You’re Only as Sick as Your Secrets


photo credit Bluefilterphotos a.k.a Meghan

photo credit Bluefilterphotos a.k.a Meghan

Andrew is having pinkpepper withdrawals and wanted me to write something again here. We just celebrated 35 years together. It’s a long story but if you meet some girl with her little baby and they look like a hot mess beyond hope, pray for her, invite her in and trust God for her future; it might be brighter than anything she’d ever dared dream of.

In 1980, the year Planned Parenthood began, I walked into a doctor’s office unmarried, pregnant, and hoping this doctor could make this, this situation all go away. He did not. Thank God.

I was in college interested in a BSN; I had been accepted to Boston University pre-med program; my parents were thrilled.

“The call” to my parents is forever etched in my mind. Shattering the dreams of your parents is a heavy burden. I told them I was pregnant and that the father of the child and I were planning to get married; I would be dropping out of school. I was 1500 miles from home, my parents did not even know what this guy looked like (this was prehistoric to the internet, before fast photos); I could come home and live with them, have the baby at home, they told me. But I was determined maybe madly stubborn; especially since bets at college were against longevity of the union. I am not even kidding; there were bets. We got married.

My new husband graduated; we put all our worldly possessions in our ancient Vega and drove from Kansas to Massachusetts to be at my sister’s wedding (the only family wedding that was supposed to happen that year.) We were out of money after making the trip; by default we stayed, and settled into my parents’ basement- an unfinished cement-floored, bare-walled basement with a full-size bed in the corner.

Right before our daughter was born, we got a one-bedroom apartment in a filthy building downtown. Andrew worked his day job, came home ate dinner, and I left for the night shift at a nursing home- including weekends. Even hustling with two jobs, we lived well below poverty level.

Walking downtown, an advertisement on a storefront window  offered “energy assistance,” I walked in; they took one look at the teen-aged mom and her thrift-store clad baby in a makeshift stroller that I had resurrected from someone’s trash by hand sewing a sort of sling onto the frame for the “seat” and I was deemed eligible to receive government assistance. Weirdly they just knew. Money was so tight that a big night out was walking to Dunkin’ Donuts to each buy a single doughnut maybe every two weeks.  It is true; there are people who do not even have spare change as a buffer against poverty.

We knew we should attend church, so we went. The church, mercifully, offered us the custodial job; we cleaned the church for our weekend fun and then turned around and tithed that money right back the next day. Our Vega, by this point, was guzzling oil so that when we’d get to the church the next town over, we’d have to pour a bottle of oil back in to get home again. But a bottle of oil was cheaper than a new car or repairs, so we always had a bottle of oil in the back.

Nine months later, I walked (I walked everywhere back then) into a Planned Parenthood clinic with my nine-month old daughter to wait in the hard plastic chair in an unfortunately full waiting room hoping for salvation from Planned Parenthood. I received their information and left. (Do you see how these people are always there waiting and wanting to “help?” Evil has a way of being there for you.) I did not heed the advice and our second daughter was born eight months later. Right then I would have slapped you down if you’d have told me we would go on to have five more children for a total of five daughters and two sons. That would have been crazy talking right there.

So here we still are celebrating 35 years  today. We are blessed beyond anything those two pitiful kids could have even dreamt up had they dared to dream. And the bet? I won.

Sterling, Kansas right before the trek across the country. (not our motorcycle)

Sterling, Kansas right before the trek across the country. (not our motorcycle)

"So… this kid's gonna be raising me!?"

“So… this kid’s gonna be raising me!?”

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This guy rocks!

This guy rocks!

Being in the Zone

Like the witch in the Wizard of Oz it began melting, melting, we stared as the biodegradable cup began to do just that right before our eyes. Andrew grabbed it just in the nick of time and salvaged the coffee back into the original vessel- Starbucks paper cup, Americano, Venti. We’d have to share from a single cup afterall as we waited for our pager to alert us that the wait was over and we could find out about Taite in recovery.

On the trip home Andrew wondered aloud to me what I might write about our last few day, I mean, if I did write about it. I told him I’d probably write about how I totally understand how a couple facing serious illness or worse of one of their children gets through it. And then gets a divorce.

I know, doesn’t that sound just awful?

Remember Baby Jessica, the 18 month old who fell down a 22 foot dry well and was trapped there for 58 hours back in 1987? I was pregnant with our fourth daughter at the time and everyday I was glued to the news, praying for that little girl to be rescued from that deep well. Her parents divorced a few years later. I remember being totally shocked; their little baby girl had been brought back up from the pit of darkness to the light; she was alive and safe in their arms; how could they so pettily divorce after all that? Wouldn’t it seem to the casual observer that the absolute relief would pull the whole family together forever, and ever, amen? I get it now. And the answer is, “No.” Hard stuff that parents go through with a child does not necessarily make the bond stronger. Sometimes it severs what you thought was strong.

We, Andrew and I, have discovered that we deal with stress differently.

My way is that in the car, in the hotel, in the restaurant, everywhere I need, need to have control because I cannot control the outcome in the hospital but I sure as heck can control whether we should be turning right. Or left, damn it. And I can control the coffee in my life, for Pete sake, right!??  Finding out there will be no coffee maker in the hotel room or the lobby sends me ballistic.  Andrew doesn’t do stuff like that.

We also discovered that I (and it turns out Taite as well) deal with the really hard things by “being in the zone.” We treat hard stuff, like illness and hospitals, like a sport- mentally focusing on the one event. Everything else gets shut out. So no, I do not want to discuss social nor political issues of the day right there in that blessed sterile curtain drawn cubicle. I want to be left totally alone and I do not want to talk to anyone about anything. Or be touched.

Perhaps we are attracted to our spouse initially because opposites attract. It can be a happy little humorous thing when life is happy and humorous. It can get on your nerves when things get sad and messy.

It’s easy to think, “We went through hard things, and now we are so eternally thankful for the things left intact that we will always be grateful and life will always be perfect. We promise.” And it can and should be like that, but it takes understanding, compassion, love, respect. And a lot of prayer. Lots of prayer. Lots of give and take. Lots of living with understanding.

