I’ve been thinking about refugees a lot lately. In the late 90s my husband, Bobby, and I were missionaries, working with a team in Austria who tried to meet some of the physical needs of the never-ending stream of refugees while sharing the love of Jesus with them.

I wanted to write something about the refugees and friends we met in an effort to remind myself, and maybe you, that refugees are people, not policy.


Our Assyrian Family


I don't remember officially meeting them, but their smiles will stay with me forever. Big, toothy grins under slightly hooked noses. Gorgeous olive complexions and rounded happy cheeks. Sara had jet black, frizzy hair. Her mother, Khava, had a grey ponytail, braided down her back, the crown of her head always covered with a scarf, knotted at the nape of her neck.

Refugees from Iraq, they proudly claimed the ancient city of Nineveh as their home. Sara's brother, Yosep, had the same frizzy hair as his sister, only in a bright red version. Certainly, there's a grand, historical story that explains why a Middle Eastern man would have red hair. I looked it up but can’t find a logical explanation. Sara’s father was not with them. Though I know he passed away years before we met, we never really talked about what happened to him or what he was like.

I also don’t know exactly how or why they began their refugee journey. All I know for sure is that Sara’s family is traditionally Christian. If you remember your Bible stories, the city of Nineveh was saved by Jonah’s preaching, post-belly-of-the-whale. The people of Nineveh accepted God’s love when implored to repent.

Ninveah, Iraq

Assyrian Ninevites still cling to this tradition and that probably doesn’t make the predominantly Muslim country of Iraq happy. In 1933, the Iraqi government called for attacks on Assyrians which resulted in 3000 Assyrians being slaughtered. Friction over religion, tradition and culture continues to this day. Sara and Khava descended from this long line of traditionally Christian people who kiss their Bibles after reading them, but don’t know much of what is inside. In fact, I'm not sure they could distinguish their personal spiritual journey from the Assyrians we read about in the Bible.

Sara and her mother did not feel safe in Iraq. In fact, the fear they felt in staying where persecution against Christians might any day become violent and deadly outweighed the peril they would face in making a journey to Austria to become refugees. This journey would be secretive and uncomfortable and long, over 2000 miles. They were probably hidden and scared. It was illegal to leave Iraq without permission. This trip to freedom and a new life would cost most of their savings, days of travel time, and all their courage.

They made it to Austria, but the road to a new life continued. Like most refugees Sara and her mom would have a long wait before they were granted citizenship in any nation.

When I met Khava and Sara, they were living in a hotel in the tiny village of Altenmarkt, Austria. The hotel had been converted into refugee housing with one family occupying each 10 x 15 foot room. Sara’s room had two beds, a table and four chairs, a small wardrobe and a chest that doubled as a kitchen counter. The wardrobe easily held their few belongings. On their “counter” rested a hot plate with one burner, a couple of pots, and a plastic container to hold dirty dishes. In the bathroom down the hall, they washed themselves, dishes and some clothes. It was shared between ten rooms on their floor.

Though it was difficult in these conditions, Sara and her mom loved to cook. They taught me how to make dolma or stuffed grape leaves filled with rice, meat and vegetables. Khava chopped faster than anyone I had ever seen and wrapped her grape leaves so tightly you could not unroll them even to see what was inside. She laughed and laughed at my first attempts at this Mediterranean delicacy, my floppy dolmas so easily distinguishable from hers. She would laugh at them still today. My grape leaf rolling skills have not improved.

I loved the dinners Khava and Sara served in their tiny room. In fact, I loved them so much that I tried to write down the recipes to replicate at home. Sara's English was amazingly fluent but she had trouble keeping the words “chicken” and “kitchen” straight. Her slips made my recipe writing hysterical and confusing. “Come into the chicken” she would say, or “then you add the kitchen.”

Briyani

Besides dolma, my favorite Iraqi dish was called briyani, a delicious conglomeration of rice, meat and vegetables, cooked together then piled on a platter, family-style dining at its best. In the tiny kitchen of Sara and Khava, my husband, Bobby, and I learned that meat could be used as an addition, a flavoring, rather than the main part of a meal and he loved it as much as I did. It was amazing what they could do with that one-burner hot plate.

Initially, I saw Sara and Khava as a ministry opportunity, just two more faces in the long line of refugees needing help and understanding. But over time, they became my friends. They observed me, knew when I was overwhelmed, and cared. Not only did they care about me, they cared about Bobby and knew I might not be taking care of him or myself the way they thought I should.

One evening after a hectic kids’ program with refugee children, I visited Khava and Sara. We chatted and drank tea. Though I suspected the tea might keep me up past my bedtime, I knew it would also keep me awake on the twisty, dark, thirty-minute drive home. I needed that. My life had become an endless progression of activities, prayer letters, and tiny cups of Turkish coffee with piles of sugar cubes. I often felt tired and frazzled, needing naps more often and zoning out during the rare times alone with my husband.

After a relaxing but short visit with Sara and her mom, I gathered my belongings - coat, scarf, backpack, and car keys. As I fumbled my way toward their door, a conversation in Assyrian broke out and the two women jumped up, bustling. Sara asked me to wait a moment. I paused with my hand on their doorknob, silently praying I could make it to the car before anyone else I needed to visit laid eyes on me, delaying me for another hour, another visit, another cup of tea. While visiting and friendship evangelism with the refugees was crucial, at this moment I really just wanted to go home and go to bed.

