Showing posts with label sister. Show all posts
Showing posts with label sister. Show all posts

Friday, November 4, 2011

Who are the Poor?

For the last week I have been dog-sitting in a very nice neighborhood.  Day after day, I walk the dog down the freshy-swept street looking at the fancy homes, the manicured lawns, and expensive cars.  Part of me wonders if I could ever afford to live here.

Financially, it's a lofty goal for this unemployed recent grad. That's not what I meant.

I mean, could I afford to live here


when some live here?


Can I live here

having been here?

The Bible doesn't say "Don't live in a nice house"... but it does say "give everything you have to the poor."

But who are the poor?

Are the poor the children in a hogar in Guatemala who play with one-armed Barbies but have the joy of the Lord in their hearts and it shows on their faces?


Are the poor the people paying taxes on their 4,000 square-foot homes who are on the brink of divorce, have disrespectful children, and hire someone else to pick up their dog poop?

Part of me says, no way, I will never live in a classy neighborhood. (Especially based on those stereotypes). I've seen too much poverty to be comfortable in a large, neat home.

Perhaps that is true. For just me and the dog, this four-bedroom, three-bath home is way too big. But what if I had a husband and children?

Through trial and error, I have learned some aspects of third-world ministry. I have been to places where hand sanitizer and toilet paper are luxuries. The girls in the photo above aren't just children worlds away with stories that would break your heart. We know each others' names, they are my sisters, and they almost knocked me fifteen feet off that ledge ten seconds after that photo was taken when they tried to all see it simultaneously.

Yet, as I walk through this nice neighborhood and wonder about the people inside of the homes, I wonder about them and their lives. Do they know their neighbors? Do they realize there's more to life than fnancial success? Most importantly, do they know that God loves them?

How can I walk my dog down this street


knowing stray dogs roam down this street?


Easy. On both streets there are people that have never heard the name of Jesus.

How can I limit ministry to the without-money poor without including the without-Jesus poor?

Third world ministry may be teaching people how to brush their teeth, handing out bracelets, and fitting them with eye glasses. It can be loving them, making a fool of yourself, and living the gospel.

Is that not also what is the first world also needs? Love, humor, and (most importantly) Jesus.

First world ministry is greeting neighbors as you pass them on the street, hand-delivering a warm breakfast to the neighbor's housesitter and inviting her over for dinner, or cutting someone else's grass because they're having a busy week. It can be releasing a child from poverty through child sponsorship and telling others about your Fridge Kid. It's loving the way Christ commands us and living the gospel.

He is the God of this city

just as He is of this one.


Can I afford it?

How can I NOT?

The Great Commission commands us to GO and make disciples of ALL nations (Matthew 28:19, emphasis mine). I like to GO to another nation; it has become comfortable to me. But GO can also mean GO to the other side of the shurbery.

No matter where you live, GO and be the missionary you were called to be (Acts 1:8).

It starts with me.

<>< Katie

Friday, October 14, 2011

One

My sisters and I sat in the front pew. In between us were our parents and a few adult friends from church. I looked down the pew to notice all three of us held up one finger.

No, not that finger.

It was our pointer fingers. I promise. It almost looked like we were singing "This Little Light of Mine."

Except we weren't. We were singing, "Back In His Arms Again."

One life.
One love.
One way home.

Mark Schultz was fifteen feet in front of us. He looked towards us, saw our "Ones" and shook his head. He made us stand up as he announced to the audience that we had been to fifteen of his concerts. Fifteen. No embellishing.

We know every word, every motion, every story. Yet still we sit in the front row every time we can.

One life.
One love.
One way home.

Once we began to sing that refrain too early in the song. He just chuckled.

Tonight I as drove home from a wonderful dinner, "Back in His Arms Again" came on the local Christian radio station. I subconsciously put up ONE to declare that He is the one, the only.

The One I want to run to.
The One who unites us around the world as brothers and sisters.
The One who knows which of my cold phone calls will lead to a job interview.
The One who is walking with me, walking with you through every step.
The One whose arms I want to fall into.

"Back in His Arms Again" by Mark Schultz
I see it in your eyes
the pain you keep inside
is slowly tearing you apart.
Through you've run away
reminded day by day
you've stumbled and you've fallen.
Still He's calling

I believe that He loves you where you are.
I believe that you've seen the hands of God.
I believe that you'll know it when
you're back in His arms again.
I believe that He never let you go.
I believe that He's wanting you to know 
I believe that He'll lead you 'til
you're back in his arms again.

I'm glad I found you here
'Cause in between the tears
something in your eyes shows hope.
When I stand before you now
as one that knows the power
of coming to Him open and broken

I believe that the loves you where you are
I believe that you've seen the hands of God
I believe that you'll know it when
you're back in His arms again.
I believe that He never let you go
I believe that He's wanted you to know
I believe that He'll lead you 'til
you're back in His arms again

And I know that He's calling,
He's calling you home.

One life.
One love.
One way home.

and when you rise
and when you fall
He will see you through it
He is waiting in the dark
back in His arms again

One life.
One love.
One way home.

I believe it. And I trust it.
<>< Katie

Friday, September 23, 2011

Habit

I have this bizarre habit that resulted in incessant mocking from my suitemates.  Actually, I have many bizarre habits and sometimes even breathing results in mockery.

However, this one happened every time I entered the apartment.  It didn't matter if I came from class, the caf, or the coffee shop.

The first thing I would do was put my keys on the hook.  We each had hooks by the door with our names on them, hypothetically, so we'd never lose our keys.

Then I'd go in my room, put down my heavy backpack, take off my shoes (and coat), and hit the power button on my computer.

It's what happened next that got me mocked relentlessly.

If someone had started a conversation with me in those first twenty seconds home, I put it on pause until this next step was complete.

I would go into the bathroom and wash my hands.

I knew I did it regularly, but I didn't realize I did it every time I came home until they pointed it out.

The habit is rooted deeply back to elementary school.  My sisters and I would get off the bus and almost immediately were ushered into the bathroom to wash off our school germs.

I have no doubt that this healthy though bizarre habit was why chicken pox started going around my kindergarten class in October but I didn't get it until May.  I'm sure it helped my six year no-puking record, too.

