Pause

Someone recently asked me if I like living in Katy.

And...

Well...

I hesitated before answering "yes."

BLARGH. I feel so guilty! I feel like my poor suburbia home was standing right there behind me about to say "hi!" and then overheard and turned away shedding a single tear (not that I would ever personify a city or anything). I feel like Olaf should have popped up next to me to jab a pointed stick arm in my face and screamed "you hesitated!"

Because... I hesitated. It was the briefest of pauses. But it was there. Yep, there it was. It was one of those just long-enough-to-notice pauses before my saying "yeah!" And I feel insanely guilty about it. I LOVE living in Katy. And yet, I hesitated.

I'm sure that the other person (Marriott, a classmate I hadn't seen in years) took it to be a statement on how I feel about my current hometown. It wasn't that at all. It was actually a pause to wonder how my "yes" would reflect upon me.

Ugh! Oh no! That might make me feel even worse. Oh, poor Katy suburbia, why must I continue to deny you?

But, the thing is, when we lived in DC (Alexandria to be exact - hellllooo Americana Quaintsville!) it was easy to proclaim our love for the area in which we lived. We fit there. It was diverse. It had seasons, real seasons for Pete's sake! We spent weekends at Smithsonian museums or trips exploring the east coast. People ask(ed) me how I like(d) living there and I shout(ed) "LOV(ED) IT!" before the question even leaves their lips.

And then we moved to Austin. And we lived in Austin proper. It was funky and eclectic. We went hiking and exploring and enjoyed life in another fabulously unique and diverse city. And once again, I fit in there and proclaiming my love for my city felt just fine. I was totally okay with saying I loved it there because of what that said about me.

I'm not someone who cares a whole lot about what other people think of me. But the thing with that is this: I do care that other people not misunderstand me. It bothers me when people assume things about me that aren't true. If they don't like the truth about me then that's fine... but when people think things about me that aren't true (even if they like it or agree) ugghh that gets under my skin.

So what does it tell the other person when I now announce that I love living in Houston burbs? I'm only living 80something miles from where we grew up. Do they then assume that I am a Texas cliche through and through? okay... I just typed out a list of what I think that looks like... and then deleted it so as to not offend the masses. If you haven't lived outside of Texas... we don't always look that great from outside our state. I'm an expert as I've lived in a whopping two other states one of which for a few months (that was snark in case you didn't catch it).

*sigh*

So, yeah, I paused.

Had we still lived in either of those other places I would have felt perfectly comfortable telling this old classmate that I loved living there. Because that fits in line with who I see myself to be. This girl doesn't know me at all. We haven't seen or talked to one another in about fifteen years. So, telling her that I love Katy was going to be one small slice of identity. Who is Casey now? Someone that lives and loves suburbia Tejas.

Is that me?

When we moved to Katy I met like one person my age who didn't wear sweatpants with a word across the buttocks and have big bleached out hair and bedazzled everything (and thankfully she quickly befriended me, hi Katie!). To be honest I was a little shell shocked by all of the... well... not Austin or DCness of the place.

And then we began to get settled in. We started meeting people at church and school. I got involved with the Y. I met people in our neighborhood. I became one of the regulars at our grocery store. We added another nugget to our household. And we found that Katy fits pretty damn well. We love everyone we've met here... including the previously prejudged-by-Casey-bedazzled. We've made friends (great friends!) and a life for ourselves. It's a life that is... well, it screams in fact... SUBURBIA!

We love Katy for its people. We love its small town feel and proximity to "tha big bayou city" (also said in a weird made up cajun country accent). Our church in Katy (which you clergy fams know has a big impact on life) is my favorite church of any church I've ever attended (which would be a total of six churches plus this one). We love love love the life we have here in Katy.

Evidently, as I learned about myself last week, Katy (the suburb) is like some strange ugly crush that I'm trying to keep secret. I didn't realize that about myself.

