Lessons from the Starfish

My friend Amy and I had a perfectly wretched year.  Truly.  So when she suggested we celebrate our October birthdays by getting away together, I jumped on it.   What followed was a wonderful, refreshing, restoring time together.  And hopefully a few blog posts.  Here's post #2

I absolutely love to take walks on the beach, especially at sunrise or sunset.  Maybe that's because my husband proposed to me at sunset on a beach in California...beautiful!  I love the feel of sand beneath my feet, the waves that sneak up and cover my toes, sometimes splashing up to my clothes, and the rising or setting sun glimmering on the water.  I look for shells and sea glass, and sometimes collect them.  One year my son collected shark teeth...I think he had more than 20, including a Great White's tooth.  When you walk on the shore, the treasures are amazing.

One of the things I liked most about the Pink Shell Spa and Resort was that it was on an island, and a skinny island at that.  From our room we overlooked the beach and the Gulf of Mexico (for my purposes, the ocean), the sunset side; but when we walked out of our room to the elevator we were looking at the other side of the island...the sunrise side.  The best of both worlds:  I've never stayed someplace where I could see both sunrise and sunset over the water.  "From the rising of the sun til the sun goes down let the name of the Lord be praised..."

And so, we were able to take walks at both sunrise and sunset!

Our first morning walk was on the sunset side, on the gulf.  We walked and picked up some shells, then dropped them down into the sand again, deciding we'd take our shells home by taking pictures.  On this walk we saw sand dollars...not the usually broken, bleached-white ones you usually find, but living sand dollars.  One of them was at least 4 inches across.  We "rescued" them by taking them back to the water and placing them in the waves so they'd live another day.  I have never seen a live sand dollar before, and may not have seen these if not for Amy's eagle eyes.  She spotted the round edge just beneath the sand.  True, we were looking for the kind we could take home, but I think our breath was taken away when we realized that these were still alive.

That morning we also saw a brittle star. Look how dainty and fragile it's arms are! I"ve never seen one of those before.

But our best morning walks were dock-side, the sunrise side.  We were at the end of the island; only a small state park was past us on the road.  So we were able to walk to the park and to the shore in only about 5 minutes, and found a very tranquil spot to watch the sunrise.  And walk the shoreline.
Waves lapped the shore peacefully.  One-legged birds stood at the edge of the water.  A few perched on the "low wake" sign.  A bird dove from the sky and picked up a fish in the water, then flew away. And a starfish rested on the shore.  We watched for a moment or two, and then walked a bit further, hoping we could walk the whole shoreline around the tip of the island and end up on the gulf side, just down the beach from our hotel.  And breakfast.  But a tree at the water's edge was in the way, and we retraced our steps.  5 minutes after we left him, we were back at the starfish.
Do you see the trail?  in 5 minutes or so, that starfish had moved himself about 18 inches.  And yet while we were watching him we hadn't seen him move.  If it weren't for the trail he left, we might not have noticed that his position had changed.  But the little hair-like thingies (technical term) on his underside undulated back and forth and helped him move back toward the water.  Slowly by slowly (one of my favorite Kenyan terms), he moved. 

And I thought, sometimes that's the way God works in my life.  Sometimes the movement is imperceptible, but slowly by slowly he moves me back to the water, to the living water that flows through him.  Without it, I'd die.  I need the water, desperately.  And sometimes I can only tell I've moved closer when I look back after some time, and see the tracks in the sand.  Sometimes, in fact, I might not even realize I'm out of the water until I'm beached high and dry, warming myself in the sun that is not the Son.  But then I hear the water lapping on the shore, and by God's grace, I move toward it.

We saw another kind of starfish there, too.  A sun starfish.  Wild. I had never seen anything like it.We saw this one our first morning dockside.  And we were fascinated.  It was, comparatively, huge.  From the end of one arm to the end of its opposite, I think it was at least the size of a basketball.  We marveled at it for awhile.  The next morning when we went back for sunrise we saw it again, and more of its family, at least a dozen I think, of varying sizes.  Most if not all of them were in the water. And they were still fascinating, even the second day, even seeing a dozen like the first.

