We are surrounded by amazing kids!

Here are just a few examples . . .

An adorable two and half year old at our Church Thanksgiving Banquet sitting beside his cousin. Picture two plates, two spoons, and two boys sharing equally off both plates. In another family, a four-year-old big brother spent some special time building a car with his mom while dad was at work. In another clan, a kindergarten aged girl at school has a big brother in an upper grade. When she sees him or he sees her, they hurry to one another for a quick hug. Obviously, that brief contact makes their days better.

A little girl who is sick, brave, strong, and courageous talked with her class about what it’s like to stay in a hospital for months at a time and how it feels to receive treatments for a serious disease. Then there is her big brother who takes amazing care of her.

Middle school girls and boys work so hard to find themselves and in the process, they try on all kinds of identities. Or, there was a “new” girl who tried hard to fit in. When she finally stopped trying to be like everyone else and was simply herself, she found amazing friends who liked her quirky humor and gentle spirit.

In a small school in one grade level, more than ten percent of the students had experienced the loss of a parent – diseases, accidents, over-doses, and suicides had all worked to steal too many children of a parent. One of those student’s father died from an illness during the school year. Knowing that Dad was dying, the student wrote an amazing, touching poem about the man and father he had been. Many of us wept as we read it. That student had dreams of going to Stanford – and was certainly bright enough to be successful there. In a conversation in which the student was encouraged to not give up on the dream, his brown eyes filled with tears as he said, “You know that kids from a single parent family never have the opportunities that other kids have, especially when they are raised by a single mom. I’ll have to settle for the University – if I can get a scholarship.”

Shattered dreams at the age of eleven.

A twelve-year-old who walked into her first hour class twenty minutes late most mornings broke down in tears when asked why she was late. She finally explained that her mom was sick and she often had to help her mom get out of bed and dressed before she could come to school. Adult responsibilities for a young girl. She took care of her care taker.

An elementary age boy mowed lawns and saved money to buy his own vehicle. He’ll drive it in a few years.

An 8^th grade girl was assigned a first-person book report. She read the book, prepared what she would say, found the perfect outfit to represent her character and headed to the front of the classroom. Panic set in; she started to shake and cry. She stopped and started again. Although performance anxiety was huge, she succeeded. A few years later, she performed in a school play in a lead role. She did it with confidence and grace. How far she had come.

If you aren’t inspired, I don’t know what else I can say.

These aren’t adults accomplishing and becoming their best – these are kids. You know, the ones we teach and train so that they can make the world better.

As a teacher in a public school, as a pastor, as a mother and a neighbor, as a human being walking through my day-to-day life and observing the world around me, I see children every day, everywhere. Children who are dealing with adult struggles and challenges.

I know…these kinds of challenges aren’t new to this generation. Struggles, unfair circumstances, and adult expectations became real in the lives of children years and years and years ago. Even though this has been the reality for decades, it does not diminish the struggle that children face today.

As parents, Mr. Gorgeous and I had to, at times, watch as our boys walked into difficult situations. We would have chosen a different path for them, but because it was their own journey, we stood by and worked to support them in-the-midst of the challenging path they chose.

And, isn’t that what parents do?

Instead of bailing them out, instead of changing their reality, we support them and help to guide them when they feel they can’t solve their own struggle. As they achieve success – or failure – they grow and thrive and become the adults that we want and need to see in this world: those who can take on and face a challenge with determination, thought, and grace. Even more than that though, we watch and support them with prayer as they walk not only in what they’ve learned and what we’ve taught, but in what God reveals to them.

Sometimes the lessons are not the ones we would choose for them. And that’s okay because there is one thing that we as parents, teachers, pastors, and friends should know with great assurance. As much as we love them and care for them, they have a Father in Heaven in who knows them, loves them, and cares for them more than we ever could.

In that, there is assurance. In that, there is peace. Rest in the fact that God is holding them in the palm of His hand.

Pray for the children.

I am convinced that there is some truth to the theory that says the relationship between fathers and daughters and the relationship between mothers and sons are special. However, I am also convinced that every relationship between a child and his or her parent – which ever parent it may be – is unique and filled with special moments.

