Living For the Breathtaking Moments

One of my Boys of Fall done-fell hard on the 40-yard line.   He knocked the other team’s running back into next week, but his wrist got mangled in the mayhem and didn’t make it out of the dog pile in one piece…more like four or five pieces actually.

So, he’s out for the season.  Which, for a 7^th-grader, isn’t a career ender, but the questions still come…in the dead of night, as he fights off each wave of pain.  “Why this, Mom?  Why now?”  I’m half-hearted brave as I attempt to answer the impossible mysteries of life’s imperfections, running back to promises I’ve rehearsed a million times about heartaches big and small that must pass first through a much bigger hand before touching our lives.  Reminding him (and me, myself and I) of our family mantra that, no matter what, we get back up and press on.

Where once I used to fly from the sidewalk to whisk my children out of harm’s way before a barreling car could shatter all our lives, I now find myself having to swallow hard that same instinct to fight when some 200-pound man-child with facial hair and an Adam’s apple wants to make mincemeat out of my babies on the gridiron.  I may be smiling on the outside and answering Dan Tooley’s “WE ARE!” with a hearty “CC!” but inside my heart is stretched to the limit and diving out-of-bounds somewhere behind the stadium in a desperate attempt to grasp the facemask of God so I can remind Him, in no uncertain terms, of how unequipped I am to navigate the minefield also known as a Mother’s heart.  And most Friday nights this leaves me feeling like I’m on a direct flight bound for crazy with a layover in berserk!

If I’m the only Mother who feels this way, please don’t tell me, because I take great comfort in thinking I belong to a sorority of sisters who all have their eyes glued to the back of whichever jersey is drawing the heat, chanting silently for that boy to “get up, get up, get up!” after each helmet crack and shoulder pad pop, only to truly take a breath when his butt is on the bench and all limbs are in tact and moving.  (Sorry son, I really don’t wish for you to be on the sidelines of life, it’s just that those moments are the only time Mommy can catch her breath!)

Thankfully, somewhere in the midst of my death grip on grace’s ankles, I remember all the times I’ve chased my boys (and one tough-as-nails girl) off the couch and onto a 4-wheeler or up into a tree house.  And that no amount of bubble wrap or hovering will guarantee the safety of any of my kids, dang it!

But the truth about this faith-life (and, really, is there any other?) somehow hits home when Rhett Smith runs 93-yards for a touchdown at the Washougal game or the Rhoden family brings a touch of class to our stadium by donating an archway that speaks loud of tradition, strength and a future.   And I’m reminded that life’s not about the breaths I take, but the moments that take my breath away.

Don’t forget these upcoming events that will get you off the couch and knock some wind out of you:  I Made the Grade Run/Walk Oct. 30, Lord’s Acre Run/Walk and BBQ Nov. 6 and Best Dam Run Nov. 20.

Not So Random Acts of Kindness.

If you missed last weekend’s simulcast of Beth Moore at the Powell Butte Christian Church, do not fear!  I took copious notes because, as usual, she was talking RIGHT. TO. ME (and the friend sitting next to me, who can thank me later for not blowing her cover!)  Also, as usual, there were about 17 things that threatened to keep me from attending AT ALL.  Like, how, before I even woke up a kid was standing over me saying “Mom. There’s another bird in the wood stove. Mom. Mom. MOM!”  And, yes, as usual, My Man was on orders at the air base for a-week-and-a-freaking-half!  Which means that the gate across the driveway that completes the gazillion dollars worth of fencing, that keeps our dogs from leaving the ten sprawling acres we’ve deeded over to them, fell off its hinges again…as usual.

However, despite the fact that I KNEW we would soar gigs and gigs over what our internet service provider allows us each month, I handed the teenager and his charges the instant watch pass code for Netflix, and off I went to hang with my BFF Beth.  Don’t be judging me now, because that would mean she was talking RIGHT. TO. YOU, too!

After about thirty seconds of listening to Beth, I was kicking myself for not bringing all my kids, all their friends, and all their friends’ friends, because her sermon was all about KINDNESS, and here’s her explanation of why.  Exhibit A: we live in a mean world.  Exhibit B: Sooner or later we all open our mouths.  She went on to share that kindness is not the same as weakness, kindness is not just an action but a disposition, kindness wears down when we do, kindness looks pain in the face, kindness can save lives, kindness has good memory, and kindness craves an outlet.

The point that grabbed me the most though was her assertion that kindness leaves a legacy.  Case in point: there are Biblical accounts of the unusual kindness that the Apostle Paul experienced on the Island of Malta (Acts 28).  And “coincidentally,” just this month, the UK-based Charities Aid Foundation conducted a survey that ranked Malta in first place with regards to the largest percentage of the population (83%) giving money to charity.  Now THAT’S a Legacy!

Every fiber of my being hopes that my own little legacies will grasp, live out and pass on the truth about kindness as exemplified by the ultimate Philanthropist and Author of Kindness Himself.  I’m mindful, however, that my steadfast resistance to the suppressors of truth will not be tolerated.  Particularly by those who believe in things like serendipity or inventing their own personal truth to create a seductive new spirituality that is offensive to no one and welcoming to all.  We’re bombarded with this mantra by the pied pipers of daytime television (whose primary mission is to O.W.N. everything), and it leaves a bad taste in the mouths of people who refuse to settle for moral relativism.  Sort of like Beth’s closing story about the time her Mother-in-Law replaced the family’s traditional Thanksgiving feast with turducken, which is a dish consisting of a de-boned chicken stuffed into a de-boned duck, which itself is stuffed into a de-boned turkey.  And who wants to partake of that?!

I'm Nodding YES to the Coming Spin.

The people that work for me (a.k.a. my teenagers) are slathering the thirsty deck with a long-overdue application of stain.  I’m way past the point of caring if it’s done proper and perfect, resting instead in the satisfaction of a job well done by hands-in-training that try their best.   The challenge lies in keeping my gaze on the beautiful wood that drinks deep, instead of allowing my eyes to wander up the house walls of cedar siding that tower overhead with parched envy.  We’ll save that project for another day (or perhaps another year) because the warm summer days are getting shorter and I can feel the approaching spin cycle also known as September coming on.

With the agitation of overlapping football, soccer and volleyball schedules heading my way, I guess I have no choice but to follow the snowbirds to Arizona.  Oh WAIT!  That won’t work.  I still have kids at home who need clean clothes, dinner, a prayer and a pep talk from time to time.  So instead, I’ll do what I do best: look around and learn from the faithful few who aren’t afraid to dive in and kick hard.

The Powell Butte Charter School has been a beehive of activity lately as parents and eager teachers prepare to breathe new life into what it means to educate the next generation.  I’m inspired by their ability to raise hope and cash and follow through on their promise to deliver both in short order.