We watched, and Amy even took some video, as the sun star "moved."  I can't say I actually saw any movement across the sand, but we did see him raise up an arm or two, and we could see the hair-like thingies moving away underneath, and it felt like Jacques Cousteau's Underwater Adventures (okay, his underwater adventures on a slow day), or some National Geographic special.  I think both of us could have been content to stay and watch for awhile, maybe all morning, as he made his way back to the sea.

But the thing that really fascinated me most was the sun star track.  I wish I had a picture.  I thought I had taken one, but I can't find it.  Amy thought she had taken one too.  Oh well.  This one from Google will have to do, but it's not quite the same as the one we saw:
Do you notice the "claw marks" behind the starfish?  The ones we saw were deep.  Deep.  And they didn't look to me like pushing off marks, or like a trail dragging behind as he moved.  No, the one we saw looked like that sun star was clawing and clinging to the shore with all his might, wanting to stay right where he was.  Not wanting to go back to the sea. Clinging to the "safety" of where he was, even though it was not safety at all.  Even though there he was a "sitting goose" for any predator bird (or human) that came along. 

I'm like that Sun Star, desperately clinging to the shore, to what I know, or think is safe.  And I'm really not at all ready to tell God to take me into deep waters.  I'm generally content upon the shores.   I'm clinging to the shore because I'm afraid of what's in those deep waters. 

And only when I stop and look can I admit that this shore isn't safe either.  But I'm clinging to the sand.  I want to ask God to take me deeper than my feet can wander, where my faith will be made stronger,  but oh, that's scary.  And the best I can hope for is to say with the parent in the Bible, "Yes, I believe.  Help me in my unbelief." 

Leather-Pants Guy, and Other Airline Adventures

My friend Amy and I had a perfectly wretched year.  Truly.  So when she suggested we celebrate our October birthdays by getting away together, I jumped on it.  I am fortunate to have a husband who gave the idea his whole-hearted support.  (And if he wasn't whole-heartedly supporting it, he kept that to himself, because he's like that!)  He even helped us book our trip.  What followed was a wonderful, refreshing, restoring time together.  And hopefully a few blog posts.  This is the first...

Amy was perfectly content to go wherever on our trip.  I suggested warm, because I now live in someplace that gets cold, and this is the beginning of the get cold season.  Coincidentally, I had airline miles that needed to be used or they would expire.  So my job was to figure out where we could go for 80,000 miles.  Tropical.  On the timetable we had available.  The search quickly narrowed to Ft. Lauderdale airport.  Routes from St. Louis would fly through Houston.  Perfect.  That narrowed down, the search was on for hotel/resort.  My only real requirements were: on the beach.  with a pool.  period.  We wound up booking at the "Pink Shell Spa and Resort" in Ft. Myers, just a couple car hours from Ft. Lauderdale, on the Gulf Coast.  Car rental also courtesy of airline miles.

I met up with Amy at the airport in Houston, and we boarded our morning flight to Florida, scheduled for 2 pm arrival.  We'd be at the hotel by 5 pm.  Yay!  We hadn't been in our seats long (Amy aisle, me in middle), when the passenger arrived for the seat across the aisle.  I'm pretty sure he was flying with 3 friends (maybe 4), unless they had somehow just met and hit it off in the airport.  When he walked down the aisle I gave Amy a look.  Kind of a smirk, with my eyes saying "look at this guy."  Obviously middle-aged, he was wearing tight leather pants. Amy looked at him, then looked at me and smiled, with perhaps a bit of a giggle.

Once the plane was loaded, but before we pushed back, he stood up and said, "excuse me.  I have to stretch."  He proceeded to do the splits in the aisle.  All the way down.  Not what I expected when he said he needed to stretch.  I was expecting more of a back stretch.  If I had been drinking some water, I think I would have spit it out.  Amy was cracking up too, but she was facing me.  I looked at her and rolled my eyes like "get a load of that," then looked up and he was looking right at me.  Oops.  It was all I could do to keep from busting out in laughter.  At least two more times during our flight he stood up, excused himself, and did the splits in the aisle.  All without splitting those tight leather pants.  (I think they must have had some spandex in them). 