So, if you are there; I understand.


Betty & George

93 years old. She says it feels so long ago that it doesn’t seem like her life; someone else lived all that.

I long ago gave up the idea that me visiting someone would “bless” them; because long ago I learned that I am the one who always walks away amazed, refreshed, “blessed.”  So it was shear laziness that made Andrew and me think that maybe no, we didn’t want to drive 2 hours for a quick visit and then another 2 hours a bit later to catch our flight home. We got on over ourselves and made the trip. When I tell Betty that  she is an inspiration, she tells me, “you know, I’ve lived a hard life.”

This amazing woman was in her third year of law school when she met and married the man of her dreams. World War II was just beginning and this newly wed bride followed her husband every place he was assigned in the U.S. Soon she was toting a baby in a basket in the backseat. And then one day Wills shipped out. They sent a constant stream of  letters to each other and then she said,

“I knew. It was so abrupt. They just stopped.”

Her husband was killed at Anzio; she was a 22 year old widowed mother who had to find work. Everyday when she came home she had this, she knew crazy, idea that Wills would be there. Everyday her hope was shattered.

Sadly she stuck that baby back in his basket and headed back to the midwest. She picked up a guy thumbing a ride and sped on until she was stopped by a cop for speeding. He took a look in the back and warned her about minding the speed and keeping her baby safe and let her go. She said she’d have lost it right there if he’d said a mean word to her. She drove until she landed back in Nebraska where she found work.

Everyday when she was done working and hopeful for Wills, this other guy, 11 years her senior, was there instead perchance when she came home.  She married Mac and they both taught, combining their incomes for a total of $6K a year. When they heard that they could each do better by a thousand a year in Wyoming, they went. Soon they were having to move because Mac continually got  ”into trouble.” Another big move for another grand each a year and that is it, Betty declared, when they landed in California, “I will not move from here; this is where I stay.” She will not tell you, but her life with Mac was very hard.

That little baby in the backseat basket grew to be 16 years old and then devastatingly died in a motorcycle accident. Nothing remains of that first life that she lived.

Mac and Betty continued teaching and living in California, Mac was teaching convicts at Folsom prison when cancer took his life. Betty soon married a former convict, 11 years her junior, and they lived, still live together apart. She has her house and he has his; in the evenings he’d go back to his own house and that is how it’s been for 35 years. It has worked but now George is spending nights at Betty’s because at 93 she has fallen a few times in the night when she heads to the bathroom. She needs him.

So that day last week, Andrew and I were privileged to visit with Betty and George. When we showed up she told us we were going out for lunch and she would not need to bring her purse because it was our treat to treat her. And George would not be coming- he had a dentist appointment he had to keep. She could sit in the backseat, it didn’t matter. But it did matter, I told her, because she needed to direct us to her favorite restaurant. She sat up front.

After a 3 hour visit, she told us we needed to get going or we’d miss our plane.

Betty and George married 35 years and going strong!

Betty and George married 35 years and going strong!



Makoto Fujimura- Wine and Word


I have been a fan of Makoto Fujimura’s work since I read of him in World magazine in 2005. I love his work. Who knew that his art extended all the way to Walla Walla, Washington on the label of a bottle of wine?

There we were Andrew, Jordan and me sipping wine at Flying Trout & Waters winery chitchatting with the owner/winemaker, Ashley Trout, when Andrew alerts me that he just heard the words, “Makoto Fujimura” across the room. And I stop mid sip, cutting off whatever important conversation I’d been in and to the woman across the way hand sealing bottles with wax, I asked,

“Did you just say ‘Makoto Fujimura?’”

Why yes, she had. In fact, she finished the wax seal and turned the bottle round to reveal the art work of Makoto Fujimura on the wine label. Without a second thought, I said,

“I’ll buy that bottle.” (The purchase showed up later that month on the MasterCard and let’s just say this is a bottle we will cellar and drink at a very special time.)

Makoto Fujimura uses an old Japanese method of painting, Nihonga, the art of his ancestors. As an art student at Bucknell University, Fujimura received a scholarship from Japan for foreigners studying in Japan. He apprenticed with the master painter, Kayama, who will only admit one student per year to study with him. At the close of his studies, Fujimura was honored to receive, but declined, an offer to stay on as Kayama’s assistant.

This Nihonga method uses raw minerals for color, carefully ground and applied to the work surface. It also uses gold and silver with the silver over time tarnishing. This tarnishing needs to be kept in mind when silver is used to the right effect.

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When I saw that he had illustrated the Four Holy Gospels, I was anxious to get a copy of this Bible.

It is oversized and beautiful. I kinda thought it would sit prettily on my coffee table to merely glance at, to know I owned it. And then my husband brought it to bed for his nighttime reading! I kind of fretted about the bookmark getting frayed and the pages getting, well, read. Honestly though, it should be read, perused, used and enjoyed. It is printed on heavy quality paper and can bear the burden. So there he lays at night reading the Holy Gospels from the most amazing Bible we could own.

I love the gorgeous illuminated letters that begin each chapter and the thoughtful art on the sides of the pages. I also am so happy not to have chapter headings- simply numbered verses very discreetly presented.

You think it’s too expensive? Heck, I’ve been putting seven kids through college, have you seen the price of a text book that gets used for one semester?! Buy a Bible artfully made with Makoto Fujimura’s work. It’ll last longer than the outdated engineering book.

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Inklings Into Thoughts Into Words

“I would write ads for deodorants or labels for catsup bottles if I had to,” he told The Paris Review in 1967.

“The miracle of turning inklings into thoughts and thoughts into words and words into metal and print and ink never palls for me.”

And that is why if you have never read anything by John Updike, you owe it to him to do it now. Olinger Stories would be a great start, a little pocket book you can tuck and take with you. John Updike’s writing is rich like a good bottle of wine, layers of insight come at you in subtle beauty;

“There was a time when I wondered why more people did not go to church. Taken purely as a human recreation, what could be more delightful, more unexpected than to enter a venerable and lavishly scaled building kept warm and clean for use one or two hours a week and to sit and stand in unison and sing and recite creeds and petitions that are paths worn smooth in the raw terrain of our hearts.”