And then there’s this little company that’s reconnected me with friends, family and my roots.  Maybe you’ve heard of them?  Facebook stepped up and dipped their toe in the water at the Crook County Fair Livestock Auction, and brought a sigh of relief to a crowd of crossed fingers.  I’m hoping that over time though they’ll venture on up to the high dive and learn, from veteran community supporters like Les Schwab, that jumping in headfirst is where the rubber really meets the road.

Some fire hydrants got a fresh coat of paint from a new breed of year-round athletes that have erased the term “off-season” from their vocabulary in order to pay for the things that other schools take for granted, like bus rides and referees.  And I may or may not have observed a posse of dumpster-diving parents at the County Fair who couldn’t stand to see a nickel go to the landfill instead of toward a well-deserved helmet for our quarterback.  But, don’t blame them!  They’ve been mentored by the likes of Doug Smith, who carries donations of refundable water bottles home in his briefcase every night…the FREAK!

Guess that means, from now on, you’ll have to call me a Freak-In-Training because I’m chasing after those lifeguards of hope whose persistence and perseverance silence the pessimist in me that keeps expecting the pool of effort and creativity to dry up and blow away.  They continue to pour out fresh energy and ideas in an economy that threatens to whither even the deepest of wells.  And it’s out of that dedication and experience that the youth among us will learn how to become tributaries that branch off and beckon others to come on in!  The water’s fine!

Even When Life's Not Perfect the Show Must Go On!

If life seems sort of hard right now, don’t lose heart.  County Fair is just around the corner and that means there’s bound to be a caramel apple or elephant ear with your name on it; small containers of joy that, for me, are just a glimpse of the goodness of an uncontainable God.  So make tracks to the Crook County Fair, partake in the old-fashioned-ness of it all, and remember: that which is sacred dwells in the midst of the common, the daily and sometimes the messy things of life.

Now that summer is finally here I’ve been soaking up every long, warm day by making sun tea and beds for a steady stream of houseguests and tending to the laundry and chaos that farm animals and kids are known to stir up as they rehearse for their County Fair debut.

Most recently some relatives from the in-law’s side of the family tree were traveling through our neck-of-the-woods and fixing to stop for a visit.  When I suggested meeting them somewhere for lunch, they politely asked if they could just come directly to the farm because they’d heard all the fantastic tales about our menagerie and wanted to experience the mayhem for themselves!  What a delightful reunion we had, even though I'd never met them and My Man hadn't seen them since he was a youngster.  It was a bittersweet visit because Papa and The Grammy should have been here cooking ribs on the smoker but, in a way, it sort of felt like they were because our new best friends narrated us through all the old family photo albums - fragile and yellowed containers of happy memories that still smell like the house that Papa built.

Next we gave our guests a tour of the farm, including the burned-out pig shelter, which is still a pile of ashes after the pigs’ recent reenactment of Animal House.  Seems as though one of the little wieners decided to live up to her name and Destiny Freezer took a gigantic bite out of the big red apple that was, much to her surprise, a heat lamp!  So even though our pyromaniac porcine wonders all survived the fire, they have her to blame for losing their heat lamp privileges.

As we strolled around the farm, finally settling around the picnic table, our long-lost kin shared stories from back-in-the-day and we were instantly best friends who hadn't seen each other in an age, and the sting of being too young to have lost two parents was soothed for a moment by the reminder that we will all be together again in heaven one day…where I plan on sitting The Grammy down with a fresh pot of coffee, an elephant ear, maybe some cotton candy, and three snow cones.  Then I will hand her a pen with the stack of photo albums and tell her to fill in all the dates, names and places on every last page!

Learning to Hold Steady During Winds of Change.

You think I’d know better than to write about something as controversial as the Central Oregon weather right now.  But June-uary or not, here it goes!

Folks who live in Powell Butte for very long soon figure out that it’s breezy here; sort of like camping in a wind tunnel most days.  I used to think it was only gusty when the weather was changing, but the last few wet and wild months have blown my theory to bits because the wind continues to howl, as if purely for its own amusement.  And, as much as I try to become accustomed to the hair-raising mistrals, I am NOT amused.

One of my neighbors appears to be embracing the gale because he’s erected one of those wind turbines to generate electricity for his home - the opportunist.  But WAIT!  If you’re partial to caffeine and whip cream like me, then you NEED to know that the merciful tempests have seen fit to blow the long-overdue Sippin’ Sams Espresso Hut into Powell Butte!  And, although I can’t quite picture my favorite cowboy and long time Powell Butte resident, Bill Brewer, sidling up to the drive-thru window to order a venti-nonfat-no-foam-no-water-six-pump-extra-hot-chai-tea-latte, I just might wrangle his hide out of his favorite booth at the Powell Butte Country Store and make him take his sweetie Marcella there for a date!  Because he’s always telling me what an adventurous bunch he and his posse of cowboys are!  When you see him there, Stetson in hand, studying the vast and colorful menu, you’ll know for certain that a new wind is a-blowin’ in Powell Butte!  And see him you will, because I’ve been working on my goat-tying techniques!

In reality though, my friend Bill is about as easy-going as they come, but I’d venture to say he’s spent years perfecting his roll-with-the-punches demeanor.  Would that we could all do the same, because you and I both know “other” people who worry too much, don’t we?  And these “other” people, young and old alike, fight like the dickens against any winds of change that ruffle their feathers, don’t we? I mean, don’t they?

Of course it’s not pleasant when friends are moving away to find work, or when stock prices fall, or the creature comforts that once brought contentment no longer satisfy our searching souls, and the church of the American Dream runs headlong into our Creator’s original intent.  Almost daily, my own doubting heart threatens to be blown and tossed like a wave at sea rather than press into the work of believing for which I was put upon this earth to do.  Which has me thinking it may be high time we tack our headstrong sails windward instead of jeopardizing the mainmast, my friends.

People like Cowboy Bill make it look easy, with no dramatic flailing about when the winds whip unexpectedly and un-beckoned.  But he probably didn’t get that way over night.  Journeys like his are marked by the day-in-and-day-out decision to practice “unity in the essentials, freedom in the non-essentials and love over all” (Augustine).

So, if you’re paying attention when that blowing-in-the-wind moment comes, and you see the veil lift and catch a glimpse of the saving answer that lies behind a life like his, grab it!  Hold on tight and never let go!

Sixteen Years Ago I Took a Number.

Or, rather, sixteen years ago my baby took a number.  I was just along for the ride - of my LIFE!

I waited all of twenty minutes at our small-town DMV (a-a-and my big-city friends just let out a collective groan).  But it was the longest wait of HIS sixteen short years!  To be honest, time did seem to move in slow motion for me, too: watching him walk out the door with the Driving Instructor, knowing full well that he would bring her back in one piece, but nervous just the same, and wondering if we'd practiced enough merging, gentle accelerating, three-car-length judging and blind spot checking…all the while, wishing I could invest sixteen more years for good measure.