About halfway into the flight the captain got on the intercom and told us we were making great time and should arrive in Ft. Lauderdale about 20 minutes early.  Even better!  About 20 minutes later he told us there was a bit of a problem and would be a delay, but we should still arrive on time.  Probably about 20 minutes and one leather-pants guy stretch later, he said, "You might notice we've been circling.  There's been a fire at the Ft. Lauderdale airport on the runway, and they are clearing it.  It should be just a little while until we're cleared for landing.  And don't worry, there's plenty of fuel on the plane...enough to circle for about 2 hours"  A groan went up from all aboard.

More circling and another, "Don't worry, we have plenty of fuel"  happened.  And then the pilot announced that the airport was now closed to traffic and it would be at least 2 more hours until we could land.  Oy.  And all the other planes in the air had already diverted to Miami, the closest airport, which was now full.  Double Oy.  Then he said "We are going to be diverting to Ft. Myers airport."  While everyone else was groaning, we let out a little whoop! since Ft. Myers was our final destination.  What luck, we would save the 2 hour drive!

Leather pants guy said to one of his Mates, "Good thing we flew today and not tomorrow, or we would miss our boat." They were heading out of Ft. Lauderdale on a cruise.  Amy and I are both convinced that they were an aging 80's rock band and would be the entertainment on that cruise.  (So convinced in fact, we spent some time that night Googling 80s rock bands to see if we could find a picture of them.)  They had to be a has-been 80s rock group, or they wouldn't have been flying in coach. 

When the plane landed and the pilot said we could wait on the plane, or wait at the gate in the airport, we quickly grabbed our belongings.  We told LPG that this was where we were headed anyway, and he proceeded to jokingly blame us for the runway fire.  Sure wish I would have had the guts to ask him who he was, but he gave us quite a laugh for the rest of our trip. 

So we landed in our ultimate destination (yay!), saved ourselves the 2 hour wait (at least) at the airport until we could head over to Ft. Lauderdale (yay!) and the 2 hour drive back to Ft. Myers (yay!), but unfortunately, our free-rental car didn't transfer to the new airport. (boo!)  Fortunately, we weren't in a rush and Ft. Lauderdale wasn't our final destination.  As we headed to our rental car another girl was heading the same way.  She was on her way to a wedding.  The bachelorette party was at 6.  I'm sure she was going to be late.  Bummer.  We, on the other hand, stopped along the way for a bite to eat, got stuck in a bit of traffic on the way to the hotel, and were still checked in before 5 pm, in time to see our first of 4 beach sunsets!  Beautiful! 

Leather Pants Guy might still have been doing splits in the airport.

When a Costume Is More Than a Costume

Since it's Halloween week I started posting some pics of former Halloweens on my facebook page  and it brought back such memories.  The first costume I made for Matt 
Maybe that's why his favorite fruit to this day is a banana. 

Matt has been pretty easy to costume.  He's been a monkey, a frog, that Plunger Headed Hero, Larry Boy (fans of the VeggieTales should know who I mean), and several Star Wars permutations: a Storm Trouper, Darth Vader, Luke Skywalker and Anakin.  Sometimes creating the costume was a challenge (I used a pattern for the monkey and the frog, but Larry Boy was originally a pattern for a pumpkin, and the Anakin pattern was for a pirate).  One year he was Spiderman.  I bought a pair of spiderman pajamas. I felt like a cheater since I hadn't made the costume.  But I did make coverings for his shoes and web-slingers for his arms, so it wasn't a total cheat.  And a mask.  Once he was Super Mario.  There were 3 Super Marios at the Fall Festival that year, but our homemade costume was definitely the best. 

Since she was able to talk, Brianna has always been more of a challenge.   She was a ladybug (I used a turtle pattern to make the shell.) I still had that costume in the closet when we moved from Texas when she was going in to 6th grade.  So cute!  She was Bob the Tomato to Matt's Larry Boy. 

And her "cheat year" she was a giraffe.  I saw a really cute giraffe jacket at the store and I couldn't pass it up.  I did make her some kind of lower-half outfit out of brown velour though, so again, not a total cheat. (Of course, I think it was 100 degrees that night in southeast Texas).