But here's the other thing it made me realize: anyone could love living in a diverse interesting exciting place. What does loving Katy say about me? Maybe it doesn't scream that I love guns. Maybe it doesn't say that I hate people of other race or religions. Perhaps it doesn't tell people that I prefer trash to recycling. Maybe it doesn't tell people any of those things... because I am none of those things. Perhaps it just says that I bloom where I'm planted. Hopefully, it tells people that I am willing to embrace where I am. Hopefully the next time I'm asked I won't pause before answering. I'll believe that saying "yes!" tells them that I see the good in any place and love meeting new people and sinking my roots deep into whatever soil we happen to be in.

And, hell, let's face it: evidently I'm suburbia. Did you see the list? {I love my church, my kids' preschool, my grocery store, and the ymca?} shit. I might as well sell the Prius for a minivan covered in stick figures right now. I guess I AM a stay-home-mom wearing reindeer pajama pants writing a blog for no one at 5 in the morning while I drink coffee and listen to whatever critter has now taken up residence in our attic. Hmph. The attic critter is probably wearing pjs, drinking coffee, and writing a more interesting blog than me. Well, just as long as its not smoking anything up there. Although... smoking a pipe with an attic critter miiiigghhttt make life in suburbia more interesting...

Wait... I'm a suburban "pastor's wife, mother, and housewife" - why didn't I realize that?!?!

Man, one stupid pause and my whole image of my interesting eclectic self is shot. Totally shot. Damn it Marriott! I blame her.

Smile, But Don't Nod

I recently had a political/religious conversation with a new friend. She shared her views, and I put on my best clergy spouse smile and tried to fully engage the conversation.

The thing is: we aren't close. We could be someday, but we haven't known each other long enough and this was our first conversation of depth. Unfortunately, (unbeknownst to her when she brought it up I think) it was a topic that we weren't going to see eye to eye on.

I really like this person. I really want to be real friends. I want to have conversations of depth with her. This was not the conversation though in which my well thought out opinions were going to have any impact on her. We just aren't at that level of friendship (yet?). I graciously listened to her. I spoke my mind about things I find to be "interesting," but didn't give a direct response (which she didn't ask for) on my political or religious view on the topic.

I got home and told Chris about the conversation and imagine that this is how her conversation with her husband went:

Her: I talked to Casey about {topic} for a while today.
Him: What did she say?
Her: Not much, now that I think of it...
Him: Then she probably disagrees with you and was being polite.
Her: Do you think so? But she's a Christian. She's the pastor's wife!
Him: What denomination are they?
Her: Uhhh... I don't remember... she calls him a priest though...
Him: Episcopalian?
Her: Yes! That's it!
Him: She's Episcopalian? What kind of car does she drive? Does she shave her legs?
Her: Huh. She has a Prius, and I'll have to check out her legs next time I see her.
Him: Honey, believe me, she definitely doesn't agree and was just being polite.

The day I bought the Prius!

I hope we end up good friends anyway!

The Rich Woman and Lazarus

There was a rich woman who was dressed in Banana Republic and carrying a Thirty-One bag who feasted sumptuously every day. And each day she got into her Prius and left her comfortable home in suburbia and drove past Lazarus.

She passed by Lazarus, a child in the projects receiving a crap education in a poor school district. She pitied Lazarus. But not enough to vote for education reform. Not enough to blame anyone other than the child's parents, who were also raised in the projects. Who were also given a crap education and no chance or money for college. Not enough to blame anyone other than his mother with her high school education working two jobs and statically doomed to make 64 cents to every dollar a white male makes. Yes, she pitied Lazarus. But not enough.

And she passed Lazarus in the prison cell where he, in her opinion, sat rightfully awaiting his death sentence. Without thought to the possibility of human error in the justice system, without thought of mercy, without thought of the right to life, without second guessing whether or not humanity has the God-given right to take a person's life, she had no pity for Lazarus. She didn't think of Christ's direction to visit those in prison. John the Baptist, St. Peter, and St. Paul in prison did not cross her mind. And she passed by Lazarus, thankful that he was locked away, saying, "Good. He got what he deserves."

