The Soggy Bottom Sisters

Here is what will likely be my last 3-Day training update before the big event--one week from today!

I did my second 18-mile walk about four weeks ago, a lovely walk through Downtown Fort Worth. I met several great ladies and enjoyed hours of endless conversation that helped me forget my tired feet. (The Advils I downed with breakfast and lunch helped too).

Along the way, we spotted this firetruck that the city had decorated up for breast cancer awareness month:

The next morning I popped a few more Advil, slipped back into my Five Finger shoes, and headed out to Lake Grapevine for a 15-mile walk. I was delighted to see several of my new friends waiting in the semi darkness. My friend Kelly, the one who sent me the angel book, also came out to walk with me.

But I'm afraid Kelly soon regretted that decision. The first hour was lovely as we walked through the trees beside the lake and watched the sun rise. Before long, though, it began to sprinkle. I got my $3 pancho out of my backpack. It stopped raining. I put it back. A few more spatters fell. I got the pancho out. It stopped. I put it away.

And then it started to rain in earnest. Everyone pulled out panchos--except Kelly, who'd been in a rush and didn't bring one. "Maybe it will stop soon," I said.

But it soon became apparent that this was the kind of slow, steady rain that lasts for hours. Or days. My pancho kept me fairly dry, but I learned that the Five Finger shoes provide zero protection from water. They're basically just fancy toe socks with a thin rubber sole. The water flowed freely over my feet, gumming up the protective moleskin I'd applied to prevent blisters.

After eight miserable miles, we arrived at a great hole-in-the-wall restaurant called Burritos Locos. They were crazy burritos indeed--crazy big!

By the Way, That's Ethan's Gaudy Sweatshirt, The Only One I Could Find at 6 in the Morning

While we enjoyed our breakfast burritos, we hemmed and hawed over whether to continue the walk. Jennifer, the walk leader, said her husband would be glad to come shuttle anyone who wanted to call it quits to their cars.

One by one, each woman agreed that would be the most sensible plan. I nodded my head, but inside I really wanted to do the 15 miles. Jennifer said, "If anyone wants to keep walking, I'll go with you. But no complaining." I looked around the table, but no one met my eyes. I didn't want to be the one to make Jennifer get back out in the rain.

"Okay then," she said.

It was now or never. I cleared my throat. "I'd kind of like to keep walking," I said. "But I don't want to make Jennifer go if I'm the only one. Does anyone else want to finish the walk?"

One by one, hands went up around the table. Evidently we'd all been holding back out of consideration for the others! In the end, six out of eight changed into dry socks and donned our panchos, which had been drying on chairs at an unoccupied table. (Kelly was one of the ones who went home since she was the most drenched.)

My fresh socks were soaked before we got out of the parking lot. But I felt warm inside for following through even when it got tough. I think the others felt the same way because we were all suddenly quite cheerful. Marching along through the puddles, we sang "She'll Be Coming Around the Mountain When She Comes."

Okay, maybe it was only Jennifer who sang, and what she actually said was, "We'll be soaking in a hot tub when we come." I was singing on the inside.

Jennifer lamented that her behind was soaked because she hadn't put her pancho on straight. "You know what we are?" she asked. "We're the Soggy Bottom Sisters."

I laughed. "I'm using that for the title on my blog entry."

For the record, my bottom was perfectly dry, though my cold, stiff feet had long since shriveled up like prunes. But I finished that walk! What's a little rain?

The Scaredy-Dog
I've continued to take Lola on my solo walks, always sticking to the neighborhood streets and avoiding the park, which is infested with other dogs. About a week ago, we were strolling down an empty street when Lola suddenly stopped in her tracks, stiff as a statue.

I followed her gaze to the yard on my right, where a giant inflatable cat with glowing eyes moved its head back and forth, looking ready to pounce.

"Come on, Lola," I coaxed, trying to pull her along down the sidewalk. Lola whined and lunged into the street, taking me with her. Thankfully there were no cars coming. I tried to drag her back onto the sidewalk, but she pulled harder the other way, wrapping her leash around the tree in the foreground. I finally gave up and walked in the street until the cat was well out of sight.

"Scaredy-dog," I taunted.

Want to Go For a Walk? Never Mind
A few nights later, my dear friend and 3-Day partner Gentle came over to walk with me. Lola, who was in the kitchen for some reason, followed me around as I filled my water bottles and slipped them into my belt. When she heard the jingle of the mace whistle I always wear on our walks, she began to dance for joy, almost tripping me up. She was glued to my side as I completed my preparations.

"Lola, you're not coming this time" I said gently. "Gentle and I are walking in the park, and you just can't go there again. Ever. I'm sorry."

She continued her leaping dance, literally turning circles in the air.

I felt so rotten. "Not this time, Lola," I repeated. "Allyson, would you put Lola out, please?"

Allyson led Lola onto the back porch, but before she could close the screen door, Lola darted back in and ran up to my side, whining. I took her back out and closed the door myself. "I'll take you for a walk tomorrow," I promised.

"Why are you being mean to the dog?" Bill asked. "Why did you get that fancy leash and make her think you were going to walk her every day, but now you just leave her at home?"

I pursed my lips. "If she didn't lunge at every dog she sees, I could take her with me."

Gentle arrived just then, and I didn't give Lola another thought. But she had not forgotten. When I got back home over an hour later, she was still waiting at the back door. Her tail started thumping the moment she saw me.

