Away on business!

My husband told me Monday night that a last minute overnight had come up. Being that business trips have been coming often these days, I asked if the Little Man and I could tag along. He agreed, so 6:30 this morning saw us up and out the door into the wide dark yonder.

Now we are in Wilmington, in a snug little hotel not too far from the beach. I am far too busy cuddling with my boys -- Jonathan is putting Josh and me to bed and stroking our hair to soothe us (and dissolving in laughter because he is allowed to) -- to blog about the next person in My Project. So, I am just letting you know that I am away on business, the business of hotel bathtubs and out-to-dinnering and cuddling on plush bedsheets in a room all our own and watching my little guy careen down the endless hallway clutching his new prized possession Thomas the Train.

Please forgive my absence -- my professional life calls.

15. Ginny E

Last night I was walking back to the living room after putting Jonathan to bed when I heard the cluster of friends gathered there listening as Josh said,

"She just prays like she's talking to Him, it's the coolest thing."

I knew then that he was talking about my little sister because I've heard Josh admire this about her more than once before. Our friends asked what he meant, and I expounded. I explained that Ginny doesn't talk to God like a distant deity but rather as a close friend whom she sees everyday. When listening to her pray you don't know whether to chuckle at her familiar tone or turn away from the intimacy of their conversation. You never can turn away, though, for the urge to listen and learn from this friendship is too great.

Ginny's genuine approach to God is much like her approach to people. She sees people uniquely, finding our their qualities through the scrutinous observation of a writer. When you read her blog you will find it full of interesting characters that make you guffaw with laughter or sigh with sweet appreciation. Ginny's close perception of human hearts has left her with a bevy of friends that range from age eighty something to two. It still astounds me that the English teacher at the high school we attended, the one who shared nothing of her personal life with her students and whom we never saw about town, invited Ginny to travel with her to Ireland when Ginny was in college. That teacher saw what the rest of us were inexplicably drawn to: her genuine passion and vitality for life and the people that color it.

Ginny has hair the color of newly harvested straw and it is curly and bouncy and basically irresistible. She has bright blue eyes and rose colored lips and little tiny freckles that dot her nose. When were were toddlers people would come up to my mom and unabashedly ask to take home some of her curls (Mom refused); they would squeeze her cheeks and basically treat her like a puppy. I was always impressed that she handled it so well; I would have hidden behind mom's legs.

I'm sure I don't need to mention the boys that came calling; her sunshine pretty features were the opening act to her life's adventure that everyone wanted to be a part of. Through our school years, then college, and finally into the precipice that is our twenties, Ginny has continued to have a flock of friends around her. For a long time I thought it was her pretty face, bubbly personality, and appreciation of Jim Carrey films (and subsequent ability to quote them flawlessly). Now I am finally understanding that this all flows from her genuineness. Ginny is real, she is honest and thorough in her affection. She is as authentic as a rocking chair moved by the wind on a brick front porch. Anyone who passes by cannot help but take a seat, unload their burdens, and enjoy the happy sing-song of the summer.

14. The Beckers

Ginny Becker has always had a candy drawer in her kitchen. It is easily reachable and full of everything from Good n Plentys to MnMs. My sister and I were always fascinated by this drawer, mostly because of its accessibility but also because of the beautiful rainbow of spilling reds and yellows and greens and chocolatey browns that caused our eyeballs to pop like little jacks in boxes.

That candy drawer says a lot about the Becker household. A year or so ago I was heading with MomA up north for a home sales conference and a chance to see some old friends in the area. Ginny and Erich were happy to welcome us in, and it was only when we arrived that we realized they had guests coming for dessert and plenty else to do besides host us. Nonetheless, I sat up early in the morning chatting with Ginny in her kitchen, occasionally letting my eyes pass over the nostalgic drawer I knew was full of candy, talking about the latest news and sharing with her my new joys of motherhood. It did not seem to matter that she had been up all hours ministering to her friends or that her daughter and grandkids were on their way over to see her, she still had all of the time in the world to minister to me and dote on my baby boy.

Erich and Ginny started their relationship a gifted English teacher and dedicated ballerina. Leigh came along and the individual colors of their relationship blended into a sweet and wise little girl, soft in countenance and spirited in heart. Then came an artistic and compassionate Katie, a sporty and luminous Sally, and a charming and witty Jonathan. Along came Sam and Gib, whisking the older girls off as bright eyed young wives, and then soon after Parker and Macy, two of the cutest little munchkins in Baltimore County.

I remember when I was little, sitting in the basement of their cozy white house, watching Newsies while my sister had her Childrens' Chorus of Maryland practices. I would practice singing the songs so that I could be as cool as Katie, sure that Leigh would also be proud of my ability to harmonize with Jack and Spot Collins. The Becker girls were always bright stars in my eyes, and in my sister Ginny's too. They were like the rainbows in the candy drawer, shiny and welcoming and surprisingly available to be friends even though we lived far away.

Beach trips were the best. For many years the Ficker and Becker families vacationed together at Sandbridge Beach, and we had so much fun that two other families eventually joined the annual hoopla. It was then that I really got to know Jon and Sally, and every year I saw them become more unique, but still containing the Becker glow that invited people in like a hearth fire and s'mores.

It is a simple thing to invite people into your home. It takes a half hour of vacuuming and a little extra planning with your grocery budget. What is not simple is raising a family that invites people in together, that beckons others with their collective smile and communal heartbeat. The Beckers have spent time preparing a family that is welcoming, and vacuuming has nothing to do with it. As far as the grocery budget goes, I think the candy drawer may play an elemental role. Whether the candy drawer is around or not, I can't wait to be in their midst again.