As I stood there, Sara and Khava began packing a shopping bag. They loaded it with metal containers, bowls covered with plastic wrap and something soft wrapped in paper towels. Then, Sara handed the heavy bag to me.

“You take this home to feed Bobby,” she said.

“No!” I protested, knowing they had sacrificed money and time to make the delicious smelling meal that was being thrust into my already full hands. I spent a few more minutes protesting uselessly. That bag was going home with me whether I liked it or not.

Realizing I was outmatched I sighed and said, “Thank you so much. I never have time to cook.”

Sara smiled and translated what I said to Khava who laughed and said something back. Sara laughed as well, then gave voice to her mother's words, “My mother knows this.”

I might have been called to Austria to help people just like Sara and Khava, but that night, they helped me.

For the care and concern Khava showed for Bobby and me, we labelled her “our Assyrian mother.” She looked out for us, was protective and did everything she could to provide a respite for us in the room she and Sara called home. Though I was there to help them and others like them, a genuine friendship developed and grew. It blessed me so much then, and the memory of how they served with what little they had blesses me today.

The last time I saw Sara and Khava they were in a new apartment on the outskirts of Vienna near the Vienna Woods. It reminded me of church camp, lots of brown wood, dirt, and trees. They had actual bedrooms instead of sleeping and eating and cooking all in the same room. They had room for a couch, a huge luxury.

Bobby and I knew we were soon leaving to come back to the U.S., so we visited “our” Assyrian family one last time. After cooking dinner, visiting and eating, we walked down a dark path to our car. I turned for a last look at these precious friends. They were still standing by their front door waving and smiling.

We lost touch after that… Refugees move a lot. I wish I knew where they are now. I like to think they are still smiling, mothering someone new, and loving their permanent home wherever it may be.

It occurs to me with greater and greater frequency that my children will soon leave home. Seeing them for days in a row and having mundane conversations about what's for dinner will be a treat I look forward to on holidays and college breaks. Though it will be the height of grownup excitement for them, it will be terribly sad and weird for me. So, I want to make the most of the short time I have left with them living under my roof. I want to laugh and talk and hear what they're thinking. I want to tell them what I'm thinking and that I'm praying for them.

Though Bobby and I sometimes hit the mark with this parenting stuff, sadly, our television often gets in the way. We get sucked into the TV and the couch and before we know it, bedtime arrives.

Things to do after you Break Your TV:  1.  Play Outside!

I read a lot about TV viewing when my children were little. No one thinks excessive television is a good idea. In fact, too much screen time proves harmful to a child's brain development and health. So, when the boys were little I religiously monitored their TV viewing. There was a point in their very young lives when I allowed them one video a week. A week!

But, I have been much less zealous in recent years and I have always been much more lenient on myself. At times, the energy required to cope with life seemed much too demanding. The situations vary, but my response is the same: escape. Sleep, TV or really good books have done the trick for me. None of those was too bad, right? No, but the excess of each of them made me less of who I was created to be, not more. That's not what I want.

Are we, as Americans, more and more prone to “vegging out”? Is it just me? Why do I do that? Habit? Sure. Stress? Maybe. The pace of life or the constant-ness of the world? I can't go 20 minutes without my phone feeling the need to tell me I received an email. I get daily updates from the White House and a guy named Brad who tells me where all the best deals are.

2.  Blow Bubbles!

With life swirling so uncontrollably, I often feel the need to sit very still, pick up a remote control and watch someone else live life. I blame this on “Brad” and the White House. I sit in my spot on the couch where I'm magically transported to another time and place where beautiful people a.) have no problems at all, b.) solve their problems in under an hour, or c.) have issues, but at least they're funny.

I know excessive screen time is bad for a developing brain. It's not doing wonders for my old brain either, but I wonder what happens to the health and development of the family when you watch too much TV.

In our family, we neglect to talk about stuff, and when we don't talk about stuff problems build up. We've got to have a break, at least occasionally, to clean out and kick start communication.

I sometimes want to get rid of our TV, like break it with a hammer or chunk it out the window. Bobby and I didn't have a TV when we first married and we lived without one for two years on the mission field. But, honestly, I like an occasional Netflix marathon and Bobby would go mad without March Madness. So, I just want to break our TV occasionally.

Years ago, Bobby had this brilliant idea. He thought we should come up with a list of activities to do once you Break Your TV. He suggested putting one of those sticky things on the TV that make it look like someone broke your window with a baseball. We talked about it and thought of ideas. We did it occasionally. But, as it often happens, we let it slide.

With college looming and children who have busier social schedules than I do, I can't afford to let it slide any longer. Once a week, I'm going to do it. I'm going to break our TV. 

That doesn't mean we can sit around surfing the webernet.  We will do something together - play a game, take a hike, make dinner.

3.  Read a Book!

 Now, who's with me?

While I could do this alone, I really don't want to. I need help and support and ideas.

I'll let you know how it goes with us. If you give this a try, can you let me know how it goes with you too?

I'd love to hear how you handle the television with your family. Are you not really worried about it? Did you get rid of your TV a long time ago? Do you watch only the news and Netflix? I am positive some of you out there have this down and have great input and wisdom to offer. I'm counting on you!

"I can’t make the point often enough that television is not the enemy of the family but because of its content; it is the enemy of the family because it devours precious time."