Just from being taught to wash off my school germs as soon as I got home.  And it has become a subconscious habit.

I've got some of the habits Mom and Dad taught us growing up, but I've also got to build my own habits.

I need to be intentional about spending time in God's word.  I need to be conscious of my prayer life.  I really wish I could say they were habits, but they aren't.  They're hard.

The alarm clock says, "Get up! Go! Go! Go!"  The lunch break is short; the boss demanding.  The course load difficult; the homework plenty.  The after school activities are many; the free time is rare.  The days is long, the body exhausted.

I've confessed to you all before that some days I grudgingly read my Bible.  Yet still God works through it.

Soap doesn't only wash off my school germs when I tell it to.  It kills 99.9% of them every time I wash (or so the commercial says).

God doesn't just speak to my heart when I want Him to, when I'm willing to hear what He has to say, or when I have the right attitude.  Of course, those things are beneficial, but they're not necessary.  Sometimes God still speaks when I'm crabby, tired, distracted, or just don't want to be there.

And that makes it worth building the habit.

<>< Katie

Wednesday, September 21, 2011

Goal: Prayer Warrior

Sorry to dwell on the whole "Katie doesn't have a job" theme but it's kind of my life right now.  I want to be transparent in this struggle.

A long time ago I realize that if when I make it to the other side of this awful desert, I will be one of two people:
1. A cynical God-hater
2. A prayer warrior

The first one's easy.  It's easy to be mad when you say, "Here I am; send me!" and you're not going anywhere.  It's easy to get frustrated, host pity parties, and play the blame game when doors slam repeatedly.

But lucky for me, I've got friends making sure I come out to be the latter.

Friends all across the country praying me through.  Friends checking up on me to see how I'm doing and encouraging me.  I am blessed.  Plus, I've got friends who serve as great role models for that prayer warrior thing.

Amy: I wish tomorrow was Saturday.
Nikki: No, no, no we're not wishing away days!
Amy: I'm not wishing it away.  I'm wanting two Saturdays in a row.  Let's pray about that.
From the other room, Stacy heard the word "Pray" and came running in.
Stacy: Pray about what?

That's who I want to be: the girl who seeks out and seizes every available opportunity to pray.  Not just at church or small group.  Not just before meals or when people share prayer requests.  Every minute of every day.  Alone, in groups, for needs voiced, and those unspokens.

I remember watching a brother and sister in Christ converse.  He was borderline upset, angry.  She was super upset, teary.  He set aside his own situation to slowly calm her down.  As their conversation drew to a close and her eyes dried, he reached over, grabbed her shoulder, and lifted her concerns to the Lord.

That's who I want to be.  The friend who doesn't just say, "I'll pray for you" but does--right then and there.

I've had the urge to do it yet I've swallowed it.  I want the courage to act on that prompting of the Holy Spirit.

I don't want to be cynical and crabby for the rest of my life.  It'd be too easy.

So instead, I'm going to work on this prayer warrior thing.  It's not a destination but rather a journey.  There will always be room for improvement.  It's hard and uncomfortable.  But it's necessary.

Will you help me practice?  Leave me a prayer request in the comments section (or email it to me or Tweet it or text or your contact method of choice) and you bet it'll be prayed.  Maybe even more than once. ;-)

<>< Katie

Friday, June 3, 2011

Telling by Living

Sometimes it baffles me what people don't know about me.  They don't know I have a whole last name.  That I have two sisters.  That I love to blow glass.

People don't know what you don't tell them.  I graduated from a college where last names only matter for a select few (and "Ax" was satisfactory).  The "my sister" stories are not always the same sister.  Apparently I don't talk about glass blowing.

Have you told people you're a Christian?

I don't just mean telling them with your words, I mean telling and showing them with your actions.  More than inviting them to church on Sunday.  Bring a helpful hand, walking through life with them, and praying for (and with) them.  Loving them even when it's hard.  Letting them see a glimpse of Jesus by seeing you.

If you've been in my room, you've seen my hand-blown pen holder, the vase, and the paperweight.  My love of glassblowing can be evidenced by my knickknacks.  Can my love of Christ be evidenced by my thoughts, my words, and my actions?

Have I told people with my life that I am a follower of Christ? 

Have you?

<>< Katie (Axelson)

Monday, May 23, 2011

Storm

It's that time of year again when thunderstorms stretch all of the way across the country.

We had a great one the other night!  The sky would not just illuminate so it looked like daytime but it would light up with sometimes three or four distinct lightning bolts.

Even though I was driving, every time this would happen, I would squeal with joy.  "Did you see that one?!"  It drove my sister nuts.

Sitting next to me in the passenger seat she was less than thrilled to be out in a storm.  Before even getting in the car, she repeatedly told me to drive safely.  She asked several people to text her if our Tornado Watch turned into a Tornado Warning.  She was counting down the minutes until we made it home safely and praying the storm would pass quickly.

I too was excited to get home. I wanted to sit by our Palladian window and watch the lightning.  She wanted to sit in the basement away from all windows.

Two reactions to the same thunderstorm.  Likewise, there can be two reactions to the same life storm.

The reaction of Christina: praying it passes quickly, closing your eyes and hoping for a safe delivery to the other side, and wincing when the lights flickers.

The reaction of her older, wiser sister: enjoying the journey, getting a thrill from the unknown, and hoping the power goes out so the views are undistributed.

God, let me enjoy life storms as much as I enjoyed that thunderstorm.  May I not just pray for it's quick passing but may I see Your peace amidst and through the storm.  May I rejoice in every trial, see Your hand in every situation, and delight in the journey rather than waiting for the final result.  If that's what it takes to praise You, bring the storm!

It makes me think of the MercyMe song "Bring the Rain"
Bring me joy, bring me peace
Bring the chance to be free
Bring me anything that brings You glory
And I know there'll be days
When this life brings me pain
But if that's what it takes to praise You
Jesus, bring the rain
What about you?  Do you prefer the stormy parts of life or the peaceful?  Can you dance in the rain or do you ask for smooth sailing?

Learning to enjoy the storms of life,
<>< Katie

Tuesday, April 26, 2011

Stench

I am very slowly getting over a cold that has stolen my sense of smell for almost the last week.  I didn't really miss smells because the most prevalent smell in our home is a repercussion of the weird food our dog has to eat.