In a moment of panic I suggested, to my “sometimes-friend” Jenay, that perhaps it would be prudent to postpone his driver's test until another day, when I was less hormonal (like, maybe after menopause?).  She said that if I waited until after menopause I might be cranky (because my then 35-year-old would still be living at home and bumming a ride to town).  She suggested that by moving forward with the day’s plan I would just be irrational and weepy, instead of cranky.  My response was that the DMV personnel are highly trained professionals; they can handle CRANKY (a-a-and so many of you just nodded so hard you gave yourself whiplash).  She ended by telling me to zip-it, bear-down, focus and BREATHE, darn it!  But I was looking more for sympathy than a birthing coach.  Which is why she is only my “sometimes-friend” … my “sometimes-friend” who has five incredible kids and can handle just about anything that drops into the vortex also known as her house!

Then she told me she would pray-like-a-mother and take me to Prineville’s new Good Thyme Cafe after my whole ordeal.  Which is why she is also my “forever-friend.”

Now, keep in mind that all of this coincided with her own 17-year-old baby just up-and-leaving for Africa, yep, A-F-R-I-C-A; to help the orphans and widows and, in all likelihood, defibrillate her already giant heart that is so full of hope and charity that she leaves many teachers, leaders and so-called theologians shaking their heads as they try and comprehend her amazingly firm grasp on what songwriter Beckah Shae calls L.I.F.E. (Love In Full Effect).

All I have to say about THAT is fasten your seat belts Crook County!  She’s home now and her journey is a contagion amongst the ever-growing population of teens-on-a-mission to give life their ALL by jumping over doubts about the American Dream and diving straight into a belief and faith that is breathing!

But, back to my recent trip to Africa (I mean, the DMV).  Everything turned out wonderful!  There were no “incidents” involving sirens and my man- child passed his test with flying colors.  I managed to stay composed, as I stood by the window, lump-in-throat, watching him exit the vehicle and make his way across the tarmac wearing a big ‘ol grin that proclaimed loud and clear  - “To LIFE!”

The Sun and the Rain and the Apple Seed.

Another wall of rain makes its way across the valley as I listen for the drops to reach my skylight…one of my favorite sounds on Earth!  The golfers and my Facebook friends may be wishing for some summer heat and tan lines, but my farmer friends are rejoicing!  And, in my mind, farmers trump everybody else because of the simple fact that I like to eat.

My overwhelming affinity for all things agriculture may seem unusual given that I didn’t grow up on a working farm, although I made darn sure I married a man who did.  To be fair, we really did have a go at raising our kids in the city for a spell, but scooping kitty litter and sorting glass and plastic at the curb didn’t put enough dirt under their fingernails, and the summer-berry-picking buses didn’t have Northeast Portland on their 5 a.m. route.  Even now I daydream about what character my offspring could develop if our ten acres were magically supersized to about a thousand!

My own farm may be small, but there’s just something about this time of year that makes me want to turn the chickens and pigs out to pasture and dig deep into the compost pile to see if the worms made it through the winter.  I can hear the greenhouses full of hanging baskets at Hidden Falls Garden calling my name and I keep glancing at the top of Black Butte to see if the snow has melted yet - granting me permission to trust seedling to soil.  This year I’m looking around my little plot of terra firma and wishing I’d given birth to about a dozen more children…just think of all the land I could tame with manpower like that!

Every trip to town entertains my senses with the smell of sod turning and the sweet sight of mama cows with their newborn calves.  I notice how faithfully the folks at The Great American Egg farm are managing their land and producing world class, pastured eggs, poultry and pork which makes me want to run home and watch Food, Inc. twenty seven more times!  Then I wave at the farmers who are fertilizing and getting their wheel lines ready for the ditch rider to come along and unlock the gates!  I thank God on their behalf for the hard storms that bring higher yields because, it’s the least I can do, and I know that when their heads hit the pillow at night, they’re probably asleep before they can even respond to that still small voice.

Perhaps it’s all the Earth Day brouhaha that has me considering what seeds of truth might be awaiting harvest in this crazy culture of mine; where fertile ground is constantly threatened by wind, rocks and hardpan.  The best kernel I’ve come up with so far is that the only difference between you, and me and the soil under our feet…is the breath of God.

Authors note:  Hidden Falls Garden is located at 5400 NE Ochoco Hwy. Prineville.

You can also visit www.greatamericanegg.com to learn more about where to buy locally grown eggs, pork and poultry.

Seeing the Light Before the Sunrise.

The tune I sing is simple and familiar to me in times of uncertainty.  I hum it yet again while running through another pitch-black morning toward home.  “This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine.  Oh, this little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine…” Only sometimes I pick up the pace and hum a little louder to fend off the cougars and snakes that are surely waiting for me in the brush.  Breathe; home is just a half-mile away, I think to myself.  Look!  There’s a glimmer of light just over the horizon! Perhaps this inky blackness won’t hang around all day after all.  Inhale, exhale, I’m almost home.

The clocks may have sprung forward, but the mornings are dark again and my heart is heavy with a sense that the world around me too is in the midst of stumbling backwards.  Hurting people everywhere blinking, trying to adjust pupils to the unexpected gloom and desperate for a pinprick of light as they grope for a hand to hold in unfamiliar territory (preferably one without fur or scales).

 Am I the only one who feels they’ve been living in winter for far too long?  I wonder, could we just be done with the wind-knocking exhale, please, and move on to some fresh air and a great big gasp?  While your winter may have been slightly different from mine, winter is winter, my friends, and it’s something we all experience.  These days I’m horizon watching for the light to show itself earlier and earlier each day; expectant eyes more than ready to see a marching lion, paws loaded with hope rays to be slung through my dirty windowpanes.  I invite you to pull off your sleep mask and watch the seasons change with me.  And rest assured, the One who calculated the earth’s tilt and adjusted rotation dials with such accuracy that we can set our plowshares and watches by it, will, as in centuries past, come through once again.  Days will lengthen, bulbs will burst forth, and the creeks will rise to nourish the wind-swept land back to life.  The consistency of the seasons changes not.  What is happening now has happened before and we can have faith that this season of waking up in darkness too shall pass.

 

But, if you feel as though your faith has been rode hard and put up wet, so to speak, know this:  Just as you can sense the wind before it hits your skin or see the light before a sunrise, remember that “Faith is the bird that feels the light and sings when the dawn is still dark” (Tagore).  There’s a familiar tune rattling around in our heads and our hearts somewhere just waiting to pierce the darkness.  Hum it.  Then hum it a little louder.  And watch the cougars and the snakes flee.

Then pick your head up off the pillow and invite some little rays of sunshine in your life to join you at the party.  It’s being held at the Powell Butte Elementary School on Saturday, April 3^rd at 10:30 am in the form of an Easter Egg Hunt and Canned Food Drive sponsored by the Crook County Choppers 4-H Club.

Oh, and please accept my sincerest apologies for the song that will now be stuck in your head for the rest of the day.

Save a place on the Olympic podium for Grandma!

