Fishing With Moses

Yeah, that's funny.

Fishing is serious business though. It can feed you, you know - and not just in the way you're thinking. Sure, we can fish for dinner. But we can also fish for a soul. And that's where my friend, Mandy, and The Adventure Project comes in.

She - and perhaps you right along with her - are going to train a well mechanic in India.
You heard me.
A mechanic.
For wells.
In India.

Check it out.

And avoid fishing with Moses.

Stick 'Em On Your Rear

I've seen some pert-good bumper stickers in my day.  From the hysterical to the philosophical to the political to the grammatical, if I'm not laughing, I'm groaning (sometimes "That's just wrong" seems oh-so-right).

Textbooks have filled my brain with knowledge - which the Good Book gives a good washing - and now I fill young minds with knowledge...and maybe a little washing, too. But some of life's best nuggets have come from neither. No, its bumper stickers that have served our culture as sheriff, judge, town cryer, gossip rag, and epitaph on the social struggles we deem just another day in paradise.

For instance, more than one car's backside has testified that  

Pain is inevitable, misery is optional and  

He who laughs last thinks slowest. 

It's likely no good testimony to my character to confess I've laughed uproariously at

Could You Drive Any Better If I Shoved That Cell Phone Up Your A*%?  

and nodded gravely to  

Confidence is the feeling you have before you understand the situation. 

Eschew obfuscation 

actually means something to me - which appeals to my not-so-inner elitist.

But aren't these social discourses a bit more than a laugh and tickle? I mean, look at how long I've just spent writing about a lesser-valued genre of lower written English: what more could we say given 25 characters or less?

1 Pet. 3:15 instructs, "But in your hearts revere Christ as Lord. Always be prepared to give an answer to everyone who asks you to give the reason for the hope that you have." If that command was the driving force of stickers upon the bumper, perhaps we'd get to the heart of the matter with decals like these.

The Seating Preference
          Eternity: Smoking or Non-Smoking?

The Zealot

        Hope dies last!

The Bottom Line

          God Bless Our Troops.

The Golden Rule

          Be human.

The Curiously Likely

         The More You Complain, The Longer God Makes You Live.

The Stuff at the End

         Don't put a question mark where God put a period.

Good reasons. Good answers. Good hope.

Why not stick 'em on your rear?

The Door Latch

I was thinking lately of how many idioms we have using the door as metaphor. Can you come up with a few? Yeah, me too.

• "Bar the door, Katy!" (I don't know what that one means, either)
• Falling through the trap door
• Beat a path to your door
• Door-to-door
• Get your foot in the door
• Dead as a door-nail
• Go back door

And let us not forget the door's most famous euphemism: When one door closes, another opens.

Seems we Americans like our doors...as long as they're gleaming red with polished brass handles, sturdy knockers, beveled glass panes and very - and I mean VERY well-oiled hinges.

I'm reading a memoir about an author's varied, heart-wrenching-and-elating adventures as an ambassador with Population Services International, with which she works to improve Public Health on a global scale. As is always the case with memoir, the reader must enter into a dual willingness: to become - however temporarily - a part of the writer's world while also distinctly separating enough from it to actually consider it. After all, one gets quite little from a life story they become rather than experience.

Needless to say, then, I find myself pulling back from some of her messages and leaning toward others. But there is one - and really JUST one - that grabbed me by the intellectual, and perhaps, emotional collar and held with the grip of human compassion - a tight-fisted advocate, to be sure. What was it? Americans are privileged. And we don't know it. Can't know it. Not really. Because, like reading a fine memoir, you can't experience it if you are it. We are Americans: we don't know any different. Nor do we know any better, actually, but not for the reasons non-Americans think: we're not ignorant or proud or self-centered. At least not all of us, and not all of the time. What we are is, quite simply, what we are. And, for as good as we've got it, there's little better with which to compare.