Unfortunately, my sense of smell is returning and I too now groan when the dog lets one rip.

Or when someone starts the stove.  Or when Dad gargles and then gives me a hug.  Or when my sister uses too much perfume.

Suddenly every smell is suffocating.  Anything with a scent makes me gag.

Isn't that life with the Holy Spirit?  Sometimes you don't realize what you're missing until you have it.  And then once the Holy Spirit begins to change your life, everything you once did makes you gag.

Of course, eventually smells will go back to being a normal part of my day (I can't wait!) and not overwhelming.

As we continue our faith journey, we grow more content with whatever our "normal" has become.  Those things that once repulsed us are accepted now.  We blaze through things that once made us pause and reflect.

Stop!  Pay attention to what you're doing! 

Breathe in the beautiful scent of life and exhale the rancid stench of sin.

<>< Katie

Monday, April 4, 2011

The Post in Which the Author Laments

It is the end of an era.  Saying goodbye to my parents in what we now affectionately call "The Crying Parking Lot" seems like forever ago.

"One Sunday afternoon in June" is very quickly becoming "a Monday morning in May."  That very expensive piece of paper is almost mine.  But I don't want it.

I'm not ready to leave.  I'm not ready to get a big girl job.  I'm not ready to start over.

I love it here.  It's why I prayerfully chose this place.  God has grown me and used me here.

I'm not the same woman I was four years ago when we cried in the parking lot.  All too soon I'll be crying in a different parking lot.  Pulling away from a place that has shaped me, formed me, and made me who I am.

As my peers discuss what dorm they're living in next year, I ponder what state (country?) I'll be in.  As they plan their schedule, I look at the classes I wish I could take.

When my parents, sisters, and I said goodbye, I walked back to my dorm while their van pull away.  I never looked back.

Will I be able to do the same in a month?

Based on how easily the tears filled my eyes tonight, no.

I refuse to count the days until I walk across the stage. Instead, I'm being pulled towards it kicking and screaming. Even my pullers are screaming.

"I'm going to have a hard time when you graduate."
"Are you sure you don't want to add an seventh major and stay a little while longer?"

But, unfortunately, it's time. 

The rites of passage passed and the mile stones crossed.  Those "one day in the future" events have become items to be crossed off the to-do list.

Yet still it hurts.

I'm comfortable here.  Four years will do that.

I cannot walk across campus without stopping to chat.  I know the chain of command for almost every problem and situation.  I'm not afraid to jump to the top of the chain, I know the loop holes, and I call people by their first names.  I keep emergency numbers in my phone, and I have used them.

This is my school.
This is my home.

I understand now why people linger long after graduation.  Part of me hopes I become one of them.

<>< Katie

And to think, this post was supposed to be about my final youth trip this weekend.

Sorry, friends. Thanks for letting me be nostalgic today.

Amber and I purchsed our flights to China on Friday! Now my life doesn't end until August. But I still don't have any idea what I'm doing when I get back.

Friday, January 7, 2011

Wacky Wednesday- Friday Edition

Christina: Will it go on your blog?
Katie: You betcha.
Mom: On Wacky Wednesday?
Katie: Yup.  I haven't had a Wacky Wednesday in awhile.
Mom: What?!  You've been with your family!  How could you NOT have a Wacky Wednesday?
Katie: I have plenty of quotes for a Wacky Wednesday, but I haven't written one.
Christina: Have a Friday Edition of Wacky Wednesday.
Mom: On Thursday!
Katie: It seems only appropriate since I have no idea what day of the week it is anyway.

Mom: Ooooh!  I'm a trash compactor and I can vacuum seal the bag!

Dad: How did I get in this family?
Auntie Gwennie: Better question: how do I get out?

Katie: We're lost... outside (without the car)... in Minnesota... in January!  All because Mom wanted seafood... in Minnesota... in January!  It might be August before I warm up!

Mom: Then we can go to Denise and Greg's, and Greg can do the photo shoot in his... jammies.
Laura: As long as he doesn't sleep naked.

Auntie Gwennie: Doesn't iron give you energy or something?
Uncle Bill: Tina, you've taken anatomy.  Is that true?
Christina: Well, we studied iodine.

Mom [making white frosting]: There's something green in here.  Oh, and red.  Who put jimmies in my frosting?
Katie: Jimmy!  Get out of the frosting!
Laura: Jimmy want to go in the frosting for a swim.
Katie: No, Jimmy licks the frosting.
Mom: Grandpa!
[Grandpa Jim taught my sisters and me to steal frosting from a cake without anyone noticing]

Dad:  What's wrong?  Why are you up so early?
Katie: It's ten-thirty, eleven-thirty to my body.
Dad: That's it.

Aunt Denise: Gail!  You can't give him a present just because it says his name!
Mom: It says his name, just in the wrong spot!

Dad: Get naked and give me twenty.
Uncle Jay: I am not getting naked in front of you!  And I'm not giving you twenty bucks either for that matter.

Mom: I will not put the Advent candles on Christina's birthday cake!

Katie: Ok, Daddy, I'm ready!  I'm even wearing Grandma's long underwear.  Where'd you go?
Dad: I'm hiding!

Mom: Do you want a poker stick to get the Christmas lights all the way up there?
Dad: I don't need a poker stick.  I have Katie!

I was startled out of dream world by Laura's shouting.
Laura: That's ok; she loves me!
Without opening my eyes I knew--much to my dismay--that I was the she.
Katie: No she doesn't!
That wasn't going to stop her.  When my bedroom door flew open, I threw my pillow over my face. There was no way to avoid whatever I was about to be the victim of, but my pillow would protect my face as I prayed for the best.  Laura crawled on top of me in bed.  Between the two of us, we make a normal-sized person, but that doesn't mean I like to be on the bottom of our person.
Laura: Katie, give me a hhhhhhhhug!

Mom [to Dad]: Do not pants your daughter!

Laura: Mom, I saw an animal outside.
Mom: What kind of animal was it?
Laura: Um... a giant white gerbil with a raw tail.
Mom: An opossum.

Man at Quiznos: Chips?
Mom: No, thanks.
Man: Beer, bourbon, scotch?
Mom: Oooh! Scotch, please.

