Dear Rebellious Pores and Persistent Pimples:

Don’t look around confused and innocent, like. You know who you are. Yes, you.

I am talking to  you, Rebellious Pores #1-6 billion and seven who have been pumping enough oil onto the surface of my skin for 30 years to power several third world nations.  And yes, you too, Persistent Pimple # 4,768,321. Location: A Sector, B Quadrant, 2.5.

Also known as: In the shadow of left nostril.

To you, I say: I am impressed with your consistency and perseverance . Or rather, with your evil, malicious, ugly, and (often) pain filled, doggedness.  You have been my (monthly) worthy adversaries for 30 years. I  know I am supposed to be a woman of grace.. and I do believe that God works all things together for good… but really?

I hate you and wish you’d be GONE.

You suck time, money and emotional energy like a hormonal leech. It’s been hard to convince my kids that their college tuition has been invested in my private war against your terrorism.  Terrorism?  Yes. Terrorism. Why? Because you do not attack on all fronts, like a traditional war. No.. you are more diabolical to my follicles.  YOU attack like a terrorist, in just the most vulnerable and tender spots: my right cheek, left nostril and the side of my nose.  Of course, occasionally you try to throw me off and attack my chin or forehead, but I’ve been tracking you like a beagle on bacon. You can’t fool me.

I worry that someday, Al Gore will wage a personal war against me.  Why? Am I paranoid?  No—The acids, lotions, vitamins, drying agents, and snake oils I’ve purchased to slay you, are the most plausible cause of  global warming, I’ve heard. It’s true, I am haunted by guilt and the imagined screams of polar bears, each time I apply them.

Despite their tortured cries-, apply them I do. I am a woman obsessed.   From Retin A to Pro (not so) active.  From Acids to lotions, with labels like potions, apply them, I do.

And I WILL.

Why?

Because, to you I ALSO say: I will prevail. There will be peace (at least) on my face.

I will not give up. I will fight you to menopause, and beyond!

Be warned.  I was recently blessed with luck.. and won one of these beauties in PINK!—and it’s got my name engraved on it..

This momma’s goin’ high-tech… prepare to DIE.

Signed-

hopingmyfacewillclearupbeforeIlooklikeasharpei

in michigan

The wind  was howling,the snow swirled past the window. There was  little cash for Christmas gifts. And I was stressed and disappointed with the holiday in general.  Our (half) of a duplex was for sale, and the stress of trying to keep it clean ( & ready to “show”) with two little ones was making me (and everyone around me) crazy and miserable.

At my local MOPS group that week- we had made these cool ornaments with just cinnamon and applesauce. It sounded like the solution to both my cranky-ness with my kids.. (we needed to have some fun together) and my minimal budget for Christmas gifts. I bundled everyone one up against the cold and headed out to buy bulk cinnamon and applesauce.

We arrived home, cold, tired and hungry. Everyone needed a nap. (Mommy included) This was not to be, I was on a mission. We were going to make ornaments and have fun together, or, (quite possibly) die trying.

I turned on the “Johnny Mathis Christmas album” .. put our matching aprons on and showed my 6 and 3 year old sons how to mix the applesauce and cinnamon into dough.

It had started so innocently, and smoothly. The boys helped measure and mix like pro’s.

Right about the time I started feeling like a scene from a Christmas movie…I noticed rust colored clouds of cinnamon floating through the kitchen and into the living room. They settled into the mauve (don;t judge me- this was the 80’s)  carpet to create an insoluble, but holiday scented,  mess. Shouts of “Be careful!,” and ” Don’t get cinnamon on the carpet!” soon drowned out poor Johnny.  Chunks of cinnamon scented concrete were becoming “one” with the kitchen floor.

The pressure of making ornaments “fit to give” spread through me like a virus. I was soon- re-rolling the dough to make it smoother and took all the non-Christmas cookie cutters away so that we wouldn’t be making dinosaurs for Great Grandma’s tree. My oldest totally lost interest, and went to watch PBS. The youngest, continued on.

When we were finished and still breathing, I called it a win. Ornaments were drying in the oven, (to speed things up a bit.. I tend to do things a bit last minute;) The house, while dirty and freshly stained, smelled wonderful.