As the youngest daughter, I realize that I‘m close to my Dad – but I’m close to my mom too.

If I were to describe my Dad in a word picture, I would say he is a bunch of threads spread out in the tapestry of my life – sometimes his thread is quiet and blends in. At other times, the thread is bright and highlights the moment, the memory, the story. Explaining my mom is a bit different – partly because, for much of my life, she was a single mom. If my dad is the thread, my mom is the fabric of which my life is made.

While I often talk about my Dad in stories, my mom’s “stories” are the tales of everyday life. Do I have special memories of her? Yes, but many of them center around “Mom” moments – and I think she’ll be okay with that.

We liked to play Scrabble – often with my Aunt Rose. I rarely beat them, but when I did – I earned it! They made me sweat and I learned to love language by looking at little wooden tiles. My Aunt Rose, Uncle Ken, Mom and I sang together – and I loved it! I can still hear us singing “Feelin’ Fine” and a number of other southern gospel favorites.

Mom is generous with her time and her resources. She has a big heart. One of the couples in our church was having some problems – the husband left his wife. When Mom found out, she gathered a bag of groceries and on her way to work, stopped at their apartment, gave the wife some groceries and hug. She didn’t say anything other than, “Here – for you.”

I don’t really remember shopping with her – that wasn’t her thing, maybe because money was often tight. I do, however, remember a hot pink coat in elementary school and I remember shopping for that coat with her. (That coat may be the reason I hate pink today — however, I loved it back then.) When I was in 6^th grade, she bought me a pair of red, white, and blue Buster Brown shoes and I loved them – I’d wear them today!

When I was a teenager, she gave me permission to make hard decisions and let her take the blame. I remember the discussion around that idea. Her concern was that peer pressure is huge and she understood that. She explained that there were times when I would need to be brave and stand up for myself and what I believed. But she also thought that I could have more influence with my friends if I didn’t always draw lines between us by decisions that I made. I only remember using that gift two or three times. Once, I was at a teen party after church on a Sunday evening at the beginning of spring break. Some of the teens in our group were making decisions about who they wanted to be and what they wanted to do – I wasn’t comfortable with the direction they were headed. Several of the girls decided to have an impromptu slumber party after the teen party. All of the girls were invited and one of them was going to bring some “refreshments” that I wasn’t happy about. I told the girls I would have to check with my mom. One of them drove me home and I went inside. I said, “I’m going to ask you a question and I need you to say no.” She did and I was relieved.

Hot chocolate was her solution to a myriad of bad days. She makes the best hot chocolate in the world! She buys a gallon of chocolate milk – or she buys milk and a can of Hershey’s Chocolate Syrup, pours it into a heavy saucepan and slowly warms it — delicious when topped with marshmallow cream or a handful of marshmallows! When I had a bad day at school or at my job in the mall, Mom would make hot chocolate, we would talk, and my day would improve.

She worked hard and sent me to a private Christian High School during my sophomore year because I had just moved back to Albuquerque from small town Colorado and I was scared of going to a high school of 3000 students. As a nurse, she sent me to school even when I thought I was dying. But, there were a few rare days when I got up and asked if I could stay home for the day, “just because,” and she let me.

Mom wanted me back in a small high school with a good choir and other extra-curricular activities for my senior year, so we moved to southern New Mexico. In August, before school started, she and I went to Carlsbad to a place called President’s Park. As a 16 year old, I got to ride my first carousel. We watched swans on the river and I rode a paddle boat – again, my first one. Later, we sat in a restaurant there by the Park and while we drank root beer floats, the radio announced that Elvis Presley had died. Our special day became completely frozen in my memory partly because of that announcement.

I graduated from high school back in the day when most of the girls wore a white dress for graduation. In March before graduation, Mom took me to Main Place – the best store in town – and bought me a beautiful embroidered white blouse and skirt. The outfit was on layaway for two months, but I proudly wore it for graduation and many, many times in the days that followed.