Ben: Nice to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Ax.  Sorry in advance for drinking all of your milk.
He and three friends (the one other male among them being lactose intolerant) were here thirty-six hours, and they drank three gallons of milk.

Christina: Katie, what are you going to do when you're married?
Katie: Have kids.
Christina: And make them empty the dishwasher? Even your one year old? Does he have to empty the dishwasher?
Katie: It's a she.
Christina: And your three month old? Does she have to empty the dishwasher, too?
Katie: Yeah, he gets the plates up to the top shelf without needing any help. Wait a second! Why do I have a one year old and a three month old? Oh boy!
Mom: Adoption.
Christina: Your husband was married before. Katie got a used one!

Monday, December 27, 2010

Marathon Christmas

I grew up thinking this was normal.  I grew up thinking a lot of things were normal, myths my roommates have quickly dispelled.  You mean everyone doesn't have four Christmas trees and a 30-hour Christmas?  I supposed now you're going to tell me everyone has more than three cousins, too, right?

Christmas Eve
3:00pm- "Get in the car now!"

4:00pm- We start Christmas where all Christmases should begin: in church.  We pass the bulletin from one end of the pew to the other, share notes, and split a half a piece of gum thirteen ways.  You think I'm kidding.

6:00pm- "And WHY are you snow blowing in your Christmas suit?"
All thirteen of my maternal side of the family is gathered in my aunt and uncle's kitchen.  We're munching on meatballs, shrimp, and the world famous cheese dip.  We need something in the stomachs as we begin a long night of alcohol consumption.

7:00pm- "Maybe we should open presents." 
"Yes, that bow is beautiful on your head." 
"What kind of tape did you use?  It's impossible to rip!"

8:00pm- Grandpa and Grandma get a fifteen minute head start (we even use the microwave timer) to light candles and turn on lights before the entire party mobilizes to Grandpa and Grandma's house.  We open presents first from my grandparents and second from my aunt and uncle from out of town.

9:00pm- Grandpa and Grandma serve us pizza subs on paper plates just to have some substance during our night of grazing.  "Sure, I'd love some blackberry wine."

10:00pm- My family's turn for the fifteen minute head start.  There are advantages and disadvantages to being the last house in the round-robin.  The biggest disadvantage is that the hair and makeup need remedial help before the photograph in front of the tree.

11:00pm- "Who wants to be Santa?"

12:00am- Grandpa and Grandma decide it's time to go home.

1:00am- "Someone has to eat my food!"

2:00am- We karate chop the remaining family out of here, clean up the kitchen, and set up for the morning.  Time for bed!

For the next four to six hours visions of sugar plums dance in our heads while Santa flies over head.

Christmas Day
8am- "Santa's been here!"

9am-  The family gift exchange and Santa presents are opened on Christmas morning.  Dad gets coal.  And the grille to go with it.  Mom cries when she opens the puzzle photo collage of my sisters and me growing up.  My flannel jeans from Cabela's miraculously fit!  "Dad, I got you a six pack of beer just because I can.  No, I don't want one." 

10am- "Get in the car!  We're late!"

11am- "Are we there yet?"

12pm- Growing up, my family was always the last to arrive at my paternal grandparents' house.  Some traditions die hard.  Christmas dinner will be served at two.  I regret not eating more than a banana for breakfast and dive into the chips, fudge, and pie on the kitchen table.

1pm- I'm in a photo war with Travel Buddy, my uncle who's a professional photographer.  I take literally 178 photos.
2pm- The Charlie Brown Tree. 
Every year my grandparents go to the tree farm and find the most ridiculous tree in the $5 bin.  It's too thick to put ornaments on it.  It's so thin you can see through it.  It has two tops.  They then barter until the owner lets them buy the tree for $3.  They give him a $2 tip.  This year the tree branches needed to be transplanted, so they got it for $2 with a $1 tip.  Remember, the camera adds ten pounds.
3:00pm- "This restaurant is only open twice a year, so you'd better dig in!"
Thanksgiving dinner is remarkably similar to Christmas dinner.  The main difference is that the men are actually allowed to sit in the dining room with the women rather than being banished to the kitchen.  We pass rolls by overhand tossing, make the misbehaving adults sit at the children's table, and, heaven forbid, we forget the olives.

5:00pm- Photo shoot! 
Each family.  "At least pretend like you like each other."  All the girls.  All the boys.  "Stop that!"  Three generations.  "Where'd Grandpa go now?"  All the granddaughters.  All eleven of us.  The stray people we picked up on the street.  All dogs.  "Ok, my camera's memory card is full."

6:00pm- "Yes, I'd like a brandy old fashion, please.  We're going to be here for awhile."
Commence the longest present opening extravaganza in the history of present openings.  Grandma hands the first present to Tina.  Tina opens it, throws the wrapping paper on the floor, and examines it for fifteen and a half seconds before she must stand to pick and hand out the next present.  If she surpasses her allotted fifteen and a half seconds, the entire crowd shouts, "PICK A PRESENT!"

7:00pm- Fifteen minute intermission to fill the glasses and empty the bladder.

7:15pm- "Pick a present!"

8:00pm- "PICK A PRESENT!"
Every year Grandma and Grandpa give each of their four grandkids a gold ornament engraved with our names, the year, and "Love, Gma & Gpa."  After twenty-some years, Wal-mart stopped making the ornaments, so Grandma had to get creative.  This year she bought some silver ones from Target and engraved them herself.

9:00pm- "Pick a present" brouhaha is finally over after three hours of present opening!  Grandma and the four granddaughters sit in the heaps of wrapping paper for the annual photo.  Grandma boasts that she is 71 and can still get down on the floor.  We help her up.

10:00pm- Grandma asks who brought the iPod for the traditional Christmas Day dancing in the kitchen.  No one has music; no one has the energy to dance.  The men are Wii bowling in the kitchen.  Grandpa's winning.  "That's an awful nice purple dress you've got there, Jim," Greg says, and the crowd rolls.  Grandpa's using my Mii.

11:00pm- The food comes back out for those who are hungry.  I eat some cherry pie, little smokies, sweet potatoes, and fudge.  In that order.  "Shhhhh!  Someone may be sleeping."