And dirt, who could so eloquently decribe dirt, its worn paths, and earthiness. I am so thrilled to have found this writer.
The Olinger Stories- John Updike

The Olinger Stories- John Updike


 The Story Hour by Thrity Umrigar

“She should’ve known that after all these years of working at the hospital, of being the best g**d*** psychologist on his staff, when Cummings saw her, he still saw a black woman married to an Indian immigrant who taught at the university. God, how she hated working in this lily-white town. What did Cummings expect her to do- walk into the patient’s room and announce, ‘Hey, guess what? We’re both married to Indian guys. So you can trust me, sister’?”

Maggie Bose meets Lakshmi Patil when Lakshmi is admitted to the hospital for attempted suicide. Lakshmi is sitting on her bed, “looking at this wall, which look like myself inside- white and empty and blank.” Maggie is asked to assess her for release to ensure Lakshmi will not repeat the attempt.

Bit by bit Lakshmi worms her way into Maggie’s real life, her after work hours life, her life that is supposed to remain separated from her work and her patients.

Thrity Umrigar has written a story that is so compelling, so thoughtful, so thoroughly insightful of each character’s thoughts, motives and actions. I wait for books like this to come along, a book that makes me steal every little bit of time to read until I am done.

Thrity Umrigar, Story Hour book cover montage 2014


Major Pettigrew’s Last Stand

And I am surely late to the party with this one already having over 1100 reviews. It is delightful in the Mma Romotswe way, if you’ve read No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency. It’s a comfortable, have a spot of tea while you read sort of book. Major Pettigrew is a droll sort of Brit who, late in years, sees the constant folly of this new generation of upstart kids and the foolishness and pretense amongst the upper crust.

Major Pettigrew’s wife died six years ago and his brother Bertie has just died leaving room for the two rifles that were divided between the two brothers to be reunited- if Bertie’s wife will allow. When Major Pettigrew gets behind the wheel to drive to his brother’s funeral, he finds he is paralyzed by the shock and can not even turn the key. The Pakistani shopkeeper, Jasmina Ali, sees him sitting there pale and still and offers to drive him.


Major Pettigrew’s Last Stand by Helen Simonson


Back to Reality



It’s been party central here for weeks. Great fun, lots of feeding of hordes, working our way through our pantry supply. And drink inventory.

Before Christmas, Jarrett had the grand idea to host a white elephant alcohol party. But then it occurred to me, in the dead of night when I do my best thinking, that he’d invited an awful lot of Baptists to a drink exchange party.

“Yah, they drink anyway.”

They did and it was fun.

At long last after Christmas on a Sunday afternoon after the Seahawks game, I decided to veg out on the couch with Netflix and watch Advanced Style, a documentary about women 65 to 95 years old who still dress smashingly. It was kind of sad that when the entourage of old stylish women went to the New York fashion show, the 95 year old literally dropped dead and fell to the floor in the middle of the show. And then the documentary ended with her legs peeking out of the ambulance at Bryant Park.

I closed my iPad stood up, walked to the kitchen and  through the kitchen door walked about 12 people all smelling of smoke.

Like a trained monkey, I went straight to the freezer pulled out some egg rolls and began frying them up and exclaiming, “I’ll feed you, sit, sit, I feed you.”

Monday happened innocently enough. Andrew came home from his day of saving the world from nuclear disaster and I had a chicken soup simmering away for dinner. But over there on the counter, was also the prep work for pizzas,

“Because,” I told the weary worker, “We’re having a party here tonight.”


My mother-in-law has been shocked by the multitudes and really went into hiding all through Christmas. The night when she thought it was safe to come out, she sat leisurely sipping her soup and, I mentioned the next party in a few hours. She wrapped up dinner and scurried away.

And then it was New Years and  we partied with Down North at the OK Theatre. When we thought the party was over we began walking home until I remembered I was freezing because it was 5˚ and my sweater was somewhere in the OK. We zipped back there to discover the party had resucitated, so we threw off our coats and danced until 2 a.m.

The next morning the temperature still refused to rise to double digits but we went sledding anyway, Athan exclaiming how he and grandma had gone so fast down the hill on our sled. Gauging by Aileen’s car, we were going about 25-30 miles an hour on a mile long run! The thrill of it!

Jarrett chased bobcats with dogs all over Hell’s Canyon. Then collected cattle with Zac and Caitlin.

It was just kinda hard to come home and calm down, lose Jarrett to the east coast again. Thankfully Caitlin and Zac are making their way here right now with the kids.


New England Lobster Bisque

I stood staring at the lobster tails laid on their bed of ice, and a man rolled up next to me in a wheelchair with an oxygen tank. He and his wife were trying to get a better look at the scallops just left of the tails and I was kind of in their way.

“Could ya move over a bit so he can see,” the wife wondered in a kindly demanding way.  And I shuffled to the right leaving them between me and my cart which I suddenly realized wasn’t smart since my purse was in the cart with bucket loads of cash. So I stepped around them to connect with my cart.

The couple aplolgized for the inconvenience.”Oh, that’s fine,” I said.  And then the man looks at me and confides,

“We’re from New York we make seafood chowdah for Christmas.”

“I’m from Bahston and I’m getting lobstah for bisque.” and then I added, “No tomtaoes, you New Yorkers ruin the chowdah with tomato, we do straight up cream.”

“Oh ya,” he says, “gotta have the tomato.” And then turns to his wife, “We need a can of diced tomatoes.”

And then I warned this frail man, “You’ll ruin the chowdah that way.” We bantered a bit about the rightness and wrongness of tomatoes until my lobster tails were wrapped in their butcher paper blanket and I was ready to move on.

The husband and wife looked at me with northeast comraderie, love and respect and both said,

“You have a merry Christmas.”

“Hey, you too!”

And right then I think we all might have combinded our chowder and bisque and sat down together Christmas Eve if we’d have taken it that far. Tomatoes not withstanding.

At home searching the internet, I discovered, to my horror, that the bisque recipes all called for tomato paste or tomatoes. New Yorkers had taken over the world wide web recipe collection! I called my sister and told her of the awfullness I had found on the internet and could she for the tenth time give me her excellent recipe.And she very carefully, again, walked me through the steps.