And on her way home stood Lazarus with a cardboard sign, a cardboard sign of lies perhaps. But, nevertheless, there he was day after day. She felt a pang of guilt as she passed him by and debated whether or not to give him a hand out. But, there-in was her problem. Why should this man get a hand-out? She had to work hard to get where she was in life. No one gave her any hand outs. She saw not her white privilege or access to good education and health care. She thought not of all of the great jobs given to her because she knew someone and had connections. She thought not about the edge that money had always given her - the extra curricular activities her parents were able to put her in, the theater tickets they were able to purchase, the good health care, and the opportunities afforded her due to her relative wealth compared to that of Lazarus. She thought not of these things. In fact, none of them even occurred to her as "hand-outs" or "coddling" or even help. They didn't occur to her at all. Instead, she readjusted her air conditioner, turned up the radio, and compared herself to those with more than she. She thought only of those with more money, more expensive cars, bigger homes, and finer clothes. They were rich. She wondered how Lazarus always managed to find a Sharpie. Working to not meet his eye, she shook off her smidgen of guilt and passed him by.

Later that evening Lazarus set plates of steaming hot food before the woman's family. She never met her waiter's eyes, choosing instead to simply bark orders, never thanking him or acknowledging his existence, his humanity. No tip was left because of his "poor service" and she left the restaurant shaking her head and chatting with her husband about the fact that "no one knows how to work hard any more these days." She then went for a manicure where Lazarus carefully polished her toenails. She once again never looked into his face, choosing instead to talk on the phone, complaining to a friend about border control, "them", and finally, the sheer volume of toys she had to purchase for her children for Christmas this year.

Lazarus, covered with sores, longed to satisfy his hunger with even what fell from the rich woman’s table. At night the stray dogs would come and lick his sores. The poor man died and after an unnoticed government cremation was carried away by the angels to be with Abraham.

The rich woman also died and was buried with no expense spared. The city mourned the loss of such an advocate for the poor and neglected. The rich woman's fundraising galas would not be missed for long, a new rich woman would soon step in to take over throwing expensive parties to raise funds for the disenfranchised.

In Hades, where she was being tormented, the rich woman looked up and saw Abraham far away with Lazarus by his side. Still seeing Lazarus as one beneath her, she called out, “Father Abraham, have mercy on me, and send Lazarus to dip the tip of his finger in water and cool my tongue; for I am in agony in these flames.”

But Abraham said, “Child, remember that during your lifetime you received your good things, and Lazarus in like manner evil things; but now he is comforted here, and you are in agony. Besides all this, between you and us a great chasm has been fixed, so that those who might want to pass from here to you cannot do so, and no one can cross from there to us.”

She said, “Then, father, I beg you to send him to my father’s house— for I have five brothers—that he may warn them, so that they will not also come into this place of torment.” Abraham replied, “They have Moses and the prophets; they should listen to them.” She said, “No, father Abraham; but if someone goes to them from the dead, they will repent.” He said to her, “If they do not listen to Moses and the prophets, neither will they be convinced even if someone rises from the dead.” 


That's how I read this story in Luke. And I can envision endless versions of Lazarus... which is why the story of the rich man and Lazarus scares the shit out of me. 

My Open Love Letter to Beth Bojarski

One day recently (so, like, in the last year or so) Kelly asked me to name people who have been largely influential in making me who I am today (obvious choices not included). Now, if you know Kelly at all then you know that this question was not one that merited a casual response. Kelly wasn't looking for an off the top of my head reply. She wanted an in-depth analysis of the most influential people in my life. Who were these people? How did I meet them? What impact did they have upon me? Give specific examples as to how am I living out that influence today. I don't remember if I passed the oral portion of the examination, but I've decided to submit the written part here.

Her question was intriguing. One I've thought about since that day. I thought about sending a letter to my most influential person, but I like the public nature of blogging. Plus, the drug my neurologist has me on makes my fingers go numb (an expected side effect) and thus lengthy letter writing will not be in my portfolio in the near future. It also makes for some interesting Bodypump classes - try doing a million clean and presses with numb hands. It's weird.

So... without further ado... surprise Beth! You are the first person that popped in my mind when Kelly asked me that question. Why? Because you are perhaps the person who I have most purposely looked up to and tried to learn from in my adult life. Surprised? Perhaps. Let me get everyone on the same page...