Then things started getting complicated.  I feel like every single Halloween costume after that involved tears, many of them were mine, as costumes just didn't measure up. First was the year she told me she wanted to be a Disney Princess.  Which one, I wanted to know?  "That one"  was, I think, the best she gave me.  Wanting her Halloween to be perfect, and knowing I couldn't compete with Disney, I bought the costume, straight out.  Snow White.  Oh my gosh was she cute.  Except, Snow White was not "that one."  Looking back now, I think she might have meant Cinderella, but I'm still not sure.  The best part of that night was after it was over and we were back home.  Matt had been Darth that year, with a borrowed "helmet," and when we got home at the end of the night, she put it on with her Snow White costume.  She was perfectly content to be Darth White. 

She's been Cleopatra and Princess Leia.  (she rocked the Princess Leia costume by the way, and I think that year we might have escaped tears)

One year she wanted to be Ariel (the Little Mermaid).  I slaved on that fishy costume, and she loved it...right until the time came to go to the Fall Festival.  Then suddenly she would only hide behind me.  I figured once she was around her friends she would go and play, but nope, she hid behind me all night, and no one saw the cute costume, with the "shell" bag for collecting treats.  So here she is. 

Another year she wanted to be Hannah Montana, rock star.  She loved Hannah's long, straight, blond hair.  But  the "mermaid wig" had been such a disaster, I didn't know how we would do it.  She said we could just straighten her hair and then spray it blond.  Nice thought, but for two things.  We started early and we straightened it...yay, even if it would never be "long."  I'm pretty sure it took more than an hour to straighten her curly locks. But then we sprayed it.  First of all, blond spray on dark hair doesn't really turn it blond.  Nope.  Second, those sprays are moist.  Think with me...what happens when you spray moisture on curly hair that's been straightened?  If you guessed "curls" or "frizz" you would get a prize.  Oh the tears...

By now I had pretty much given up on costumes that could never make her happy.  It seems she always wanted to be something she wasn't.  And she thought she'd get her perfect image from that costume.  But the costume never measured up....And funny, the mask I was trying to wear didn't measure up for me, either.

You see, way back more than 20 years ago, I had the vision of being a perfect mom.  And among the things a perfect mom does is make her children's Halloween costumes.  (or at least a perfect mom who sews).  Even before we had kids I found myself longing for the day when I was a mom and could make my kids' costumes.  (It was one of the hazards of working in a fabric store...I saw all those perfect moms doing just that).   It's hard when your standard of perfection is not what it should be.  In fact, perfect mom-dom has nothing to do with Halloween costumes.  And to be honest, there is no such thing as perfection in a mom's world.

Being a mom means loving your kids absolutely.  Unconditionally.  It means selfless giving too them, but also disciplining them.  It means your heart will be broken...and so will theirs.  It means you'll have epic fails, and occasional successes.  You'll have to change plans at the last second.  You'll have to watch your kids fail sometimes...and be there to scoop them up off the ground.  It means you'll be jealous of those parents who appear to be doing it better...and all the while they are jealous of you.  Sometimes they'll say "Thank you," but a lot of times they won't.  Sometimes they'll say "I love you", but sometimes they'll shout "I hate you."  (When they are teenagers, a lot of times they'll shout "I hate you"...if they are talking to you at all...) It's simultaneously less than I expected and more than I could have dreamed.  But it's definitely not a costume you can put on.  You wear it all day, every day.  For 18 years (who am I kidding...I'm pretty sure once you put it on you can never take it off).

I am a mom...it's who I am.  No costume disaster can diminish that.  No epic fails can take that away.  God will continue to use me to love and nurture my children despite my failures, because he's the one who made me a mother.  "He who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus" (Philippians 1:6)

I haven't told you about the last costume I made for my daughter.  She was a witch...a cute witch...a beautiful witch.  And her costume was fantastic, if I do say so myself.  That was the year my daughter opened the bag of dum-dums I intended to give out as treats.  And ate every last one of them.  I found the wrappers stuffed in the couch.  And I said she couldn't go trick or treating because she'd already had all her treats.  We compromised.  She went out, early, in our neighborhood.  Then she brought back the treats, put them in our treat bowl, and we handed them out to the next kids that came along.  I'd call that a Halloween success!