So that a truly New England bisque recipe will be out there in cyberspace, I give you with my sister’s permission, the best lobster bisque. Ever.

2-3 pounds lobster meat. (honestly I would totally double this)

2 1/2 Cups chicken broth (this is the time to use all that amazing broth you make from the leftover chicken bones for you know not what.)

4 stalks celery- leaves and all- chopped

1 medium onion- sliced and chopped

2 cloves

6-10 peppercorns

1 bay leaf

1/4 pound butter

6 Tablespoons flour

3 Cups half&half

1 Cup heavy whipping cream- (yes, do it!)

1/4 teaspoon nutmeg


Put the lobster, chicken broth, chopped celery and onions, clove, peppercorns, and bay leaf in a pot to boil. When the lobster is cooked, remove it and get the meat. Reserve the meat in a bowl and refrigerate. Return the lobster shells to the broth to simmer, covered, for about an hour.

With a mesh strainer, strain the broth into another pot and discard the onion, celery, spices and shells.

In a separate pan melt butter and whisk in the flour. Slowly whisk in the half and half and simmer to slightly thickened. Add the cream and let thicken a bit. Then add the cream mixture to the broth. Add 1/4 teaspoon of nutmeg and lobster. Heat through and serve with amazing bread.

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Sorry no photo of the finished product BUT it was NOT orange-y colored like all those tomato laden photos on the internet; it was a lucious cream color with cooked lobster meat.


Strike. Ignite. Roast!

This year I was sad that Andrew couldn’t make it to the annual Christmas tree hunt because he was, as he so often is these days, saving the world from nuclear disasters. If you haven’t gotten a tree yet, it’s not too late to head to the national forest to get one. And do make sure you are on national forest property or it could turn nightmarish like our trip did this one year.

Most years are spectacular though. Don’t forget to stop by a place that will sell you a tree tag for a mere $5. Last year since we were visiting Caitlin & Zac and since they own a few bujillion acres full of trees, we culled one from their forest. This year we were home and we headed up to Naches forest.


 After the hunt we always build a fire (if permitted) and eat, drink and make merry. Okay, who is that crazed man wearing just a t-shirt!??

A lovely bit of smoked salmon on a cracker with cream cheese.

 Drinking, laughing and smoking (we live in Washington State!) Kidding.




Aoife, Aoife, feed her and she’ll love you forever!




And then after this grand time, we all end up at our house for big old pots of hot soup and bread slowly, gently warmed by our in-house nuclear chemist.


Photos courtesy of Blue Filter

I too am a Jesus Feminist

This guy rocks!

This guy rocks!

Feminist. What does that word conjure up for you? If you lean toward one of those descriptive words that are often misrepresented, the first thing you might ask in return is, “what do you mean by that word?”

For example, if someone were to always refer to feminists along these lines, it might create a shock collar response toward being labeled “feminist”:

“So feminism — smash the patriarchy feminism — wants us to be ruled by harridans, termagants, harpies and crones. That sets the tone, and the pestering is then made complete by small-breasted biddies who want to make sure nobody is using too much hot water in the shower, and that we are all getting plenty of fiber.”  Or:

 “… surly feminists. And I stand by the phrase surly feminists, despite the redundancy.” (same blog source as the above. unfortunately)

You might immediately and always deny that you are a feminist. For survival’s sake. The above quotes are aggressive and bombastic. BUT what if you read something like this:

“Paul believed women were people, too. as a follower of Jesus, of course he did. Of course he did.” And:

We began to realize that the development and growth in our marriage and the way we lived our lives were not an evidence of what some might call a ‘Jezebel spirit’ in me or his ‘lack of spiritual leadership’; no, the oneness and mutuality in our marriage was actually evidence of the Holy Spirit at work. Mutuality is a beautiful picture of trust and a sign of the Kingdom of God. As we live in a world desperate for a glimpse of God, desperate for reuse, crushed by evil and poverty and war and the grind of lonely existence in quiet desperation, we, the Church, are part of God’s plan to push back the darkness and make room for his Kingdom. We are commissioned to multiply his image bearers, care for the poor, and minister life and hope and healing in the name of Jesus, to the glory of God.” Also:

 “Over the years, we have discovered that this [moving through life together, helping one another, side-by-side] is another way to move within marriage, and yes- it’s very different than the traditional and stifling language of roles, headship, submission, and soft patriarchy found within many Christian marriage books and seminars.”

And then you were to discover that this writer unabashedly refers to herself as a feminist; that in fact, she calls herself a Jesus Feminist, and that in reading about her marriage; you were to exclaim, “that is the kind of marriage we have/want!”

Perhaps if you are nodding your head, “yes,” through this you will understand how, for me, reading Jesus Feminist was like a long cool drink after a blazing hot day in the desert. So given those two options, I will happily declare myself a feminist. And did I mention that Rachel Held Evans wrote the foreword?



Another book that caught my attention (thanks to a lend from a friend) is Half the Church- Recapturing God’s Global Vision for Women by Carolyn Custis James. When you relegate women in church to the nursery. And kitchen. Do you suppose the nuance, flavor, help, insight from half the church might be missing? And the church sorely lacking depth?

And if you are looking for a scholarly work, I highly, highly recommend God’s Word to Women by Katharine Bushnell.

And, What Paul Really Said About Women by John T. Bristow.

And let’s smash the patriarchy while we’re at it!

Thankful for Abundance!



We aren’t showing who this is because we want him back every year and if you were to find out that he made four pies- merry berry, old family recipe pumpkin, chocolate cream with chocolate leaves on top, cranberry orange angel pie, PLUS these amazing pumpkin/ pork empanadas, a pavlova. Gosh! should I go on?? Yah, you’d want him at your house too.  Oh alright, Joel Tollefson you rock!


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When two deep fried turkeys are your hors d’oeuvre, your know you have a lot of people at your Thanksgiving table.  I think there were thirty plus people at our place.  That is thirty plus people to play games with.  Thirty plus people to eat with.  Thirty plus people to drink with.  Thirty plus people to laugh with and thirty plus people to really have more fun with than is deserved.  Yes, we had a lot of fun.