So what's the point? Let us not stop there! Let's go further! Do more. See more. Go bigger. However, whenever, we can. Let us not stand on the threshold of our contented door and look to the world, near and far, and say, "I am privileged. I have enough. There is nothing better beyond my door." If we do, we are then living - trapped - by our doors...our gleaming red, polished brass handled, glass beveled, oily hinged doors.


Ralph Waldo Emerson writes, "Men live on the brink of myteries and harmonies into which they never enter. And with their hand on the door latch, they die outside."

Whatever view your porch offers, THERE is your place of impact. THERE is your place of purpose. THERE is your place of mystery and harmony, waiting for discovery. THERE is your way to live.

Being privileged, you know, is not a crime. 

Leaving your hand on the door latch is.

235

Aaron Sorkin is a good writer.

Say what?

Why would I start a 4th of July entry with that statement? Because he's the chief writer of the expertly-tweaked cadence of The West Wing (seasons 1-3) and American President. As such, he wrote the following excerpt from that movie, one of my favorites about our country.


America isn't easy. America is advanced citizenship. You gotta want it bad, 'cause it's gonna put up a fight. It's gonna say "You want free speech? Let's see you acknowledge a man whose words make your blood boil, who's standing center stage and advocating at the top of his lungs that which you would spend a lifetime opposing at the top of yours. You want to claim this land as the land of the free? Then the symbol of your country can't just be a flag; the symbol also has to be one of its citizens exercising his right to burn that flag in protest. Show me that, defend that, celebrate that in your classrooms. Then, you can stand up and sing about the "land of the free".

No, America isn't easy. But it's worth it...by far. My FB status today reads, "America, 235 years ago, you were an experiment. A daring dream. A defining hope. Today, you are the reason I can choose my husband, buy property, vote, and celebrate a God-given right to pursue life and happiness. Happy Birthday: you are the land of the free and the home of the brave." This is true. Startling. But true.


240 years ago, there was no United States of America. I was considered property, to be bartered and bargained for additional land holdings or advantageous family mergers. I would have had no money, little or no education, and should the arranged husband take the notion, he could abscond with my children - who would have been my only light and hope in an otherwise shadowy existence. And, though it took some solid decades for our country to grant me full freedom from such snares, it did. The fact that the time is enumerated in generations rather than centuries is more impressive and less dejecting, if you want the truth. Nations existing six times as long still aren't there yet and, if their tenets of priority and purpose are any indication, they never will be.


You have to want America. But she'll give you way more back than you'll ever give to her. 

I am a patriot.

I am proud to be an American.

I am proud of our troops who promote democracy and freedom, here and abroad. 

My heart is reverent toward those who've died for the idea, laid down life for the cause.

So Happy Birthday, America.

You are not perfect, but you are brave. 

You are the stuff of dreams and the land of opportunity. 

You are the impossible made real...one nation, under God, indivisible.

You are free.

For 235.

Never Really Ends

In A Place to Grow, I tossed a few renderings on midwestern upbringing, which seemed to be a bit of a theme for me this trip. Each time we return to Iowa, I scoop up a new marble of reflection on the differences between big city life and what amounts to country rhythm, at least in comparison. I think we usually stick with what's familiar when offering a thumbs-up but, this time, I saw more pluses for the Heartland.

"Such as?" you say??

Well, the pace for one. Here, most everyone's gong or coming in lieu of just sitting - which is more what you schedule, less how you live. There, porches are for swings and fireflies; cutoffs and sweet tea - which you can actually order at a restaurant, by the way. Here, if you want sweet tea, they bring you the fountain stuff and direct you to the Sweet-n-Low on the table. Uh, not the same...at all.

Or how about the pride? Now and again, I'll catch a mention of a youth's big endeavor on the local midday news. Conversely, The Quad City Times has a section every Sunday announcing engagements, 25th wedding anniversaries, and weddings. Whole columns in the daily run are devoted to scholarship recipients and 4-H ribbon winners, proving that there really is something to gain by keeping it small - especially since, in a 450K populated city, those posts would be a newspaper in themselves.