That’s when, I noticed strawberry colored patches popping up all over my youngest. His face, arms and hands were puffy and raw looking. Tears welled up in my eyes. I thought: “Great. No money… no gifts… the house is a mess and now the “baby” is sick!” I got scared. I called my husband home from work.

I was pretty convinced I had killed the kid. NOT GOOD.

A quick trip to the urgent care center revealed a reaction to the cinnamon. A little bath in colloidal oatmeal and frequent slathering with hydrocortisone calmed the rash, but not my heart.

That night I cried myself to sleep, the tears and sobs were also prayers, worded and otherwise. I felt like a bad mother. I felt like an idiot and a failure. I couldn’t even just have a fun afternoon with my guys. I was sure I had ruined Christmas.

In the morning, I grabbed my coffee, and my Bible, while it was still quiet and the moonlight shown on the snow. I opened it to Luke. I read the Christmas story. I thought about Mary… so young… I wondered if she felt she was ready to be a mother. I wondered if she felt awful for not having things all ready for her child’s birth. They couldn’t even find a room to birth in. They ended up in a stable. Smelly animals surrounded them, hay poked her in the back, she didn’t even have a “proper” layette.  I wondered how she felt.

But- there she was- the mother of The Christ Child. I flipped to the Easter story- and re-read that, too…the two stories were one. A light switch flipped on for me. The baby’s birth that I was trying so hard to honor, celebrate and share, perfectly. Had led to the Savior that I needed, yet again, so desperately. Much more desperately than sidewalks and bigwheels.

I felt like everything shuffled back into place. My priorities, lined up again. By the time the boys woke up, I was ready. We continued through the rest of our holiday with joy and rest. No more worrying over the gifts, we could do what we could do. That was all. No more worrying about creating perfect “Christmas memories” with the boys… we decided to just let them happen.

Every year- (my oldest two are 18 and 15 , now) we retell the story of the ornaments, and forced fun. We laugh, every year. Sure- I still get caught up in the hustle bustle and pressure to create a Martha Stewart Christmas scene….but then- inevitably, I get a whiff of cinnamon. And I remember. The baby in a manger- who grew to be savior…. and get back to the heart of Christmas…. till the next time, I need to be reminded.

“Dear Lord- I know that Christmas isn’t about packages and bows and gifts and decorations… but, I get sidetracked so fast, I barely know it’s happening till it’s nearly too late. Please God- help me to remember, help me to follow the star and be reminded of of the sacrifices you made- leaving heaven at God’s right hand.. to be born in amnager and die on a cross, so that the world could have peace, love and forgiveness. I love you Lord- and thank you, – oh- and lord- thnx that we can laugh at that Cinnamony Christmas.. and learn from it..amen…”

Oh— wondering about the title? I always remember too late that I WANT to force bulbs for my Christmas centerpiece one year…married nearly 20 years and have never remembered in time to actually do it;)

(re-post form Laced with Grace 2007)

It was one of those “Black and white” days of winter.  Where the world is painted in shades of dirt.  The slush on the road was the exact color and consistency of dryer lint.  Or maybe, it was the stress of buying gifts for everyone we know, that made it seem that way.  The holidays can be like that.

Especially when you’re in a time and money crunch and are in a trying to get it all done now, mode. Which, we were.

As we drove, there were more reminders of how bad things are economically, than holiday decorations on every corner. I’m pretty sure there were literal “signs of the times” because I saw them. They read: “We buy houses” and “Call NOW, to avoid foreclosure!”

No more silver bells on every street corner, only store closing signs.  Just when the signs had started to melt together like a marketing slush pile, one jumped out at us.

Or maybe it wasn’t the sign, it was the huge, slush dripping, black man holding the sign that caught out attention. With one strong arm he held the sign, and with the other he waved. He had a smile warm enough to melt an iceberg. (I may have suspected he was high-for just a minute.  Just being honest!) I looked a little closer- iPhone in hand in case I needed to report a drunken signer…But he wasn’t smiling vacantly, he made eye contact with each passing car. He was smiling genuinely. (Who knew people still do that?)

I couldn’t help but smile back. Neither could every other driver on that road. It was more contagious than swine flu.

My husband noticed too. “See that guy?” My hubby said.  “He must be freezing!”