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If we could only have captured a video of Jonathan acting out “kimono”

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Photos by Meghan Eisinger @

Gretchen, We’re Gonna Need a Bigger Bowl of Mashed Potatoes

At first I thought, I’d quickly hyperventilate but on the second quick intake of breath, decided to just get going on the cornbread for the stuffing. I was carefully tallying people here for Thanksgiving but after the count hit 36, I chucked the tally system for simple unadulterated mayhem.

Last night I did wake up doe-eyed in the headlights panicking and picturing the ability of people to even move their hand to their mouths for the feast.

I’ve read Malcolm Gladwell’s Tipping Point, so I know all about those points- the “God, what in the world have I done!?” countered with “God, this is going to be a rip roaring blast of a time!” And in the middle of last night I was sort of swinging toward the “what have I done” end. But by morning I’d calmed myself to “the blast” side and, still in my bathrobe, went to tell Matthias,

“So last night I was imagining all these people coming for Thanksgiving…” And he cut me off with, “Imagining?” So then the scale tipped again the other way. And I scurried off to continue “planning.”

This is what I’ve got so far:

1. Never vacuum ahead of time what can be put off until the guests have left. Consider, have you ever left a party and thought, “Gosh, it really would have been a great time, but did you see that dust bunny under the fridge?”

1.5  Never mind the dusting too much either.

1.75 Or the sweeping.

2. Have a plan. Even though you want to be oh so carefree, the carefree only comes after much planning. Andrew now knows I will chew off his head if he dares confuse “planning” with “worry” and utters something like, “Don’t worry …” Chomp. Because I tried to “not worry” once by confusing it with “not planning” (as he so often used to do) and the lunch for this invited family turned out to be carrot sticks and water. And a small cracker.

3. Seriously, everyone knows your kitchen doesn’t normally look like a tsunami roared through, so just let the mayhem happen and enjoy the people. If the host and hostess are having a grand old time, well, that’s all that really matters!      it puts everyone else in a party mood.

4. If people are staying over, have an easy plan for breakfast. After a blowout affair it’s time to wake up, chill, and just visit. For us it will be already made muffins, soft boiled eggs and coffee. Coffee! 

So, if you’re in the area and have no where to go for Thanksgiving, you are welcome here. You can slip in and we will not even notice. My son-in-law will be boiling turkeys out back and offering them up as appetizers. Oh, and Gretch, can you double up on those potatoes?

This photo is to remind me that, yes, yes we can seat that many people. And their forks can make it to their mouths.




Endless Visibility


I just hate it when a writer leaves you at the last sentence wondering what the heck happened next- after that did it turn out okay or what? Did the guy get convicted? Or is he loose on the streets?

We checked the pass to make sure that there wouldn’t be snow or an avalanche to impede our speed in the morning and went to bed to not sleep until 3 a.m. And then woke zombie like and drove to Seattle.

By 8 a.m. Taite was ready for action in her gown and paper shorts waiting for pregnancy test results before the testing could begin. “That could be a double whammy,” I said. The nurse looked at me, “Oh. Yeah.”

So the good news is Taite’s not pregnant. AND her surgery of three years ago is working like a champion esophagus.

Problem is the upper esophagus- untouched by robot or surgeons- is her new nemesis. Taite knew it was something; she’s tuned in to her esophagus. Happily and thankfully a new amazing specialist has come to Seattle Children’s in the last year. So Taite will visit with her, see where she goes from there. And she’s so dang special, the surgeon would kinda like to see her for the rest of her life.

So it wasn’t like, “Aww you’re just imagining things. Go. Live life and prosper.” But it wasn’t awful.

We  celebrated with lunch, meeting up with a dear, dear friend and her beautiful children. And then we went to REI where Matthias hoofed around the store with weighted backpacks testing them out. And Taite curled up on a faux rock (REI, you are such a poser!) by the roaring fire and fell asleep right there in REI- the land of the greenest, hippest, most expensive outdoorsy people you will ever want to meet.

After the religious experience of REI, we went to our hotel and crashed watching all those television shows that you know are garbage as you keep on watching and watching. Taite and I went down to the junk food a.k.a comfort food nook at the hotel and came back to the room laden with icecream bars, chips, and candybars and settled in for more rot on television.

The next morning we were all still a bit “meh” and when Andrew wondered if we’d like to ride the ferris wheel we were ambivalent at best. He overruled. Thankfully. It was a glorious day, the visibilty was endless. And we had neglected to notice. Until then.


Denial and 3D Printers

“Oh no she didn’t!” And on clouds of bliss we left.

“You might be back in a few years facing  the problem again.” That little sentence  was quickly brushed aside as we hightailed it out of town, but now its slapping us in the face and yelling at us like a bratty child.  Taite is going to Seattle Children’s Hospital. Again.

Like any good parent, we’ve shoved this appointment date to the furthest reaches of our brain and down into one tight crack. We’ve been trying to live with a lot less “what ifs” and just deal with the “is.” The best way I’ve found is denial. Right? But dang if the day hasn’t shown up on the calendar anyway. So Taite is scheduled for “procedures” and an appointment with her most fantastically amazing surgeon.

Okay, so our life has been made bigger and better by knowing people like Taite’s surgeon exist, that selfless people like volunteers who show up to give patients packets of hot cocoa and brand new combs exist, that nurses who deal everyday with the utter sadness of a children’s hospital show up for yet another day of work exist, that kindness and compassion exist, a pastor who will drive through the same blizzard mountain pass as us to sit and wait during surgery exist, awesome friends exist, faithful family exists.

And weirdly, 3D printers get me really excited too. I was glued to an article,  ”Meet Anastasia Her Hand Came From a Printer,” how 3D printers are being used medically:

“printing a bewildering array of human body parts: ear cartilage and muscle tissue; skin, skulls, and bones; organs large and small… the next step up perhaps is tubes and cylinders- the airway, perhaps ureters, arteries, veins.” Maybe an esophagus!

And a two week old baby saved with the help of a 3D printer.