"We're not going for a walk," I said.

This time Lola actually seemed to understand my words, and she started to cry. I don't mean the usual whining. It was the closest thing to sobbing that I've ever heard from a dog. She cried and cried. I knelt on the other side of the screen door and spoke softly to her. "I'll take you for a walk tomorrow, Lola. I promise."

She continued to whine.

"You broke Lola's heart," Bill accused.

"She's breaking my heart now, so we're even," I said. It was true. I never expected to get so attached to her, despite all our struggles.

True to my word, I did take her for a short walk the next night. And all was forgiven.

But Bill won't stop teasing. At random moments he walks up to the open screen door and says, "Wanna go for a walk? Oh, never mind." But she doesn't fall for it. She knows it's only walk time when I'm wearing the shoes and the water belt and the whistle. And carrying the poop bag.

Get Your Feet Wet

For the last five weeks, I've been enjoying a Priscilla Shirer Bible study called One in a Million. It's about what God taught the Israelites during their time in the wilderness, and how He moved them into the Promised Land. I've learned many exciting truths over the last few weeks, and tonight I just feel compelled to share how God has been speaking to me.

Nevertheless People
When the Israelites reached the edge of the Promised Land (Canaan), Moses sent out 12 spies to see what the land was like and what kind of people lived there (Numbers 13).  Upon their return, all 12 spies reported that the land was flowing with milk and honey, just as God had promised. As evidence, they brought back a single cluster of grapes so big that two men had to carry it on a pole between them.

But 10 of the spies tacked something on the end of that initial report. "Nevertheless," they said, "The people who live there are powerful, and the cities are fortified and very large.... All the people we saw there are of great size.... We seemed like grasshoppers in our own eyes, and we looked the same to them."

So they saw the cluster, the sure sign of God's blessing, and their answer was, "Nevertheless."

What about the other two spies, Joshua and Caleb? "The LORD is with us," they said. "Do not be afraid of them."

But the Israelites listened to the report of the 10 spies. They saw the promise, but refused to believe. The result was 40 years of wandering for that entire generation. Out of about 2 million people, only Joshua and Caleb got to enter the Promised Land. (Each of them was "One in a Million.") Not even Moses got to enter, although God did allow him to view Canaan from a mountain on the other side of the Jordan River.

Priscilla urged us to consider the new territory God wants to take us to. She suggested that we make a "cluster keeper," a journal or some other record of the clusters of blessings God has already given us. When we feel afraid, when we feel tempted to say "Nevertheless," we should focus on our personal proofs of God's goodness and faithfulness. God has selected US to break through the barriers, to break out of our religious complacency and go where He leads us.

Wet Feet
After Moses saw the Promised Land, he died and Joshua became the new leader. The Israelites mourned for 30 days, and then they moved forward under Joshua's leadership (Deuteronomy 34).

• Joshua acted immediately in obedience to God. He didn't linger or procrastinate. "Early in the morning, Joshua and all the Israelites set out from Shittim and went to the Jordan, where they camped before crossing over." (Joshua 3:1) They camped there for three days, getting a good look at their impossible circumstance; it was April, and the river was swollen with melted snow from the mountain.
• Joshua acted fearlessly in spite of insurmountable odds. Right there on the banks of the raging river, he told the people, "Consecrate yourselves, for tomorrow the LORD will do amazing things among you." (Joshua 3:5)
  
  Just as God had instructed, Joshua told the priests to carry the ark of the covenant and go ahead of the people. At the beginning of the exodus, when God parted the Red Sea, the previous generation had stepped out onto dry land. But this time the priests had to step into the flood waters. They had to get their feet wet and trust that God would hold back the water as he had promised.
• Joshua acknowledged the presence of God. He instructed the people to watch the ark of the covenant. When they saw the priests carrying it, they were to move out from their positions and follow it. (Joshua 3:3)

So what does all this mean?

1. "The bigger your deep waters, the more enormous the opportunity for a miracle. Celebrate!"
2. Get up early, literally and figuratively. Start your day by seeking God's direction, and make Him your first priority.
3. As you look around at your impossible circumstance, or you contemplate the impossible task God has called you to do, anticipate miracles. Don't let Satan's stronghold of fear hold you back from pursuing God's will.
4. Wait for God to move before you move. Just as the Israelites waited for the ark of the covenant, which represented God's presence, we must watch for God's leading. And don't be distracted by all the good things around you. "Every good thing is not a God thing." If you get too busy doing good things, you won't be able to accomplish God's purpose for you.
5. Get your feet wet. When you see God leading you, go ahead and step out. God will hold back the waters, but you have to take that first step in faith.

As Priscilla shared all these truths, I felt a stirring in my spirit--excitement for the future and dissatisfaction with life as usual. But I can't just charge ahead. I have to know where God is leading me. I'm going to take Priscilla's advice and pray that God will heighten my spiritual senses and make me aware of His presence. I'm going to spend more time with God and find out what good things I need to pass up so that I can focus on doing only His will for me.

I fully expect to see evidence of God's leading in my life. I intend to get my feet wet as soon as He gives me the signal.

I Am Soree

I've been amazed at how quickly Allyson's writing skills are developing. It absolutely thrills me to see how she's learning to communicate her thoughts on paper, and how she loves writing as much as I do.