” Yeah, I can’t help but smile! We should get him a coffee or something…” I replied. “Well, maybe when we’re done.” I suggested, looking at the clock and wishing it would sloooow down.

By the time we’d turned the next corner and found a parking lace at the mall, I’d forgotten all about he smiling man and the hot coffee.

We finished our errands, then drove to the nearest Starbucks for a treat to celebrate sticking to our budget.  As I held the white chocolate mocha and let it warm my fingers, I remembered that warm smile.

I thought I was losing it when I looked up to see the “STORE CLOSING SALE” sign walking towards the coffee shop. I wondered if I were about to be visited by a ghost of Christmas past…..then I worried whether Starbucks was the next store to close.. (that would be tragic.) Funny how one worry leads to another, isn’t it?

No worries, no paranormal episode being filmed and Starbucks wasn’t in fiscal trouble.  It was time for the smiling sign holder’s coffee break.

“He’s STILL SMILING! I said to my husband. “Hey, …Buy him a coffee, he’s gotta be freezing!!” I told hubby- but he was already reaching for his wallet. We were on the same page. (The first time that day- let’s just say Christmas shopping together can be brutal.)

Hubby walked to the counter with him and offered to buy him a coffee.

I strained to listen while they talked.  (And not look like a SBUX eaves dropper while doing it..)

“You seem to like what you’re doing..” Hubby said.

“I like having a job” Said our sign holding friend.

“Been doing this long?” Hubby asked, curious.

“A few months. I worked for a moving company before the economy tanked.” He said,  warming his frigid hands around the iconic paper cup.

The talk lasted just a bit longer than the coffee. By the end? My husband was  sure it had been a “divine appointment.”  The kind you don’t have programmed into your blackberry.

When the man excused himself to the restroom, my husband returned, looking perplexed.

“His birthday is coming up.. he has twin girls…times are rough but he’s glad to be working… I feel like I should give him something, do something to help.. but I don’t want to you know.. make him feel bad..he’s working, not begging.. you know what I mean?” Hubby said.

“Just be honest with him.. tell him you want to do it to thank him for what he’s doing…making people smile….  If that doesn’t work, tell him to use it to buy something for his girls…for Christmas.” I offered, thinking a little cash to buy gifts for the kids would be rough for anyone to turn down!

Hubby reached for his wallet. I watched him walk over as our new friend was picking up his sign getting ready to head back out into the cold.  I couldn’t make out words as they talked, but my ears strained to hear, anyways. They seemed more serious and intense this time.  I prayed silently: “Lord, please don’t let this offend this guy, let it bless him.”

My heart skipped a beat when I saw those two big men embrace, each with tears in their eyes.

He’d accepted the gift without offense.

We didn’t solve the economic crisis, or get him a more stable job. We just did what we could. So did he. He gave warm smiles and waves to drivers facing their own economic crisis’ as they drove to Christmas shop,  we gave a Venti’ and a few bills to a guy struggling to make ends meet.

In our own ways, we all made a difference that day, to each other.  And, just maybe to the world.

What will you do to make a difference, today?

The cold crept up though the granite boulder I sat on. It seeped through my well-padded backside and settled into my spine.  Cold, clumsy, fat and scared is how I felt. The sun had barely risen and held no warmth, except a promised one. I pulled my hoodie tighter around my growing stomach and turned the pages of my bible in search of comfort.

What I found was about as comfortable as the granite I sat on.

¹ Some time later God tested Abraham. He said to him, “Abraham!”
“Here I am,” he replied.

² Then God said, “Take your son, your only son, Isaac, whom you love, and go to the region of Moriah. Sacrifice him there as a burnt offering on one of the mountains I will tell you about.”

Not, what I was looking for. I was pregnant, hormonal and afraid. I was looking for peace. DUH. Instead of peace- the doctors phone call haunted me:

“Your tests came back with soft indicators for Down Syndrome, you need to make an appointment with the genetic counselor.” In that instant,  I’d lost peace. Instead of wondering about my baby’s gender, I was now afraid my child would die. I was afraid my child would struggle. I was afraid he’d be rejected. I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to handle it. I wondered where God was.

I wanted my excitement back. I wanted my peace back.