I’m blessed to live in a part of the country where a high school kid can still play three sports a year.  My big-city friends practically have to declare their kids’ sport-of-choice during the ultrasound, and then spend the next fourteen years buying a spot on the club team until high school try-outs roll around; but even then, it’s a crap shoot.  In fact, the Olympic trials might hold more hope for Junior.

The guy I’m married to played eight-man football in Condon, Oregon.    Which, I think, also means his basketball team had only three men and the baseball team he pitched for would, logically-speaking, have had about six in the dug-out.  To this day, our kids get a kick out of listening to his three-sport Badge of Honor, otherwise known as his rotator cuff, as it clicks and grinds into action every morning.  And, although I’m a died-in-the-wool mama bear who wishes our hard-working athletes could get a vacation between seasons, I’m proud of their dedication and ability to switch gears mid-stride; a new coach, the long drive to town for fresh gear, a skeletal tune-up with Dr. Slater, a new mouth guard, collect some more cans and bottles, new tires for Mom’s car, a nod to the Les Schwab pit crew and THEY’RE OFF!

And that’s just the season opener!  Ask any elite athlete and they’ll tell you it’s the behind-the-scenes effort that makes them a champion.  Take the grandparents for instance.  By now, they too have been trained to write down all dates, locations and times in pencil, because they’ve learned the hard way that Athletic Directors have a game schedule roulette wheel in their office; and that sucker never stops spinning.  But if it does, the Pony Express is dispatched to the coaches and players.  Then a telegraph is sent to parent one and parent two, stepparent three and four and so on.  Throw travel time into the mix and it’s a wonder Grandma and Grandpa make it at all.  But, make it, they will!

Case in point: The phenomenon also known as, Grandma Hulick.   If you’ve been to a Crook County football game in the last couple of years you’ve likely experienced Grandma Hulick.  You might not have known it at the time.  In fact, you might have thought you’d wandered into a NASCAR stadium by mistake.  Her whoops, hollers and ear-piercing whistles might make the newbies nervous but, those of us who’ve seen her love in action know that this is just her warm up act, folks.  I’ve seen that woman jump the fence around the Summit High School track to help an injured player on the sidelines.  And, being that it was Summit, there were probably three fences and an armed guard!  No Mother in her right mind would venture toward the bench if she ever wanted her kid to speak to her again but, in a pinch, we all know that we can get important information to (and about) our precious babies via Grandma H.  And when the final whistle blows there she is again with twenty dozen cookies as our players board the bus or head to the locker room. They get a cookie in each hand and one in the mouth, along with a high five and an “Atta-boy!”

Although I’m tempted to petition the I.O.C. for a grandparent gold medal on her behalf, I’m fairly certain that her practice of never letting anyone leave her presence without feeling loved in turn fills her with a happiness that is all the present she will ever need.  Now, if I could just figure out a way to sneak her into my son’s golf tournaments.

Setting my feet on the life path in 2010.

Don’t know about the rest of you, but I took great pleasure in kicking 2009 to the curb a few weeks ago!  It was a hard year no matter how you slice it, and 2010 has been a welcome relief on many levels.  For starters, The Ladies at the Powell Butte Christian Church are back from their Christmas hiatus, and that fact alone makes everything right in my world again because those ladies can pray like nobody’s business!  And I’m here to testify that if you should find yourself in the cross hares of their mountain-moving prayer chain, you might want to get yourself saved, and be quick about it.

These, God-expectant, God-ready women are just like you and me, except for their halos.  You know them too because there’s at least one on every street.  And like the kindly ones in your neighborhood, these saints decided some years ago to do away with the man-made shackles of religiosity and approach the Throne of Grace with transparency and tenacity.  And, while they were at it, why not do it together; discovering somewhere along the way that God-hungry lives are everywhere just waiting to be invited in.  And, lo and behold, what splendid friends those searching souls become!

I’m not the only Mama who relaxes the moment I arrive, and even on the days when life is throwing up every road block to keep me away, I’m never sorry I knocked and entered in to huddle under the umbrella of warmth these truth-seeking women throw open to the weak and weary, the numb and angry, the hopeful and the hopeless.  Others come with babies in tow and dark circles under their eyes, barely able to stifle a yawn during the hymn and announcements.   But, true to their reputation, everyone leaves just a little more whole than when we walked in - a little prayer and Word-study, a song or two, lots of laughter and general whooping-it-up with the grannies.  Well, not all The Ladies are grannies, but enough of them are to make me want to sit up straight and not use cuss words when I request prayer for my sub-par mothering skills or my terrible fear of all things medical.  Not that they would care, but they make me want to grow up to be a steadfast mentor instead of a whiner and a grouch.

When those ladies prayed my Sister-in-Law through her cancer ordeal, all I could think to say was, “Hot d@*%, she’s cancer free!”  I mean, “Hot diggity!”   See?  I just want to be like them!  Help me to be like them Lord, all strong and suffused with grace.  I bet they never yelled hysterically at their kids while driving a car and scowling into the rearview mirror…or maybe they did...

And maybe, if I hang around The Ladies long enough, their hard-earned tenderness will rub off on me, too.  Because, let’s face it, none of us are getting off this life path without some difficulty and suffering, and it will absolutely change us all.  We’ll either become bitter or better.

So, I’ll never stop running, like a woman with her hair on fire, to be with The Ladies at the church!  In hopes that I, too, can one day be available to a living heart that simply longs to be touched by the better angels of our nature.  And if that young Mother shares her deepest, most humiliating parenting faux pas, I’ll just smile and let her think that I, too, probably never ever acted like a complete idiot in all my mothering days either.  And then, I’ll casually adjust my crooked halo when she’s not looking.

The local shops are killing me with kindness.

It’s embarrassing to admit that, although my husband has shopped there for years, I’ve just recently discovered the Prineville Men’s Wear store.  I KNOW unforgiveable, right?  To make matters worse, I brought the kids-who-can’t-stop-talking and they went on and on about how “Mom usually shops at the BIG store for our ranch-wear but hates the prices and hard-to-find sales associates!”  The part they left out was that there’s just something about trying to shop with rambunctious kids that screams WAL-MART!  After we’d browsed every corner of our new favorite local store, we drove home talking about how nice it was to shop there.  The kids are still amazed at how calm Mommy is when her fingers aren’t pressed against her temples.  That, my dear children, is what you call “customer service!”  And when you find it, hold on for dear life because it’s a dying art.

Speaking of dying; I made a vow then and there to try and keep my Christmas shopping local, even if it kills me!  One could argue that the big-box stores are just so doggone tempting; what with their moist towelettes at the entrance and aisle upon aisle of lead-laden off-shore trinkets.  But these blue light specials just don’t compare to the free gift wrapping I’ve found at the local haunts and when Prineville Men’s Wear offered to have my boy’s jeans hemmed overnight (at no charge) I almost keeled over on the spot from the kindness of it all.