12:00am- That someone should be me.  But we're having too much fun retelling old stories, hacking up lungs, and laughing hysterically.

1:00am- That someone is me.  It's the only night of the year when I can sleep with socks on because of the heat problems in the old farmhouse.  Yet I sleep with a smile on my face.  Another great Christmas!
I love hearing about Christmas traditions.  What are yours?

<>< Katie

Wednesday, December 22, 2010

Favorite

Katie: I'm going to go upstairs now before one of those cookies leaps off the pan and into my mouth.
Mom: One already leaped into Dad's mouth.
Katie: They're my favorite.
Mom: I thought the rugelach was your favorite?
Katie: It is.  And Grandpa's Favorite Cookies are my favorite too.

Huh?  Katie, you can't have three favorite cookies.

Actually, I can.  If Peder Eide can have five favorite children, I can have three favorite cookies.

Peder [to his middle son]: Ethan, guess what?  You're my favorite.
Ethan: Cool!
Peder: Ethan, guess what?  Allison's my favorite.  And Taylor?  He's my favorite.
Ethan: Let me guess, Makenzie and Teshome are your favorite too?
Peder: Yup!  You are all my favorite!
Ethan: That's not as cool, Dad.

I understand Ethan's plight.  My sisters and I used to drive our father nuts asking him who was his favorite.  Now he says his favorite number is one-two-three.  He leaves us all notes proving he loves us each the most.

That just doesn't make sense.  I can't have three favorite cookies.  Peder can't have five favorite children.  Dad can't love us all the most.  It's not possible!  Or is it?

Why can't it be?

Friend, you are God's favorite.  He loves you the most.

He loves you so much He engraved your name on the palm of His hand. (see Isaiah 49:16).

He sent His Son to earth to be born in a dirty manger, to grow up in a world that disagreed with Him, to be brutally killed, to be raised again from the dead.  All because He loves you.  All because you're His favorite.

How does that make you feel?

Excuse me now while God's favorite daughter catches the favorite cookie that is flying at her mouth.

<>< Katie

Wednesday, December 1, 2010

Christmas Wishes from the Fire Department

Somewhere between ten and eleven on Sunday night reality hit.  It was bedtime and we still had "miles to go before [we] sleep and miles to go before [we] sleep."  Three hours worth of miles.

I offered to switch and drive for awhile, but Amber pointed out that might be futile since I was yawning too.  She said she'd just curl up and go to sleep rather than keep me awake, but I wouldn't fall asleep while she was driving.  Probably true.  A few days earlier we'd learned the hard way that her reaction time is good even when she's tired.

Hit was a sudden, God-send burst of energy, I began the most animated, elaborate retelling of one of my favorite Christmas Eve stories. Followed by three hours worth of other stories, laughter, and no yawns at all. 

It was Christmas Eve afternoon and I was almost done getting ready for the traditional brouhaha when the smoke detector went off.

As a teenager, what to do in case of a fire had been drilled into my head.  I went out the garage door and passed both cars in the garage.  I found out later that my sisters were in the car ready to go, unaware that the smoke detector was going off.  When I rounded the house and headed towards our "meeting place" I realized there is a flaw in our plan: snow makes the meeting place hard to get to.  But it didn't matter because I saw both of my parents just chilling in the kitchen.

I opened the backdoor and walked back in.  Apparently my mom had spilled something in the oven earlier in the day and wanted to clean it out before everyone came over.  She used the self-cleaner oven feature for the first time and it set the smoke detector off.  Other than a hazy house, everything was fine.

The security system on our house is supposed to call the police if our house is broken into and fire department if the smoke detector goes off.  We were literally five minutes away from leaving for six hours.  We didn't want to come home (with the entire extended family fifteen minutes behind us) to discover our door had been broken down because we didn't answer.

Dad called the non-emergency fire department number to tell them everything was fine.

Fireman: Since you called, we have to send a truck out.

Great.  Although, we later learned if the security system had called they would have sent trucks from two different stations because we're right in the middle between the two.  As it were, the other station got an ambulance call around the same time.  I like to think that in inconveniencing ourselves we saved a life.  Whatever, Katie.

Anyway.  Fire truck came.  Big flashing lights.  Alarmed neighbors called.  Firemen stood in the back hall and listen to our crazy story.  They didn't even go into the kitchen!  They left.  Dad called the security system people to make sure the fire department isn't going to be called again.  Ultimately, against their advice, he disconnected our security system.

We showed up to my aunt and uncle's church a half hour late.  My cousin's choir, the reason we were going to church there, was returning to their seats.  We did make the pastor's day because the sanctuary was full, so they put seats in the atrium for us.  This is why we don't save seats on Christmas Eve anymore.  You never know when some firemen are going to make you late to church.

After church we began our normal round-robin at my aunt and uncle's house.  Food, drinks, presents, cookies, moving on.  The entire party of 13 journeyed to my grandparents' house for a repeat.  Food, drinks, presents, cookies, moving on.

Our house was the last in our parade.  We are also the only house with a functioning fire place.  My uncle from out of town wanted to roast chestnuts over our fire.  It made the kitchen a little smokey, but we didn't think anything of it.

Until my aunt shouted, "FIRE IN THE OVEN!"

Some bread dish--the same dish that had spilled earlier--was literally flaming inside of our oven.  That's bad.  One uncle grabbed a hot pad, pulled out the pan, and held it over the sink.  The other uncle blew out the flames.  Dad took the scorched pan and threw it in a snowbank in the back yard where it stayed for the next three days.

Of course, the fire alarm went off again and the house is full of smoke.  For the second time that day we opened all of the windows to let the frigid winter air into our home and the smoke out into the world.  I'm pretty sure the temperature in my kitchen was below freezing that Christmas.  I camped out in the basement, the warmest place in the house.

No more chestnuts roasting over an indoor fire.  No more flaming bread dish.  Just a great Christmas tale.  And a year full of photos with the fire extinguisher in them.

About a week later my mom's oven still needed to be cleaned.  So she set the self-cleaner again and opened the kitchen window.  She was on the phone with my aunt when she heard sirens in our area.  It's not really that uncommon because there are two deadly traffic corners within a mile of our house.  Except this was a fire engine siren.  Getting closer.  And closer.  And closer.