Instead, I opened the page to see God tell a man to kill his son. I kept reading. I saw a man lay his beloved child on a cold rock and lift a knife to kill him.  Fear and anger welled up in me.

I hated Abraham.

“That altar is cold! Is he nuts? Where Is Sarah? I’d kill him if he was my husband. THAT’S HIS BABY! Would he really do it? What an idiot.” (Umm I maybe actually think like this, am I the only one?)

I slammed my bible and walked back to the camper. If this was the comfort God was offering- I didn’t want it.

I let the door slam as I entered. I wanted everyone to be awake with me in my misery.

It didn’t work. They snored on.

Trying to shove down the anxiety I felt, I started to clean. I grabbed a shopping bag to put it away and out fell a blue, silk edged Winnie the Pooh blanket, I’d bought for the baby. Tears filled my eyes.

I imagined myself holding my baby in the blanket, I imagined the blanket never holding a baby.  I imagined the blanket draped over a tiny coffin, and I imagined it wrapped around a tiny Down Syndrome baby.

I wondered if Sarah had a blanket for Isaac. I wondered how Abraham had overcome his fatherly instinct to comfort and care for his son, to lay him on a cold stone altar.

“Maybe he didn’t.” Was the response. (It was either God or my imagination, but I heard it.)

“The Bible LIED?” I asked. Kind of hoping it had.

“Maybe Abraham didn’t lay him on a stone altar, maybe he lay him on my lap. Maybe you should lay your child there too.”

I was pretty sure Abraham wasn’t the only crazy one. He had a new neighbor in crazy-ville: ME.

I let the words sink in.  Not an altar, a lap. A fathers lap. I wasn’t convinced.

“In your lap? I can’t. I have to take care of him.” I replied. (Once you’ve gone to crazy-ville you may as well stay a while. )

“I will. I already AM.” Was the reply.

“I can’t let go.” I answered.

“Neither can I.” Was the reply that brought me back form Crazy-ville.

The truth is I could let go, if I really tried, and if I really trusted.

That day didn’t end my fear. But, it did become a place to return to, like the rock on the beach I’d sat on,while searching for comfort. Only instead of coldness creeping up my spine, it brought warmth. It brought peace, and yes, comfort.

On a lap, not an altar.

God hadn’t promised everything would be alright.   Instead, he met me where I was, and gave ME a warm lap to crawl into, a place where I could lay down my little one. Not a cold stone altar, but the lap of a loving father.

He didn’t change my circumstances, but he did change my perspective.

I don’t know what you’re feeling today, maybe you’re afraid, maybe you are angry, maybe you have read that same story and wanted to put the beat down on Abraham, like I did.  I’m praying that God will meet you where you’re at, and show you what you need to see, whether (like me) you like it or not.

Dear Lord- I pray that you’d constantly remind me to trust you.. that you’d constantly remind me you are not a cold hard, judging God but a loving father, into who’s lap I can climb and find peace.  I love you Lord and pray that you will meet each one that comes here, right where they are. Amen

I stared at the fork in my hand.  I stared at the steaming pan of enchilada’s in the middle of the table.  Through the steam, I saw the smiling, gaunt face of my red-headed, dying friend and his beautiful wife. I smiled back. I looked to my left and saw my husband, to my right sat my toddler, forks also in hand.

“What if the doctor’s are wrong?  What if we can catch it from a fork?” I hated the thought, even as it formed. It was 1990 and until then, AIDS had been a news story, health ed and gossip topic to me. Suddenly it was very real. It was frightening, deadly and risky.

That day, AIDS stopped being a news story and became part of my story.

Why?  Because it was killing our friend.

Fork in hand, I had a choice to make. Would I allow my fear to pile hurt on an already bloodied and dying friend?  (There were some who whispered that people dying from aids “were getting what they deserve. And had brought it upon them selves” We saw how much this re had hurt them more than the virus. itself.)

Or, would I trust in God and live the gospel I said I believed?

I swallowed my fear, I dug into the pan, filling my plate, my husband’s and son’s with enchilada’s,  sauce and cheese.

Around that table, we shared a communion of enchilada’s and diet coke. We laughed. We cried. For a few moments-we lived the gospel.

I remember his bony, scaly red hand as we held hands to pray. I remember the tinge of fear again invading my heart as I reached out to clasp it. I remember the smile and warmth that met my hand in return.