13. Martha A

At nine thirty last night a bedraggled Martha (to me, MomA) and a worn out Hannah pulled into 1503 Pebble Drive. My in-laws house is large and white with country blue shutters. The right side of it glows in the nighttime, the lights of the kitchen and living room addition glimmering like a Thomas Kincade painting.

After working tirelessly laying floors and painting trim in Jonathan and Jamie's house, together with transporting teenagers to their various camps and toting a toddler from babysitter to babysitter, we were, needless to say, pooped. Nonetheless, as I settled down at the computer MomA disappeared upstairs for a solid hour. When she finally emerged she announced she had finally gotten her teenage son's (now away for six weeks) room into a hospitable condition. As Jonathan and Jamie's bed was piled high with boxes and furniture and clean laundry while awaiting new floors, 1503 offered itself as Bed and Breakfast for the weary workers.

I was dubious, being that I knew the general state of my brother-in-law's room, but when I topped the stairs I looked into the most inviting room that could offer itself out of teenage chaos. I mean, it was immaculate! The air mattress was topped with crisply layed sheets, a folded over blanket, and fluffed pillows. There were two matching towels sitting politely on the corner of the bed. Knowing that I hadn't heard a maid go up there with her, nor a vacuum cleaner (Jonathan was sleeping) I was rather curious as to how this magic had happened. I looked, but Mary Poppins was assuredly not standing in the corner. Letting my eyes pass over the equally inviting guest room where Bill and Candy Gref were staying, I went back downstairs and complimented her on her work.

"Well, it's not perfect, but after they worked so hard I just want them to have somewhere comfortable to sleep," she said with a sympathetic shrug of her shoulders.

I didn't point out that she doesn't ever spoil herself with the same attention for her own room before bedding down, no matter how many hours she has pulled being taxi driver, saleswoman, doctor, nutritionist, cook, and babysitter. I simply didn't think she'd see the connection.

We waited an hour longer before the rest of the troupe returned from working, straggling in like Snow White's dwarves. I thought maybe she'd usher her houseguests upstairs to show off her minute handiwork, but she just laughed with them and offered to serve her mom's famous berry cobbler. After we had collapsed for about half an hour in glorious relaxation and dessert, everyone headed upstairs and the lights went out.

I personally love the leather couches in the living room, so I listened as the lights tick-tick-ticked and the soft pad-pad of feet finally drifting to blissful pillows. As she headed to her own room I asked her, "Do you feel like you're running a hotel, MomA?"

"Oh, I love it," she said. I could hear the tired in her voice, but I could also hear the genuine joyfulness.

The next morning Candy Gref stood in the kitchen stretching before her customary walk. "Martha," she said in a sing-song voice, "the hotel we stayed in last night must have known it was our anniversary. They left a card under the door... and flowers!" She had a twinkle in her eye and MomA just smiled contentedly.

We all smiled then, for we all know that Martha Adams would rather spend an extra $50 on plush towels to lay out for her guests than a cute pair of shoes. We all chuckled to ourselves, knowing that laying out that card and planting those flowers made her just as happy as a five-year-old in a toy store.

12. Ann S

Lily: "but where can we put these?" (markers)
Amy: "um,...maybe in the cretaceous time period."

My friend Ann is walking endorphins; she is a happy pill in cute skirts and polka dot heels toting three children in a minivan. She is the smile on my Thursday morning calendar and I hope I can describe her sunshine personality with at least as much pizzazz as she uses to describe a grocery list.

Ann is the mother of three: Lily, three, Amy, three, and Matthew, two. Yes, she has three children learning to use the potty right now. She has three children with more energy than Sonic the Hedgehog, three children with as many bright smiles and withering frowns as a preschool teacher working overtime. And she loves it.

I direct your attention to the quote above. I opened with this, an update from Ann's Facebook page, to illustrate for you just how entertaining life can be. It is from this spunky woman that I find inspiration to throw myself into the small and miraculous moments of being a mother, to push through the sometimes exhausting marathon of mommy-ing by seeing the sparkle amidst the rough.

Every Thursday morning I head to Chick-Fil-A to meet up with my sister-in-law and her kids, Ann and her kids, and often one or two other mothers toting toddlers as well. One such morning I was sitting in our customary cluster of tables and watched as Ann started detailing the pluses of a portable potty seat with hand gestures and widening of eyes.

"I mean, I don't go anywhere without this thing," she said as she clutched the tri-color plastic object to her chest.

She began pulling it from the grocery bag where it is conveniently stored in her over-sized purse, and as she did her mouth started forming her words with wide, pursing articulation, as she does when she's excited.

"I mean, it was so difficult when I had to take Lily to the potty, unbuckle, take her inside, do the potty thing," she explained rolling her eyes and slumping her shoulders in a perfect imitation of an exasperated young mother. "Then, of course Amy would have to go to... invariably there were accidents, and it was just terrible," she finished with a dramatic sweep of the hands and final eye roll.

"Then I discovered this," and she held up the potty like an Olympic medal, her eyebrows shooting heavenward.

"I highly recommend it when you start potty training."

Finished with her accomplished sales pitch, she relaxes back against the booth, replaces the plastic baggy clad potty topper, and sips her Diet Coke.

I think that at this point I sat in stunned silence, both unbelieving that she was actually willing to let her children have bowel movements in a parked van with only a Harris Teeter bag beneath a cheap plastic contraption as well as fascinated by her zealous advertising. Finally I concluded that no matter how crazy she was for both using and loving this mothering tool, I was appreciated her humor and lack of complaint.