Beth was one of the first people I met when Chris and I moved to Virginia in 2006. The very first person in fact. She was our next door neighbor and was outside wearing a superman t-shirt and ready to help unpack our u-haul when we pulled up. She met us with a smile and a welcome basket from the seminary and a promise to always have an open door should I need to borrow an egg. Although... now that I type this out that was right around the time she went vegan... so... hmmm... Beth and a bunch of dudes unloaded our trailer for us and then sat down with a cooler of crappy beer and welcomed us to the neighborhood.

Getting a picture of how cool she is already?

Unfortunately for me, I met Beth before I had my "aha moment" in 2009 when I realized I was the "common denominator" in never making friends. *cough* More on that later if any one is interested. Or not. I'll summarize it for you: I had a moment of clarity when I realized I never made friends because I never tried to be anyone's friend. Tricky.

Fortunately for me, Beth is pretty damn cool and kept reaching out to me anyway despite my tendency to stay firmly put in my hobbit hole. So, here is how Beth influenced who I am today:

The first way that Beth impacted who I am today was a very specific occasion. Beth had a weekly gathering at her apartment (see, she knew how to make friends! sheesh) and at one such gathering the conversation turned catty. Beth was not one to normally partake in making fun of other people behind their backs (another thing I tried to pick up from her), but that particular night she said something rude. Who cares what she said? Who even remembered? It was just one comment among many that were said by a bunch of girls. The next day I found an email in my inbox from Beth sent to everyone who had attended. In it she acknowledged that she'd said something she regretted and wished that she could take it back. She apologized to everyone for hosting a party that ended up turning sour. I was 24 at the time so a bunch of girls sitting around and making fun of someone behind their back didn't seem to me like a party turning sour. That's just what a party was, right? {*see note above about how I did not yet know how to make friends at this time*} Beth's email in terms of my needing an apology didn't matter. But it changed my life! It was the first time that someone had reached out in reconciliation in that particular way. I knew that none of us needed Beth to apologize for her comment, she had needed to apologize. A year or so later I was at a party and made the same mistake. Sorry to burst your bubble people but seminary is a fish bowl. Seminarians say mean things when in a fish bowl. I found myself back home after the party and regretting the thing I'd said and the way I'd potentially made other people feel uncomfortable with my having said it (I'd made fun of a classmate). So, I took a page from Beth's book and sent everyone an email. And it was freeing. From then on I've done my best to always reach out in reconciliation when something is eating at me and that has been life changing.

Which leads us to my second point: Beth is one of the most genuine and openly honest people I've ever met. Perhaps the most genuine and openly honest person I've ever met. She is caring and compassionate and willing to share those feelings. But more than that she is willing to share the whole gamut of feelings. She doesn't hold back, but she does so in a way that is holy, in a way that invites others in and allows them to be a part of something holy. She showed me how to speak my mind no matter what the emotion. Being in school and a small group with Beth I saw her interact with a variety of people in a variety of situations and was amazed by her ability to voice her opinions in a way that didn't diminish the opinions of others. She stood firm in what she felt and believed, but didn't try to stomp on someone else's feet in giving voice to her thoughts. I saw her speak openly to friends when she was concerned for their well-being even if it was going to be an uncomfortable conversation. I saw her share her fears, her triumphs, her mundanes of life - and it was all beautiful - and I realized, that sharing one's life, one's whole life with people is in fact truly beautiful. Beth's ability to be so open and honest gave me the desire to live my life in the same way and it is something that since meeting her I have actively pursued. What I've found is that it's freeing and has opened new opportunities in my life for friendship and love. I have found that more often than not that sharing with people results in "me toos!" and closeness and community and friendship. Sure sometimes it's uncomfortable, vulnerability is... well... vullneerrabblee... but it's so worth it. Beth gets credit for teaching me that sharing one's full gamut of emotions allows others to share theirs and opens up new paths for friendship and depth and holiness.

On a lighter note, Beth taught me how to layer! Ha! Literally. With the first cold snap we had in Virginia Beth found me wearing a t-shirt and a coat. I remember very clearly her saying to me, "Can I ask you a question? Have you ever heard of layering?" And I've survived cold weather ever since. Turns out you can be in the snow and not be cold. Huh, who knew?! Perhaps every Texan needs a friend from upstate New York.