A man with leprosy came to him and begged him on his knees, “If you are willing, you can make me clean.”  Filled with compassion, Jesus reached out his hand and touched the man. “I am willing,” he said. “Be clean!” Immediately the leprosy left him and he was cured.

It wasn’t because we were fearless or a good people. We aren’t.  We did it because we’d be desperate for touch if we were dying. And because the example we have is Christ . He touched the un-touchables of his day.

I wish I could say that prayer brought healing. It didn’t.

Our friend died.  Because AIDS kills. Every single day.

Some ask where God is when people suffer.  I think he’s eating enchilada’s and drinking diet coke with them.  I think he holds a rough, scaly, bony hand in prayer.

When we let Him.

Today is World AIDS day.

My question to you is- Will you let him?

Wondering what you can do?  Here are some ways to touch someone:

World Vision Sponsor a child affected by AIDS

Bloodwater- Donate $ to help find a cure and to help treat those who hurt.

In honor of our friend (Alan) we’re sponsoring a child through World Vision.  His name is Daniel- he is a first grader who lives in Tanzania.

The Autumn sky threatened rain.  I parked my car in the school parking lot, choked down a burger, fries and iced tea. I needed sustenance before I went in to help with my second grader’s class “Math Explorations” assignment.  (The fact that I failed almost every math class I’ve ever been in, didn’t come up on the background check. Whew. )

As I sat in the car, I contemplated the wisdom of entering a room of 24 rabid second graders, smelling like french fries. (I envisioned a mob scene with back packs instead of pitchforks.)

I knew they were rabid because I’d just witnessed them filing out the door for lunch recess. They looked like they’d dumped the rest of their Halloween candy into their lunch boxes, before mom got a chance to toss it.  The term: JACKED UP could describe the behavior. Let’s just say I know Where the Wild Things Are.  They are at my son’s school. (Which means:  he fits in fine.) I turned on some classical music and to “center myself”. Whatever that means.

[Bored by the music and sad attempt at centering-] I looked up to notice a rubber wheeled, off- road style wheel chair near the door.  In it, sat a radical little helmet wearing, wild dude. He had pirate stickers all over his helmet and a “born to be wild” bumper sticker on his wheel chair. (Or I made that up, but you get the picture.) He was alternately, throwing sticks and bouncing a ball.

Alone.

My heart went out to him.  All those rabidly fun kids, running past him to go play and he’s left alone. Tears filled my eyes.  I’ve been left out and alone. Not just as a child, but as an adult.  I hate it.  It’s not fair.

Right about the time I was considering risking being “the creepy woman” who wandered onto the playground and played ball with the wheel-chair kid.  A hoodie clad, second or third grade fellow  ball bouncer, ran over to him.

The boy in the wheel chair cautiously tossed him the ball. A test of trust, I think. If the ball was tossed back, all was well, if it was chucked at him or snatched away, it was just another episode of playground trauma.

I held my breath. The boy bounced it back. after a few tentative bounces, they moved on to throwing sticks for distance and height. (They both should have been wearing helmets, they took a few sticks to the head. Come to think of it, they will probably get in trouble for that,  if they get caught.) A few more kids came over to join in the fun. They broadened the game. (Or trouble making, depending on which side of the school fence you’re on, I suppose.)

I smiled. And let out the breath I’d held in fear. I experienced inclusion. No teasing or targeting. No excluding. It was connection and compassion. There was care for the one who was left out. Compassion on the marginalized. Sounds like the gospel to me.

¹⁸“The Spirit of the Lord is on me,
because he has anointed me
to preach good news to the poor.
He has sent me to proclaim freedom for the prisoners
and recovery of sight for the blind,
to release the oppressed,
¹⁹to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor.”^{[e] Luke 4:18-19}

I want to be that kid hoodie wearing ball bouncing kid, when I grow up.  I want to be the one who reaches out and includes, instead of excluding the different.  I want to have compassion that moves me to action. I want to make that kind of difference, every day.

What about you?