After all, how many mothers do you know who are potty training twins +1 and laughing about it?

Ann does not start her days prepared for the worst. She starts her days with a cute top, a fashionable skirt or flattering jeans, and the cutest shoes. She lets her kids pick our their clothes, tosses them in her gold minivan, and sits in between them all, perched on the backseat console like a mother bird, and conferences with them about good attitudes. She divvies juice, allows them to enlighten her with all of the important issues facing them at the time, (such as the cretaceous time period), and breathes deep as she climbs over books and bouncy balls to get to the driver's seat. Then she fires up the van as she similarly prays to God for liquid energy and an IV.

And she's off, with her portable plastic potty and a sparkle in her determined mother's heart.

11. Tom S

When I worked at a public school teaching Spanish I had a co-worker (and friend) whose door had a small black and white image of a runner pasted on it. Beneath this picture was a quote that said something like, "Whatever you do, do it with all of the passion you possess." I found myself focusing on this quote countless times as I walked into his room to ask a piece of advice, pitch a new idea, or just share friendly banter. It caught my eye so often because, unlike many quotes plastered on doors or bumpers or Facebook profiles, Tom really lives this as far as I can tell.

There was a day early in December when I thought I was the last to leave work. My head was throbbing from the replayed events of the day rolling like an old-fashioned movie reel, I was lonely beneath the awful fluorescent lights that magnified my smallness, and burdened by the constant nag that I could have done more today, I could have done better. When I saw his door still ajar on my way out, I was compelled to seek out some friendly words before finally heading home.

I walked in to Tom standing slightly pitched forward and head bent in concentration over his projector. Curious, I moved next to him and looked down. I saw the songs we had been writing, Spanish vocabulary put to the lines and rhythms of American Christmas carols. Thinking to myself that this seemed a petty reason to stay after hours on a Friday, I asked him what he was about.

"This line doesn't quite work. I'm trying to make it so that it flows better."

Let me dispel your assumptions that Tom is an accomplished musician and lyricist. He is none of the above, and listening to him sing is comical at best. He is a soccer player, runner, and seasoned traveler. Music is nowhere in his repertoire, yet there he was giving his last bit of energy and brow furrowing to the perfection of homespun Christmas canciones.

I myself had filed our hastily written songs away in my Microsoft Word folder, only preparing to bring them out on the day they were to be introduced to students. In my own mind we had spent plenty of time working on them; perfection was a non-necessity.

Tom, however, does not operate this way. If he is going to taste wine he will hike himself out to Napa. If he is going to teach his students culture he will spend every last dime on travel and the perspective it affords. As a soccer coach he is a sweaty participant, as a runner ignorant of pain, as a song-writer he is, if nothing else, precise.

As a new teacher there were many days when I had to reach beyond myself to grasp that illusive ghost called satisfaction. There were many more days when I looked across the hall and through the brightly lit door to find inspiration.

10. Joshua A

My husband is a hot headed red head. He has a fiery temper and staunch opinions. Well informed and witty, he is not one to argue with. You may not know this about him, however, because he is also extremely self controlled and discerning.

Tonight I had started, yet again late in the evening, my tenth blog in the "My Project" lineup. I was tired and anxious to get my inspired thoughts on virtual paper. When my husband leaned over my shoulder and commented that I might want to change the wording in my last typed sentence, I quietly deleted the whole section and closed the computer.

"I just won't write right now. I'll wait until you're not looking over my shoulder," I said coldly and with more than a hint of self-righteousness.

A bit stunned at my dramatic reaction, he backed up a little and apologized.

"I won't make another comment," he said carefully, "I won't even read what you're writing. Go ahead."

I refused.

It was in that moment that both of us realized just how irrational I was being. I decided to ignore this obvious fact and just cross my arms and continue watching TV, my back now stiffly reclined against his chest. Josh decided to relax, keep holding me, and try to enjoy the evening. In fact, at the end of the show he offered to get me my customary glass of ice water to take to bed, (this I also declined), and made a casual mention of the fact that he liked my new shirt.

Now, nearly forty five minutes after our little "issue" Josh is coolly relaxed, comfortable in bed, and so non-plussed as to be almost whistling happily while he piddles on his phone. I think this must be what it feels like to be the "bigger man". In fact, he just turned to me with a victorious smile to tell me that the Texas Rangers have just won their eleventh game in a row, something about the best record in the league...

This is what I love about my husband. Behind that passionate red hair and ferocious opinions on politics and how to play the game of golf, he is the Bigger Man. I hear about it with his co-workers, I watch it with his siblings, and I feel it constantly as his wife. At the end of every day he is my best friend. No matter what has passed between us or what we must deal with tomorrow, he is ever willing to be sincere in an apology and ready to move on to the next topic, the next chance, my next chance.

I might add that he was perfectly right. The wording I had chosen for Blog #10 was a little too strong, and wouldn't really have conveyed the point I was trying to make. He played an honest editor. Perhaps next time I'll tell him so.

9. Belén J

In college Belén worked in the ZSR Library, in Microfiche. This is the section of the university library where no one ventures, for it is intimidatingly full of manila colored file boxes which are similarly full of tiny bits of writing which make up hundreds and hundreds of research articles. With its dull khakis and greys of the carpet and the headache inducing fluorescent lights above, most people would consider a Microfiche job akin to solitary confinement. Most people not named Belén, anyhow.