My boys sometimes laugh about her Holly Hobby drinking glasses – I remind them of the story of how Mom and I would eat supper at Tastee Freeze and get a free Holly Hobby glass with each meal we purchased. A good memory – kind of ugly glasses. (I thought they were cute, once upon a time.)

Whenever our family would go to Mom’s, the boys would list all of the things that they knew Grandma would have available for them – Pepsi, chicken bites, mini pizzas, sundae cones, mini York’s Peppermint Patties, etc.

Everyday memories…. Memories of my mom who did a great job being my mom. Memories of a mom who probably had regrets and her own dreams that were unfulfilled. Memories of a mom who focused on being the best that she could be.

And she was the best.

She still is.

It happened when I wasn’t looking. It happened without my permission. It wasn’t planned. And I don’t like it.
We moved to Wisconsin and I’ve begun looking for a job. Imagine my shock when I was told that there is a special office to help people who are….wait for it….old. Also known as being over fifty. Apparently those of us who have reached the advanced age of fifty find it difficult to locate employment.
There was a day when we revered experience and wisdom that comes from time lived, decisions made, and lessons learned. I have always loved when our sons call for advice and direction. In fact, I still call my parents for advice and direction. You see, I know that time lived has brought wisdom to them. They’ve lived, learned, and experienced life. The knowledge that they have gained they are willing to share. Admittedly, when I was younger it seemed like they were sharing more often than I would have chosen. Our boys no doubt feel that way about us.
Many gifts come as a result of age and experience. One of them is perspective. As a teenager, I believed that my problems were insurmountable and never ending. What I didn’t realize is that those problems and challenges were temporary. They weren’t never ending – in fact, many of them ended the next day. I didn’t have the perspective to realize that good and bad come and we grow through each. I did not understand that everything changes and that most things in our lives are temporary. I believe I was 15 or 16 when I went to talk to my pastor about all of my teen angst. My pastor gave me good counsel and told me that I needed to “get over it” because these challenges that I complained about were simply temporary situations that would change. He was right. He gave me a new perspective.

Another gift is memory. There are so many treasures in my heart and mind. There are moments that are frozen in time. I’ll never forget singing with my sisters in church. The day that my brother stood up at 7pm in church on a Sunday night and gave the pastor the “Time out” sign because the pastor promised to be finished by 7. Disneyland and Knott’s Berry Farm with our Aunt and Uncle. Swimming in the Pacific with My Aunt Sally. I will always have the day that I first saw Mr. Gorgeous. How can I forget the day he asked me to be his bride? I remember the days our boys were born and the day our daughter became our daughter. These are treasures that are mine. I can see them in my mind’s eye and hear them in my head.

With age and experience comes the treasure of understanding the true value of things. When I taught 8th grade English, I would give each student three slips of paper and have them write down the three most precious treasures they had in their lives. Afterward I would tell them that a terrible thing happened and only one of their treasures survived. Then, I would ask them to choose the one that survived and to tear up the other two papers. It was a defining moment for many of them as we began to talk about treasures and perspectives. I was amazed time and time again as students chose “things” rather than relationships as their treasures. Learning the true value of things is something that does not come easily, nor does it come early in our lives. But when we learn it, we have found true wisdom.

While there are many others, the most important gift that comes with age is one that helps us to know and understand who we truly are. It comes from the most valuable of all relationships. It comes from knowing God and His Son, Jesus Christ. I know that not all people who are older have experienced a relationship with Jesus Christ, but those who have are wise beyond understanding; they have much to share.

Why is it that we judge people based on their age? Instead, we should learn from them and treasure their contribution to our lives. I’m not saying this because I have apparently entered into the ranks of the “older” folk; I am saying it because my life has been touched by amazing people who are older than me. We should be grateful – we should recognize the blessing they have provided in our lives. We should treasure their contribution and we should treasure them.

This is not a “commentary” style post that will encourage you to think or change an opinion. It is simply a vignette — a MOSTLY true story from my childhood. It is intended to make you smile. Please remember that this story occurred when I was a middle school student and thus the events were filtered through the brain of an early adolescent. (I know what a terrifying place a middle school brain can be!) Additionally, this story is told through the lens of time — decades, in fact. For these reasons, it is a MOSTLY true story. The names have been changed to protect the innocent. The names of the guilty remain — they will simply need to claim their “shame.”