Dear Lord- I pray you’d bless those boys I saw on the playground today. I pray that you’d give me and all who read, the courage to reach out and to take the risk of bouncing the ball. Let us catch your compassion and live it out on the playground of our lives- I love you Lord- Amen

In an instant, I went from totally relaxed, sunning on the beach, to paralyzed by pain.  All it took was a gust of wind and a few children running past to kick up and spray the powdered glass that is sand into my face. One tiny speck (that felt like a shard) landed in my eye.

Time stopped. The beach disappeared and I was momentarily paralyzed by pain.  My eyes slammed shut like an oyster shell. I blinked. I blinked again. It scraped the grain across my eye. I clamped my eyes shut. Next came a flood of tears.  The tears washed the sand  away. I sighed  with relief.  (Funny how pain takes us INTO ourselves and stretches out time like a rubber-band- isn’t it?)

It’s strange that the same grain of sand that caused so much pain in my eye, can get into an oyster and become a pearl.  Of course, oysters are created with the ability to coat (with shimmering layer after layer of nacre) the irritating invader, creating a pearl. and  my eye  is not.

I’m learning that my heart, is.

Over the years, I’ve experienced plenty of oyster moments.  Things that had temporarily paralyzed me with pain and left me blinded, tears flooding my eyes, pain threatening to burst my heart, have, over time, with grief and healing and God, and most importantly with grace- both given and received, have been turned into pearls. To be honest,  I am amazed.

I can’t do a tutorial explaining HOW it happened. And  I know that it doesn’t ALWAYS happen… But for me, it has. I’ve learned to string the pearls and wear them for others to see. In writing, in speaking, in truth telling and in living with love and authenticity. For one purpose: to share hope.

I don’t know what today is like for you. Today may be the day the sand has hit your eye.  The pain may be paralyzing.  You may be blinking away tears while you try to read these words.  You may wonder if it will ever subside and whether you will ever be able to see past your pain.

The answer is YES. It can.  If you let grace and grief do it’s work.  I’m praying that it does.

Or- maybe, you have a box of your own pearls.  But are afraid to let them be seen by others– You won’t wear them… you worry about them..I pray you have courage to share them- they are beautiful and hope shared is an amazing thing.

You’re not alone. You’re not forgotten.  Don’t give up. I’m praying that God provides the grace, the healing, the time and the peace that you need. I pray that the tears help wash away the pain, and that when you can see again.. you find a pearl, of hope.

Dear Lord- I don’t know how you do it, but I know that you can bring hope to the most hope-less situations and peace and healing tot he most painful ones. I pray today that you would apply the nacre of your love and grace to the hurts of those who come here… and that someday they would find a pearl formed from their pain. I love you lord- and thank you for the string of pearls I can wear and share.. I pray we all can find that courage that comes from you-amen

One of my most treasured passages -

I’ll get better at taking and posting videos- But here’s a first! (We know I learn the hard way so cut a mom some tech slack:)

Each MOPS Group is unique, we’re a grass-roots mommy run movement to support every mother- so each group takes on a style and personality of it’s own. So- the group you visit could be entirely differnent- so could the one you START!

(Each speaker is different- too- so don’t be afraid they are all like me:P)

If you’ve never been-to a MOPS Group- this will give you a taste!

If you’d like to find a group near you- visit the MOPS website and enter your zip code to find one- or check out the site for more encouragement and information!

Now on with the show!

The final point was cut off–(cam fail)– click the More button below to see where we ended up:)

But what about the days when I can’t find anything to celebrate, and the flavor is NOT something I want to savor?  What about when mothering is a thankless job and I feel taken advantage of and overwhelmed and under-appreciated, like nothing I do matters?

The only answer I have is SAVIOR-

Not that He saves us from the day-to day.  But that he LOVES us anyways and appreciates each cup of milk, each nose and bottom wiped, each diaper changed, each meal served and each errand run….

I know this because he said so-

Matthew 25:34-40 ‘Come, you who are blessed by my Father; take your inheritance, the kingdom prepared for you since the creation of the world. ³⁵For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, ³⁶I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me.’

³⁷“Then the righteous will answer him, ‘Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you something to drink? ³⁸When did we see you a stranger and invite you in, or needing clothes and clothe you? ³⁹When did we see you sick or in prison and go to visit you?’

⁴⁰“The King will reply, ‘I tell you the truth, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers of mine, you did for me.’