Which reminds me; some of the kindest people on the planet live right in my own backyard at Lark Gardens in Powell Butte.  I’m running low on their world-famous Peking Blend Vinegar and Lord knows Christmas won’t be complete without some of this:

Peking Ice Cream Sundaes

3 ripe pears

2 tsp. fresh ginger

2 oz butter

2 oz Peking Blend Vinegar

Vanilla Ice Cream

Brown the sliced pears in a skillet with the butter, ginger and vinegar then serve over the ice cream and you’ll think you’ve died and gone to heaven!  Just ask my kids who are quiet as angels when they eat this stuff.

Speaking of heaven, the Life Song Christian Book Store in Prineville has a warm cup of cider waiting for you.  And if they don’t have the book you’re looking for it’ll be ordered before you finish your drink.

My mail carrier is getting a gift certificate for a smoothie at Friends Espresso (but don’t tell her, it’s a surprise).  Do people still do that?  Tip the mail carrier and the garbage hauler?  After all, one would hate for the two to get confused about their job descriptions, lest you find junk in your mailbox and Aunt Ethel’s fruit cake and aspic ends up in the landfill! Wait. What!? Sorry Aunt Ethel, I’ll find out who’s been skimping on the tips!

Sure, it might seem like I’m doing a lot of driving from store to store.  But let’s be honest here people, most of the towns in our county aren’t all that much bigger than the Costco parking lot anyhow.  Just in case I pull a hamstring though, I will absolutely be dropping by Nature’s Bounty for some of T’s Tonics Sore Muscle Soother.  That stuff is the BEST!  Then it’s on to Checkers for some biscotti to stuff in the stockings and probably a visit to a feed store or two because who says you can’t find treasures at a feed store?!

On the off chance that I don’t survive all my crazy patronizing, please tell my kids that I really was planning to make it to The Dollar Tree to replace that amazing peppermint bark.  And tell my husband that when the Giddy-Up Boutique appears on the credit card statement I had to buy hay...for the horses.

Determined to be thankful.

I watch her cross the finish line a full two hours after most runners have gone home; her body working hard for every step because her brain scrambles instructions to her uncooperative limbs. She used to run 26.2 miles in as much time as it is now taking her to walk three! With one leg straight as a board and one hand curled uselessly near her shoulder, she walks three miles, holding tight to her granddaughter; the same three miles that barely warm-up the able-bodied volunteers working the time clock and refreshments at the finish line. The same three miles that required four years of intense therapy for this Broken One after her mobility-robbing stroke.

Runners take off and come back, some burning up five miles or more like it was nothing. They pass The Broken One as they leave and again as they return, giving her a thumbs-up or an encouraging word; completely unaware that, months earlier, she ripped that advertisement for the Lord’s Acre Run from the newspaper and made her children find Powell Butte on a map. The finishers ask about her once they’ve cooled off, had a snack and are ready to head for home. They scan the horizon for her silhouette, marveling again as her story unfolds through whispers and raised eyebrows. Are they wondering like me if, faced with the cross she bears, they would have the same determination, the same strength and courage?

Do some of them feel on the inside the way she looks on the outside, I wonder? Broken, twisted, barely able to function? Do some wish they could pull the covers back over their head each morning for a myriad of despairing reasons? Are there others whose paychecks come in discouraging fits and starts or whose livelihood has been interrupted all-together?

As I serve cool water to another thirsty runner, I look up and my eyes follow another friend by the name of Rachel as she jogs by; savoring the cool morning air with her kids. Her body: waging an invisible war against some chump-of-a-breast-tumor and reeling from the chemo cocktail being dumped into her veins. But you’d never know it by the thankful radiance all over her face.

And then I remember that, in my own life, thankfulness often requires a healthy dose of determination. It’s hard to count blessings when my mind is pressed and under the impression that it’s all about ME. I need to look up and take notice of those nearby who are rising from the ashes of frustration and battle so I can follow their footprints toward hope! And once I do that, the fog clears and the determined fighters I long to emulate come into focus; high school volleyball players who defy the odds of youthful inexperience to win another state title, football players who hang up their battered helmets and head for the mat or center court with renewed vigor, the military families whose only medals are worn inside their chest, and whose very survival here at home demonstrates to the rest of the world what an invisible monument looks like when its made of strength and quiet perseverance; all these things go unseen unless I make the effort to look through a different lens.

I wish my word-lens could show you in living color what the finish line of that Lord’s Acre Run looked and felt like when The Broken One finally crossed it. Hundreds of people turned their attention from the infamous Lord’s Acre feast that was coming out of the BBQ pits; their buzz of conversation at once went eerily quiet. And when the stop watch stopped counting and our arms shot up in the air, signaling that she had crossed over, the crowd went wild; hearts exploding with joy and voices celebrating her victorious demonstration that whether broken in body or broken in spirit, we can always choose to lean into thankfulness.

Learning to run a different kind of race.

Just a few short years ago I’d lie awake and listen to the sounds of laughter pass by my window as those crazy runners lit up the pre-dawn hours with their headlamps; Mothers mostly, fellowshipping before the children wake; dragging along the occasional husband as pack leader trying to eavesdrop into the world of the woman. Those Chatty-Cathys would tease and taunt me every morning; as if knowing I wanted to come out and play hide-and-seek in the dark, but refusing to accept my lame excuse of “not being a runner.”

Perhaps it was no coincidence that my wedding ring was becoming harder and harder to remove. Heaven knows that my ever-stiffening joints certainly weren’t winning any prizes. And neither were my arteries, which I was certain were clogging by the second, as I approached the day of forty candles on my cake. Trust me, the race I was running had little to do with shoes and trails and gentle morning breezes. And a whole lot more to do with frenzied to-do lists and sprinting around a track of repetitive tasks in search of some unattainable finish line; never really sure of that which I was seeking.

But now, I’m the one who’s laughing, because grace had a different plan and it all began with an invitation. A gentle coaxing to “come and see” that meant laying down my skepticism and trying something new. So under the cover of a lonely country road in broad daylight I placed my trust in a blossoming friendship and began learning, foot fall by foot fall, to run a different kind of race. At first, I was only able to run a few paces before my head felt ready to explode. Then, another day and another; each with a little less bending over, hands to knees. Then one mile led to five followed by ten until the self-talk of the impossible was forced to flee.

And the forty candles came and went and brought with it a new understanding of what it means to step off the hamster-wheel of constantly glancing at the clock and the list and leaning toward a tape that’s not really there anyway. The new race really isn’t a race at all, but a time to reflect on what my life seeks; a tough thing to ponder if I’m always in a rush.

Running the country roads with my pasture pounding friends has helped me establish a new cadence that has changed my day-in-day-out rhythm of house and work and kids and marriage and faith. The route remains the same but, where my gaze was once downward in a fast-paced rat race of drudgery, my eyes now focus upward in slow appreciation of the narrow path that my feet no longer have to run frantically about to find. I’m becoming familiar with the slow and steady tempo of this new race as I retrace each memorized step by heart.

And wouldn’t you know it? Those same crazy running people who bless my life every day also like to break out into the song-of-the-race darn near any chance they get. Which is why you’ll see them all, the fast ones right along side the slow ones like me, at the Lord’s Acre Celebration on Saturday November 7th in Powell Butte.