Dogs and Cats

I took my loveable German Shepherd, Lyric, on a walk this morning, as I do every day.  It's good for her, and good for me.  It's our routine.  Twice a day we go around the block that is our neighborhood, rain or shine or blizzard cold.  Except Sundays, when I take a Sabbath rest and skip the morning constitutional.  Now that school is in session and the weather is cooler, we go around 8:30 am.  And usually our evening walk is right after dinner.  Lyric knows that when I get out my socks and tennis shoes it's time to go.  (Seriously, the only time I wear tennis shoes is for these walks, so if she sees me in them she goes nuts!) If I don't get around to it soon enough she comes and head butts my leg, c'mon mom!

So we headed out this morning and weren't very far along when from behind me I heard a woman shout "Rascal, NO!" followed by a lot of barking.  I turned to see Rascal charging at us, and Lyric looked and started pulling too.  Despite Rascal's bark, we were not afraid, since Rascal probably weighed all of 5 pounds.  Our 40-pound (as our daughter calls her) "fun-sized" Shepherd could have eaten Rascal for lunch, but she really only wanted to play.  Clearly Rascal's owner was not in the mood for play and called for him to stop, NOW!, so we continued walking, all the while looking back to see if he had.

When we finally faced forward again we found, not 10 feet in front of us, a hissing, back-arched cat.  Giving me whiplash, Lyric now pulled the other way, angling for the cat.  Clearly the cat was not amused.  She tried to hold her ground while I tried to hold mine, on a leash.  Finally the cat gave us a  wide berth and walked away.  And Lyric sulked, thinking I'd cheated her out of more fun.

Sometimes things that interrupt your routine are just that: opportunities for fun.  Taking a break from your plan for the evening in order to spend a couple hours braiding your daughter's hair.  Not being able to concentrate on the reading you wanted to do because your son is alternately playing drums and guitar in your basement and he fancies heavy metal grunge, which to your brain is like fingernails on a chalkboard, only louder. But you're so happy to hear him doing the thing he loves.  Things that make your daily walk a little bit interesting.

But sometimes the dog isn't a pipsqueak pup but a teeth-barred wolf, famished and stalking.  And you turn and see from the other direction a prowling lion staring you down.  And you're stuck in the middle and frankly don't know what to do.  (I know, I know...wolves and lions don't occupy the same habitat...just work with me here). Sometimes your enemies are bigger than you, and you can't whistle a happy tune or find any lyrics to sing, and it's all you can do to hold your ground, and you really, really just want to make it out alive.  But we are besieged on all fronts.  Helpless.  Hopeless. 

"When he (Jesus) saw the crowds, he had compassion on them, because they were harassed and helpless, like sheep without a shepherd." (Matt 9:36)  "I am the good shepherd.  The good shepherd lays down his life for the sheep.  The hired hand is not the shepherd who owns the sheep.  So when he sees the wolf coming, he abandons the sheep and runs away.  Then the wolf attacks the flock and scatters it.  The man runs away because he is a hired hand and cares nothing for the sheep.  I am the good shepherd; I know my sheep and my sheep know me." (John 10: 11-14)  Be self-controlled and alert.  Your enemy the devil prowls around like a roaring lion, looking for someone to devour.  Resist him, standing firm in the faith..." (1 Peter 5:8-9)

Do you know what I'm talking about?  Are you there now?  We made it through our walk by taking another step, and another.  And I think that's how we'll make it through this chapter of life as well.  We take another step and another step and another step. We hold tight to our Shepherd, who has compassion on us.  And holding fast to God, we trust Him and take another step.

License to Parent

Twice a judge has banged his gavel on his bench and declared that I have a license to parent.  Well not a license so much, but a certificate.  A decree.  He called it adoption, but we'll call it a license.  And licensed, I thought I was prepared.  I knew what I was doing.  I was ready for the open highway.  And even as I type this I hear a news story about a newly licensed teen who hit the accelerator instead of the break and went crashing into a building and took out three gas meters.  And those early days of parenting I think I took out a few gas meters myself.  Parenting infants and toddlers is hard.  There's the newness of everything, the sleep deprivation, the pee and the poop and the volcanic spit-up.  Getting them to try new things, and getting them to fall asleep in their own beds.  First time left in childcare, and first day of kindergarten.  All can be challenges for the young parent.