Mom: I've got to go.  That firetruck is coming down our street.

It stopped two houses away where they had a small electrical fire.

I hope this Christmas there are no unexpected guests.  Especially those that drive a big red vehicle and wear yellow suits.  Happy December First!

<>< Katie

Saturday, November 27, 2010

Give Thanks

"Happy Thanksgiving," said the man on the other end of the phone.  Those two words caught my off guard and it wasn't just because the phone was answered on the first ring.

Every holiday my dad answers the phone by wishing the caller a happy day.  Happy Thanksgiving.  Merry Christmas.  Happy New Year.  Happy Labor Day... you get the idea.  I've listened to him do this all my life, but we've always been on the same side of the phone.

"Happy Thanksgiving," I choked back.

Two words was all he needed to recognize my voice, and I heard the smile in his.  For the next hour we played "Pass the phone" with my nine relatives.

I was told that this year our family was not separated by gender.  Instead of men in the kitchen and women in the dining room, all nine of them fit around the dining room table.  Somebody got the bright idea that they should all share something they're thankful for.  I'm thankful I wasn't there for Sap Fest.

Christina: I'm thankful for Jesus.
Aunt: I'm thankful for our family and that we don't fight.
Uncle: [to my aunt] I'm thankful we're not facebook friends.
Grandma: I'm thankful we're all alive and here and...
Mom: I'm thankful Laura loves her college, and they were able to "unbreak" our dog.
Dad: I'm thankful we're all healthy. [insert sappy sermon here]
Grandpa: I'm thankful for your momma and that she puts up with me.  I love her.

I've never heard my grandparents express love to each other.  Love pats here and there but sassiness is more common.  For my grandfather to compliment my grandmother and say he loves her in front of all of those people made Grandma cry.  I've seen the video to prove it.

How was your Thanksgiving this year?  Was it the typical sweet potatoes, turkey, and pumpkin pie?  Was it merely a the precursor to Christmas?  Or was it really a time of reflection and thankfulness? 

My friend Caitlin is extending Thanksgiving for a year.  For the next 365 days she's going to share something she's thankful for.  I'd love to be able to do the same thing.  Look at every day with the realization that I do have something to be thankful for.

Even when it rains.  Even when my suitemates pick on me.  Even when my computer refuses to cooperate.

I still can be thankful.  I can still tell someone I am thankful for their influence in my life.  Thankful for their love.  Their smile.  Their encouraging word.

I can tell Christ I am thankful for His sacrifice.  Thankful for His love.  Thankful for His controlling, disciplining hand.

I wasn't going to post about being thankful.  After all, it's Thanksgiving.  That's kind of the cliche thing to do, right?  Wrong.  It's something we need to do more often than we do.  Not just on the fourth Thursday of November.  Be thankful around the year.

Cyber friends, I am thankful for you.
<>< Katie

Sunday, November 14, 2010

Green Beans on the Ceiling

Back in the day when my mom fed my sister green beans out of the jar, I learned some life lessons.  Once, Mom accidentally dropped the jar, and green beans went everywhere.  To my four-year-old self, this was fiasco.  The ultimately BIG MESS!  Mommy should have gone to time out. 

But she didn't.  She laughed.  She laughed so hard we had to write a song/poem about it in order for Daddy to fully grasp the magnitude of the mess we (she) made.
Green beans on the ceiling.
Green beans on the floor.
Green beans in the kitchen.
Green beans galore.
There really were green beans everywhere.  We found them splattered on the cabinets fifteen feet away.  We found them on the nine-foot ceiling.  I don't think we could have created such a massive green bean explosion if we had tried.

But Mom wasn't mad.  I panicked.  Mom laughed.  Sure, there was a huge mess to clean up but so what?  It was almost as funny as the time Grandpa sneezed egg all over the wall.

In that moment, she taught me that messes are ok.  She taught me to laugh at myself.  She taught me sometimes things don't happen was we plan but that doesn't mean it's the end of the world.

And she did it all with a jar of green beans.

Learning to decorate with green beans,
<>< Katie

Monday, August 30, 2010

My Friends Hate Me

Today words are not my friends.  They've been really mean to me lately.  They're tripping over each other as they fall from my mouth.  They clog like an ink blot as they're scratched from my pen.  They hate me.  And I hate it.

When technology and I don't get along, when my suitemates pick on me, when the world seems to be against me, I still have my word-friends to back me up.  Except now.

Who am I if I cannot cooperate with the English language?

I am still a daughter of God, a friend, a roommate.  I'm still a role model, a team leader, and a big sister.  But I am not me.  I am a writer.  This is what I do.  What do you do when you can't do what you do?

You blog about it.  But then you remember what Sherman Alexie said, "Every word on your blog is a word not in your book."  I guess I'm nostalgic for my book.  I reread and tweek scenes, but it isn't the same.  Sure, I still have some of the excitement about someday finishing it but that someday apparently isn't today.

I.  Am.  Frustrated.

<>< Katie

Monday, August 23, 2010

Chopper One Sighting

One evening after dinner there was a knock on the door.  Most people just walk into our apartment, but if someone knocks those who don't live here often answer the door.  This time Nikki got it and standing outside was a middle-aged man.

Before I tell you about him, let me tell you about my apartment.  We're a brand new building that is still considered to be on campus, but we're out in the boonies.  A large parking lot separates us from the nearest building.  My front window view is a cliff with a road at the bottom of it and woods across the street.  More woods on our left, and behind us is a huge red field that will someday house more buildings but for now will be the home of our own Mud Fest.

The middle-aged men that darken our doorstep are our fathers and the maintenance men.  This particular man was neither.

"I'm the father of a girl in the apartment across the hall.  Do you have internet?  She doesn't either.  I just want to take a quick peak in the closet at your wireless hook-up."

Across the room and out of eye sight, I shot a "What the heck does he think he's doing?" look at Adam.

"We were told the internet can't be hooked up until the building is complete.  Even though we're living in it the building can't be officially declared complete until the cable company comes back," Nikki explained.

"You see, that's not true," he said.  "You guys can't live without internet."

If there was sarcasm in his voice, I did not hear it.  He also never gave his name, but Adam said he had a school employee ID.