Brandied Fruit

My second mom was a high school teacher who sponsored the Future Business Leaders of America club. One year her FBLA debate team had proven their salt and were qualified to go to Nationals in Houston, Texas during the month of April. And so our tale begins, in truth, a few months before she headed to the city.

It was in the fall at dinner one evening when Momma started talking about Randy, the high school janitor. It seems that he had gotten the brilliant idea to make homemade wine – peach and cherry wines to be exact. Apparently, he had read just enough about the process to make him dangerous. He “followed” the directions to prepare the fruit, mix the contents, and bottle the precious liquid. He corked his bottles and set them in a cool, dark pantry to ferment – just like the directions almost said.

Late, the evening before we heard the tale, Randy and his wife Susan, were in their living room when they became the victims of a drive-by shooting. As they sat on the couch, gunshots echoed through the frame of their small house shattering glass in the windows. Flashbacks of Korea filled his mind as he pulled Susan onto the floor until the shooting stopped. Finally, twenty minutes or so after the first shot, the shooter gave up and moved on down the road. Randy pushed Susan back to the floor with strict orders to stay-put as he set off to reconnoiter. Imagine his surprise when the bullets actually turned out to be exploding bottles of wine forcing open pantry doors while broken glass impaled walls, corks bounced around the room, and purple mixed with orange goo leached across the floor.

Our family enjoyed a good laugh and dad got “that look” on his face, the one that said we could all be in trouble now.

The next night dad placed a gallon jar on the counter near the pantry. He told us to start collecting fruit that was left over from various cooking projects – he started with some sliced peaches from dinner. Over the top of the fruit, he poured a bottle of brandy, closed the lid – not tightly, you understand – and let it sit. Dad was convinced that Randy had failed at making wine because he had over-pressurized the containers. Since dad wasn’t a wine drinker, he thought brandied fruit would be just the ticket. Over the next few months we added all kinds of fruit to the jar: fruit cocktail, pineapple, strawberries, grapes, cherries, apples, apricots, and still more peaches. And yes, occasionally, another bottle of brandy was added.

In the spring, Momma and the FBLA girls had gone to Houston; my brother was working at the candy factory and would be home very late after his shift ended, and I had cooked dinner. I think that dad’s one solace that evening was in knowing that he would finally eat some of his precious “brandied fruit.” (I’ll never know why he chose that particular night.) Dishes were done, we had relaxed, and he called me to the kitchen, told me to get a couple of bowls while he pulled out a brand new carton of ice cream. He dished up the treat, walked over to the counter, opened “the jar,” and with his blue eyes sparkling, ladled a generous helping of fruit onto our ice cream.

I ate; he savored.

A little after midnight, my stomach churning, I ran to the bathroom and proceeded to rid myself of every bit of ice cream, brandied fruit – and what remained in my stomach of my supper. I would creep back to my room only to sprint back to the bathroom. The gauge read empty, but still my body systems tried to pump even more from the tank. The one delight I felt about knowing that my father had given me food poisoning was hearing his footsteps run from his room to his bathroom too – all night long.

There was no work and no school for the oldest and the youngest in the Arndt house the next day. I began talking to him again when Momma got home from Texas a few days later. Thankfully, she was wise enough to NOT ask where the brandied fruit had gone

I live in Colorado, how could I NOT be surrounded by beauty:

• The beauty of a blue sky, sun shining with a bald eagle circling on the wind currents.
• Snow covered branches dancing in the breeze.
• Spring wildflowers blooming on the mountain in my back yard.
• Clear, cool streams filled with ice cold water flowing over mossy rocks.
• Puppies playing chase in the yard.
• Towering peaks high above the valley.
• Leaves dancing in the wind.
• Quarter-size snowflakes drifting slowly to the ground.
• The perfection of a newborn baby.
• The tenderness of a loved one’s touch.

Beauty.