So, Kelly, there you have it. Beth Bojarski wins as the non-relative non-teacher non-obvious-choice for most influential person in my life. Hands down. No contest. No one else even comes close. Unfortunately for Beth the winner of this contest receives a none-expense paid trip to Tejas where they can revel in right-wing hysteria, eat large quantities of beef, and throw away unused paper products just to remind the trees who the boss is around here. I jest, of course... I jest... I'm kidding... a joke... right? *sigh* 

Dear Casey:

Kate Cho from Pearland asks:
Question: If we met this year, would you be my friend? Don't answer that!

Kate,
First of all Mrs. Cho, what you've just said is one of the most insanely idiotic things I have ever heard. At no point in your rambling, incoherent response were you even close to anything that could be considered a rational thought. Everyone in this room is now dumber for having listened to it. I award you no points, and may God have mercy on your soul.

Second, by saying, "Don't answer that!" you guarantee a long answer. Don't tell me what to do. You know I hate that.

Let's explore what it would be like if we met this year...
If we met right now then chances are one of us would bring up the topics of polar exploration and whether or not grown women should wear t-shirts. We would both be drinking a Diet Coke and talking about how we should really quit the stuff. We'd talk about how we just discovered GWTW and how many times we've read HP. We'd argue over whether it's better to be in Gryfindor or Slytherin.

I would comment on how your compost pile looks a lot like Marjory the Trash Heap and you would laughingly agree. You'd tell me about your plans for a bee hotel, and we'd obsess over the fact that there are people in this world who buy paper products besides toilet paper only to throw them away.

Chances are one of us would suggest Taco Bell for lunch and the other would say, "I can’t go to Taco Bell; I’m on an all-carb diet. How about McDonalds so the kids can go in the playplace?" Then we'd sit at McDonalds and eat fries and drink more dc and talk about how much fun it is to go to the beach and how someone could ever choose to live somewhere landlocked (saying the word "landlocked" as though its a cuss word). We would have already learned that we are both Episcopalian because somehow you discover that about someone within moments of meeting. Based on that fact alone we would have discovered at least eight people we know in common two of which being our relatives.

A mutual love for Tina Fey and Christian Bale and Kermit would carry our conversation through the lunch hour. Because the kids are busy playing and we've got nothing else to do that afternoon we'd splurge on iced coffees laughing about how they'll keep us up into the wee hours working on craft projects and watching The Goodbye Girl. We'd talk about how weird it was that we watched that movie so much as children. "Your parents let you watch that too?!?! Were you also allowed to eat macaroni and cupcakes for breakfast? Wait? What?! Me too!" Then we'd talk about what craft projects we've been working on lately.

After lunch you would invite me to join a book club or some sort of women's group you are currently involved with. I'd smile and say, "Sure. Maybe..." all the while wondering why someone so obviously weird and nothing like me wants to be my best friend forever...

 

I would in turn invite you to lift weights or to drink scotch on my patio or be facebook friends. We would stare at one another smiling and thinking, "I picked up a weirdo." Finally you would break the silence and say, "Nobody knows anything, Joe. We'll take this leap, and we'll see. We'll jump, and we'll see. That's life, right?" and we'd be BFF forever and I'd move into the house next door to you. 

Got Milk?

I can't remember how I first learned of the need for sharing human milk. It was at some point while we lived in Austin though I don't remember how or through whom. I do remember getting on the computer when I was pregnant and finding Mother's Milk Bank Austin (Hey! Look at that! It's proof that I did do something while pregnant other than just eat queso and reread Harry Potter!). I did some research and quickly realized that donating to the milk bank was something I couldn't bear to not do. Preterm and many ill infants are at risk for something called necrotizing enterocolitis - which attacks and destroys the intestines. Human milk is the best defense but mothers are not always able to supply enough milk to their hospital-bound child(ren). Enter the milk bank. Long story short: the milk bank is safe, healthy, and effective. There were babies who needed help! How could I not apply?