Please accept my sincere invitation to come early for the 9:00 a.m. Walk/Run and join me in slowing down and knowing why you race. Then, perhaps you will find what it is you seek. And that would be an important thing to know.

Oh Yeah! Well My Mom Can Kill A Horse!

Most days I think I'm fairly well equipped to parent my children. I've only had a few instances in my fifteen-plus years of motherhood where doubt crept in and I was ready to call Child Services on myself. But, I swear, I always went straight to the Customer Service counter when I heard my name over the store intercom and couldn't find Junior under the clothing racks. And eating half-a-bottle of fluoride only gave my other kid really bad gas. So, all in all, I should be able to steer clear of a visit from Super Nanny as long as she doesn’t visit the local park where the sweet sound of children’s voices is only occasionally interrupted by one of my own yelling “Oh Yeah!? Well, MY MOM can kill a horse!”

So, maybe my attempt at raising kids on a farm hasn’t been all apple orchards and sweet tea, okay? They keep sneaking out the door and running barefoot through rattle snake country! And no amount of Dr. Oz episodes will keep them from kissing the farm dogs on the lips. Seriously, have you ever SEEN what farm dogs eat in an average day? Blek, ptooey, yuck, cough!

So, yeah, I’ll admit it. There was this one time that I came dangerously close to losing the best hundred-bucks I ever spent. Her name is Joanie-The-Big-Fat-Pony. She's got the cutest thighs and belly you've ever seen, but if she so much as sniffs a blade of grass or alfalfa hay? It's over, people. She's down for the count; moaning and bloated and full of more gas than Uncle Festus.

Joanie-The-Big-Fat-Pony came to us one Easter morning a couple years ago by way of the Easter Bunny. And I have a very faint memory of some mention by the previous owners of something along the lines of something like, "don't feed the pony EVER or she'll blow up like a balloon and die!" or something like that.

So it wasn't long after we got Her Royal Fatness home before those final instructions came crashing back into the forefront of my brain; the same brain that must have Italian roots somewhere in its lineage, because I like to feed my children and my man, and every animal we own, lots of treats and good food. After all, we Italian Mamas know that food makes people happy! Oh, and we yell sometimes. But I already confessed my quota of bad-parenting habits today, so let's move on.

And anyway, I'm better now. About the food, that is. I love that pony like she’s one of my own kids and it pains me to see her lame and groaning. So when the day finally came that she presented signs of having done snuck into her boyfriend's stash of clover, it was the last straw. I rounded up the cow-pokes that live under my roof and eat my food and made them build me a fence.

So Joanie-The-Big-Fat-Pony is behind bars now. The tabloids will be dishing that she's in rehab and pregnant; or taping an episode of Nip Tuck. But don't you believe a word of it. She serves her time patiently, gets a pedicure and is then released early for good behavior. So she can get back to the joy of doing what God created her to do.

If you’d like to learn more about how NOT to kill your pony, come to the Central Oregon Ranch Supply’s Round-Up & Trade Show this weekend in Powell Butte. It’ll take place Friday night and all day Saturday. There’ll be live entertainment, really good food and screaming deals on farm stuff. Super Nanny is busy taping new episodes, but you can visit with plenty of other experts about your four-legged animals, to be sure.

Grateful for the things money can't buy.

DANG, you people work hard!  Having grown up a-little-bit-city, a-little-bit-country (and a-little-bit-rock-n-roll), I thought I knew a thing or two about working hard.  It appears, however, that my Crook County compadres are part Energizer Bunny or something, because the amount of blood, sweat and tears being shed on behalf of our communities has me thinking that I don’t know bupkis about hard work.

To re-cap the last few weeks in my corner of the county; there was this little thing called The County Fair where some 4-H and FFA kids pretty much knocked-one-out-of-the-park.  Some donated their livestock auction proceeds to their school or to friends in need. Then there were about 52 car washes up and down the Prine-Vegas strip.  Some football players delivered a few (thousand) sticks of firewood.  And countless cans and bottles have been sorted, hauled and recycled.  This is all in addition to the hay-hauling, horse-breaking, lawn-mowing and cattle-driving most of these tykes do from sun-up ‘til coach blows the whistle for daily-doubles to start.  Just writing about it makes me thirsty for some electrolytes!

To be perfectly honest, the whole business of this slogging economy puts me in a quandary most days. I went to high school in the 80’s; when hair was big, my Daddy’s business was growing gang-busters and the Folks made sure I had everything they never got.  Well, my hair is still big, my parents are comfortably retired and I long to bring, buy and take my kids everywhere!  I want to give them cable TV, a new car for their 16^th birthday and a fully-funded college education, complete with spending allowance.  But the only way to accomplish all that is to also pass on to them a home that’s mortgaged to the hilt when I die.  Some gift that would be, huh?

If left to my own devices I’d spoil my children into sweet oblivion because I’m a Mother and it’s what I do.  I could also protect them right into becoming 30-year-olds who live in my basement, but that’s another topic for another time.  Instead, it is entirely possible that the state of my checking account just might save me from myself and teach me to be grateful for the things that money CAN’T buy.

‘Tis the season when Moms like me are worried that their kid will get nothing more than a swirly in the locker room from the varsity players.  Instead, the coaches, parents, and upperclassmen are mentoring him with a heavy dose of the knowledge that the helping hand he needs is at the end of his own arm.  They send him home dirty, sweaty and unafraid to work hard again the next day.  The side effects of this work-before-play regiment are camaraderie, teamwork and a trickle-down to the younger siblings back at home (the work-ethic that is, not the swirly).

Ask almost any parent and they’ll tell you they wish they could cut a check for the whole enchilada.  Ask any of the hard-working kids and they’ll tell you about the impromptu motivational speaker they just delivered that last load of firewood to.  You know the guy no one would think to invite to speak in an auditorium, but who can describe the winning season of ’84 play-by-play, then, tell your kid how much he believes his Alma Mater can do it again!  No amount of money can buy that kind of mojo my friends.  Because the only place that success ever comes before work is in the dictionary.

Open spaces and happy faces at the Crook County Fair.

 Hey everybody it’s County Fair time! So don’t even bother cooking in your hot kitchen August 5^th through the 8^th because who wants to cook when you can eat elephant ears and Pepsi for breakfast, lunch and dinner?  This year our family has been working extra hard to get our prize-winning pigs ready for show, and if you’ve ever been a 4-H or FFA member you know exactly what I’m talking about.  So, in the spirit of good sportsmanship I thought you might enjoy a glimpse of my latest Showmanship Training Tutorial.  I know that every good showman likes to use what works best for them, but feel free to use the following for your 4-H or FFA instructional purposes as well.

