thrilled myself, but I knew it needed some color to give it that “pop” that I wanted to see when walking up the stairs.  Lukus likes purple, and our wedding was done in multiple shades of purple and blue, and I wanted our bedroom to have that romantic hint to our wedding day.  But I also love the look of stained wood, as well as raw.  Sorry I don’t have any more in-progress shots, but I think you can tell what I did in the next photo.  Now THIS is what I see when I walk up the stairs:

I also switched out Lukus’ end table for our former entertainment center which was serving as storage space in our bathroom.  Now the end table is in our bathroom, and Lukus has more shelf space for his 47 million books that he always has by his bedside, and there’s no more awkward blank space between the table and chair.  I also bought him that little green flask with the print of a bike on it (since he used to be a bicycle mechanic and loves biking), and told him I’d RATHER him leave his incredible brown leather boots right where he likes to take them off.  I love those boots, and don’t mind having that hint of Lukus on display, as well as getting to be the cool wife who doesn’t bug her husband to put his shoes away.

I love my new, personal art!

I just attached some hanging brackets to the back, and the whole project only cost me about $5 since I already had the wood, paint and stain just sitting around.

Lukus loved it from the beginning, and every day I enjoy it more and more.

It’s chaotic and abstract, and yet it’s calming and reminds me of rivers and maps.  It’s modern and rustic at the same time, natural but with a human touch.  Is it weird that I’m going on and on so much about my own project?  I mean, I’m really more astounded by what was already there, and just feel privileged to have had an artistic idea that brought it out further.  I used to want to be a painter, but just didn’t have the talent for it.  Tracing however, is right up my alley.

Have you pleasantly surprised yourself with a project lately?  Do you have a favorite “big statement” piece in your home?  Does your husband like purple?  Yeah, I’ve kinda got a one-of-a-kind – both in art and in my husband.

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