But today I learned that the thoughts she communicates aren't always pure, lovely, and of good report.

We were just walking through the door this evening when my cell phone rang. I shut the door behind Allyson, waved absently at Bill, and stood in the back door so I could hear my friend better.

Within moments, Allyson was whining loudly and Bill was grumping, so I stepped onto the back porch to continue my conversation. Even through the closed door, I could hear Bill scolding and Allyson wailing.

When I finished my call, I came back inside to find Bill alone at the kitchen table. From upstairs came the muffled sound of Allyson's sobs.

"What was all that drama about?" I asked.

He explained that Allyson had pulled out a bunch of snacks and was going to pour some honey, but he made her stop. Despite her tears, he remained firm. So she looked him in the eye and licked the top of the honey bottle.

"She what??" I gasped. Now I understood why I'd heard Bill yelling.

"Oh, but that's not all. After her time out, she brought me this..."

When he handed me the paper at the top of the picture below, my eyebrows rose in shock. Hoo boy!

Where did our 5-year-old learn to say something like "shut up"? And how did she know how to spell it? (I was pretty sure Bill hadn't dictated it for her.)

"Where is she now?" I asked, once I'd regained my power of speech.

Bill pressed his lips into a grim line. "In her room."

When Bill opened Allyson's door a few minutes later, she shyly held out the paper at the bottom of the picture below:

"I Am Soree Thet I Wus Noteye Dadee"

My heart melted, but Bill struggled to maintain his frown.

"I'm sorry," Allyson whispered.

Bill knelt in front of her. "I'm glad you're sorry about being naughty. But why were you acting so naughty to begin with?"

Shrugging, she put her arms around her "dadee", and the last of his resistance slipped away.

Putting Her Talents to Better Use
Thankfully, Allyson usually uses her crayons to deliver more wholesome messages. Here's an example from last week:

After learning to draw an owl in art class, she decided to draw a bunch of owls to sell in our upcoming garage sale.

"I made each picture a little different," she explained. "That way people can pick the one they like best."

"Honey, I don't think people will buy pictures of owls," Bill said.

As I surveyed her work, my heart swelled with pride. "Oh, I think they might," I said. "If I saw a kid selling pictures like these, I might buy one."

"Sure you would," Bill retorted, and I knew he was thinking about my fanatical adherence to the Dave Ramsey budget.

"She can sell them at her lemonade stand," I said.

"Ooh, and this time I can keep all my money!" Allyson's face lit up as she remembered all the cash she'd raked in at our last garage sale.

Just in case the art sale doesn't pan out, Allyson has a few other ideas:

She can give art lessons:

"Example Made By Allyson"

(She already gave free lessons to Bill and me, and I have to say she is quite an exacting teacher.)

She can also sell her illustrations to science book publishers:

"Migration in Owls"

So, would anyone like to buy an owl picture?

Four Weeks and Counting...

...until my 3-Day Walk. I don't know whether to be excited or nervous. A little of both, I guess. Here's an update on my progress.

On average, I walk around 30 miles a week now, but sometimes I walk more than that in just one weekend. I typically do my longest walks on Saturday, anywhere from three to seven hours, and slightly shorter walks on Sunday. And then I try to get in at least two shorter walks during the week, about one or two hours at a time.

I had to slow down for a couple of weeks after I fell down the stairs. I could walk only an hour at a time, and I was only able to walk a little over two miles an hour, when previously I could walk up to four miles an hour. That was frustrating, and rather painful but not unbearable.

Saturday before last was my first long walk after the injury, and I was ecstatic to be able to complete the 18 miles with a large group of 3-Day participants. It was both easier and harder than I expected: easier because my sore hip did not bother me at all (though I did take Advil, and I did have to walk at a relatively slow pace); harder because my feet go SO sore on my second lap around White Rock Lake. What surprised me the most was how utterly drained I was after walking 6.5 hours. I had to slap my cheeks repeatedly on the one-hour drive home to keep myself awake. And when I got home, I collapsed in an easy chair for a two-hour nap. After that, I was STILL tired. In fact, I was exhausted for three days!

Waking up early the next morning and slipping into my Five Finger shoes for another 10 miles took all the discipline I could muster. My calves were tight, my feet still hurt, and I felt like I'd been rudely awakened in the middle of the night even though it was 7:00, two hours later than I'd risen the previous morning. But I drug myself out of bed and walked 7 miles, which was all I had time for before church. My feet had felt bruised, but walking actually seemed to loosen them up. Same thing with my leg muscles.

I've got another 18-mile walk scheduled this Saturday, followed by 15 miles on Sunday. That will be the peak of my training. After that it will wind down in preparation for the event--walking 60 miles in three days.

I should also share that I have exceeded the minimum fundraising amount for the walk, for a total of $2432.79. Thank you to everyone for your generous donations, your prayers, and your support. And thank you to God for blessing my recent garage sale fundraiser not only beyond what I expected, but beyond the beyond.

I can't wait to share the story of my 3-Day adventure. In the meantime, here are a few tidbits about my training so far....

Training Buddies
Here are pictures of some of my training buddies over the last seven months. This is by no means an exhaustive list.

My Hubby
(For a Couple Blocks Some Nights, If I Sweet Talk Him)

Sister Melody, Me, Aunt Sue, Sister Amy, Sue's Dog Miley, Allyson

Elizabeth and Daughter Abigail

Gentle, My 3-Day Partner

Ethan, If I Beg

Lori with Daughter Abigail (Now age 4)
Abigail always says, "Are we walking with Sar-wah today?"