And, pray, do not get me started on how much cheaper it is to live there: a gallon milk, dozen eggs, 1/2 gallon of ice cream, and a pound of fresh-sliced spiral ham (um, can I even get that at my deli counter?) for the same price as three boxes of cereal here? My wallet does a happy dance!

Small (or at least smaller) town living is still going strong: if big cities are the wings of industry and technology, small towns are the roots that got them there. And it's good to know impromptu drop-bys and fellas who still open all your doors, tipping their baseball caps still exist in our beloved midwest corners of the earth because, seriously, those are long-forgotten traditions in these necks of the woods.

I'm proud of midwestern roots and even prouder to know great people who still live there, farming for near povertous wages in a lifestyle few city folk would understand. Now, I love where I live, and the people here are their own kind of marvelous - but who says you can't go home? It's always there, reminding you of history and childhood, and the things that made you you.

So if it's the South, the North, the East or the West...or somewhere far and abroad... give a nod to your homeland, your very own heart-land, if you will: 

after all, home is where your story begins...and never really ends.

To Take Along, Too

After the rigors (and rewards) of discovering Just What I Needed, it was off to High Country.

Aside: Did you know the term designates the area of land laying above the piedmont but below the timberline? And what's a piedmont, you ask? Don't know. But I'm smitten with the term "High Country" anyway because a sojourn to Summit County always include an interlude from sanity into the bliss of a Rocky Mountain High. Or, in 60's terms, I dig it.

This year, we sold our outgrew-it timeshare; but, since not traversing to the "Got Oxygen?" altitude of circa 14K feet was a no-go, I set out to find a gem in Dillon. What I hunted up led to this shot Zitz took from our back balcony deck.

I brandished a similar shot to my brother while visiting in Iowa. His snappy comeback? "Hate you."
Well, I'd not fall in love with me either if this was dangled in front of my living-in-IA face (no offense, home state...it's hard to compare).

We trekked up with the Zitzmann's and our collective 8 children to take over our two adjoining condos for a few days of summer fun. Catching a getaway with this treasured family isn't a novel concept since we've hit a few over the years, but this was our first longer-term overnighters endeavor. In dating terms, I'd guess it'd be akin to the first trip away together. And, let me tell ya, coordinating 8 kids, 4 adults, 5 meals, and all the sundries related, is no small feat. But "fun" emerged as the label of the day, and good times (and good memories) were made by all.

We hit Keystone Village to feed the giant rainbow trout and geese on the lake.

Judd's hands looked like this most of the morning, accompanied with a rather urgent, "Need more food! Need more food!" Of course, he fed them one kernel at a time.

We also did a week bit of hiking along Sapphire Point where we emptied the bag of sunflower seeds - a local favorite that's one of those "might be outside recommendations but the rangers smile on it anyway" scenarios. 

 From toddlerhood, Grace had a way with the four-legged variety of friends...then along came Elijah showing the same zing for fur and wing.

But this was our first experience watching Judd render the same mojo. Their personalities are so different from one another - it's a joy to see a not-too -shabby commonality bloom between them.

Off the beaten path (but starting in a paved parking lot, go figure), the hiking path leads to this grand shot...one you've seen each year if you've been a Renderings reader for a while.

 

We even snagged a shot of just the two of us on "the rock" - aka the spot where everyone takes their Christmas card picture. I don't recall having one like this since before Gracie. Thanks, Zitz.

And, to make the outing perfect, Elijah took my hand while we hiked along a stretch together...

...which is another marking of a faithful Rendering reader - you know how I love snapshots of my kiddos' hands and feet. Someone asked why last week: I posted on FB that it was because, one day when they're big, they'll be reminders of how they once were so small.

No trip to the Point would be complete without this annual shot:

I've been taking it since Elijah was a wee one - I could line them up in a row to see the age progression of Big Daddy and Little Bebes. Love that.