Crunchy Cons by Rod Dreher

And That Is A Tremendous Thing

“I've always wanted to do this in a play,” Lori said laying on her bed, flinging the back of her hand across her forehead. We collapsed onto the plush carpet of her bedroom, laughing uncontrollably until our sides ached and we couldn't catch our breath. Life was so funny and so good.

It was good mostly due to my friends. I am one fifth of the “Halo Gang”, a group of five girls from Lanett, AL. We are from a town of less than 10,000 people, born within 10 months of each other. We grew up in families of two children, three of us had older sisters, two had brothers, only one of us is the oldest. Our families knew each other and had similar values. They sent their kids to public school and regularly attended church. 

Senior Year Beauty Pageant, I should be on the back row in my dance costume!

I've known two of the gang since kindergarten, one since second grade and our newcomer since third. Oh! The things I could tell you about these women.

We laughed and studied together, stayed up way too late and called each other way too early. We competed over grades and who had the cutest shoes. We saw each other through clingy boyfriends and bad skin, through moving from house to house and applying for college. We had birthday breakfasts at McDonald's before school and dinner at the Mexican place after our weddings, asking each other questions and talking about things that should not be talked about in public; laughing through all of it.

We let ourselves into each other's homes and helped each other get ready for the prom. We told each other when our outfits were getting weird and borrowed clothes so often we forgot what actually belonged to us.

Four of us played saxophone in band and three of us were majorettes. We knew that one of us had a “problem area” in her hair by her left ear and one inexplicably used hot rollers on her curls. One of us is the Baptist preacher's daughter and one's dad owned the local hardware store. One had the most beautiful, straight teeth, but had to wear braces because of jaw problems. One got to wear a crown for a whole day at Vacation Bible School for bringing the most visitors and one was maid of honor in her older sister's wedding when we were in fourth grade.

Four of us homeschooled our children at some point, two of us were missionaries, all of us are married. One has moved all over the country, one has always lived within 30 minutes of her childhood home. Three of us have worked in education, two of us in health and wellness. Four of us finished college, one has shown the rest of us what tenacity and determination, sticking up for yourself and your family truly look like. 

Senior Band Concert

I've learned life lessons from these ladies I never would have learned anywhere else. They are four of the best people I know. One lived with my family off and on in high school and was my roommate for two years of college. She knows who's clothes I have on in high school pictures when I can't remember myself. Another lets me call to talk about deep, dark stuff I'm not sure anyone else would understand and she shares her deep, dark stuff with me. One held me in the parking lot of the hospital where my daddy lay dying. I thought I would collapse with the pain of it all and she held the burden with me. Another sent a huge plant to Daddy's funeral, that I've managed, only by the grace of God, to keep alive for ten years. Years earlier we bought our first denim miniskirts together.

These women saw me through all my major, early life events: crushes, bad driving, first boyfriend, and finding the right shade of lipstick. We faced insecurities together when our dads lost jobs and siblings graduated and left home and tender, romantic feelings weren't reciprocated. I trusted them with my hurts and bad decisions. They shaped the kind of friend I became and the kind of woman I'm still becoming. They exerted a beautiful positive peer pressure. They provided a safe place for me to land, be myself, grow and grow up.

The thing about having a group of friends like this is that you're really known by them. They know the embarrassing stuff, but they also know my triumphs. They know what I wish I could forget and that gives them a certain power. But, it's power a loving friend holds gently.

Though I wish I talked with each of these ladies once a week, I don't. I wish they lived on my street and I ran into them in the grocery store. I wish they sat behind me in church and our kids played on the same football team. There have been years where I haven't greeted them face to face and sometimes it's been that long since I've heard their voices. But, even so, I still consider them my dear, dear friends.

I desperately want and pray for friends like that for my own children. I don't know if they've felt that kind of friendship and I don't know if they ever will. But, I still pray for them to have their own “Halo Gang”, a group of friends who will love them and point them in the right direction. A group of friends who will laugh, years later, at that Coke you spewed out of your nose or what you said when your high school boyfriend said, “I love you” for the first time.

I'm thankful I grew up in Lanett, AL and that my parents decided to send me to Lanett City Schools. I'm thankful for these four women. They are priceless. They are so much alike and so very different. They're beautiful and determined. They work hard and love their families. They are amazing and I've been blessed to have them in my life for at least 30 years. 

                           While I'm not crazy about this picture of myself, it so perfectly sums up our friendship, it had to make an appearance.  Thanks Laura Adams!

So, here's to you, Halo Gang. Thank you, for sharing who you were at 16 and who you are now. Thank you for helping me become the the grown up version of myself, for loving me when I talked too loud and too long about ballet and Campus Life. Thank you for trusting me with your secrets and keeping mine. Thank you most of all for being a real life picture of what I pray for my boys, minus the lipstick and cute shoes.

You've done so much for me, I don't think I could ever adequately explain it, and I'll never, ever be able to repay you.

“Why did you do all this for me?” he asked. “I don't deserve it. I've never done anything for you.” “You have been my friend,” replied Charlotte. “That in itself is a tremendous thing.”