The goal when entering the show ring with your hog at the County Fair, see is to basically be superhuman. First and foremost, SMILE! Then, keep your eyes on the judge at all times, even though the sweat and dust are making you feel like you’ve just been sprayed at point-blank-range with mace.  Also, keep your pig under control, don't let your pig fight with the other pigs, and please SMILE.  Then steer your pig with a tiny stick (even though you'd rather use a lead pipe).  At all times keep SMILING, answer the judge's questions like you've owned a feed store all your life, then SMILE some more.  Follow your pig calmly (even when it’s doing pirouettes across the show ring), smack your pig with the show cane only when the judge ‘aint lookin', and move your pig fast if the pig next to you starts to poo.  Last, but not least, try to avoid eye contact with Mom because she'll try and communicate with you in some ridiculous sign language that only Mothers understand and, above all, SMILE dang-it! Grandma's in the bleachers!

Once you’ve made it through the harrowing experience of showing the animals, it’s time to move on to the highlight of the County Fair!  For my kids, that would be the Livestock Auction. It takes place August 8^th at 3:30 pm and it’s when those hard-working youngsters get to stuff their pockets (and college savings accounts?) full of money in exchange for (gulp) wrapping prize-winning hog in white butcher paper. I love watching the confused looks on the faces of my friends from the big city during this celebratory event.  Sick, aren’t I?

The bidding starts out modestly enough but quickly escalates to generous "donations" being made by all the local businesses that my kids “invite” to flirt with bankruptcy on auction day. Of course, these are usually the same local heroes the kids have already shelled out large sums of (my) money to for items such as feed and brushes, fencing and shampoo, water troughs and, let’s not forget, new tires for Mom's poor tread-less car.  Not to mention bottled water, more bottled water and a few tubs of red vines for sustenance.  Which reminds me, I seriously hope someone invited Costco to place a few bids at the Auction this year. They owe me big!

The Livestock Auction is also the evening BEFORE the-great-day-of-weeping-and-gnashing-of-teeth, also known as the day Wilbur gets hauled off in a butcher's truck. I've been around this block a time or two though, which is why my Peeps will be gorging themselves at Dairy Queen at approximately the same time the truck arrives.  And that’s when I will probably bring up the small matter of my fee.

It's not the Fourth of July without apple pie.

The neighbors are moving.  They mentioned something about greener pastures; for their horses.  I’ll miss their friendly hellos over the fence and, my gelding-who-thinks-he’s-a-stud, is totally gonna miss those mares.  I really liked the new neighbors too, and wish I’d taken the time to bake them a pie when they moved in just a few short months ago.

I don’t have much of an excuse really.  Every new neighbor deserves a pie or a bag of Oreo’s or something.  My excuses get even weaker when you take into account that I live in one of those hobby farm developments where, even though I can’t shoot a varmint, I get to shovel manure and wake up to a rooster’s crow like the big boys (the “big boys” being the cattle and hay ranchers that surround us but don’t seem to mind our rabbit hutches all that much).  After all, they can count on my goats and two horses to generate a steady one-and-a-half ton hay sale each year! Cha-Ching!

My country neighborhood even has an Annual Meeting where folks can connect and discuss important things like barking dogs and yard art.  And for those of us who don’t own forty or a hundred or a thousand acres, this is important stuff!  My favorite part of the meetings, however, is getting to know the new people; well that, and the platter of brownies.

Now more than ever seems like a really good time to actually know ones neighbors don’t you think?  People are hurting and worried and some are unemployed.  But any setback has the potential of turning into a comeback and kindheartedness from a neighbor can make all the difference in the world. The naysayers would have you believe that the gesture of a pie means you have to take on another person’s problems but don’t you believe it!  Because a hand-shake over the fence or an offer to help unload a car-full of Costco is how communities form.  And when someone feels like they’re part of a community they tend to want to stay; even when times are tough.

In her new book “I Love A Man In Uniform,” Lilly Burana says…”what intimidates us also instructs us and shows us, in part, who we’d like to be…”  So call me old-fashioned.  Call me a total nerd if you want to and I won’t deny it.  I wore that blue and gold FFA jacket in high school with confidence and pride my friends.  I lived through the teasing to reap the benefits of travel and speech writing, scholarships, trade missions and a Future Farmer husband too. Because I believe in another great saying; “rejecting things because they are old-fashioned would rule out the sun and the moon – and a mother’s love.”

So, yeah, the neighbors are moving and I hope they find what they’re looking for.  But, as for me; I’m resolving to take a pie to whoever moves into the neighborhood next.

Parenting 101: He who holds the keys also holds my heart.

I've been a Mother for 15 years. Actually, if you count all the bossing and mothering I did of my little brother, that number is more like 20 years. I had so much practice on him that by the time my own three children came along it felt as natural as anything.

Well, the bossing part anyway.

The administrative arm of parenting isn’t that hard for me.  It’s like following a recipe of sorts; start with a good calendar, add a pinch of prayer, a dash of Grandma’s advice to clean one thing every single day and a healthy application of duct tape over my sometimes critical mouth.  Those are the ingredients that help keep the gears of my household from grinding to a halt. The rogue element that continues to threaten my well-maintained stiff upper lip, however, is the fact that there are three little pairs of legs running around in the world with my heart firmly attached to them.

Don't get me wrong. I love that twerp-of-a-brother I used to boss around as much as the next sister. But "birthing-a-child" and "bossing-a-sibling" are on two different emotional playing fields, my friends. The first can take your breath away with a love so deep for your man and the child you created with him that you can be soaring to the highest heights one minute and worrying yourself into a pit of despair the next. The second is just plain entertainment; where the latest earth-shattering conflict can usually be solved with a hearty game of rock-paper-scissors.

Somehow the sum total of all my training works together for good, making me pseudo-confident (on most days) that my four-hundred-plus years of mad-mothering-skills should make me an expert by now. And, if not an "expert" then, at least not surprised anymore by all the crazy emotions, right?  RIGHT?!?

So, last week when I celebrated my 15th Anniversary of answering to the name of "Hey Mom," I considered it a mighty milestone in a career that manages to present me with a new emotional fact scenario almost daily. But, interestingly, the tables had turned ever-so-slightly on this particular day of celebration.

Fifteen years ago I was giddy and high-fiving everyone in the hospital room. I was eating popsicles and had butterflies in my stomach. I was so excited for what lay ahead that I could hardly stand the waiting any longer.

Twelve hours of hard work in the birthing suite, one little trip to the emergency room, a few years shaved off my husband's life and out came the present I'd been waiting to hold my whole life!

He was perfect! He was soft!  He was cuddly and he was all-mine to hug and hold forever!  Or so I thought.

Fast forward fifteen years and he's still pretty doggone perfect. Muscles, sweat and the scent of fresh cut firewood have replaced the softness and baby blue pajamas that used to smell like Dreft laundry soap. I have to pay him a dollar for almost every hug, his high pitched "Mommies" have turned into deep, smooth "Moms" and I'm slowly learning to share more of his time and amazing gifts with a world that is crying-out for hope, leadership and a few manners.