She would take her journal and pen and start archiving, with her tall delicate script and uncanny detail, the memorable moments of her day. Let me enlighten you, Belén does not have days that do not merit a journal entry, and so she turned a dour room like Microfiche into a storehouse of her romantic thoughts. The library was not the only place she sat to write down her lucid memories and wandering thoughts; she would sit on benches in parks that everyone else passed by like unnoticed mile markers, she would discover secret spots with cushiony chairs, she would seek out every coffee shop in town and sit there with stationary and pen and kind words to write to friends. She has filled so many pages, in journals or in letters, of her take on the world's beauty that she probably needs a room the size of Microfiche to hold them.

Belén sees the world through a different lense than the rest. To her a blue sky is not just a backdrop through which she runs and does errands and totes her toddler, it is a Velazquez sky that reminds her of famous paintings in the halls of the Prado Museum in Spain. She will mention this to you and stop you in your running from this to that. It will surprise you to realize she is right, the sky above is truly brilliant today. For Belén a latte is not just a hot drink to get her through a long night of studying or a long day of mothering, it is a perfect tazita, a little cup of heaven sent down to her in swirls of cinnamon and hazelnut and rich coffee bean.

I remember our senior year, when most of us pushed through our last year of college and treated our final classes like the last bit of vegetable on our plate. Belén chose that year to take French. Already fluent in Spanish, an inheritance from her mother, she thought it would be fun to challenge herself to a new and beautiful tongue. She had sung down the streets of the Champs de Elysee while it sparkled in nighttime rain, now she wanted to taste the flavor of French itself. She would put on her headphones and sit on her bed, smiling while she attempted the difficult pronunciations. While I pulled whole chunks of hair from my head trying to make it through my Educational Technology course, she was laughing at herself and her inability to switch from Spanish to this new sound. It was life-giving for me, and I think for our roomates as well to watch her enjoy learning like that.

Her passion and vitality allow her to see people, not only places and circumstances, with a keen perception and interest. When she calls to see how I am it is not to ask, "What's new," but rather to ask what is going on with the old. She remembers the details I told her months ago, and I imagine it is because she journaled her prayers for me in that same tall elegant script.

We love the outdoors.

These two cannot stand to be inside for too long. Despite the 95+ temperature and humidity that causes sweat upon contact, walking out the door causes jubilant cheers and happy wagging of tails. Here are a few shots.

Happily resting... Jonathan seems to be wondering why we rest. You see that furrow of the brow? Sandy seems to be wondering why we ever do anything but rest in the grassy lawn.

Sandy in the sprinkler.

Jonathan in the sprinkler.

One way to survive oppressive heat: get wet.

8. Sandy

When I was three years old I decided I wanted to become a veterinarian. When I was eleven years old I was allowed to take horseback riding lessons, where I worked off my lessons by grooming them, shoveling their manure, and brushing their silky soft coats. When I was twenty-four I told my husband that I desperately wanted a dog of my own. Luckily I married a man who loves my heart, the hard and the tender spots, and agreed to adopt a neurotic golden named Sandy.

Sandy is quirky, to say the least. If rain begins to pat-pit-patter on the roof she starts reeling in a state of neurosis that can only be sedated by Valium. I am not exaggerating... I have the prescription to prove it. Nonetheless, I love this dog as I love her when I first touched her in that cold back room behind the pet store where a soft-hearted woman named Jane told me about her previous life.

Sandy was a puppy in a home that had no room for her, so she was left in the cold and the heat and the dirt and the rain alone. Alone she chewed rocks, attempted escape, and I imagine just longed for somewhere soft to lay her russet head. Finally adopted, she settled into life with her second family that loved her to the point of tears, when they had to give her up again due their young son's allergies. As far as the virtues go, no one ever showed Sandy loyalty.

Yet loyal is what she is. We are her third family, and my son Jonathan loves her like he loves all of his toys-- with a passion that is expressed in vicious pats and serious tackles. Jonathan has been treating Sandy like an obstacle course or a punching bag since the day we brought her home. I payed close attention for the first month or so, sure that at some point she would snap and leave Jonathan with a warning sign such as a bite mark or claw across the face. She never did.

This evening my in-laws took their eldest children and spouses out for a date to celebrate our anniversaries which have all occurred lately. When we came home we chatted for a while with my father-in-law and Maria, who babysat. Sandy was nowhere in sight, so we figured she had sauntered off to her sleeping spot beside our bed, but when our guests left Josh called me softly into Jonathan's bedroom. "You've got to see this, Hannah," he whispered.

I tiptoed into Jonathan's room and Josh, smiling, pointed to the crevice behind the crib. There, wedged between a cupboard, stepstool, changing table, crib, and fifteen stuffed animals, was our faithful dog. Apparently she didn't approve of leaving the baby with a "stranger" for the evening, so she dutifully took up the post and planted herself squarely in front of his sleeping form. While Jonathan slept peacefully snoring with his hair wildly splayed and limbs limp in peacefulness, Sandy panted softly, a gentle rhythm of protection.

No matter where she comes from, no matter where she's been or how often I have to buy her meds, this dog is here to stay... and to show me what unconditional loyalty looks like.

7. My son Jonathan

Tonight we sat down to dinner, just the three of us, yet again. Josh was at the end, I sat caddy corner, and Jonathan sat across from me. We only take up half of our dining table, but we are cozy and really enjoy this little ritual of food and conversation. You think I am being cute, that Jonathan isn't really old enough to appreciate the value of family dinner, but there you would be mistaken.

Jonathan loves the cooking part. He loves to mix ingredients in my brightly colored Crate and Barrel bowls with my bamboo spoons. Jonathan loves the sitting down together part. "Sit, sit," he says, squirming in our arms to get situated in his booster seat. Jonathan loves the praying part. "Pay," he said one night in an interrogative tone. We did, and then he repeated his request... and then once more.