- E.B. White, Charlotte's Web

Everybody Wants to Rule the World

The other night I was making dinner. All the ingredients for Buffalo Chicken Pizza were spread on our kitchen island. The oven was preheating and I was reading the recipe. I heard the boys tumble in the door and started my usual evening greeting: "Hey! I'm glad you're home! Do you have much homework? How was your day? Track practice good?" After some cursory answers, it became evident that I had forgotten some stuff. Allen was taking a shower and heading right back out to his "special friend's" house for taco night and games before making his way to the university pool to learn how to roll a kayak. Davis was headed to meet friends at Marley's for wing night. "They're already there, Mom," he said as he stood in the doorway, sweaty and tired from track practice. I had okayed all these plans the night before and wasn't really upset or irritated. Dinner would keep. So, off they went. Bobby wasn't home yet, but he would blow in then out too for one of his occasional evening meetings.

When Bobby arrived, I fed him a quick, leftover pimiento cheese sandwich and waved good-bye from the porch as his truck drove off into the night.

Then, I was alone.

I don't mind a night alone sometimes. I can watch sappy movies or too many episodes of Gilmore Girls without hearing sighs and complaints that my family would rather watch basketball. But, what I realized on this particular night is that this is going to happen more and more. This is going to become my norm at some point. Bobby and I are going to be standing on the porch holding each other, waving and saying, "Have fun storming the castle" more nights than not.

Then, our boys are going to be gone.

I know I'm not the first mom to struggle through this time and I won't be the last. I'm genuinely excited to see where my kids end up and what kind of men they become. But, I don't want to be the one perpetually left on the porch. Sometimes, I want to be the one “storming the castle”.

While I'm sad that part of my parenting life will be over in the blink of an eye, I know that I'll be a mom for forever. When I've thought and prayed about this time of change in the life of my family, my prayers have centered on my kids; where they'll go to school, what they'll major in, their friendships and who they'll marry. God reassures me again and again that He has good plans for them. He loves them so much more than I do and the future He has for my boys is really, really good.

But, I haven't thought much about what that means for me. What is my life going to look like, what am I supposed to be doing with my time, how am I going to cope with my kids leaving home?

Mother Teresa said, "If you want to change the world, go home and love your family."

So, I did. That's been my mission, my goal, my job, my life for the past 17 years. I've had some other "jobs" during that time, sous chef for a caterer, customer service for a computer business, but, my whole world has been loving my family.

When my boys were still babies we attended a church that hosted a week long missions conference each winter. Without fail, we would all get sick. So, Bobby and I would take turns attending worship services and dinners and dessert fellowships in an effort to soak up as much inspiration from the visiting missionaries as possible.

I remember attending one evening worship service alone. At the end of his message, the speaker directed our attention to the screen behind him where he played a scene from the movie, Mr. Holland's Opus. It was the dramatic ending, the culmination of Mr. Holland's work as a teacher. He walked into a crowded auditorium filled with current and former students. Then, he was handed a conductor's baton and cajoled into directing an orchestra in his “opus”. It was the symphony he thought he would be known and recognized for, but what really mattered, what shone through, was his commitment to the people he had taught and touched with his life, whether it turned out like he had planned or not.

That's when God spoke to me. No. He didn't just speak. He put His arm around me and leaned in. He whispered in my ear, "Allen and Davis are your opus."

Sweetly, surprisingly, God is whispering to me again. He's telling me that He has good plans for ME. There is life after kids go to college. He has stuff for me to do. He has a future and a plan for me. And it's good.

I can't say I'm always 100% on board with this new phase of my life. I often wish I could go back to when the boys were little just so I could soak it up again. I would love to feel chubby little arms hugging my neck and hear belly laughs that make me laugh too. Recently, I couldn't sleep while Allen was on a flight to Europe and I wept long and hard after watching a YouTube video about children growing up.

But...God. If He's taken the trouble to reveal that He has a plan just for me, there will be beauty in the sorrow, there will be good in the sad. How could there not be? 

Mr. Holland from popsugar.com

 While I'd like to have a glimpse of what my life will look like in 5 years, I'm so thankful, so excited to see what's next. I'm not hurrying it along, I'm just glad that God has chosen to speak again, to move in close and whisper, “I have a plan, Amy, and it's going to be good.”

I went home and I loved my family, but, have I changed the world? Only time will truly tell, but I can say this with certainty: This world of mine, of being a mom, the world filled up with a man who teases me and holds my hand, a curly haired kid who has gaps in his smile and a boy with a gleam in his eye and a sharp-witted comeback on his tongue, has changed me. Completely. I am a different woman because of the life I've lived with these guys.  And, thank goodness for that.

“Your greatest contribution to the kingdom of God may not be something you do, but someone you raise.”

Andy Stanley 

Here's the YouTube video that makes me cry:   https://youtu.be/clcNB_EUao8.  It's Nicole Nordeman,"Slow Down".  Don't say I didn't warn you!

 The Summer Everyone Thought I Was Liberal

Until I got married, my life had been blissfully dull. I was born in Lanett, AL, the rough equivalent of Mayberry, to a mom who was a dance teacher, then stay at home mom, then kindergarten teacher at the First Baptist Church. My dad owned the local hardware store.

I had an inkling that there were people “out there” who lived and thought very differently from me and my family. I knew there were people who went to high schools with more than 500 people and vacationed in Europe, but they lived in far off places like Montgomery or Minneapolis.

So, about my 2^nd year of college, I decided I needed to do something to bridge the gap between myself and the rest of the world. I looked at my church denomination's college programs and found a couple that sounded interesting. One possibility was working in Appalachia for the summer. The other was to be a Peace Intern. Peace Interns got to travel the country visiting church camps and talking with high schoolers. People who worked in Appalachia did hard, hot, dirty work.