But now I'm the parent of two teens.  And I realize that was nothing.  Like riding a bicycle.  And now I'm driving a commercial vehicle...an 18-wheeler.  And I still only have my bicycle license.  And the semi is careening out of control...and wait...I'm not driving it at all, it's coming down the highway in the wrong direction barreling straight at me, and I'm not sure I can get out of the way on time to avoid a collision.  And I'm in a smart car...and the 18-wheeler is going to take me out.  Because we all know smart cars aren't designed to take that kind of impact no matter how smart they are.  And my teen doesn't believe I'm smart at all...I'm the stupidest creature that ever did live.  And then I'm back in the big truck and yanking the wheel and blaring the horn, and hitting the air brakes, and I hear the hissing, and I come to a stop, but not without losing half of my load on the highway, and apparently the truck was filled with a load of fertilizer and there is sh-- all over the highway, and now what do I do?

Yup...that's my parenting experience.  And every morning I have to get up and take the wheel again, because I've got the license, and that's how I earn my living.  And I find myself really disliking those other drivers who seem to have their 18-wheelers under control.  Mostly I guess I'm just jealous of them, because I want to be driving their trucks.  But I've got my own truck.  Or smart car.  Whatever.  And I'm hoping one day to graduate to a nice recreational vehicle, where I can tool around the country and stop where I want and enjoy the view.  But for now...get out of my way, I'm driving the truck.

Perennating...

I found a new word in the dictionary last night.  But more on that in a minute.

Wow, it's been a long time since I last wrote...so long in fact that I've started a whole new chapter, where we move again, this time to St. Louis, and start life over.  Again.  With moody teenagers.  And it's not easy. 

I shared a link a few weeks ago on my facebook page about "the Silent Years."  (If I was savvy enough to figure it out, or even find it again, I'd share it again here.)  In it, the author talked about the teenage years, when parents inexplicably (or maybe not) disappear from facebook.  And I totally get it.  When you have young kids, you share their every little cute saying, action, and thought.  And you share the poopy ones, too, because they're funny, at least in hindsight.  And they're not on facebook, so how will those cute little ones know that you're telling all their stories anyhow?

But suddenly they're teens.  And nothing is private anymore (except everything they do, because they tell you nothing)...And there's no way you could post on facebook without them somehow finding out.  And they still haven't forgiven you about lying about Santa and the Tooth Fairy, so you know they'll never forgive you about telling one of their secrets online...and you don't really know what they would consider a secret. 

And besides, what do you tell?  I mean, sure, you can post about their time on the Dean's List, and the winning play they made in the varsity game, and all those great, positive things, right?  But what if they're barely scraping by, and the only Dean's list they make is one you don't want to be on, and they're not starters on the team, (or maybe don't make it at all), and nothing is coming up roses (except maybe whatever that is growing in the pile of dirty clothes in their room)?  What then?  These are things you just don't write about.  Thus, the silent years.

Well, that's where we're at.  And life's not pretty.  And no one wants to read a blog that's depressing.  And really no one wants to admit that they're living that life, at least not in something as public as a blog.  And we're just trying to keep our heads above the rising tide.

Which leads me to the word I found in the dictionary last night.  No, I don't just sit down and read the dictionary.  Although maybe I should.  And I really enjoy the physical dictionary versus the dot.com world. So here's what happened:

I was writing the dedication for my book (Mirror, Mirror...due out this spring...how's that for slipping that in to the conversation), and I had written about people I was struggling through life with.  And Mark said I shouldn't use the word struggle.  He suggested "journey", but I found that kind of boring, and didn't really capture what I meant.  So I looked on dictionary.com for a synonym to journey and found "peregrinate."  And I was like, "what the heck does that mean?"  So I got out my huge Random House dictionary and looked it up.  And it means journey...which was still not what I meant, even if the word was fancier.

But as I was looking up that word, first my eye landed on this one: perennate.  And this is a word that exactly describes what I'm trying to say: to survive from season to season for an indefinite number of years.  (and doesn't it almost sound like "parent"...and isn't that what parenting is all about?)