This is my favorite part of dinner, the prayer, and not because I am so spiritual but because I am learning things from my baby boy. Josh and I clasp hands and Jonathan reaches for his daddy's, right next to him. Then Josh reminds him, "Hold mama's hand. Put down your fork... there ya go." Jonathan drops his fork instantly as if to say, "Who needs food, we're going to pray!," and puts his sticky, chubby fingers into my own. W e both stretch a little bit to reach each other across the table. Then Josh bows his head, I follow suit, and then I look up. If I look up fast enough I can catch Jonathan bowing his head too, but only for an instant. After an instant, once he has participated in this family tradition, he pops up, eyes wide open, and chuckles. He thinks dinner prayers are funny!

That is what gets me... he has the most shameless joy and finds such simple delight in the fact that we are all touching, all bowing, all praying at once. To him, it is a wonderful and inspired family game, and the "Amen" at the end is the victorious culmination. His eyes squint in the most precious smile and he repeats it proudly.

How do I admire a one and a half year old? I think it is that I know I spent a lot of years not realizing that just to be together is a thrill. I can't remember the last time I found ritualistic prayer inspiring, even less can I fathom finding it fun. For me, many rituals have lost their luster and I have even forgotten their importance. Jonathan reminds me that heritage is often built upon what seems to be simple routine.

6. Anne Marie P

What I love about Anne Marie is that she is so incredibly attractive, and you can see it most clearly when she is relating with people. I like to watch her strike up a conversation with a new acquaintance. She playfully, almost coquettishly, (but not, so don't harp on that part Kevin), tucks her silky golden hair behind her ear and rolls her cheerful hazel eyes in that, "Oh I know, you're so right," sort of way as she asks inspired questions and magically produces insightful points of discussion. Her hands animate deftly while she leans forward and latches onto a person's interests and passions, and somehow finds a point of connection. When she walks away the person is still thinking about how cool she is, cute and spunky, and fashionable to boot.

Fashionable: that is another thing about her. Anne Marie has a most casual approach to dress, but her high cheekbones and curvy figure make everything look good. My favorite is when she wears a thin ruffled blouse and dark jeans with soft shimmery flats and dangling earrings. She could literally model for Anthropologie. Seriously, if you slap her twinkly eyes and irresistible dimples onto a blank canvas she'd help a random Goodwill sample sell.

Anne Marie's eye-catching beauty is punctuated by her soft and dainty hands. It is actually surprising to think of how much she has accomplished, from travel to a Master's Degree to mothering, with those tiny tender hands. She is such a vessel of peace and gentleness, and I think my favorite image of her is with her baby boy tucked against her chest and her small fingers scratching his back in little circles, a characteristic show of affection.

5. Pat G

When Pat stands at the pulpit you want to get out of your seat and pull up close to hear, cross legged and leaning forward with an eagerness to capture what it is that drives him. I always find myself laughing -- spit often flies from his lips and his eyes get wide with passion and his zeal literally shoots sparks of adrenaline through the crowd. If you are sitting too close you might have to dodge one or two and if you aren't sitting close enough you'll probably want to pull up a chair.

If you read my post about Jesus you have already heard a bit about Pat. He is the one whose cassette tape I was listening to in the car and whose voice I also heard as he spoke Truth at my wedding. It is difficult to put his words on the shelf, to put behind me the inspiration of hearing him speak. His passionate sermons have reverberated through my mind for years, if not for the content of them then for the excitement with which He speaks of his LORD Jesus. The Bible tells us that Jesus drew hundreds and thousands with his words coming from a heart for God. I think Pat and Jesus must have a lot in common, because everyone I meet who knows Pat loves to hear him talk about the LORD.

Pat can talk to you about all kinds of things. A zest for life has given him a veritable library of archived stories ranging from wildly daring and thrilling to deeply moving in their intimate account of human relationships. I wish you could hear him when he's enjoyed a day at the beach, a beer, and a long walk with his wife. It is on those nights that he will break out into raucous laughter as he recounts the comical interactions and mishaps he's experienced. His joy just pours out in the most natural and unabashed fashion.

I think that more than just his ability to inspire a crowd with his words I admire the pulse behind it. It is the very heartbeat of God that propels Pat through a marathon for his friend Dave Meeks, before he died of cancer. It is the lifeblood of his Saviour that keeps him from giving a sermon standing still... he can't be still because he feels so powerfully the breath of God that moves him.

4. Kat F

Have you ever been served a meal in a restaurant and dreamed of what it would be like to serve it on your own china for a dinner party at your own house? I mean, the whole kit and kaboodle, with the rosemary garnish and the sauce dripping invitingly over a plump steak or pooling beneath a crisp golden filet of fish.

My friend Kat would surely have that dream... and then she'd do it. She would lick her fingers after the meal and pick out the individual flavors. "Oh, that is spicy, tart... must be a balsamic reduction... What is that herb--ooh it smells like thyme." Her brain would keep ticking as she drove home, as she sang along to Jack Johnson and then even when she laid her soft brunette hair on her pillow that night. Weeks later you could show up to her brightly lit kitchen and watch as she danced around in an apron, light-footed in her childlike glee and creating just that dish.

Kat is the picture of creativity. Even the way her mahogany locks fall around her freckled face makes you want to take a picture. As you follow her through a tour of her house she will humbly, yet confidently point out her artwork. Not work she bought at an art sale, which would easily be another of her hobbies, but pieces she painted from images in her minds' eye and any medium she could dream up to make it occur on canvas. My favorite is a picture she did in browns and greens, completed with a splatter of puff paint. I thought puffy paint was the stuff of childhood, for old tee shirts and hot pink binders you carry in a Lisa Frank backpack, but Kat takes this immature art tool and turns it into the stuff of masterpiece. She is rolling her eyes right now, and giggling a bit, but her husband is nodding his head. It's hard not to be impressed by her.