So, I applied to be a Peace Intern.

I painstakingly researched and wrote an essay about what “peace” means to me. It was long with lots of references. Maybe not surprisingly, I didn't get it. So, I spent the summer after my sophomore year of college doing something just as meaningful and thought provoking: I taught high school majorettes.

The summer before my senior year I decided to give a peace internship one more try. This time I almost missed the deadline and ended up writing a one page paper about how Jesus Christ should be our peace. Know Jesus, know peace. No Jesus, no peace.

I sent it off not expecting much and not really concerned either way. I had met people who applied for this program and didn't get it, impressive and smart people like my sister and a great-great niece of Hemingway.

I was shocked when I received a letter not too long afterward telling me that I was selected to be a Peace Intern for the summer of 1992.

I knew I was an unlikely selection, but I didn't realize that I was the least likely choice ever, I mean EVER, until I arrived at training in Indianapolis.

When I arrived, and met the other interns, I realized they all had a “platform”, like Miss America contestants, and they were all kind of mad. There was a woman who had spent the previous summer in Africa and now refused to eat the seeds in tomatoes, another woman who called God a goddess. There was an army brat who was staunchly anti-military and a guy who thought I should leave the training immediately because I voted for Bush. One intern had a pony tail and planned to ride his motorcycle from camp to camp, another was proudly gay, but hadn't worked up the nerve to tell his parents. There was a sweet guy who was Puerto Rican and another who's strangest characteristic, as far as I could tell, was that he went to the University of Connecticut. 

Peace Intern Training 1992

And, then there was me – white, female, uninformed, conservative, southern, not mad about much and just voted for Bush. I became very quiet, considered going home and tried repeatedly to stop my head from spinning by suggesting we play silly games in the hallway of the offices of our General Assembly where the training was taking place.

You may be able to guess that this was a weird week for me. I loved learning about “peace with justice” issues and the people I was meeting were fascinating. But, I realized, probably for the first time, that I was different. I wanted to tell every kid I met at church camp that it didn't matter who they voted for, what their families looked like, or what their plans were for life after high school, if they didn't embrace Jesus Christ as their Savior there would be no peace in their hearts and lives. Without peace in your heart, there won't be peace in your home, your neighborhood, state, country or world. He is the only way.

After we've addressed the peace that you live in, we can talk about hunger and war and stereotypes. But, it just won't work before that.

After that week at training, I made some strange changes. I would never again consider peace to be solely the absence of war. I stopped drying my hands in public restrooms with the electric dryers or paper towels, instead I would run my hands through my hair. And, I would never look at bananas the same.

We read about the “just war” theory and why flying is bad. We talked about prejudice and hate. But somewhere in all the stories and statistics and letters, there was this one poem that stuck with me. It was in the “hunger” segment of our materials. The poem was written by someone visiting a desperately poor nation. In some of this travelers’ observations, he saw a small girl steal a banana. She took this one banana back to her even smaller brother and sister, giving each of them half. Then, the little thief sat down and licked the inside of the banana peel. The poem ended with the phrase “I swear I saw the face of God.” I wish I could find that poem to share with you now. Just the thought of it, the reality of it, moves me.

After that week of training, I knew I had a decision to make. I could become more informed and involved. I could get swept along and give in. I could get angry and condescending. I could embrace every issue that came along, even ones I didn't agree with. Or, I could figure out how to care about the world around me and still be true to who I am. I could learn to disagree with people who voted differently than I did, yet embrace them because we both want this world to be a better place.

The rest of that summer was good. It wasn't as trying as my week of training. I wasn't asked to go to any gay bars or think about whether flag burning should be ok. But, I was confronted with a retired military man who openly disliked me as soon as he heard the word “peace”. I was flattered by a camp director who said she had been really worried about having a Peace Intern and I made her feel better about the program all together. I met a man who became a dear friend, who respected me and my views and threatened to call Bobby, who would soon propose, to ask him a series of questions including “what are your intentions” and “will you really promise to take care of her?”

Camp in Montana

I visited camps around the country that I would never have seen and met people I would never have thought about meeting. I was forced to think through issues I had never given much brain power to and I learned how to present my views in a way that took others' perspectives and disagreements and backgrounds into account.

Mostly, I was confronted with my Savior. Jesus got me into that summer program and showed me that I was His. He called me out and asked me do and say stuff that was sometimes uncomfortable. He took me to places I had never really wanted to go and would never have planned on. And, it was all really, really good.

As I said before, I was the least likely Peace Intern ever. If there were a reunion, I'm sure someone would think I should leave. I mean, I'm a mom now. I cook dinner most nights and hardly ever protest anything. I drive a minivan, for goodness' sake, and freely use the paper towels in public restrooms. I have even given my Birkenstocks away.

But, I still care. I pray for our country and leaders while wondering exactly where we're going to end up. I want people to know that refugees are some of my favorite people ever and that slavery still exists. I help those around me and teach my kids to help out too.

So, whether you're crazy or sane, whether you get your news off your Yahoo homepage or listen to NPR, whether you refuse to shower until Tibet is free or shave your legs every single day, we're all really more alike than we are different. And if you don't believe that, you should at least believe that we all care deeply about something.

“For a while that worked fine
All the Zooks stayed away
and our country was safe.
Then one terrible day
a very rude Zook by the name of VanItch
snuck up and slingshotted
my Snick-Berry Switch!”