Pamela, the Girl Who Saw the Angel When She Was Sick with Appendicitis

New Buddies That I Met at White Rock Lake
On that walk, I saw three couples on tandem bikes, a man on a unicycle, two cross-country skiers on wheels, and a sexy girl perched on a pink Vespa scooter in leopard skin pumps pretending to read a book (no photographer in sight). Plus about a hundred cyclists who kept whizzing past us.

Allyson and Me at a Charity Walk, Two Weeks After My Injury
I walked so slowly we were almost dead last. Even a barefooted toddler passed us up.

Sweet Laura, Of Course 
Man, I Miss That Grin

I didn't think to take a picture, but on Saturday I walked 10 miles with Kelly, the friend of Laura who mailed me the book on angels. She also plans to walk with me part of the way at the 3-Day event, though she is not an official participant. I think we will be good friends.

My Most Faithful Buddy 

There's one more walking buddy, the most faithful and enthusiastic of all. Guess who? Yep, Lola. Her new harness makes her almost manageable. 

Notice anything unusual about the picture? Look closely at the leash. That's right: there's slack in the leash! We've never had that before. 

In a world without other dogs, she'd be a great walking partner. The harness really works miracles in averting her natural instinct to pull against the leash--except when another dog is within five feet or so. Lola is strong enough to just about pull me off my feet when she lunges at other dogs. We follow a circuitous route, avoiding all the fenced dogs in the neighborhood. But we can't go to the park at all; it's teeming with dogs on a mild day. I don't know which is worse, the embarrassment of dragging my naughty dog past other people with their perfectly behaved dogs, or trying to separate her from other naughty dogs who hurl themselves at her. 

A More Noxious Problem

The most embarrassing problem of all is one I never expected to face. In the four years we've had her, Lola had never, ever pooped anywhere except our backyard. But I guess our frequent long walks have made her more comfortable outside her own turf because last Wednesday she dropped a big load when we were still about a block from home. Uh oh! 

I'd been so presumptuous over Lola's sense of propriety that I hadn't even brought a plastic bag along. For a moment I was seized with the temptation to slink away and pretend my dog had nothing to do with the steaming pile of dung, but my conscience wouldn't let me. The poop was in the worst possible spot, at the edge of the road right next to the front door of a parked car. (Don't worry, I didn't take a picture!)

We hurried home for some plastic grocery bags. On the way back, I silently prayed that no one would come out of the house and find that poop before I could clean it up. God must have thought I needed some humbling, though, because when we got back my worst fear was realized. A woman was in the front yard! 

I skulked past and walked a few more houses down, then casually retraced my steps. Whew! She'd just shut the front door. I knelt on the sidewalk and tried not to breathe as I did my very first pooper scooper duty. It wasn't so bad, I guess, except that I had to carry that smelly poo over a block. I felt so ridiculous carrying a grocery bag full of crap down the street. 

On yesterday's walk, Lola blithely pooped not two minutes after we'd left the house. I think she's enjoying this. 

Oh well. She is a dog, after all. And I have to say, it's most gratifying the way she dances with joy and whines in expectation when I bring out the leash. None of my other walking buddies do that.

I'm thankful for all my walking buddies, many of whom would not even be my friends were it not for my 3-Day training. I've been blessed in so many ways, and I look forward to seeing where this adventure will lead. 

Tales from Kindergarten

Four weeks ago, Allyson started Kindergarten. She was beyond excited. Here she is on Meet the Teacher night, which our whole family attended.

She Picked Her Dress

Getting Her Supplies Organized

As you can see, she didn't dress up nearly so much on the actual first day; she was about the only girl in Kindergarten who wasn't wearing a dress:

She looked so little walking into the school next to Daddy:

Ethan wanted to come along too, which warmed my heart. Of course, it wouldn't be cool to act like he was enjoying it...

We stood around watching Allyson settle in, but she soon forgot we were there and got to work on her very first assignment, "Summer Fun":

She Drew a Picture of Our Pool

As ecstatic as she had been about starting school, her first impression wasn't all that great. "There's lots of rules," she complained. One thing she does like, though, is buying her lunch in the cafeteria.

Bill helped her read the first week's menu, and she laboriously wrote down her choices:

Wednesday: "NO"; Thursday: "TAKO"; Friday: PIZZA (of course)

Each morning she consulted her little calendar so she'd know what to order for the day. She did have one bad experience. On Tuesday, they gave her baked potato to another kid and she got a ham and cheese sandwich. She tried to tell the lunch lady, but I guess it's hard for a five-year-old to get someone's attention. At her table, she told her teacher about the mixup, but either she didn't believe Allyson, or there wasn't enough time. "Just eat it," she said.

"But I hate ham and cheese," Allyson protested. So all she had was milk and some graham crackers. By the afternoon she was ravenous, but we had to head straight over to the high school to pick up Ethan. We got trapped in an absolutely ludicrous double line of cars, maybe 100 of them, and the 107-degree heat (42 Celsius) quickly overwhelmed my car's crappy air conditioning. It was literally blowing hot air, so I had to roll down all the windows.