First though, I had to have my baby. And learn how to breastfeed. *sigh* Details. Details. Knowing that I could donate to the milk bank only added to my determination to successfully breastfeed my firstborn. As many new moms discover, breastfeeding isn't necessarily as simple in the beginning as one would hope. But knowing that mastering the ability to feed my infant would allow me to not only feed her, but also help provide milk for fragile babies (not to mention who wants to have to wash bottles all of the time am I right?!) furthered my determination to succeed in breastfeeding. After a great trip to a lactation consultant I was feeling much more hakuna ma tatas and had finally mastered the fine art of feeding my newborn. Err... kind of. Eventually my baby and I got a (football) hold on the whole nursing thing, and I was pumped about getting signed up with the milk bank (yes, I do think I'm very punny). Going through the screening process couldn't have been easier. Some quick paperwork. A phone call with a lovely supportive employee. A quick trip (on their dime) to draw some blood (which really, after pregnancy and with a newborn what's one more trip to a medical building?). And badda bing badda boom: I was a milk donor.

The donation process was simple: pump.
That's it. Pump.
Okay, perhaps more than that: Pump. Pour into bottles. Label. Repeat.
I made a date with my pump new brest friend part of my nightly bedtime ritual. Take out my contacts, take my vitamins, brush my teeth, wash my face, pump for the milk bank. It just became a part of the nightly routine. And I discovered an added bonus: it gave me a guaranteed nightly 15-30 minutes of coveted alone time. All mothers know how valuable a few uninterrupted minutes of peace and quiet can be. Especially during those first few months after giving birth to my second child when every moment of my time was demanded. I found that pumping was my time to just sit. Sometimes I would spend the time in prayer. Sometimes I would spend the time reading a magazine. My plan was always to pray for the recipients and their families while I pumped... honestly though I spent a lot of the time during those first few months after my second child was born just zoned out in a tired daze. But it was my time. I was alone. No one was crying. No one's hiney needed wiping. No one's favorite blankie was inexplicably missing (again?!). It was just me and the quiet sounds of liquid gold. And it was glorious.

I nursed Carolena for eleven months until she demanded sippy cups. Typical. I'm surprised she didn't jump directly from breast milk to cappuccinos. I diligently pumped for the milk bank while we lived in Austin but our month long nomadic stint and Carolena's self weaning ended my donation time a month or two earlier than I had anticipated.

I nursed Nils for just shy of a year. He too discovered the freedom that sippy cups afford and began to push me away and bite and claw and bring cups to my husband demanding that he be served milk. My children are very independent and strong willed. I have no idea where they get that from.

During my second round as a milk bank donor I found an added bonus for our family: sharing the donation process with Carolena. She was thrilled to see our freezer slowly filling with milk containers. When it would reach a capacity that was full enough to make ice cream purchasing impossible, Carolena would help me load up a cooler and we'd drive to the hospital drop off location next to our house. Carolena found this thrilling. "Tell me about the babies!" she would call out as we drove. I would tell her about the pumping process. We'd talk about how Nils drank milk from my body and how all babies who are newborn need milk from mommies. I would tell her about how some babies are born and are sick or really very very little and their mommies just don't have enough milk for them. "I have more than enough milk for Nils. So we share. There is enough milk to go around. If we all share then everyone has enough."

Every once in a while I would find her sitting by herself quietly nursing her stuffed animals and baby dolls. Sometimes I would find her holding a small baby bottle to her chest whispering to herself, "pump. pump. pump." Inevitably during her "pumping" she would catch me watching her. She smile up at me and face shining say, "I'm pumping for the sick babies. If we all share then everyone has enough."

Having weaned my last breastfed baby, I have now begun a new chapter in my relationship with Mother's Milk Bank Austin. I have joined their team as a volunteer Milk Bank Ambassador - a retired donor committed to the good work the milk bank is doing. Among other things I will be distributing pamphlets to pediatrician and obgyn offices, inviting nursing moms to donate milk, and encouraging others to spread the word about Mother's Milk Bank Austin: an organization I could easily vote as the Brest in Show. 

And finally, here's a good breastfeeding joke for you. Ah, nevermind... it's a letdown.

My friends, consider sharing something you have with Mother's Milk Bank Austin. What can you share? Got milk? Get pumping! Got money? Yep, of course they need it. Got a voice? Tell a friend about the milk bank, link them on your blog, post them on your facebook.
If we all share then everyone has enough.