If I was suspicious before, I was upset now.  My desire for internet was overpowered by my desire for that father to let his daughter go unplugged.  It was one night for goodness sake!  The rest of us had been internet-less for literally a week, and we were still alive.  Gasp! 

I'm glad I didn't answer the door.  I might have said something like this: Sir, if you work here, check it out in the morning.  Don't go around the building at night and explore the internet hook-up.  Don't teach your daughter that you can fix everything instantly.  She's 18 not 8!  (OK, I would not have really said that, but I thought it).

Honestly, my heart broke for her.  You see, I know what it's like to go to school where your parents work.  For nine years I shared a building with two student-sisters, a teacher-mother, and an administrator father.  It was not unusual for someone to see all five of us in one day.  Even now, I go back and nobody asks me what I'm doing.  They already know; Mom told them.

To the girl who I've not even met yet, I am sorry you chose a school where your parent(s) work.  I've been there.  I'm sorry you have a hovering Helicopter Parent.  I have two.  Come on over.  We'll swap stories.

Dear Mr. Creepy Man/Helicopter Father, thank you for trying to fix our internet.  We really do appreciate your (failed) effort.  Now, it's 9pm and your daughter's first night away at school.  Let her make some friends and enjoy herself without you here.  It's actually better if her computer doesn't work, so she's not in front of the screen all night long.  Oh, and, yes, we can live without internet.

Thank you for letting me rant.  As always, thoughts welcome.

<>< Katie

Wednesday, August 11, 2010

The Birthday Bash

My extended family of thirteen took our annual birthday celebration on the road to a cabin in a world where pine trees are planted in perfect rows, motels pride themselves on having cable tv and air conditioning, and the nearest town had a high school but no grocery store.  I've written two blog posts about our journey but both left me with a "Who cares?" feeling.  So I'm going to try something a little different.  Let me know if you like it or not. 
<>< Katie
(Most photo credits belong to Laura but some are mine and some Mom's)

One day we went tubing and kayaking down the river.  We were expecting a two-hour adventure, but it really took upwards of four.  The beer cooler got its own tube, but we forgot to pack food.  I felt like a message in a bottle; except at one point I was being blown upstream rather than down.
We had four dogs with us.  This is Holly, Queen of the World.  I was less than thrilled when she decided I needed a wake-up kiss on my nose at 8am...
Cassie, my family's dog, seems to think eating is optional.  Before we left, my aunt looked up the nearest animal ER: twenty-one minutes away.  She forgot to look up a people ER.  We teased there we were so much in the middle of nowhere that there was no 911.  That joke was a whole lot funnier before we had an incident when calling 911 would have been appropriate.
One uncle tried to make a pudgy pie with no spray and only one piece of bread.  I'm glad I caught the novice... crisis adverted.
Dad: Breakfast is always good when it involves a hammer.  Katie!  Write that one down.
My uncle walked in one afternoon and found my male cousin painting my sister's toenails.  My uncle laughed at my cousin.  Personally, I think painting fingernails and braiding hair are two life-skills that boys should have.  My uncle--who has a wife but no children--claimed he could braid hair, so I let him try.  It took two tries before he got this in my head but gave up before he had to use a ponytail holder... hence the twisty stolen from the bread bag.
My favorite thing: fire
Laura's favorite thing: feet
(both sarcastic)
Grandpa: What do you guys have against feet?  Feet are wonderful people!

Sunday, August 1, 2010

Broken-Toed Tennis Player

I mentioned last week that Mom broke her toe.  I think I need to do justice to that story.

While my sisters and I were at the National Youth Gathering, our parents were on a retreat as part of my dad's work.  The first day they were there, she was conned into playing in the tennis tournament.  Mom's not a tennis player.  She's been a Tennis Mom for almost ten years, but she's never been a tennis player.  A few months ago, she decided to pick up the racket and give it a shot.  She'll be the first to tell you, she's not very good.  Lucky for her, she was partnered with one of my sister's friends, a stellar tennis player and a great guy.  Neither one of them wanted to play, but they weren't really given a choice.

That night, she had to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night.  Feeling smug, she pulled out her flashlight, but it was brighter in the dark room than she expected, so she turned it off.  She'd turn it on, look, turn it off, and take a few steps.  It was a fantastic plan.  Until she realized the bench at the foot of the bed was wider at its base than it was on top.  SMASH!  She moaned and face-planted onto the bed.

"There were women screaming and falling into my bed at 2am," Dad says when they co-tell what happened.

In the morning, there was still the tennis tournament to consider.  Mom taped her toes and shoved it in her tennis shoe... She felt the skill level of the first match was pretty even, and they won.  The second match was harder, but as her opponent got riled up, her partner got fancy.  He did most of the work, but she still had to serve and return serves.  They won the second match.  That meant they were in the championship.

"Whatever you do, do not let the ball go to him; always hit the ball to her," said Mom's opponent.

They were playing a nine game proset, that means first one to nine games wins, and they were up 8-5.  Again, her partner is an amazing tennis player and did all of the work, but he's so easy going that he didn't care.  Mom decided since the match was not on the line, she wanted to try something her coach had been teaching her. 

Her partner and opponent were rallying cross-court from the baseline.  At the net, Mom stepped into the center of the court and poached, my trademark shot.  She volleyed the ball; it went over the net and dropped.  There was no possible way for them to hit that ball.

Mom jumped up to cheer that the poach actually worked.  Then reality set in.  That wasn't just a great shot, that was the game-winning shot.  Game, set, match, tournament!

Mom jumped up to cheer realizing she, an amateur player with a broken toe, just won the tennis tournament.

And she wonders why we give her no pity for her injury. 

<>< Katie

Wednesday, July 28, 2010

Life Ain't All Rosy

If I count up the number of meals I've eaten in the last two weeks, it would not divide out to be three a day. If I added the number of hours of sleep I've gotten, it would not be anywhere near eight-hours a night. If I blogged every God moment I've had in the last two weeks, my blog would be updated infinitely more often than anyone would read it (that is assuming people actually read it as is). All of those missed meals and lack of sleep were worth being the hands and feet of Christ.

Except today I write with a heavy heart.  Within four hours of returning home, I was hit with four different life-altering scenarios.