-Dr. Suess, The Butter Battle Book

In a Hurry

I just had a breakthrough. I had a lunch date today with dear girlfriends at the local Thai place. When I finished getting ready at home, I realized I had about 15 minutes to get to lunch and it should only take me about 5. So, I had a decision to make. I could fold the clothes that had just finished their last spin in the dryer and probably be a little late, which would be totally acceptable to these friends. Or, I could take my time, head out, find a good parking space and probably be the first one there.

Here comes the breakthrough.

I chose to be the first one there. 

I don't often make that choice. I'm usually trying to squeeze one more thing into my schedule. I think I can finish baking brownies real quick or grab just a couple of things at Wal Mart and still make it where I need to be in a fairly timely manner.

For most of my adult life, I've felt like I was in a hurry. If I set out to read a book, I count pages in chapters and calculate how long it will take to read. If I'm mopping the floor, I gear up like I'm starting a race. I've used the FlyLady "method" for organizing and cleaning which encourages you to do things in 15 minute increments. I love the principle, but I don't like sometimes feeling rushed.

I'm sure all this hurrying has had a negative impact on my health and I know it's affected my disposition. I often feel my heart rate increase and anxiety starting to tap its way into my thoughts. But, get this, I’m a stay at home mom. What do I have to be in a hurry for? I can't even imagine the press that women who have full-time jobs and families and full lives must feel.

I asked my friends at lunch if they ever feel this same pressure and what they do about it. They both agreed that yes, they often feel like they're in a hurry. My friend who's a thoughtful single, busy, working woman said she thinks it's just the American way. We don't like it, but to get away from it I would have to move to a Latin or African country where they treat time in a whole different way. My other friend is a mom to a young child and her husband used to be our youth pastor. She's the most “chill” person I know. She laughed when I asked about this and said, “If you figure out how to stop, let me know.”

In the Bible in Jeremiah 2:25a it says, “Slow down. Take a deep breath. What’s the hurry? Why wear yourself out? Just what are you after anyway?” (The Message)

What a great question. What AM I after? Truly? What does it profit me to rush around like a chicken with my head cut off? I don't think I've gained anything. Maybe I do it because I just want to be done. Maybe my love of comfort drives me to finish what I know needs to be done so I can do what I want to do without guilt.

I saw an article online called 10 Signs That You May Suffer From Hurry Sickness. “Hurry Sickness”, seriously. It was written in convenient bullet points and said something fairly interesting about patience being a skill and not just a virtue. I didn't take the time to read all of it, but I'm sure it made a lot of sense.

I also read something on Huffington Post called Why We Rush Through Life by Sura. She said, "We cannot be present and rush at the same time." I'm sure that's true. But, then she said, "We’re lazy: It’s easier to rush through life and be on automatic, than to slow down and make a conscious effort to be present. Being present takes energy and intention. Rushing allows us to live on the surface rather than go deep." That really surprised me.

I totally agree that I shouldn't be rushing around, that I should be savoring moments and not sloshing through them on the way to the next thing. So, what would happen if I just slowed everything down? What if I still did first what needs to be done, but I tried to enjoy the process; if I still mopped the floor, but slowed down enough to enjoy seeing the shine on the tiles of my kitchen? What if I still counted pages in my book, but then settled in to enjoy them without worrying too much about how long each page would take me to read. What if I instead stopped to think about what I was reading, even narrate it back to myself to see what I've learned and retained; if I stopped to notice the world around me and took more time to write about and think about the first snowfall or when the first daffodils come up instead of just rushing to write the date in my book of firsts.

I want a life of peace and beauty, a life of calm and fun, a life of relationships and love. I don't think being in a hurry is going to get me there.

When my children were little, all my friends with small kids were playing the “I can't wait game”. They would say things like, “I can't wait until he can walk. I can't wait until she starts kindergarten. I can't wait until they sleep through the night.”

That didn't ring true to me. I was so thrilled to be a mom.  It had been a long road to get here. I didn't want to wish it away. So, I asked God to help me enjoy each stage, each part of my children's lives.

I wanted to cuddle them when they were sick and laugh when they got grass stains on their jeans. I wanted to be the mom who stopped to play a game or listen to the 10 millionth joke my son had made up. I wanted to show up at ALL the basketball games and encourage them to say at least one good thing about the refs afterward. 

Even now, I want to enjoy the way words come together when I write and the way beautiful images appear when I pull out my camera. I want to meet my husband at the door at the end of a long day and tell him I'm glad he's home, and mean it.

Maybe in the same way I asked for help when my boys were little, I need to ask for help now. Help to not wish away the everyday moments that make up my life, because this is my LIFE.

My friend, Melanie, is headmistress of the Red Mountain Community School in Birmingham, AL. She seems to have this “not rushing” thing down. I know she wouldn't agree, but her lack of hurrying is one of the things I love most about her. At one point, in her school, all the clocks had a quote above them. She jokes that they rushed to put it there. But, I love it.

“He who is in a hurry delays the things of God.” St. Vincent de Paul

I don't want to delay the things of God. I want to hasten them, not by hurrying, but by noticing. I want to be so in tune with God and myself that I notice when He speaks, when He answers a prayer, when He's especially near and I just need to take a moment to bask in His presence.

Psalm 46:10 says, “Be still, and know that I am God.”