Is That a Speck of Sawdust in Your Eye?

A few weeks ago I found myself perusing the wine aisles at Kroger while my two munchkins chowed down on the free sample cookies we'd scored. Okay, okay, there is a slight chance that I too was munching on the free sugar high. We weren't long on the wine aisle before some familiar faces came by. They too were looking for wine as in-laws were going to be at their home for an extended stay. In our family, grandparents bring a suitcase full of wine and coffee knowing that both will be consumed in large quantities. Evidently this is not true for all families. Go figure.

Anyway, Carolena and her friends commenced what appeared to be a break dancing contest to which the other mother turned a blind eye while I screeched "Don't you dare break any of this wine!" It was around this time that Carolena began to check out the grocery items in the other family's cart. And just what was her friends' cart? Frozen cereal.

Frozen cereal for Pete's sake.

Not frozen cereal like something you might find stashed between a bag of corn and a boxed pizza. Frozen cereal as in Elsa, Anna, Olaf and the rest of the gang. Frozen cereal as in a kid's Gucci bag. Frozen cereal as in this was the same girl who had asked Santa for "apps" this year. Apps.

Since that day Carolena has asked exactly one time to get Frozen cereal. I think she knew asking even once was a long shot. That's the kind of thing grandparents buy. And at the age of three she has probably already noticed that we're more dented cans kind of people than made-in-house guacamole types. What she will hopefully grow to learn as time goes by is why I can't bring myself to buy expensive groceries. I'm sure she'll spend some time yearning for her version of a Dooney bag, but if I do my job right, eventually she too will shun the Starbucks brand coffee in favor of Costco's Kirkland in bulk.

It's not about the money per se.

Well, that's not true. It's almost entirely about money. 

There is something about the fact that there are people in this world, many many people in fact, without enough to eat that makes me steer clear of the organic chicken. Yes, yes, I know that it's kinder to the chickens. And yes, I know that it's better for my family. But... I am grateful to even afford chicken at all. So I stop in front of those poor lifeless frozen (with a lower case f) chicken and give thanks that I can buy food. We keep beans stocked in the pantry not only because we love red beans and rice, but also because I don't want to be the rich man passing by Lazarus (Luke 16:19-31).

I mean no offense to Frozen cereal buying people. Even as I type I am certain I am peering right around the log sticking out of my eye. But for me, for now, I will rest easier knowing that there are people eating tonight because we spent our extra grocery money on cans for the food bank. I will serve dinner from some dented marked down boxes so that we can send some money to ERD. And in the morning when Carolena and Nils sit down at our kitchen table I can open the bag of store brand Happy O's and pour them each a bowl, thankful for the fact that we have so much food and love in our home.

You know what? That's not true either.
That's who I would like to be.

Instead, I am the mom who serves her kids red beans and rice and then beats myself up that we don't do enough. I lie awake in bed worrying over unknown people, unseen faces who are suffering. Chris sometimes accuses me of secretly wearing a hair shirt. But, I am who I am. And like Erma Bombeck, "When I stand before God at the end of my life, I would hope that I would not have a single bit of talent left, and could say, 'I used everything you gave me'."

I hope that someday Carolena and Nils will choose to spend their money on others rather than themselves. Though it is counter-intuitive, it remains true that breakfast from a crushed box of off brand oatmeal fills the stomach much more than a bowl of Frozen cereal. 

A Word to the Wise

If you see someone wearing bell bottoms get out a Prius it is probably safe to assume that their "This Land Is Our Land National Park Foundation" tee shirt is not advocating strict border control.

It is probably safe to assume that you are a moron and have misread more than just this person's shirt.

Lady in the Home Depot parking lot, I'm looking at you.

A word to the (un)wise should be sufficient.

I Listen to the Wind to the Wind of My Soul

Life in the Burbs

When we lived in Austin things were different, but now...

if rarely shaving my legs, recycling, driving a Prius, cloth diapering my kid(s), breast feeding until my baby is a year old, baking my own bread, and sending my toddler to school with veggies and hummus in her lunch box makes me a hippie mom... then right on man, right on.

Kelly, oh greatest maker of Pearland homemade granola, remember this?