It surrounds me every day and yet there are days when I simply fail to realize that it exists, that it is there. I am encompassed by a world filled with things that are far from mundane, and yet my day-in, day-out life seems pretty routine and ordinary most of the time. Rather than seeing the beauty in an adolescent’s smile, I see the behavior that caught my attention. I don’t notice the beauty of the snow fall, I notice the slick sidewalk and slippery roads. Instead of celebrating the past and the memories I treasure, I see the work and the tasks that I need to accomplish today.

How can I begin to once again focus on the beauty?

When I was growing up my mom had a saying, “Two men looked out from prison bars; one saw mud and one saw stars.”

How can I focus on the stars?

I have decided to take on a new challenge. My goal is to focus on the positive. I was always an optimist; I saw the good in people, in things, in situations, and even in challenges. But lately, I’ve noticed that I am not as positive as I use to be. That has to change.

In a science class somewhere I learned about flying. I know that the attitude of a plane controls where it goes. If it is true in a plane, I believe that it is also true in a human. Therefore, my attitude changes today. Here. Now.

No more will I allow the circumstances in which I live or work control my attitude. It is too easy to allow little things to take hold of us — to become the focus of our thoughts and our behaviors. Rather than looking at the tasks I must do, I will look around me as I move through this journey of life. I am choosing to see the beauty, to hear the laughter, to feel the warmth of the sun and the embrace of welcoming relationships. The changes won’t come quickly, they won’t be automatic or easy. But, with God’s help, I will remember to see the beauty because I want to be the “old” me.

I want to see the stars!

I come from a family of strong women.

My Great Grandmother Townsend was a minister’s wife. She died when I was in my early 20s. I have precious memories of her. She lived in a small white house that had beautiful purple and yellow pansies under a window in her yard. The front ditch had water skipper spiders and the great grandkids waded in it. Great Grandma was vertically challenged — okay, she was short. It was an event: measuring to see who was taller — the grandchild or the grandmother. I was 10 or so when I grew taller than she; and she laughed. Her house always smelled really good and when I was there, I felt safe and welcome. I felt as though I belonged. The extended family would have picnics in her small town in a park across the street from her tiny house. The memories are priceless.

My mom’s mom, Grandma Addington lived with mom and I after my parents divorced. As a young woman she was burned and lost mobility in her arm. She learned to crochet as a means of restoring some of that mobility. Believe me, she was an artist with a crochet hook and crochet thread. One summer, when I was a young girl, I spent several days with Grandma and her friend in Albuquerque, NM. Grandma bought me a hula hoop. (Is that how you spell that?) Patience was definitely Grandmas’a virtue that summer — she let me hula hoop in the living room almost all day, every day.

Grandma Prottenguier came into our family when I was 12. She welcomed me not only into her home, but into her heart. I felt at home when I was with her and Grandpa. I use to take Grandma flowers and she always treated them as though they were a treasure beyond compare. She listened to me and was understanding of my feelings as a young teenager. I treasure pictures of her holding our oldest son. She died a few short months later.

Grandma Pribbenow, my dad’s mom, is an amazing woman. She turned 100 years old on July 5, 2013. Her mother apparently said that she was so thankful that Allene had been born on the 5th rather than the 4th, because she didn’t want her daughter to be a firecracker. However, the stories I hear of my Grandmother tell me that Great Grandma was mistaken — her daughter was a firecracker. Grandma left home as a teenager to marry my Grandfather Arndt. She raised her children basically alone. An artisan, she crafted small furniture, made “china” for her grand daughters out of clorox bottles and she hand painted flowers on each plate/dish, and painted amazing pictures of beautiful landscapes and flowers. One of my treasures is rocking chair made from a can with blue velvet upholstery. She made cookies; and she taught me to make cinnamon rolls.

Each of these women were amazingly strong, beautiful, and loving. Besides being able to claim me as a granddaughter (smile), these four women shared another valuable trait that I believe made all the difference in their lives and in the lives of their families. You see, they loved God and served Him with all their hearts. They prayed for their children and grandchildren. They provide a heritage of strength and faith. My life is richer because of them, their love, and their investment in my life. Truly, I am blessed.