When I know that He's God and I'm not, don't things go more smoothly? Doesn't my perspective stay a bit clearer? And don't I already know that being still in God's presence makes most things – my will and emotions and plans – more clear?

So, next time I feel that familiar increase in my heart beat, when I feel a tightness in my jaw, when I start counting how many minutes I have left to accomplish an impossible to-do list, I'm going to stop. I'm going to be still. I'm going to breathe in and out and smile and say, “Hey, Amy? What's your hurry? Why wear yourself out? Just what are you after anyway?”

There are things I love about each of the places we've lived. I love the brilliant colors of fall in Pennsylvania. I love the ingenuity and hard work of the people in Nebraska. I love the independence and lack of regard for the rest of the world in Texas. But, Alabama is my home-place, where I was raised and married. It's where my family still lives and my kids were born. “Sweet Home” is my theme song, playing in my head when I need to walk with a bit more confidence. So, Alabama will always have a huge hunk of my heart and a special spot in my mind.

We're fresh off a trip home for Christmas. It's a terribly long drive from Pennsylvania, but it was so worth it to be down South, even for a short time. I was surprised on this visit that I wasn't just consumed with our family, but I was struck and charmed with some stuff that's particular to the South itself, it's culture and cadence. I guess we've been gone long enough to notice some differences.

So, here are 5 things I love about the South.

1. The friendliness. About halfway through our trip in December, Bobby said, “Do you notice how everyone looks you in the eye and says 'Hi'?” It's true. The people are incredibly warm and open. They're not too busy to acknowledge a passerby. They probably think it would be rude if they didn't say, “Hey.”

2. The manners. Speaking of being rude...in the South, people generally aren't. I know there are those who think Southerners are fake or simple-minded to be so polite. But, if you think that, you've never had a gentleman doff his cowboy hat to you and say, “Nice to meet you ma'am.” I promise you, if you did, you'd feel differently.

My husband had the chance to introduce our boys to the bull rider, LJ Jenkins, one New Year's Eve. Bobby kind of skipped over me in his introductions, excited for the boys to meet a real live bull rider. When Bobby passed me over, LJ focused his attention on me and literally tipped his cowboy hat as he shook my hand to introduce himself. And, I literally did giggle like a teenager. 

Thanks, LJ Jenkins' Facebook page!

I was newly married and in my mid-twenties when I attended my cousin's wedding in San Antonio. While the bride and groom were leaving, I was introduced to one of the groomsmen and asked if he was a friend of my cousin's from college. “Yes, ma'am,” he answered. Ughhh. I did not want to be called ma'am then, but, gotta love those Southern gentlemen.

My boys have been labeled Southern gentlemen too and I'm proud of them for that. They will stop to hold doors for others and they still say “yes, Sir”, even if it's weird up here. My son, Allen, appreciates how when you introduce yourself, down South, others shake your hand and offer their names in return. It's a pet peeve of his that this doesn't happen everywhere. Simple, yes, but makes a big difference.

3. The natural beauty. An arrogant baseball dad in Ft. Worth once asked me where we were going on an upcoming vacation. “Alabama,” I answered wistfully. “Why?” he sneered condescendingly. I sputtered something about it being beautiful and where our families live. I never can think of anything really good to say in those situations.

weather.com, Mount Cheaha

But, Alabama is beautiful. It's right there in the state motto. There are pine trees aplenty and a lushness not found in other parts of the world. There are rolling hills and red clay soil, strange and wonderful. There's an openness, not like in Montana, but open and yet still cozy; like you're being hugged by someone with a strong chest and impossibly wide shoulders, your face doesn't get smooshed, but you still feel the embrace.

4. The accents (or the way y'all talk). While working as missionaries in Austria, we were confronted with accents from many lands. English words tripped over Iranian tongues and Bosnian lips. The German words that I spoke, I'm sure, sounded crazy coming from this southern mouth. On our trip back home after 2 years, Bobby and I were sad to leave, yet giddy with excitement. We flew Delta from Vienna straight into the heart of Atlanta. There was one flight attendant who was obviously from the south. He said “y'all” without hesitation and didn't even raise an eyebrow as we stared at him with goofy smiles on our faces. We rang our “attendant call button” way too many times asking for extra cookies and a blanket and who knows what else because all we really wanted from him was more of that golden accent. It was a portent of things to come as we moved back to the South.

5. The food. Ahhh, the food. While I love the fried stuff down south, I'm not just talking about hush puppies and catfish. I also love the pimiento cheese, cornbread, grits and black-eyed peas. But, the fried chicken, oh the fried chicken. I love that there are at least 3 restaurant chains that exclusively serve fried chicken fingers with French fries and this heavenly, glorified Thousand Island sauce to dip them in.

On this trip to Alabama we found out about another restaurant chain called Chicken Salad Chick. It serves 15 different kinds of chicken salad plus deli sandwiches and, of course, pimiento cheese. The restaurant is adorable and the food is great and I don't think it would have started, much less been successful, in any other corner of the country.

But, I can't forget the sweet, iced tea; how it fills up your mouth and leaves you with a smile. On our honeymoon, my sweet husband took me to Bar Harbor, Maine. We flew in to Bangor and drove the rest of the way to Mount Desert Island. When lunchtime came on that blissful road trip, we stopped at a roadside stand for lobster rolls. I ordered “tea” with my sandwich then looked on in confusion as the proprietor filled a dainty tea cup with piping hot water and plopped a tea bag on a saucer. Bobby, who spent his summers “Down East”, noticed the error and asked for iced tea for his clueless bride. It wasn't the least bit sweet so I dumped packet after packet of sweet n low in my glass.