We were both streaming with sweat, and Allyson wailed incessantly that she was hot and hungry and she wanted to go home. When the bell rang, over a thousand teenagers streamed out, but then they all milled around aimlessly. "Find your ride and go home," the vice principal hollered through a bullhorn, but the kids ignored him and went on with their conversations. We strained to find Ethan, but it was impossible in that crowd, and even if we could find him, there was no way out of the gridlock.

When Bill phoned to inform me that Ethan was staying late for band practice, I started wailing louder than Allyson. "I'm hot and hungry and I want to go home!" We sat for a total of 40 minutes in that inferno, and Allyson and I were at each other's throats by the time we got back home. But after a snack and some water, we loved each other again.

Since then, we've settled into a routine. I work at home for the seven hours that Allyson is in school, and then I start my daily taxi run to the two schools. I think Allyson is enjoying school more now. She comes home saying words like "hypothesis" and telling me all about Leonardo DaVinci, whose paintings "look like music."

Maybe Mom and Dad
Last week she brought home her first fundraiser: $15 boxes of cookie dough. Can you imagine, in this economy? She came home full of plans about all the prizes she hoped to win, including some sort of electronic floating shark. Bill gently explained that she would have to sell 40 boxes to get the shark, and there was no way she would sell that many.

"Will you buy some, Daddy? And Mommy? And will you give Ethan money to buy some too?"

"We'll see," I said. "They're pretty expensive, baby."

She sat down and made a list of her prospects, all on her own:

She figured the neighbors might buy some--we never asked--and "mabey" Mom and Dad.

"Aw, that's so sweet," I said later when I found the list.

"Poor thing," Bill said.

Budget or no budget, there was no way we could say no to a box a-piece after reading her forlorn little list. Bill hit up his friends and she sold four more boxes, not too shabby at those prices.

Bill's First Kindergarten Project
Another first she had last week was a big art project. She had to make a model of our house with our street name and house number, with a picture of herself in her bedroom window.

Bill spent hours building a scale model out of cardboard boxes, Duck tape, and construction paper. I reminded him that the teacher said it needed to look like a Kindergartener made it, but he just couldn't help himself.

She did draw the bricks, and she did most of the cutting and gluing. She also selected, cut, and glued the photo of herself. She picked a rather old picture, and she cut off almost all her hair, but it still looked cute.

Isn't the house amazing?

Well, I think that's all the Kindergarten news.

Ethan is doing very well in high school and still loving band. At his recent parent night, his algebra teacher gave me a fist bump and said, "You've got a great kid. You should be proud."

And I am. Of both my school kids.

A Flaming Sword

As you might have gathered from my last couple of posts, I've had the wind knocked out of me, and for awhile I was living in fear. But an email from my mother on Sunday changed everything...

I think the gentleman you encountered yesterday morning was up to know good i don' t believe his story since you felt danger there was danger. When you got to your door and started pounding the door it was anointed with oil on the inside of the frame and he was stopped by that, the Holy Ghost protected you from harm. Remember he stopped in your driveway and came no further. I have been praising God for the protection.

Love Mom

When I read Mom's message, goosebumps broke out all over my body. How could I have missed the connection? I flashed back to a morning three weeks earlier, after I'd dropped Allyson off for her second day of school. I felt compelled that morning to walk through our whole house praying for the covering of Jesus's blood. I took some olive oil and anointed every door frame with oil. As I prayed for God's protection over our family, our house, and our property, I heard myself say something that seemed to come out of nowhere, something wildly extravagant. "God, I'm asking you to post angels at our doors, angels with flaming swords."

Since then, I've searched the Bible for references to angels with flaming swords, and the only example I found was the cherubim who waved flaming swords as they guarded the Garden of Eden. So I don't know why I would have thought to pray about flaming swords; I think it was the Holy Spirit's anointing.

After I anointed our doors, I anointed the stairway banister from top to bottom, and as I climbed I asked the Lord for his protection over everyone who went up and down those stairs. I didn't pray specifically for no one to fall, just asked for protection from injury.

I also anointed each of our beds and prayed fervently for each family member individually, for my marriage, and for my family. I can only describe that prayer experience as thrilling. I felt the Holy Spirit's power coursing through me, and I prayed with absolute authority. I have never prayed that way before or since, and I had never anointed my house with oil, nor had I heard about anyone else doing it or recommending that I do it. It was just an urge that I felt one Tuesday morning. At the time, it felt like spiritual warfare, and I shuddered as I wondered what battles might lay ahead of me. But I felt confident that God would be with me whatever might come.

You know the rest. I never guessed it would be ME tumbling end over end down those stairs. I think it is nothing short of miraculous that I suffered no serious injury. My chiropractor thought the same thing when he saw all the bruises, though he did remark, "You'd think if angels were protecting you, they might have steered you away from the stairs in the first place."

How the Bruise on my Right Hip Looks Today, 9 Days After My Fall

I have to admit I've wondered the same thing, but I trust that God allowed both of my recent trials for a purpose. I may never know why, but I know he has ordained all of my days, and neither incident caught him by surprise.

One of the times that I was crying on the day I was pursued by the man, I was suddenly calmed by the mental image myself on the porch, struggling with the lock. On the porch with me, between me and the man, was an angel with a white, flaming sword. "Is that how it happened?" I asked God. I felt sure that an angel had literally been guarding me, but I still didn't connect it with my prayer three weeks before.