1. A professor, emailing me for a different reason, shared that one of her close friends is dying of cancer.  Why the professor felt the need to share this, I may never know, but it took the smile from my tired face as my heart broke for her.

2. My mom has a self-diagnosed broken toe.  That's not pretty.  She's hobbling around with only one shoe on.  Maybe not life-altering, but we drink our milk and have few broken bones, so it's a big deal.

3. One of my pastors and his wife were in a serious car accident.  Both are in their seventies and were admitted to the hospital.  It's my understanding that they have since been released with only lacerations and contusions; no broken bones or major injuries.  Alleluia!

4. A close family friend had breast cancer surgery while we were gone.  It has not metastasized but she has a long road ahead of her.  The oldest of their four children just graduated high school this June.

We were still living in the old house when I noticed four names scribbled in the margin of a piece of paper on the table.  It was my first experience with some people that would become important in my life over the next eleven years (and counting).  We added a few more names to the group until we had a party of fifteen.

I think it's safe to say we've spent a lot of time together.  From the water ski show to snow skiing.  From pool parties and bonfires to trips to the lake.  It was Christina who pushed Uncle Steve into our pool in his nice golf uniform.  When Laura earned herself an ambulance ride, Christina and I were sent to their house at 6am.  When I went to college, they all came over the night before to say goodbye.

The day we got home from the NYG, Mom said she was taking them dinner.  Instantly I wondered who died. Great-grandma?  Grandma?  Not grandpa, he was just flipping around in a moon bounce a month ago.  No one died.  Sue had breast cancer surgery.  What?  She too was in the moon bounce a month ago. 

On Friday, we went to a baseball game in the skybox, a perk of my dad's job and a trip that's been planned for months.  I wondered what to say.  Would cancer be the topic of conversation all night?  Would we brush it under the rug like it hadn't happened?

I'm not so much into baseball, so I love when we have the box because it means I can curl up on the couch with a plate of mozzarella sticks and a good book.  From my couch, I can observe.  I saw seven of the nine kids (one was MIA; one was me) sitting in the front row laughing and teasing each other.  I saw the three women in the middle row talking about anything and everything.  I saw the three men--all wearing black shirts, khaki shorts, and no shoes--turn a baseball game into a betting game.  I did not see the peanuts launched over shoulders in my general direction until they collided with my face.  Thanks.

I saw the concern.  The genuine, "Let us know if you need anything."  I also saw the smiles.  Together this group of friends would push through.  For this next season of life we will laugh, cry, and pray together.  We can acknowledge the elephant in the room without constantly staring at it.

Our team won the baseball game that night, but I cannot wait until the day when I say our family won the battle.  Maybe we'll celebrate with some brownie soup.

Until then, will you join us in prayer?

Thank you,
<>< Katie

Friday, July 2, 2010

July 2, 2000

It's the time of the year again.  The time when we are pelted relentlessly with storm after storm.

We built the house we currently occupy and while under construction it almost constantly had several inches of water in the basement.  Ultimately, we opted to lower the ceiling (literally by raising the basement floor) to avoid most water problems.  We're the low point of the subdivision and the closest we can legally be to a river.  We've also got an industrial-size sump pump and the mother of all dehumidifiers, both of which run for hours daily.  On top of a battery back up for the sump pump, a generator, and a check value, we're pretty much good to go.

We learned the hard way.  Today marks the ten-year anniversary of when our basement flooded.... with almost a foot of raw sewage.  Once we realized the gushing of sewage wasn't going to stop, my mom called her parents who live 30 minutes away.  We were lucky because my aunt and uncle were in town staying there, too.  The six adults ran up and down the stairs with flashlights in their teeth and were able to save 80 percent of our stuff.  (My sisters watched in terror... I was in my room getting a good night's sleep).  Two doors down, they weren't so lucky.  Rob was out of town on business, so eight-months pregnant Karen trudged through literally eight inches of sewage trying to save those irreplaceable.  Three houses in our neighborhood got sewage and another few got water.  It was not a good night.

That was back when we first moved into our new house and lost power with every storm.  We slept with flashlights in each bedroom.  Now, we get so many tornado watches that they're ignored, other than turning on local television.  "Tornado Warning" runs more smoothly than "Dinner's ready."  Turn off and unplug all of the computers, close windows and doors, close the garage door, grab the cats, someone get a flashlight, where's my cell phone?, and into the basement we go. We don't mess around, but we don't panic either.  During one of the more recent storms, I paused for a second. No adrenaline rush, no tremors, and no pounding heart.  In all honesty, I was moderately disappointed, but I was also relieved.

I remember the first tornado warning without my parents. I was just barely old enough to stay home with my sisters, and it was literally the first time they let us stay home alone. They went to a baseball game in the skybox with a bunch of friends.

The sky was dark and even at 7, 9, and 11 my sisters and I weren't stupid. We had all of the flashlights we owned, our first aid-kit, and sweatshirts and blankets all piled neatly on my bed. "Just in case," I said, and we went back to playing.

In the stadium, focus shifted from the game to the tv revealing the weather. Instantly, those with cell phones pulled them out and began to call home. The tornado was headed directly towards our neighborhood. My parents began to panic.

Three little girls home alone + tornado = bad news bears

To top it off, every one of our neighbors, every one of our "call these people if you ever have a problem" friends was at the baseball game with my parents watching helplessly as the weatherman told our area to take cover. Of course, all of the neighbors' kids were home with young babysitters, too. There weren't any better options than "suck it up, go downstairs, and pray hard."

Our prayers were answered very quickly.  On the other end of the phone, Dad stopped talking. The voice was replaced by Rob's unmistakable Pennsylvania accent, "My mom's in town. She's at home with our girls; she'll go and get yours, too."

Grammi's number of scared little girls doubled that minute as she became our hero. My sister said something about being scared and Grammi told her if the storm ripped off the roof, Grammi would lay on top of us girls and there was no way the storm would move her.  :-)   The seven of us huddled in the corner of their basement playing a game and waiting for the storm to pass.  There was no major damages that night but there were a lot of sighs of relief.

Just a good neighbor answering the call of duty or an everyday hero?  Take your pick.

<>< Katie