The thing that really strikes me though is not her innate artistic ability. Kat's imagination is one that takes her all the way through an art studio, past the kitchen cabinets and herb shelfs, and into people's lives. She can find the beauty in any person and blend it with her own passion for relationships, mix it with the friends she has already gathered, and create a party that cannot be rivaled, or denied. Kat looks at people in a way that makes them look up from their insecurity and embrace their own gifts simply because she is so excited to draw them out.

This girl is on YouTube dancing and singing, in the halls of people's houses with her paintings, happily filling friends' bellies with her delicious concoctions, but she is always most proud sitting in a corner, sipping a glass of wine, and watching her friends laugh in her home, happy to just be themselves in her presence.

Sweet baby Naomi

Welcome to the world, little Naomi!

Naomi Christine

born to

Adam and Lauren Mueller

June 16, 2010

3. Morgan F.

When on a boat at sea, even the most seasoned sailors may find themselves feeling nauseous. What I learned on my most recent foray into the great green-blue was that the safest place to be when your stomach turns choppy is in the middle of the deck. Aboveboard and between the hulls (at least on a catamaran) one may find a bit of relief from the swirling of heat and waves.

My friend Morgan is this place. She is the peaceful center, and when she walks into your house she will greet you with a placid smile, her shoulders relaxed in a humble pose. Recent events in her life can only be described as chaotic, yet her gentle demeanor is unmarred.

She balances carefully a relationship with family and friends and family of friends with a grace that belies her age. Her hobby is scrapbooking and I find this ironic because of its title. She takes scraps of paper and an array of photos and quotes and turns them into a book of art. Quietly, peacefully, and patiently she works. I marvel at her ability to go at it for so long without going crazy... if I were surrounded by a clutter of papers and blank pages for any length of time I know I would scream and quit.

The peacefulness that emanates from her gentle heart spreads out, I can only suppose through her nerve synapses, all the way to her aspect. I like to walk in on her dozing; pink lips are closed softly against a backdrop of soft ivory skin and long strawberry eyelashes. She is pretty all the time, but I've never met someone who could actually pass for Sleeping Beauty without trying. Perhaps I shall call her Aurora.

Her Peace is what I find so lovely, and it draws me to her like a crazy moth to a glow in the dark.

2. Tim and Claire F.

Well, I will generally try to guard identity by not writing last names on these blogs, but most of you know who these people are.

My parents are two very unique and distinguishable individuals. I could write a blog about each one of them, but I won't. They are the model of a team. As any couple that has been married 25-years-plus can attest to, the going sure gets rough. What not every couple of that generation can attest to is faithfulness.

I am a child of parents who love each other, and for them Love is not just an emotion. It is a decision, it is a reality, it is an incontrovertible Truth.

Family may not be the most important thing, but as I slowly leave behind childhood and youth, replacing them with adulthood and even parenthood, I am feeling my family ties increasingly. As I play with my son I remember the moments Mom shared with us engaged in our favorite activities (or paying for them). I recall the endless sports games that Dad refused to miss because he valued his only son's athletic prowess more than rest or even dinner. I remember telling my mom that it wasn't fair that she drove Ginny to chorus practices every week and even listened to her sing, but never stayed with me at the horse barn on Saturdays. I remember her crestfallen face and how I immediately regretted my selfishness. For of course, she had just driven half an hour each way to get me to my dusty extracurricular and would spend much more time paying for my ventures and making me lunches to take along. Not to mention the fact that she would sit and tell me over and over again her own stories from childhood on horseback and impress me, inspire me with her stories of rodeos and bareback adventures.

My parents both drive towards perfection. It is a striving and an endurance that can be felt as soon as you step into Mom's crisp Florida house or collapse on a guest bed that is fluffed and ironed with clean lines. You will note it when you see the stack of books Dad is reading even though he works long hours learning how to run a company that needs leadership. The way they dress themselves and cook delicious dinners, the manner in which they handle conversation and even the way they team up to set the Christmas dinner table and grill the Christmas lamb denote attention and effort. My sister and I often comment on how we will not measure up to our parents' precision, even as we say it acknowledging a generous inheritance of endurance and striving.

When Mom or Dad gets to heaven there will be a bubble bath waiting for them, a massage and a sincere smile from their Saviour as he pats them on the back and says softly, "Well done."

1. Jesus

This man, this God. Did you know he was the model of a good friend? Do you realize how far he went to invest in the twelve men that surrounded him?

Over the course of the last few days I have been listening to a tape recording of a talk given by a dear friend back in 1984. He was speaking to Young Life leaders about how to talk to high school kids about Jesus. One of the points he was making was that to speak about Jesus, one must experience Jesus first. He noted the story of Peter's denial.

It had to have been a terrible night, alternately cold with the feeling of dread and loneliness and hot with anxiety, pain, and pounding blood. No doubt the night before Jesus' death was an eerie one, a scary one, and a tremendously off-kilter one. I imagine it felt like the calm before the storm, and as the fire crackled outside and Jesus' dear friend Peter warmed his shaking hands by the fire he didn't realize what he was about to do. He denied Jesus without forethought and without hatred or scorn; he just did it because he too was shaking, blood pounding, nerves warping. Nonetheless, the shocking pain of Jesus' face must have scorched him, as though he had touched the flames he stood by. As his friend, in the presence of those who would have him killed, looked over at him and knew his betrayal, I know that Peter must have wilted in shame. His blood ran cold and sweat beaded on his neck, his stomach turned over and he lost his appetite, maybe even his will to live if only for a moment. And then Jesus was killed. He was killed and there was no opportunity left for Peter to clasp his hands and beg forgiveness.