Before we knew it, it was time to begin the next leg of vacay - the 900+ miles to Iowa.

This year, I was determined to remember to grab this view heading down and out. 

I'm always a bit wistful at this point, with the miles of High Country stretching behind rather than ahead. 

But my spirits lift knowing it's not a one-time wonder, but a place we can escape to time and again.

Which makes me sad for out-of-state visitors, but glad I live where I do...

and that we have friends-like-family to take along, too.

A Place to Grow

It seems there are always a few bits of sublime which escape from the trappings of a midwestern girl's mind - and are recollected quite swiftly, I discovered today, through a drive down a highway in the Heartland...

...where it's green. And lush. Think resplendent, sun-kissed tops of trees trunked far longer than the generations of farmers tilling around them. These groves aren't the tall and proud of California or the pungent pricklies of Colorado; rather, these are the gnarly old men of the forestry retirement village, knotted with age but medaled with valor shown in the tales they tell of old.

...where it's moist. Yeah, on the blades of grass. In the molecules of air. And within every pore of skin.
They call it humidity: I call it a cruel sense of atmospheric humor.

...where it's smelly. Because of the soybean plants. And the cow pies. And the pig pens.
But it's not all foul: there's also the smell of fresh-cut grass and wildflowers and generally unadulterated, non-city, "desmogged" midwest tipped with tinges of sun tea and thunderstorms.

...where it's friendly. Five people...in a row...said, "Excuse me" for reasons I've yet to explain: I find myself heady, nevertheless, after the experience with comparatively utopian social behavior. Don't even ask me to comprehend the foreign craziness that lurks behind the random "Good morning"s thrown at me: good-manner overload! (Sorry, Colorado: you are lacking on this one).

...where it's history. It's my town - "where I was born, where I was raised, where I keep all my yesterdays" - and where I'm shoring up a few more with the next generation...like catching fireflies for the first time tonight.

In the weeks following, you'll be forced to endure an onslaught of photos documenting these very renderings but, in the meantime, I'll be pondering how the sublime really isn't when it shows you how you've changed, evolved, gotten bigger and (maybe) grown up, too.

Cuz I'm in I.O.W.A.

And it's "A Place to Grow".

The Way of the Winds

In the last approximately 45 hours spent awake, two-thirds of that has found me outside.

And let me tell 'ya: It. Is. Windy.

Saturday morning, we headed to some friends' house to tackle some landscaping projects. When was the last time you got to enjoy serving someone else in a big way solely for the reward of knowing you blessed them?
(Confession time: Ok, ok...we ate scrumptious BBQ after our labor. But we would have done it for nothing. Honestly.) Then came the cool of the passing clouds to dip the mercury and cool the day.

Sunday we basked in the calm of "The Day Before Memorial Day BBQ" at another friend's house. The wind was brisk but refreshing; the company eclectic but inviting. We ate good food, met new people, and sat in the shade of a giant evergreen. Win, win, win.

Today, the kids and I hit the front and back yards for some grass mowing, dandelion digging, edge trimming, bush watering, and new patio set-enjoying. Judsen kept exclaiming, "I blow away! I blow away!" Yep, those gusts of 54 mph could almost do it. Yet, the winds were warm and a welcome visitor when you're baking under the sun scooping out irksome weeds.

Bottom line? You just can't beat the crisp mountain air with the backdrop of snow-sugared Pikes Peak to accompany the necessary tending any land demands. I find I'm less irritated and more celebratory when I scope the picture with that lens...and it makes the cold beers and Dairy Queen dipped cones all the more pleasing when the bitter taste of weather woes go the way of the very winds which brought the troubles to begin with.

911

It does seem fitting that perhaps the most tragic day in our nation's modern history shares its digits with the nationally recognized code for emergency distress - distressed was certainly how I felt in the aftermath of that event.