Preheat oven to 350-

Ingredients:

3lbs Granny Smith Apples- washed

1 1/2 -to- 2 cups sugar

1/2 -to-3/4 cup flour

pinch of salt

cinnamon

Pat of butter

Pillsbury Prepared pie crust )told-you- it’s mostly homemade;)

2 Tbl milk

cinnamon sugar to sprinkle

Directions:

Remove pie crust from box- let sit at room temp until pliable.

Peel, core and then thinly slice (about 1/4-1/2 inch thick) the apples.  In a bowl, combine with flour, sugar cinnamon and salt. Mix or toss to coat apples.

Sprinkle pie pan (I prefer the Pampered Chef Pie plate stone) with 1 Tbl flour and a sprinkle of sugar. (helps to avoid soggy bototm crust)

Unroll and press bottom pie crust into pan.

Fill pan with apple sugar mixture.  (Pack ‘em in there- make em fit.  Plan on cleaning the oven later if it runs over;) )

top with a pat of butter and a sprinkle of cinnamon.

Unroll second pie crust, place over apples.  “Crimp” Top crust to bottom using a fork.  Trim excess crust with a knife. (reserve)

Roll put the dough and cut into holiday themed shapes- (I like leaves and pumpkins-)

Use a pastry brush to brush pie top with milk.  Place “cut outs” onto pie top by brushing bottoms with milk.

Sprinkle pie with cinnamon sugar.  Use sharp knife to cut “vents” into pie top.

Bake at 350 for 50-60 minutes.

Serve warm with vanilla ice cream or whipped cream.

Receive the praise;)

Pies done!

“Mr Gorbachev, Tear down this wall.“

I was 21. When Ronald Reagan made that demand. It resonated through my being. I was really not much more than a kid, without political understanding, but even I could see how wrong that wall was.  I saw that wall as an ugly reminder of how differences of perspective (a simplification, I know)  can be used to separate and even kill.

What divided Germany?

Ideation? Perspective? Politics? Fear? Hatred? Control? Judgment?

Maybe, it was all of the above.

Today- we celebrate the action of a nation tearing down a wall and  being pieced back together. The tearing down of that wall was a symbol of unity over difference. it was the beginning of the end of the Cold War.

It was powerful. It still is.

Sadly?  It wasn’t the last wall built to divide. Nor was Communism the last Cold War. There are walls between Moms- and a Cold War being waged between us.

You don’t see them?  Look again. We are at war over our parenting methods,style, choice s and preferences. From diapering to schooling choice, we build walls around our opinions, judgments, perspectives, ideas, politics, cultures, and assumptions. They are invisible, but are just as real as Berlin’s concrete wall.

Like Berlin- we each stand on “our side,” armed with snipers rifles to keep the same in and the different- out.  We shoot words, looks, justifications and judgments like officers of mom-dom guarding our borders.

I’ve built my share of walls.  I’m learning to tear them down.

Why?

Because I’m learning my walls are (for the most part) built of Myth. Things I believe about others  based on tiny pieces of truth I know about them. I create whole myths that explain motive and actions without bothering to KNOW the person. It’s ugly. It’s wrong. and, it’s true.  I call them Mommy Myths- and it’s time for them to be busted.

I only know one way to bust Myths- (mommy or otherwise) and that is with truth. How do I learn the truth about moms who are different from me? BY GETTING TO KNOW THEM. It is messy and uncomfortable. and worth it.

I need other moms. Desperately. I need different opinions and perspectives. I need confrontation (I don’t WANT it, but I need it:P) and confirmation. I need connection and understanding. I need to listen and learn and be heard.

Maybe you do too.

I wonder what would happen if Mothers around the world tore down their walls?  I wonder what would happen if we learned to listen instead of assume.  I wonder what would happen if we could learn to appreciate our differences instead of judging and defending?  We may nit agree on everything- but maybe we could respect and understand. Maybe then, we could put away the verbal rifles and end the Mommy Cold War that is between us.

the world and our families- could be a better place.

Can you hear it?

There is a voice- standing not on one side or another- but above all of our walls and I hear it saying…

“Ms Mommy-chev, TEAR DOWN THAT WALL.”

It’s time to Bust some Mommy Myths- so we can pull out the bricks and mortars that build our walls– will you join me?