Infinitely Small Things

It's all new and strange, living in a new house and community.

Actually, I take that back. Really, don't worry. I still eat and sleep as usual. It's just the little things that are new and strange.

The other night, home to a dark house from church, I wondered vaguely why no outdoor lights were lit. Stumbling into the house, I succeeded in making my way to the kitchen, where I went on to....stand still in confusion. "Light switch?" I murmered helplessly. Diving randomly towards the nearest wall, my fingers hit a switch. I flipped it. A low growl disturbed the silence and I started back. This should be a dramatic story. But it isn't. It was just the garbage disposal. I don't think anyone knew where the outdoor-light switches were either....

Which reminds me (although I didn't want to be reminded) about the laundry room. The other day, I dashed into the room for at least the hundredth time. Dashed, and then stood in the doorway clawing the air like a madwoman. I'm glad we don't have security cameras, for I have no wish to see myself looking like a madwoman. It is bad enough to feel like one. Which is exactly what I feel when, after a hundred times of walking in the doorway, I still claw for the light switch on the right side of the doorway instead of around the corner to the left.

Conversely, I am sorry to say I am still reaching for the toilet paper on the left side of the toilet whereas it is quite happily established on the right. Sadly, it takes more than feeling silly to break a long time habit.

After the first night in our new house, I shivered out of bed early in the morning and the first thing I did was search the ceiling in my basement bedroom for a heating vent. There was none to be found. Yes, it's true! I have what children in India and Arizona and other equally balmy places are no doubt longing for: a naturally refrigerated bedroom! (Minor details here...)

Living in a developement is definitely different for us after living in the more-or-less "country" for the last ten years. Across the street behind our new house we enjoy the view of an especially widespreading developement where houses of all ages, shapes, and sizes cozy up together. I enjoyed a walk through it last weekend and came across a group of brand new homes, their fresh paint sparkling especially nicely against the un-landscaped dirt of their lots. Two friends and I, with cold noses and fingers, decided to tour the "model home" of the block. Not something one gets to do often on a walk in my more familiar "country." The perfectly manicured real estate agent appraised our windblown hair and red faces cooly. "Just walking by?" she asked matter-of-factly. Oh. I guess we didn't look like very serious home buyers. Oh well. There is something to be said for knowing what the inside of your neighbors' houses look like. Might come in handy in case of emergency someday.

The neighbors in our own particular development have all been nice, so far. One of the families who attend our church live in our neighborhood, and they have been most helpful with the moving process. Another neighbor, a native Frenchman, brought us over freshly made crepes, strawberries, and real (also organic) whipping cream. Happy us!

There is a neighbor across the street who adds a streak of eccentricity to the block. At night, especially, we have an opportunity to appreciate his individualism. He uses green outdoor lights instead of white. One rather expects to see shreds of stage smoke floating around his dwelling to add the proper nightmare-ish ambience the green demands. But, alas, I guess he isn't that eccentric.

And then there's the other neighbor. The one we haven't met yet, but he's a drummer and we are in no danger of forgetting it.

Like I said, it's a little bit different...living in a new house and community. Definitely different.

What Moving Is

Monday. Looking in the mirror in the early morning, noticing dark circles under my eyes; I haven't been sleeping either long or well in the last week. Grimacing at my hands; there is still paint on them from a long week of painting and building. Trying to find a clean set of work clothes; still waiting for the washing machine to be moved out of storage and hooked up in the new house. Four hours of driving; our storage units are two hours away from the house. Nine o'clock p.m.: back home and waiting for the finally-loaded moving trucks to arrive and the unloading to begin. Midnight: Unloading..oh, I guess technically it's Tuesday now. One o'clock a.m.: My mind is beginning to blur. Two o'clock a.m.: The moving trucks pull out and I am starving. Three o'clock a.m.: Numbly climbing into bed.

Tuesday. Sitting in the living room we all stare at each other. Stunned.

Katie, popping in to recommend that you not consider put "moving" on your wanna-do-in-life list.

To Spring

Dear Spring,

I was just curious--so I thought I'd write and ask you how you always manage to sneak up on me? I never expect you to be here so soon--and,then, suddenly, there you are. I always thought it was all me; I assumed time was just slipping by faster than I realized. But this year I am thinking it might be YOU after all. I really don't think my sense of time could be all THAT skewed...I KNOW it was practically yesterday that I was enjoying last summer's sunshine!

It usually wouldn't be a problem, but this year is different...

May I ask that next year you choose a week to arrive when I am NOT moving? I feel a bit cheated. I know you didn't bring any roses, but I wish I had time to stop and see if any of the glorious beauties you DID bring smell as delightful as they look.

Please, don't taken any of this personally. I love you dearly and I am already looking forward to a more leisurely visit together next time!

Your Affectionate (though busy) Admirer,

Katie

Realistically Speaking II

Apartment life has been great. Really. As one of the few ways of living our family has NOT tried before in these last five years of our lives, it was really rather novel. Besides, for comfort and convenience it beat most of our other "temporary living arrangments" all to pieces.

But, seriously, an apartment isn't like living in a home. It just isn't.

So as we're getting ready to move everything into our own home, I haven't felt a need to hunt up my hankerchief or anything.

Yes, I am excited to tell you that the Lord has provided us with a home and we're moving. Our goal is to have everything moved out of storage into the house a week from Monday. Meanwhile, we're doing some painting, getting carpets cleaned, and emptying the apartment.