Sorrow drives you in a way that laughter never can. “For by sad countenance the heart is made better.” Does that even make sense?

Please pray for Taite.



She doesn’t look like this anymore- she got her braces off! (But I love this photo)



“Subtly letting others know how fantastic your life is by undercutting it with a bit of self effacing humor or ‘woe is me’ gloss”

I love that  word.  A humblebrag example in context of my life:

“Ughhhh I’m so overwhelmed, I  just don’t know what to do with all these bajillion ribbons that my amazing kids won in all kinds of sports and music.”

Eventually I’d find the ribbons forlornly in the trash and I would rescue them and stuff them in a box never to be seen again. That is what we call a packrat. I finally decided to either do something clever with them or throw them away again. I checked pinterest but nothing appealed. Then I saw a frame that I knew would do the trick.

Humblebrag: There were so many ribbons it just killed me to have to edit out some of them and it took two frames and still I didn’t have them all displayed. Ughhh.


Here’s what I did:




And then I added them to my ever growing wall of family photos:


Now if my kids would quit being amazing so I don’t have to keep adding more shadow boxes. Humblebrag.

I Love Angels

I am reading a book, Gratefulness, The Heart of Prayer, An Approach to Life in Fullness. One of the things that struck soundly was the surprise of the ordinary that makes us grateful.

Going in for a “let’s take another look”  mammogram  and then discover it was nothing makes you walk out the door and be utterly surprised by how gorgeous a parking lot full of old cars really is, how sublime the clouds. Painting does that for me, makes me grateful and it starts with the surprise of the ordinary, like brilliant clouds tinged with a gray that can only come from mixing two brilliant opposites. Painting makes me grateful for the way that trees blur into the blue of the sky not able to see exactly where the leaves end and the sky begins, grateful for the subtly fading hills as they recede but still and really brilliant.

When the angel comes to watch over my MIL, I escape to my studio; I quietly, firmly shut the door, turn up the music, or watch Despierta America and paint my little heart out. It is good for my soul. I love angels.


The one on the left is hats off to Melanie Thompson. I saw her painting of Sauvie Island and gave it a go. Right is the bare hills that are so familiar in these parts.


This one is a favorite floral. It is hanging for sale in Bucers in Moscow, ID.








A Place Called Saturday



Movies and books tend to have the flavor of the time they are written or made even when the attempt is to make the piece period. The 1970′s produced Julius Caesar movie is cringeworthy in its  attempt to be 44 B.C. in clothing and hairstyle; it is 1970′s to the max.

I found a book  published in 1968 about abortion. Abortion would not become legal until 1973.

Reading the flap, I was intrigued. “Thus does Cora March take her stand on the issue of abortion, a stand that is to have a profound effect on her husband, her marriage, her future, her life… then one hot summer day Cora is brutally raped by a young unknown assailant; three months late, she learns that she is pregnant. Deaf to the pleas, entreaties, anger and growing estrangement of her husband, she refused to have an abortion even though both realize that the pregnancy may be the result of the rape.”

The writing of this book is facile, the characters are kind of flat and the ending is very much what you would figure. But the book does one thing well; it gives a great sketch of life in the late 60′s written then.

The issue of rape lays some of the blame on the woman and a holds that a man without an outlet, so to speak, needs to find him a woman anyway he can. Even rape.

Everyone in middle America had lots of social get-togethers, the women were forever having tea and playing cards because they were bored out of their skulls sitting around home waiting for their husband to get home from work and happy hour at the bar.

Sexual relationships developed between married friends because so-and-so was looking at so-and-so like they should be in bed together even though they were married to someone else.

And when Cora has her baby, the view of delivery in the 60′s is every bit the man waiting around pacing and smoking until finally he can go in the room and see mother and child. And with the oxygen tank removed from the room, he is free to smoke as he visits his wife.

The entire issue of abortion was fascinating to read about because it was writeen by a writer in that time- not a current day writer trying to imagine the thoughts, feelings and actions, which for current day authors pretending to be in the time always ends up as a diatribe thinly veiled whichever way it slants. This was a time before we had all our pat answers about why it is the woman’s right to choose and, “is it really a baby yet?”  Things were simpler then-  it was a life growing inside of the woman. But the point of that in the book was not to get across some agenda; it was just stated kind of blandly and matter-of-factly.

A Place Called Saturday by Mary Astor



A great CD player

Kittens and Rainbows

Pets put life in context. Maiori came into our life when I was still throwing in loads of laundry for NINE people, when we still had never owned a dishwasher, when I was making bread twice a day in my machine just to stave off the hungry natives; she came along when grandchildren were still in the distant future, when we were all younger. And the girls were all wearing denim jumpers. Or worse.

Maiori was a rescue cat twice rescued. “Why?” Andrew asked the woman who’d placed the ad. “Because,” the woman said, “She torments my dogs.” I think we rescued the dogs second rescue by taking the cat.

So the apple head Siamese came. And stayed for the next 15 years. She loved sleeping with Matthias and she loved having him wear her like a neck pillow. If she thought no one was home, she would yowl up and down the hall until she noticed she was not alone. Then she’d go silent like, “That was not me just then.” If she thought no one was looking, she would at 14 years old absolutely gallop down the hall; then go into a slow saunter when she saw you.

When she started slowing down, we averted our eyes.

We knew but didn’t want to admit time was taking the toll. The day I sat at my desk and out of nowhere she did a hard body slam, head first into the edge of the desk trying to land on top. I looked at her crumple to the floor and I just cried. I didn’t want to witness in the next few weeks or months what I knew we would.

When she could not even walk anymore, we called the vet to ask about “putting her down.” We couldn’t do it. Instead, we laid her on a lambskin rug and offered her food and water. She’d only take the water and then not that either. And still she didn’t seem to be in pain so we  let her rest. She slept through the night and was still there in the morning. But that evening she finally breathed one last time and was done.

We buried her and cried.

And then started looking for Siamese kittens.

Right when Matthias was fairly sure we had made a piecrust promise about a new kitten, I took charge and called about a litter that perchance appeared like angel kittens from heaven, half bengal, half Siamese. And then we got crazy. And sentimental.