I think the reason I thought of a flaming sword that afternoon was because I'd just heard a story about an angel from my friend Pamela, who recently suffered a ruptured appendix and later an obstructed colon. She very nearly lost her life, and she's a changed woman. After her appendectomy, she had either a dream or a vision of herself in the hospital bed, being guarded by a flaming white sword. She couldn't see an angel, just the sword. She also saw a giant foot, and it seemed the foot wanted to crush her, but it had no power over her. She heard a voice that sounded like thunder. It said, "Not this one. Not tonight."

It had only been three days since Pamela told me that story during our walk, so it was quite fresh in my mind. And the idea of angels protecting me was reinforced later that day when I received a book in the mail about real encounters with angels.

So now I'm going to tell you my new theory about what really happened to me on Saturday morning. I still don't know if the man really had me mistaken for someone else, but regardless, I could feel that his intent was to harm me. Mother is right that he stopped the moment he hit our property. But do you remember what he said, and how I couldn't make any sense of it?

Right after he said, "Oh, wrong person," he said, "What the f___?" As he said it, he threw up his hands, palms facing forward--as if to say, "Whoa, back off."

What if he saw something on my porch that he couldn't interpret? He might have seen my angel, or a flaming sword, or an unexplained flash of light. Or maybe he didn't see anything with his eyes, but maybe his inner being saw something that made him throw up his hands and take a step back. I guess I will never know this side of heaven. All I do know is, after he said that he took off in a hurry.

Last night when I came home from Bible study at 9:15, I started to feel a hint of fear as I climbed out of my car and stood on the very spot where the stranger had stood. But then my eyes lifted to the porch, and I strained to see my angel there with his flaming sword. My eyes saw nothing, but I believe my spirit recognized him.

"Thank you," I said as I climbed onto the porch. "Thank you so much."

Angels Working Overtime

Can you imagine anything more terrifying than tumbling headlong down a flight of steps in the pitch black? Neither could I--until yesterday morning at 6:05 A.M.

In the days since my mishap on the stairs, I'd been trying so hard to find the balance between taking it easy and staying active. I did four small walks with Allyson to her school, totaling 8 miles. With each passing day, the pain in my right hip diminished a bit more, but walking still felt like a sacrifice. I remember thinking, when my hip started throbbing halfway home from school on Wednesday, It's good for me to suffer a bit. No one said this 3-Day Walk would be easy. My discomfort is nothing next to what Laura suffered, and she never lost her smile through it all.

When Saturday rolled around, I was both excited and apprehensive about my four-hour training walk. I planned to start walking in my neighborhood at 6:00 in the morning and then meet up with my friend Marie at 7:00 to finish the last three hours in the park.

When the alarm went off at 5:30, I rolled resolutely out of my comfy bed. I shut off the backup alarm on my cell phone, which I'd stored safely away from the bedroom, and then I completed my entire ritual. By 5:57 I had taped up and lubed my feet, loaded the canteens onto my belt, and swallowed my last bite of peanut butter toast.

As I stepped out the door, I noted with pride that I'd made it out at 6:00 on the nose. The near total darkness was a bit scary, but my street was comfortably familiar, so I pushed down the anxiety and started walking at a gentle pace that didn't cause my hip much pain.

I hadn't made it past our neighbor's driveway when I noticed a car farther down the street that made me unaccountably uneasy. It just didn't feel like that car belonged. All I could see was the headlights, but the engine sounded rather souped up, with a loud muffler. That doesn't sound like an upstanding citizen on the way to a Saturday morning job, I thought, slowing my pace. And why are they idling like that on the side of the road at 6:00 in the morning?

The car pulled away from the curb then and drove slowly past me. I didn't know if I'd been seen, but I shuddered anyway and picked up my pace. I was about six doors down from my house when I heard that same engine coming back down the street. I immediately pivoted on my heel and started back toward my house, a sinking feeling in my gut.

As the car came back by, I noted that it was an older red car that looked like a Camaro, maybe early 90s. My heart started hammering when the car stopped just behind me and I heard the window rolling down. I figured I was about to hear the dreaded line you hear in movies just before someone is abducted: "Say, can you tell me how to get to _______."

I paused for just the fraction of a second, wondering how rude or silly it would be to take off running, and then I decided I didn't want to wait around to see what this person thought. I rocketed off down the sidewalk for my very first run in my Five Finger shoes. Running in Five Finger shoes is like running barefoot, and you can injure yourself if you're not careful while you're learning the stride. On your toes, on your toes, I reminded myself.

Behind me I heard a man's voice calling to me in a foreign language I didn't recognize, most likely not Spanish, which is common around here. He was calling out a woman's name, which I seem to remember as Miriam though I can't be sure. From his tone it seemed he was saying, "Miriam, Miriam! Wait!"

I yelled, "You don't know me" and kept running.

After that his voice became more insistent, a little angry and bordering on desperate. And it sounded louder, closer. Surely he wasn't pursuing me on foot!

Faster, faster!  my thoughts ordered my body as my house loomed larger. But I couldn't go any faster because each time my right foot struck the sidewalk, pain radiated up the back of my thigh and coursed through my hip. An oddly detached portion of my mind reflected that, though I'd heard that adrenaline dulls pain in an emergency, it didn't seem to be true for me; maybe I wasn't terrified enough.

"Go away," I cried plaintively.