On this special day he's the one with butterflies and high-fives. I have the privilege of watching from the sidelines as the hours of studying pay off in the form of a driver's permit and the car keys he's been waiting to hold in his hands his whole life!

“Oh child,” I want to say. “You have no idea how many wonderful things you will wait your whole life to hold in your hands.”

Each FIRST time will seem like it took forever to get here and you'll want to hold on so tight. Then, one day, you'll discover that the measure of a man (and a Mom) is in the letting go.

Many roads can lead you home but some might make you car sick.

I’ve driven to my Man’s home-town of Condon on many different occasions and via an assortment of roads during our 22 years of marriage.  I could probably even get away with saying I grew up there; but for the fact that the town is so small people might think I’m married to my cousin.  Last month’s trip was different from previous trips on many levels.  For one, it was the end of an era for our family as my Husband became a member of the fraternity that most people don’t look forward to joining; having lost the second of both parents.  The long and winding trek back home to Condon for my Mother-in-Law's Memorial Service was also sweet as hundreds gathered to testify about her life, her loving spirit and her tendency to over-fill the pantry with way too many cans of tuna fish that were “best before 1999.”

I was reminded over and over again of my Mother-in-Law’s steadfast focus on the one thing that overshadowed all other matters in her life; sitting at the feet of Jesus.   I was also reminded by friends and family that there truly isn’t any nice, neat way to get to Condon, Oregon.  You can come at it from all manner of directions on the map but none are very straight or easy.  On this trip home, however, I may have found my favorite path.

We arrived in Condon via the Madras-to-Antelope-to-Fossil route which can only be described as Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride meets The Matterhorn!  The kids’ faces were green for two hours after our arrival but, thankfully, they slept it off because the Dramamine had finally kicked in.

And since I try to live my life by the “don’t-be-stupid-twice” principle we made our way back to Powell Butte a few days later via the Fossil-to-Mitchell-to-Prineville turnpike, which is much more like It’s a Small World.  The Route 26 Expresso shop in Mitchell serves up a soothing Mexican Mocha and even the farmers seemed to be queued-up by an invisible conductor to gently plow under the rich earth just as I drove by.

Every time we visit my Man's quaint home-town I'm struck by how much it reaches into my soul and stirs up all my Laura Ingalls Wilder blood. I see his childhood roots with fresh eyes and fall in love all over again with the small town that raised him. And I do mean small. So tiny, in fact, that Main Street is just four blocks long, which requires the annual Fourth of July parade to turn around and make another pass each year, just so the on-lookers can justify making the long drive from their respective ranches.

The weekend of The Memorial was no different. From the moment our truck crested that last hill, and left the hours of never-ending fields and ranches behind, I was captivated again; drawn in by the sudden explosion of green trees and grain silos that jump up and appear - seemingly out of no where; like a mirage in this desert of barren, dormant earth. Soon though, the whole landscape will turn a vibrant green, as the young wheat grass pushes forth for miles around. But it won't last long because, as spring gives way to summer, the golden heads of wheat will mature and dry, leaving the town to stand alone again as a lush, green oasis.

His family home sits just above Main Street. A two-story, modest and perfectly square box, built by the hands of his Father and chock-full of almost forty years-worth of precious family treasures. But treasure-hunting wasn't the main reason for our pilgrimage home this weekend. No, this trip was meant for remembering my Mother-in-Law, Patricia McLane.  Her burial was simple and sweet; conducted by Prineville’s Father Rob Greiner who also grew up in Condon. Her chicks and grand-chicks circled-up and gave thanks for her life, then prayed for their own and embraced the challenge to go forth and step into a legacy that would make her proud.

It was during this trip that I realized there will always be many pressing things to capture my time and attention.  But oh how much I can learn from one precious Mother-in-Law, in one very small town, who chose to live as if the only thing that counted is faith expressing itself through love.

There are many roads that lead back to my second home, Condon, Oregon.  And while that town may take up a small amount of space on the map, it has grown to fill up a gigantic amount of space in my heart.

This little golf course has a big heart for kids.

When my first child was born I distinctly remember saying that I would let him play any sport except football.  I also remember having some ridiculous idea in my head about not allowing him to have plastic weapons.  Now he’s a fifteen-year-old football fanatic who can talk your ear off about optimal bow tension, drawing tags and the politics behind the now, back-ordered, AR-15.  And this Mama has learned the fine art of shutting her trap, opening her Bible and getting a hobby or two.

During his toddler years I was so focused on my grand agenda of training first-born what NOT to do that I clearly missed the fact that Grampy was sneaking through the back-door with an agenda all his own.  And this one involved putters, drivers and tees.  Grampy’s scheme didn’t register with me because I was fairly certain that, although Nanny and Grampy live on a “fayn-cee” golf course, my manure-caked muck boots would probably never grace one.  In fact, I’m still shocked every time the nice man at their neighborhood entrance allows my car through the gate without first making me turn around and head straight for the nearest car wash.  The ridiculous distance I have to travel to even get to a golf course, combined with my child’s overall aversion to collared shirts, lulled me into thinking that his indoctrination into all things Tiger Woods would never actually stick.

Perhaps now you’re beginning to understand why my kids aren’t really lying when they say, “Mom, you live in a world of unicorns where everyone eats rainbows and poops butterflies.”  And I truly have no defense, other than the fact that we Mothers sometimes live in a parallel universe.  It’s called survival.

So, while I’m frantically knitting socks in an effort to cope with my fear of blunt-head-trauma on the grid-iron, Grampy is chipping away at my eldest’s character development and planting seeds of a much more productive nature on the putting green; proof positive that parents still know best…sometimes.

That’s when I stumbled upon this little known gem-of-a-golf-course called Meadow Lakes.  Right here in my own backyard!  And I holler at my husband, with much weeping and gnashing of teeth, “Why, oh why, didn’t you teach our kids to play golf!?!”  After which, I receive a blank stare followed by a very long pause.

Okay, that whole weeping-and-gnashing-of-teeth thing never really happened, but it helps drive home my point about how I sometimes live one life for and through my kids while another, even better one, is unfolding right before my eyes, despite my phobias, biases and unicorns.  And THAT, my friends, is the power of prayer.

So, this little golf course with a big heart for kids just up and topples every stuffy judgment I’ve ever held about golf courses.  Everyone, from staff to instructors, encourages, trains and smacks my kid up-side the head when necessary.  Kind-hearted Lori mans her post behind the pro-shop counter like the Woman-In-Charge that she is and her trusty binoculars let her know when it’s time for some well-placed instruction over the loud speaker, telling my boy to “Ease up on your grip and quit trying to kill the ball!”  Rude manners are corrected, hard work is the standard and the free entertainment is listening to the twin brothers bicker on the next green about who’s ball went in the water and why it’s the other one’s fault!

Every now and then I get a glimpse of what life might be like one day when the kids are grown and I no longer have to worry about them.  Finally, I’ll be able to trade my knitting needles for a set of irons and leave all my unicorns behind......