Yet forgiveness came in the form of a question.

"Simon, son of John, do you love me more than these?"

"Yes, Lord; you know that I love you."

Then again, "Simon, son of John, do you love me?"

"Yes, Lord; you know that I love you."

Further in, deeper still, "Simon, son of John, do you love me?"

"Lord, you know everything, you know that I love you!"

Then Jesus gave him instructions, entrusting him with his charge, and a warning of what was to come. Finally he said, "Follow me."

Allow me to sum up: Peter treated Jesus like the dirt he never knew and Jesus came back to him with an opportunity to clean things up. Jesus must be the most selfless, gracious man ever to have lived. Not simply because I've heard it in church, but because this is what he does for me. When I have to apologize, when I should be down on my face and groveling he offers me forgiveness in the form of a command. "Follow me" means he has forgotten my issues, my weaknesses, my shame and that I am allowed to be with him. I am in his inner circle, I am one of his good friends.

The obvious question is, why would I want to be in his inner circle? The answer is simple-- he doesn't shut anyone out. It is a theme of our country to accept everyone. Although we argue how best to care for them, it is a common desire to take in the broken and help them heal. Jesus did it!

He befriended and made leaders out of poor fisherman. He loved on and lifted up the slyest of the sly: a tax collector. He touched lepers, which to the culture back then were the equivalent of AIDS patients who don't recycle and torture puppies. He threw off establishment for the sake of the common man, and not because he was a rioter but because he loved people.

Man oh man, if I could be more like him you'd want to be around me all the time. I know this, because whenever Jesus shows up through the heart of one of his people I watch as other people flock to that person. The most wonderful thing about it, though, is that even as I fail to be like him he flocks to me.

My Project

I have come to realize that one of the most fascinating and beautiful things in my life is friendship. Before you hold up your "cheesy" card and roll your eyes, allow me to indulge myself and explain.

There are many things I am grateful God created because of their inherent pleasing qualities. I could probably write a book on being a new mom, a novella about freedom on horseback, and at least a news article on the exquisite nature of ice cream. That would remind me to write a journal on parks with toddlers and the adventure inherent in a rain puddle, a magazine article on dog adoption, and a cookbook full of glorious cookie recipes, complete with photos and mouthwatering descriptions.

Nonetheless, there is only one topic I could write on and talk about forever. My friends. My acquaintances. My fellow teachers. My students. My family.

To the point-- I am going to write a blog a day (who knows how long I will go on), with an entry about a person I admire every day. Wish me luck? Ah yes, and hold me accountable... flood my inbox with chastising if I fail to write.

Mother's Day 2010

What is it about mothers that causes us to want to capture every moment in a photo? Of course we do not always succeed-- the lot of us suffer from a wide expanse of psychological issues ranging from OCD camera wielding to inexplicable guilt over pictures not taken and moments not caught. All of this stress can lead us to unnatural and frenetic conclusions, such as color coordinating an entire family in Easter egg hues and then forcing said family into poses and "candid" shots for all of an otherwise relaxing Sunday afternoon. The craziest part? We love every stinkin' minute of it.

The proof is in the pudding, and I think the pudding that follows will convince your own family to pick up a spoon.

This is our little family!

Adams Srs., Adams Jrs.

Little duckling.

The Adams men.

Best buds...

Our whole family, with Memom front and center (the matriarch).

My girl :) (Leah, daughter of Jonathan and Jamie)

The grands and kiddos checking out the ducks.

The little ducklings on the move!

Sisters, sisters, there were never such devoted sisters...

Here Jonathan and Jamie are sitting in the very spot where they got engaged in 2001.

Aren't they gaw-geous?

The ladies.

They love their Marmee.

Is this a typical Hannah face? I'm curious.

My little sis

Team Elders. We are sooo mature.

The BVI ~ http://twoevans.shutterfly.com/533 for pics!

I need to vent. Of pleasure, tranquility, and fun. I need to tell you how good I feel because the urge to write about my last week's adventure is causing me to type at about 100 words per minute. My skin is tan and my brain feels about ten pounds lighter after sun, sand, and lazy days. I can feel my insides grinning. No, they are guffawing in utter delight.

Nearly two weeks ago my little brother graduated high school. Diplomas are worth celebrating, and Tim and Claire Ficker are good at pomp and circumstance. This time the pomp came in the form of a gorgeous 47 foot sailboat called Lionheart and the circumstance we floated upon was the British Virgin Islands.

I cannot tell you how excited we have collectively been to board the plane headed south and disembark for our adventure of boat, sea, and island breeze. Nevertheless, the Caribbean at this time of year (or always?) is h.o.t. Humid and lethargic, I arrived with my pants clinging to my legs and dots of sweat on my pale nose and cheeks. Jimmy Buffet did not celebrate rum solely for its alcohol content-- rum is always served on the rocks. From my vantage point on land I looked longingly at our boat docked at the Village Cay Marina. Even the small breeze that tickled flags on masts beckoned me to join it on the open sea.