And I'm so thankful for the people God has given me to perennate with (which btw comes up underlined in red in spell-check)...the friends who are with me season after season.  Together we have raised toddlers, muddled through middle school, sent a child to college, and navigated life-changes and moves.  We've re-written friendships through long distance phone conversations, texts, and the occasional 1000-mile journey. Between us we've survived divorce, the death of a parent, and even the death of a child.  I'm grateful for the friends who've helped me survive, and thankful that I have been allowed the privilege of being there for them, too. And I'm sure we will perennate a while longer, through all the bumps and twists and turns of the teenage years.  And beyond. 

So, here's to the next chapter...won't you join me in it...

Lightning Speed

Wow, has this last week been a whirlwind.  8 days ago Mark accepted a call to be Director of Worship at Christ Memorial Lutheran Church in St. Louis, Missouri.  And we frantically began to clean, spruce up, and pack.  Mark mostly got the "sprucing up" part, and I got the cleaning and packing.  And packing and cleaning.  And more cleaning.  And a little more packing.

And between Tuesday and Friday we got the house ready to put on the market.  Which included spending about 6 hours on Thursday cleaning the grout on our tile floor.  And had me vowing never to get a tile floor again.  About half of our house is tile.  I had a homemade solution that really does a good job of cleaning the grout, but not without some elbow grease.  And a little gadget slightly larger than an electric toothbrush.  And me, sitting or kneeling on the floor, and having to go to the sink about every 4 or 5 tiles to rinse out the sponge. Pretty much like doing 6 hours of the thigh master.  And then being crestfallen when I finished and saw there was a pasty coating across the floor, which didn't come off on the first, second, or even third steaming.  I was disheartened.

There was also about 4 hours on Friday morning scrubbing shower and tub.  And more thigh master.

And there were windows to clean.  And clean again.  I hate streaks.  Our living room is basically 2 sliding glass doors and a big plate glass window.  They give a spectacular view of our pool and yard, which I love.  but did I mention streaks?

Brianna helped (a lot) by cleaning and packing her room, packing up a bunch of pictures, and pitching in when the grout cleaning looked like fun.  (That ended about 20 minutes later when it no longer looked like fun).  Matt mostly hung out in his room on the computer, trying to pretend like we weren't moving, and trying not to be spotted lest we give him a job to do.

By Friday afternoon we were out of time, and said, "it'll have to be good enough."  Our realtor had arrived as well as the professional photographer.  We headed out to the movies and dinner, and they took some amazing pictures.  You may have seen them on facebook.  We couldn't believe our house looked like that.

And by 9 pm Friday, we were live...our house was listed.

Saturday the calls started coming, as Mark headed to work, Lyric went into her kennel, and the kids and I did what we could to get out of the house.  Not the easiest thing when it's 107 degrees outside.  We had 4 showings on Saturday.  We had 5 more on Sunday, and more trips around town.  By Sunday evening, I was exhausted.  And pretty ready to be done.

Sunday evening our realtor texted us.  We had an offer.  She set up an appointment Monday at 1 pm to present it to us.  By the time she arrived we had two offers, both pretty similar.  We countered both, and waited for a response.  By Tuesday we had our response.  One buyer had removed the offer, not due to the counter, but to some unforeseen circumstances.  So we were down to one offer, which we accepted, at full asking, but with some closing costs.  And with a contingency, which makes us a little nervous, but we know God's got it all.

So now we are in the inspection period.  Hopefully all will go smoothly.  Not much is within our control.

Over and over in the last few days we have heard, "God is really showing you he wants you to move."  And while I do believe that God has told us to move to St. Louis, I think the lightning speed of everything isn't necessarily confirmation of that.  More, I see it as an example of God's graciousness and love.  He could just as easily have allowed us to sweat out this moving thing, not sent us a buyer so quickly, and had another plan for things we needed to learn about trust during this move.  (He still may, if the buyer's house sale falls through).  Several people I know have been moved by God to a different location and not had their house sell right away.  It in no way was confirmation that God didn't want them to go.  Instead, he was saying "Trust me." 

We have indeed heard God's voice telling us the way we should go...the lightning speed of the home sale (so far) is just an added bonus.

"Whether you turn to the right or to the left, your ears will hear a voice behind you, saying, 'This is the way; walk in it.'" (Isaiah 30:21)