How could we separate the litter?! So we bought them all. At first we were going to take them home and share some with friends and family. But we reneged.




Yipping Hyenas, The Pope, and Wisdom IS A Woman

I kind of hate to sully my blog with this… but. And I really have attempted to leave off with religion once and for all… but.  And I realize this particular place  is a ghetto of a place, a mere speck on the map of creation… but.

While at Lake Tahoe being considered for pope of an entire federation, Doug Wilson wrote a post that I guess he’s proud of. Well, sign me up.

Not that I am a seer or anything like that but look for “bitterness and the unsubmissive wife” in a subsequent post on his blog.

And in its entirety (I know, long-winded, well just skip to the response from wisdom):

Before smashing the patriarchy becomes mandatory, may we take a few moments to ask what it is? The current push is to get reasonable Christians to back away from it because they reject what is done in the name of it by the outliers. But however carefully reasonable Christians distance or distinguish themselves from the doings down at the patriarchy compound, it will not work. We have to learn how to distinguish tools and targets. Elijah One-Tooth and his admiring females are the tool. The target is the husband who loves his wife like Christ loved the church. Reasonable Christians (the ones who are most frequently gulled) cannot escape the fact that when feminists say they want to smash the patriarchy, their nuanced complementarianism is most certainly included.  Smash Patriarchy

Patriarchy means father rule, not stupid father rule, or ignorant father rule, or evil father rule. Now in a false and corrupting world, it is obvious that father rule — with attendant verses, to be referred to in a moment — can be applied badly. Not only can it be applied badly, it will be. This is a sinful world, and even when you seek to do something right, someone is going to do it wrong.

Something can be a good thing to do and still turn out badly. Some forms of feminism began as an understandable protest against the misbehavior of men, but because it was just understandable and not biblical, the whole thing rapidly became blank check permission for the misbehavior of women. And just as the misbehavior of men could not be effectively rebuked in its time of strength, so also misbehavior of women is off limits now. If you rebuke bad behavior in feminists, an easy target, this is immediately translated into an attack on all women.

But this shaping of men and women into political parties is one of the most destructive things we could do, not to mention one of the dumbest. Wisdom and folly deliver their respective invitations to men and women alike, and men and women both head off in opposite directions.

It is no picnic to live under the brittle pride of an ignorant man. Let us grant it. So we chafe under patriarchy if that man is the patriarch. But what about matriarchy? Are no women fools? Well, yes, they are, quite a few, and we are living in a time when that characteristic is one of the central qualifications to cultivate if she is ambitious and wants to become whatever she can be. If she wants preferment, she can achieve the same ninja levels of the non sequitur that chauvinist ad execs used to to achieve back in the fifties. Some of the ad copy back then was written, not by sexists, but by the bluest of the blue bores. But the ad copy today has a grip on the laws of thought that are every bit as tenuous, with the only difference being the gender of the fool being flattered.Blame the Men

So feminism — smash the patriarchy feminism — wants us to be ruled by harridans, termagants, harpies and crones. That sets the tone, and the pestering is then made complete by small-breasted biddies who want to make sure nobody is using too much hot water in the shower, and that we are all getting plenty of fiber. And if anyone reads these words and believes that I am attacking all women by them, that would provide great example of why we should not entrust our cultural future to people who can’t read.

The apostle Peter requires Christian women to be subordinate to their husbands (1 Pet. 3:1). Christian wives are told to subject themselves to their husbands (Eph. 5:22). Older Christian women are to teach the younger wives how to be obedient to their husbands (Titus 2:5). These are the words of God. As long as anyone is foolish enough to want to smash the patriarchy, passages such as these will be at the very center of what they want to smash. No sense in backing away from them, and those who do back away from them are sidling away from Jesus, not from Elijah One-Tooth.

Simple question. I have nothing to do with the erratic tribalists of patriarchy. But in every wedding ceremony where I am the officiant, the bride vows to obey her husband. After the patriarchy is smashed, will it be okay with everybody if we keep doing that?


And the response from Rachel Shubin:

Doug, perhaps the women you are referring to would simply like to be seen and treated as more than their breast size. Perhaps they would like their ambitions to not be conflated with foolishness. Perhaps they would like their husbands to see them and treat them as more than their breast size and their ideas and talents and ambitions as things to be encouraged and encouraged as opposed to denigrated and ignored.

If their husbands treated them this way (at which point the women would be fulfilling both her own design purpose and obeying her husband), perhaps you would see ambitious women as something other than harpies who want you to take short showers. But then why should you need to wait until a woman’s husband encourages her for you to do so yourself or for you to encourage husbands to love all aspects of their wives and not just the homemaking parts?

Not all women who are frustrated with the rhetoric and attitudes of patriarchy (your post is a great example, by the way, of what is frustrating) are harridans; and although I think the inflammatory language in your post does you no credit, I would think the same of a similar post written by a woman and directed at men.

And Doug Wilson’s response:

Rachel, thanks for the feedback. But there is a difference between reducing a person to some part of their body and using a physical characteristic a person might have as a metaphor for that thing which is the actual problem. If I say that a cowardly man is a pencil neck, that is what I am doing — not going around measuring neck sizes to determine who is and who is not a coward. It is the same kind of thing here.

Okay, I have to interject here. Anyone with half their brain tied behind their back will see that Doug Wilson’s “metaphor” regarding size- BREAST should be parried with… NECK. Are you serious?!  Neck/ Breast. Same/Same. Public school taught me it should be BREAST/PENIS. Do they not teach logic at these private schools?

And Rachel’s response again:

Thanks for the clarification, but…. not buying it. Calling a cowardly man a pencil neck is a metaphor, yes. There are zero people wandering around with quarter-inch wide necks, so clearly this is meant to conjure up a mental image of a scrawny man. But small-breasts are so common as to be unremarkable, so what is the metaphor here? You are using something statistically normal (and generally not a voluntarily changeable feature at that) to illustrate something you clearly dislike. Here, how about if I give you an example, and we can see if this explains it better.