My personal goal for the next two weeks, realistically speaking, is to stay sane. Wish me luck.

Realistically Speaking

You know you're in an apartment when....

* You are privileged to hear every word of your honored neighbor's disagreeable domestic dispute at 1:00 a.m.

* You compete with your neighbors for the best parking spaces.

* You know which room your neighbor upstairs is currently in.

* You get lost in your "driveway." (Maybe this only applies to me?)

* You can shoot a rubber band from one end of your home to the other.

* You are afraid to move lest you scratch, dent, or otherwise damage the cheap materials your home is built from--leaving you nothing to do but pay for them.

* Your street address, complete with apartment number, is so long that one can hardly put it on one line of an envelope (but if your friends don't put it all, you might not get your mail).

Fall In Haste, Repent At Leisure

Abigail decided she didn't want to do dishes last Wednesday.

That's why she broke her leg.

This Wednesday, she is going to be wishing she could.

Ok, so maybe I am exaggerating a little. Truth be told, the break hadn't anything to do with dishes--and everything to do with roller skates. This Wednesday, she is having surgery. It will be at least three months before she walks again.

She is very sorry, but it's mixed with a shred of the joy of life in between dishes. The rest of us are just plain sorry.

The Time Has Come

Welcome to Contemporary Church U.S.A.

What will the service be like?

"To answer this question we must begin by saying that we believe it is a sin for church to be BORING. "

Wow!

I went to church Wednesday night.

We sang hymns. Dad preached. We prayed.

Perhaps not exciting in the traditional sense of the word...but the way my Bible describes the Lord doesn't exactly bring "boring" to mind as the adjective of choice. (Read Hebrews 12 lately?)

I think I'm safe--but I guess it depends on what one means by boring. Our Contemperary Church is happy to elaborate on their definition:

"...it is a sin for church to be BORING. [Therefore] you can expect our services to include an upbeat and contemporary style of music, the use of video, multi-media, and drama as well as other creative art forms."

Maybe I was in sin after all?

It's a familiar feeling, that guilt when I know I've sinned. One of the most uncomfortable sensations I've ever known..... I often get that feeling at church, when the Pastor preaches.

I suppose that our contemporary church, having condemned a specific sin in their opening statement, will be the sort of church where that guilty discomfort is frequent.

"You will find that regardless of where you are in your spiritual journey, we’ll work hard to provide a comfortable environment for you to grow in your relationship with Christ."

Good to know. Not boring....but still comfortable. The best of all worlds. It seems the ideal church, rather.

Reminds me of something; I think I can find it in my Bible. A verse my Pastor has preached on before.

"For the time will come when they will not endure sound doctrine; but after their own lusts shall they heap to themselves teachers, having itching ears; And they shall turn away their ears from the truth, and be turned unto fables." (I Timothy 4:3,4)

I can't help but be certain that the time has come....

(In case you are wondering, these quotes are real. I pulled them off of the home page on a website run by a contemperary church. )

Home Again, Home Again

I never before gave much credit to so-called "jet lag."

But last Wednesday, I arrived at an airport in Tennessee at approximately 5:45 p.m. Spent the next approximately eleven hours in airplanes or airports, but arrived home at only 1:30 a.m. And I was wakened by 7:30 a.m. by my sibling's glad news: six inches of snow blanketed the ground and trees!I haven't seen more than inch or so of snow for the last five years, so I didn't intend to sleep the accumulation away. But my eyelids were so heavy still... After all, bodies aren't really intended to be kept awake for more than twenty hours at a pop. I struck a compromise.

I lent the kids my camera to take snow pictures, took an aspirin for an oncoming headache, and headed back to bed...with one condition:

"Wake me up when it starts to melt," I instructed, knowing that it could hardly start really-for-sure melting for at least another hour. Maybe two.

About seven minutes later, Peter was by my bed.

"It's melting," he informed me, cheerfully.

I groaned. "Melting? I doubt it."

"But it's steaming all over," he assured.

"No, no, no, no, no.......let me know when it's dripping!!" I specified.

It was perhaps a fifteen minute delay this time. I didn't know "dripping" could have such a broad definition. I think he must have been staring at the closest icicle, waiting for a drop to fall. Or maybe three drops.

Oh well. The snowball fight was totally worth it. So was our somewhat sickly looking snowman.

And though it did take three days for my body to really set itself back three hours, at least I will sympathize with the next person who complains about "jet lag."

My trip, by the way, was fantastic. I had a delightful week in "paradise" to begin with. That is the local name for the "Valley of the Sun," where my grandparents live in the Phoenix area. I felt like I was in another world, with palm trees, citric fruit trees, and seventy to eighty degree weather. February didn't seem real.

And I loved visiting with my grandparents. I admit, they spoiled me to death. But I'm not one to complain.

My twelve days with my friend in Georgia was great. I enjoyed being in genuine Bible belt country, rather a different cultural feel. And, don't worry...I wasn't too snobbish about the hills they called mountains. Further, I successfully avoided complaining about making new friends, eating tons of Brasilian food, watching Anne of Green Gables for the first time, and talking late at night. I'm not one to complain, after all.

No, wait. I'm not one to complain....often.

In my dream world, airplane seats would have an extra foot of elbow room on each side. Flights would always be on time. And jet lag wouldn't exist.