In the summer of 2001, we'd just moved to the Springs with Grace in tow, just a mere 7 months after her birth. We were staying with Craig's mom and I had just gotten an unusually cranky infant back to sleep when, bleary eyed, I decide to give up the effort at sleep and head upstairs for coffee. I entered the living room to find my mother-in-law already up - and sitting in the living room with the tv on...an unusual workday routine for her. I opened my mouth to ask what was up, but then couldn't tear my eyes from the images on the screen. With her face in her hands, Mom turned to me and said bleakly, "I think a plane flew into the World Trade Center."

So we watched. And waited - with increasing scores of Americans worldwide, tuning in instantly as word rapidly spread. On that couch, sitting next to Mom, silence seemingly hanging thick everywhere, we watched the second plane careening into the second tower - and could only gasp in shock and then weep in despair as it hit its mark.

Last year, we began the process of educating our two oldest children about the events of that day. We explain to them this was a day of passing - passing of dreams and of hopes and securities and, yes, certainly of life. We tell them Satan started that day, but God finished it: we illuminate that truth with stories regaling the heroism of police, firefighters, emergency responders, and everyday passersby, giving their lives to save others. We remind them that heroes lived - and died - in two other places, as well. We explain the Pentagon. And I've told them the story of Flight 93, in as much detail as is yearly appropriate. I tell them of the anthem, "Let's Roll" and how it was the favorite of Todd Beamer who, against all odds and in the face of almost-certain death, gathered flight attendants, a wrestler, a businessman, a teacher, a coach, and a ragamuffin band of other agents to stand against their hijackers...and, in giving their lives, they spared every one of those at The White House or Capitol or some other vital mark.

We do not fill our children with hate for the souls at the controls of those four planes or for any of the master planners, for that matter; though, we certainly tell them that the want to hate is understandable and, perhaps, even practical. Yet, we saw how big the souls of mankind can be that day. We saw acts of goodness heretofore only imagined in the face of such agony. We saw good conquer evil, if only in the aftermath. And, in the end, what else can we teach them? For we do not want them to hate as we are hated, but to love in spite of it.

Because the aftermath is sometimes the only chance we've got to answer the call of 911.

And we remember.

Freedom

I live in the best country in the world.
I don't think others are less. I don't think others are better.
I don't think mine's perfect, and I'm pretty their's isn't, either.

In fact, we've got a lot in common with the countries of the globe, near and far.
We've got weather and currency.
We're burdened with crime and debt and, yes, we try to keep our crazy citizens as much at bay as the Brits or Belgians or Botswanans.
We've fought in wars and shot for the stars.
We even named a dream after ourselves.
Yes, we've tasted success.
And we've also suffered regret.

But America, to me, is the best country in the world because we've got this flag


that warns "Don't tread on me". These stars and stripes woven in the mere threads of a machine but preserved by the beloved blood of our warriors, stand for what sets us apart...the idea that no other country conceives or lives as ours does - freedom.

It is an adage often relegated to the shelf of colloquially cute that informs, "Freedom don't come free." But, as did many of yours, my grandfather, father, father-in-law, and husband fought for that freedom - our freedom...and that cost them greatly. These days, we celebrate the 4th of July as our Independence Day. We mark it with all-American fare like burgers and dogs and a cold one on a deck overlooking the view from the backyard. And we eat and drink and look at whatever we want, saying whatever comes to mind, without license or censure or fear of retaliation.

Now that's freedom.

So we fire off lights in the sky to recall the bombs and the bullets and the boasting of victories that brought our freedom 'round.



We "ooh" and "aah" and cuddle up beneath the starry sky and walk as living proof that, come what may, our flag still stands whether it's a dessert (like the one above) or an homage to the father, husband, brother, wife, mother, or sister fighting far away.

Thank you, God, for our country.

Thank you for our soldiers who defend it.

Thank you for our freedom.

It's a pretty darn good thing.