The man yelled something unintelligible. He was definitely gaining on me. But now I was in front of the neighbor's house... Now I was at my driveway! I stumbled up the hill and onto my porch. Home! Safe!

But then I realized with horror that the man was scrambling up the driveway behind me! Though my keys were dangling from a band around my wrist, I realized there was no way I could fit the key in the lock and get through the door in time.  Am I about to die? I wondered, a sick feeling in my gut.

I jabbed the doorbell repeatedly with my right hand while my left hand fumbled with the keys. And I began to scream the only word that came to my head in that moment. Was it "Jesus!!!"? No. Nothing like that. It was "Hey!!!"

"Hey!!! Hey!!!... Bill-Bill-Bill!!!" I screamed, so loud that my throat was hoarse afterward.

Just then the man apparently got a good look at me under the glow from the porchlight, which I'd thankfully forgotten to turn off.

"Oh--wrong person!" he exclaimed. I risked a glance at him just as the door finally unlocked. He was short and dark with a clean-cut haircut and no facial hair, and he looked to be in his twenties.

"Bill!" I screamed again.

"What the f___!" he yelled at me. "Sheeze." And then he ran back the way he'd come.

I slammed the door shut and twisted the deadbolt. What the f____? I thought. That's all you have to say to me? As if I'm a crazy freak for screaming my head off when a strange man pursues me through the dark?"

For about two minutes, I stood there frozen and wild eyed. I had to talk to someone, but amazingly all was quiet upstairs, and I hated to wake Bill (and most likely Allyson too) so early on a Saturday. So I phoned Marie.

"Are you about ready?" I asked, my voice trembly.

"Yes. Are you okay?"

My chin wobbled, and I burst into tears. "No-o-o!" I wailed.

"What is it?"

Pacing back and forth in front of the front window, I told her the story between sobs.

"Do you still want to walk?" she asked.

"Yes! Please come as soon as you can," I pleaded.

"I will," she promised in a soothing voice. "I'm getting into the car in just a minute. You just drink some water and sit down and try to relax. I'll call when I'm getting close."

After we hung up, I unhooked my water belt and took a swig from one of the bottles. And then I sat on my favorite nap chair, my feet splayed on the ottoman. But I couldn't relax because I was trembling all over and my hip was absolutely throbbing from the short run.

I hit Redial. "Can you bring me some Advil?" I whined. "I'm out."

"Of course," she said.

She arrived at 7:00, right on schedule. I showed her the hole on the stairway landing and my bruises, and then we set out. After walking and talking for three hours--only 8 miles at my slow pace--I felt so much better that I gave her a kiss on the cheek before she left.

But I kept dissolving into tears all day long, like at Allyson's 10:30 soccer game, where I told Bill the whole story.

"Why didn't you answer the doorbell?" I sobbed.

He explained that it had only rung once; apparently I pushed it so rapidly that it couldn't respond. And because I'd closed the bedroom door, he had not heard my screams at all, which disturbed him. "I thought it was Marie coming to meet you," he said. "I had no idea you'd even left at that point."

Several hours later, he frowned as he posed a question of his own. "Why on earth didn't you wake me up when it happened?"

Fresh tears streamed down my cheeks. "I know I should have," I said meekly. "But I was safe. I just wanted to let you sleep."

"If something like that ever happens again, know this: I would want you to wake me up. Maybe I could have gotten a license plate number or something."

He also gave me lots of other good advice, like never to walk alone in the dark (no warning needed there!), and to carry the mace and whistle he'd given me a couple years back, and to run to the gate instead of the front door so Lola could protect me. We both agreed that I need to take Lola with me on my solo walks, which could prove quite an adventure in itself.

And then he thought of the most obvious thing of all. "You were holding your car keys," he said. "Why didn't you push the panic button? I definitely would have heard that."

I wanted to kick myself for not thinking of that. The man had been right next to my car. I could have scared the crap out of HIM!

Of course, I am beyond thankful that I was not harmed. I really think it was a simple case of mistaken identity, but I shudder to think what could have happened had the man caught me. It makes me angry that I can't seem to shake the terror, that I feel so vulnerable and weak, afraid to do my training walks even in the daylight. It makes me angry that the same people who I see every week in the park now seem menacing to me. And I can't believe this week that I've had! Two brushes with death in six days! Surely my angels have been working overtime protecting me.

It's funny that I was thinking of my guardian angel, because look what came in the mail for me yesterday afternoon:

It was a book of true stories about angel encounters and a lovely journal from Kelly, a friend of Laura's whom I've never met except through Facebook. In her card she said she's wanted to send me the book ever since the memorial service, but things have been busy and she just now got around to it. She said the journal is to record my experiences with the 3-Day Walk, and she mentioned that she has done it twice and would love to join me on a training walk.

Her package could not have come on a better day, and I am quite sure it was no coincidence. I was feeling so overwhelmed with the safety issues and the pain in my hip that I was wondering if all of this is really worth it. After reading this stranger's kind words, I knew. Of course it's worth it! There is so much support out there for me if I only reach out. No way I'm giving up now!

Please be in prayer for my safety and for full healing of my injured hip. I'm going to visit the chiropractor tomorrow and see if he can help. I also went to PetSmart yesterday and bought a special harness that my brother Rick and his wife Diane swear works miracles with dogs that pull. We shall see. You'd better pray for me and Lola, too, while you're at it!