I'm sure there are more things I love about the South. I didn't even mention college football, steak restaurants housed in cinder block buildings and magnolia trees. But, mainly it's home. And that's what you love most about where you're from, too.

No matter where and I live, and for how long, I think I'll always be like my Aunt Sally. She claims Alabama as her home, but she's lived in Minnesota for over 40 years. She's stubbornly kept her Southern drawl and fondly recalls her roots in Beulah, AL whenever possible.

Aunt Sally and I would agree with W. Morris who said, “I am a Southerner. I like the feel of these words. I could no more be otherwise than I could shed my outer skin or change the color of my eyes.”

While I'm kind of sad I'll never have violet eyes, like Elizabeth Taylor, I'll happily trade that in for belonging to the South. I really do like the feel of those words.

Decorating the Christmas Tree

I love our Christmas tree every year. I think there's been one year I wasn't super happy about it – it was a live tree with droopy limbs. But, for the most part, I love it, every single year. We've had live trees with bare spots and we sometimes use my Grandmama's fake tree (ever-lasting my Mama would say). I almost always wish our trees were taller. But, once you get the lights and ornaments on, it's beautiful. So beautiful.

Our ornaments are a delightfully quirky mix. There's a sled-full of clay snowmen with our names on them, and a Swarovski crystal star that proclaims the year is 2001. There's one made of cardboard glued to a red, wooden ring hung by red yarn with a picture of 5-year-old Amy in it. There's an elegant shell angel from my friend Lori's wedding and a cowboy boot from Texas. I always finish off the decorations with a tartan garland and pipe cleaner candy canes the boys made one year. I can't remember the last time we used white lights. It's colored lights for us. 

The tree is kind of funky. But, it's ours and I love it.

My problem comes in with the actual decorating of the tree. This year the boys put the tree up while I was out of the house. I thought they did a great job until I finished putting the lights on, which I've done since I was a high-schooler. Once the tree was smothered in lights I gathered the empty boxes to put in the attic when I noticed something funny about the Christmas tree box. It wasn't empty. There was a branch in there! The boys had left a whole branch off the tree. They claim they couldn't find an extra hole for it to go in, but that's never happened before and I know there's not an extra branch. I figured if I hadn't missed it while putting the lights on then no one else would miss it either.

After the lights, we all hang the ornaments together.

I always picture this going differently than it does in real life. I want us to have Christmas music playing gently in the background. There should be hot chocolate cooling in mugs on the coffee table. I want us to laugh and tell stories and reminisce about the ornaments, where they came from and why we got them. I want everyone to be ON BOARD and paying attention.

That doesn't happen in my house.

This year, I was just happy we were all home on the same night so we could hang ornaments together. I had thought we might need to divvy the ornaments into piles and let each person hang them when they were home. I sat on the floor by the tree with the huge plastic box of ornaments and a tangled pile of ornament hooks. I would say things like, “Here Allen, you hang this one. It's the twin bears in mittens that my friend Rosalie gave us right off her tree on your first Christmas.” And, “Bobby, you hang this one. It's a real silver bell!” 

 

They would humor me a little. Each would look at his ornament, smile, say “hmmm,” and find a place to hang the precious bauble. Then, they would refresh themselves, not with their hot chocolate, but with a minute or two of whatever football game happened to be on.

I wanted to huff and sigh. I wanted to say, “Hey, over here. This is all part of celebrating the birth of Jesus! Don't you care?!!”

But, I didn't.

I know they care. I came home one afternoon after the tree decorating to find Davis alone. He had plugged in the Christmas tree, but that's all. No lights in the front window. No lighted garland going up the stairs. No adorable Christmas Minion on the front porch. When I asked him about it he said, “The tree is all that's really necessary for me to feel like it's Christmas. Well, that and stockings.” 

So, I know they care...

They just care differently than I do, or differently than I want them to.

Maybe my love language is undivided attention to decorating the Christmas tree. Or, maybe I just need to get over it and be thankful for what I've got – three men in my life who let me decorate my dining room with a huge pink rug, who give me candles for my birthday and Christmas, who occasionally take me to the ballet and try really hard not to break the fancy china dishes when we use them.

Just like so many things in my life, the decorating of the Christmas tree doesn't “look” and feel exactly like I think it should. But, just like my crazy, quirky, mismatched tree, I want to love it or at least embrace it as mine.

I'll never stop oohing and aahing over the ornaments and wanting the boys to look at the pictures in their Noah's Ark First Christmas ornaments. I may still feel like sighing and huffing a little. I'll probably still make hot chocolate and turn Christmas music on. But, I hope I remember that none of this stuff really matters.

Whether we even have a tree or not, we'll still celebrate the birth of Jesus. We'll still sing carols at church and struggle to find the perfect gift for each family member. I hope I remember that it's not how we decorate the tree but who is decorating it. It's not the ornaments and stories, but those three men who love me so much and who I so desperately love. 

 I hope you loved your Christmas tree this year. But, whether you did or you didn't, my prayer for you and me in 2017 is that we love our lives, too; bare, missing pieces, mismatched, kind of funky and beautiful. Oh, so beautiful.

“Christmas waves a magic wand over this world, and behold, everything is softer and more beautiful.”

-Norman Vincent Peale