A better cognate to your original remark than the pencil-neck example might something like this: “So patriarchy sets the tone, and the pestering is then made complete by small-penised boors.” {Feel free to substitute “manhood” or something else that retains the original meaning and flavor if you don’t want “penis” on your blog, although “breast” seems to be fine}. Does that come across as offending or illustrate the problem a little better? Perhaps appending this to the end will help : “And if anyone reads these words and believes that I am attacking all men by them, that would provide a great example of why we should not entrust our church to people who can’t read.” This neatly implies that any man who finds the first comment offensive is illiterate and not to be given kingdom responsibilities of any scale. What a terrific way to prevent people from disagreeing! Pretty brilliant, really.

And what of the idea of how, for a woman, foolishness is a central qualification to cultivate if she is ambitious and wishes to be whatever she can be? The Proverbs 31 woman does not really fit this assertion. She is a woman who manages both business affairs and household affairs equally well. Since we are discussing the business side, I’ll stick to those: she imports food from afar (v. 14), she purchases real estate and plants a vineyard with her earnings (which means she actually is earning money, v. 16), she is involved in the business of trade and sees that her trading is profitable (v. 18), she makes a product and sells it (v. 24), and she supplies the merchants with sashes (B2B sales model, also v. 24).

All of this describes a woman who sees the value in her own efforts, who knows what she wants, and who excels at and pursues those things with determination and hard work. Is that not the very definition of ambition? Is not knowing the strengths God has given you and wishing to use them to their fullest extent the responsibility of every Christian, both men and women alike? How is this folly? The writer of Proverbs certainly did not see it so. In fact, these things were of such high value that they are included in a list of descriptors of an excellent wife. Presumably the intention was not to find such a woman and then immediately direct her to discontinue all of these outstanding behaviors as soon as the wedding has taken place.

One other point on that chapter – it makes no comment whatsoever about any of this being under either her husband’s or her father’s direction (nothing like, “She consulted her husband and then purchased a field with his permission). All of these decisions she seems to make on her own, and her husband has full confidence in her, not because he himself has directed her, but because she is so good at what she does that he lacks nothing of value himself (vs. 11). I’m not implying that major financial decisions should be made without consulting your spouse (this applies to both parties). I’m simply pointing out that this is a highly capable woman, presumably one who has been encouraged and trained in such a way that all her endeavors succeed as opposed to one who has been advised her whole life that her ambitions and talents stem from folly.

I look forward to your comments on this and am enjoying this discussion very much. Thank you.

And then of course, silence. Because that is what happens when a woman speaks out and it is so logically sane. Silence.

The link: ( where you can go to read the comments from all the yipping hyena’s who happily lick their master’s face. And a single sane logical woman’s response too.)

Smash the Complementarity


Her So Called Life

So… My mother-in-law has been living with us for over a month. I have already alluded, okay, no, I have flat out declared that Rip Van Winkle exists in real life and she is in a bed in our house. But, and this is slightly encouraging, Rip Van Winkle is slowing waking from a very deep and long sleep.

We bought a bird feeder and stuck it outside her window, a window that gets splashed open every morning to reveal the glorious sun and all its light, and the tiny finches that eat the seed in the feeder. And still she slept on.

Then we bought a chair that lifts her almost to standing, heats her up if she wants, and vibrates to any sort of degree she programs. At first she looked suspicioulsly at that chair like it was going to force her to engage in a way she did not want. And at me like I was an accomplice. But now she sits in it to read her paper.

But the thing that brought her to life was the project we’ve got going on outside her window. We had a landscaper and his men putting in about 50 plants and she is mesmerized. My mother-in-law was a gardner; she loved the dirt, the drip line, the roses, any plant. So there she sits at the window watching the progress in her vibrating heated laid back chair.

And if the weather is perfection, I  wheel her out to eat on the patio. And probably I shouldn’t but if it’s pill time, I have her swig them down with her wine.

“87,” I told her, “if a woman who is 87 can’t swill her pills with wine then what’s the sense of it all? And spend all day in her nightgown too, if she wants.”

And she laughs.

When I wheel her back in after her meal, she  cavalierly tosses the baby blue sunglasses onto the kitchen counter on our way to her bed where she falls in.


A little wine- with ice cubes- and salad before dinner.

Hakuna Matata

I’m a teeny bit numb. I was dilly dallying around for a year wondering WWTD, (What Would Terri Do)- paint stuff, write wittily and wisely, read leisurely, rise late, coffee klatsch about. And then Bam! my mother-in-law really did come to live with us. She sleeps a lot. A lot. I now know that the story of Rip Van Winkle is based on a real person. And she sleeps here.

All week I have been remembering a quote that really encouraged me when I was a young mom changing dirty diapers, feeding little people, throwing in a load of laundry, cleaning up the same mess again.  And I figured it was time to make it my mantra. Again. Because, well, circle of life.

It shoots holes in the idea that the apex to a Christian life culminates at: holy and spiritual missionary or pastor’s life, or me doing whatever I feel like doing. Jeesh. Which would, I am positive, be way more sanctifying-ly amazing than taking care of people.  Way more.  Way more cool, exciting, and fascinating to write about being a servant, to wax lyrical and to exhort wisely about lasting patience, kindness, long-suffering and just being amazing all by myself at a quiet desk all neat and tidy. Way more fun than scheduling meals, showers and pills.

The quote is from Amy Carmichael in A Chance to Die:

“Amy was learning that if the Lord of Glory took a towel and knelt on the floor to wash the dusty feet of His disciples , then no work, even the relentless and often messy routine of caring for squalling babies, is demeaning. To offer it up to the Lord of Glory transforms it into a holy task. “Could it be right,” Amy had asked,” to turn from so much that might be of profit and become just nursemaids?” The answer was yes. It is not the business of the servant to decide which work is great, which is small, which important or unimportant–he is not greater than his master. ‘If by doing some work which the undiscerning consider ‘not spiritual work’ I can best help others, and I inwardly rebel, thinking it is the spiritual for which I crave, when in truth it is the interesting and exciting, then I know nothing of Calvary’s love.’”

Dang it.

Now when my kids pop in for a visit, granny gets a visit too.

Now when my kids pop in for a visit, granny gets a visit too.