Luckily we were off after a good night's sleep and a strong cup of coffee. Captain Andy welcomed us aboard, reminding us in his charming yet dry British accent to take our shoes off and make ourselves at home. Oh, you think he was just being sweet... no, Captain Andy is not sweet and shoes bring sand onto his otherwise well maintained vessel. Shoes off was an order, and we decided we liked this firm weathered sailor. Captain Andy is a Brit, and what he misses most about England is the sarcasm. Or so he says, but I'd believe him because he has a dry wit to uphold the British reputation. He is also thoughtful, hard working, capable, and fun. With miles traveled and thousands of pages read his stories and re-tellings will keep you rapt for hours.

With Captain Andy at the helm we set off into the azure beauty that is el Caribe. The freedom of the sea can take hold of you like a composer snatching up a tune and we quickly turned into its happy houseguests, living only in bathing suits and sunglasses, lathered in suntan lotion and sweat. Ginny quite rightly assessed that we would never be dry; if we were not snorkeling and wet we were covered in sun lotion and if not that soaked in sweat. The heat and the salt became gloriously unavoidable.

We had barely set out from Tortola when Captain Andy dropped us into the water to snorkel around a cluster of large rocks that looked like wizards' hats poking out of the aqua blue. We followed other vacationers around the structures and marveled at the hundreds of fish that swam below. They weaved in and out of coral, rock, and sponge and glistened in the occasional flash of sunlight. Lavender and turquoise, yellow and aquamarine. Chartreuse, silver, red dappled with black. We ourselves weaved in and out of rocks and fire coral, avoiding its stinging fingertips, and through scuba divers' bubbles that rose up from the ocean floor. That might have been my favorite part, suspended on the sea surface while the thousand little bubbles tickled my stomach, legs, and hands. It was fascinating to see people swimming down where the fish dwell, and I was excited for my brother's and dad's chance to scuba dive too.

The late afternoons found us laying on the catamaran's trampoline, sipping Painkillers (the official drink of the islands) and reading novels or falling asleep to the gentle thump, thump of the waves sloshing the sides of the pontoons. Andy would motor us to a mooring where Kyle and Mark would hook the line and secure us a ball amid our cheers of victory. After a hard won fight for the best mooring ball and a valiant retrieval we celebrated by cooking dinner or venturing onto the island of the day.

One evening we ate at Cooper's Island, a happily nostalgic place for the Ficker family as we had ventured to the same small island eight years before. Freshly showered after a long and exhaustingly fun day on the boat, our stomachs growled and we watched the white coated chefs sauteé and fricassee from our open air table on the beach. The palm trees cast long shadows on the sand while we laughed. Around a candlelit table we listened to Captain Andy tell us funny anecdotes from his many travels abroad and in the islands.

After filling our bellies each night we would collapse into our tiny cabins. Early on we had to admit to our rugged sea captain that we were not so rustic-- air conditioning would be a necessity if we were to get a bit of shuteye. So we fell asleep wrapped in the warmth of sunburn and listening to the low hum of the generator and the soft buzz of fans while Captain fell asleep on deck peacefully in the heat. One day Captain mentioned to me that the breeze would be nice that night. "We may be able to switch off the generator and just open our windows tonight," he said cheerfully. He thought it would be quaint to sleep amid the sounds and feel of the Tropics. "Ahem," I cleared my throat at dinner. "We have something very important to discuss. Andy thinks we should sleep with no air on tonight, and I think we should vote." Our unanimous seven hands went up in the air in favor of luxurious cool air and our captain slumped his shoulders in reluctant acquiescence. I sighed a deep breath of relief and let go of any presumption that I was at all a rugged outdoorswoman.

On our last full day we finally made it to the object of snorkeling passion, Monkey Point. The sights there were not limited to fish. Kyle chased a turtle, touching it lightly on the shell which perturbed it enough to whirl around and aim straight for Ginny's and Josh's toes. Escaping death by turtle bite, we ventured further around the cavernous rock to find literally thousands of fish swirling in tight circles and lines. Mark spotted an eel poking through a fissure in the rock and we all clustered, heads butting on the surface, to marvel at the little guy. Closer to the beach our fins and toes touched sand, making it explode weightless around our feet and agitating the flounder hidden there. One old flounder fellow, age marked by the placement of his beady frog eyes on the top of his flat body, seemed not to worry over our intrusion and resorted to fixing his wayward eye on our masked faces until we (well, I) chickened out and headed for the beach.

This day being the day before my birthday, my sweet family decided to celebrate my 26 long years:) Early in the afternoon, as we approached Saba Rock and the Bitter End, I smelled a waft of baking sugar and flour. Ginny came on deck and announced there was a confectionary on the island, and its smell was trapped on the inside of the boat. "That's why it smells so good in here," she told me and I quickly stepped inside. Later, on the island, I forgot to inquire about the confectionary. Hot and sticky as I was, a mojito was much more inviting anyway.

Later that night we joined hands around the table inside the ship as the rain was pelting the fiberglass outside. We dined on homemade chicken, bruschetta, salad, and instant mashed potatoes. We filled our plastic wineglasses with Pinot Noir and cheered my birthday and our trip. At the last, someone marched in with a lopsided chocolate iced cake, complete with sprinkles and a candle to boot. I laughed and blew the candles out and counted my blessings of the people around me. All of our faces were various shades of brown or freckled and each lined with its own marks of age or youth. We were sweaty and cramped avoiding the downpour and our wineglasses were shoddy at best. It was perfection.

There are infinite recountable moments contained in that week of luxurious adventure. There was the hour or two when I climbed over slippery rocks with Dad, Kyle, and Ginny and there was too the time I swam nearly a mile with Ginny and fell into a giggling fit so bad I could have drowned. There were peaceful moments reading my Bible and prayers to a God whose creation I could see, touch, and feel like arms of grace spread wide and welcoming. I hope they will stay with me for a time because I have come home rather refreshed.