A Public Safety Message From Texty Texterson

While I'm the first person to complain about other people's dangerous texting habits, I like to think that I myself am not at risk. Still, I have to admit I do have a bit of a texting problem. Just yesterday Bill "tsk-tsk'ed" me for texting as we walked to the car. "Alright, Texty Texterson," he said. "Put that away. It's time to go to church."

Naturally, I never, ever text while driving, and I can't fathom why anyone else would dare do it.
But I'm here to tell you that driving is not the only thing you should avoid while texting. I recently noted in the fine print for one of the training events for my 3-day walk that cell phones are prohibited during all official walks for Susan G. Komen, both during training and during the November event. The reasoning behind it is that cell phones are a big distraction and a safety hazard for walkers.

"That's kind of silly," I thought when I read the rule. "I talk on the phone all the time while I'm walking. It's a good way to pass the time."

Now I know better....

Because I came down with a nasty cold a few days ago (a story I'll have to share with you another time), I missed two morning walks in a row. Last night was the first night I ventured out, and I felt amazingly better after a brisk eight-mile walk. So I was looking forward to a morning walk today, though I was not keen on getting up at 6:40 on a holiday.

Since I had overslept last Saturday and left four people waiting in my front yard at 6:00 in the morning, I wasn't taking any chances this time. I set the main alarm, and then I set the alarm on my cell phone and put it on my nightstand.

At 5:45 this morning, I jumped out of bed when my cell phone chirped. It wasn't my alarm, but a text message. I hurried out of the bedroom to keep from waking Bill and Allyson, who had sneaked into our bed during the night. As I stumbled into the hall, I read the note; my walking buddy had to cancel because her daughter was sick. At this point I was still more than half asleep, and I don't know where I thought I was walking, or why I didn't just stop right outside the bedroom door.

But I kept moving and somehow veered toward the TV room. Just as I slid out the keyboard to reply, my right foot hit empty space, and I lurched to the side. What??  I was already tumbling through the darkness when realization dawned in my foggy brain. The stairs! I frantically reached for the banister, but I had no idea where it was as I cartwheeled sideways.

Just like in the movies, I experienced everything in slow motion. I felt each terrifying bump of various body parts against the stairs, heard my cell phone clatter on the hardwood down below and clink into three pieces, heard and felt the slam of my body against the wall, and then heard the dull thump when I sprawled on the landing.

I lay there for several seconds, absolutely still and silent, waiting for Bill to run to my rescue. But there was only the sound of my own breathing and the crush of the carpet against my cheek. I deliberately moved my fingers and my toes. Ah, maybe nothing was broken.

I lay still for another 30 seconds or so until my breathing slowed to normal, and then I released my grip on the edge of the landing; I'd been holding on for dear life even after I thudded to a stop. I pushed myself onto my knees and gingerly pulled myself up using the banister for support. That's when I became aware of the pain in my right knee and ankle. "Uhhh," I muttered as I stepped down onto the hardwood floor.

I flipped on the light at the bottom of the stairs and started searching for my phone. I didn't spot it at first, but I did find a hole in the Sheetrock! What made that hole? I wondered. Maybe it was my phone. I started to reach inside the hole, but it hurt to bend my elbow. My elbow, I thought. It was my elbow that made that hole.

I found the phone underneath the couch, next to the staircase. I put the battery back inside and snapped it together; good as new! I sent a quick reply to my friend Lori and climbed back up the stairs and into bed.

I shoved Bill over and tried to find a comfortable position, but every time I moved I discovered a new sore spot. There was an ominous throbbing low in my back, between my hips. My right wrist was smarting, and so were my right knee and hip and ankle. My left elbow was tender, as well as my left shoulder. And there was a wicked carpet burn along the inside of my left forearm.

But the most important thing was what wasn't hurting: I felt absolutely no pain in my head or neck. Thank you, thank you God, I repeated over and over. For some reason I've always had a premonition about falling down those stairs, and every time I pictured myself with broken bones, maybe even a broken neck. But now that my worst fear had materialized--even worse than I'd imagined, actually, because I never thought it would happen in the pitch black--all I had was a few abrasions and bruises. Maybe I fared so well because I'd been half asleep and totally relaxed.

I never did fall back asleep, and when both alarms went off at 6:40, I decided to get up and go on that walk. Part of me feared that I should take it easy with that pain in my back, but another part of me thought, "No way I'm missing ANOTHER walk this weekend." Plus, I reasoned, getting out and moving would probably be better than lying still and getting all stiff.

So I popped an Advil, taped up my feet with moleskin (to prevent blisters on the hot spots), smoothed Body Glide over all the exposed surfaces of my feet, slid on my Five Finger shoes, and filled my water bottles.

I ate a slice of peanut butter toast, stuffed a frozen bran muffin in my pocket, and stepped outside at 7:10, only 10 minutes behind schedule; this time no one was waiting for me, so it didn't matter. Wonder of wonders, I actually had to go back inside for a jacket.

The weather was glorious, probably around 70 (21 Celsius), with a nice breeze. I clutched the jacket around me and lurched down the sidewalk. At first I felt a little twinge in my lower back with each step, but after about a mile my muscles felt much more relaxed.

I figured I'd go three miles and then head back, but it was such a beautiful morning, and the pain wasn't any worse, so I kept going for three hours--only 9.67 miles out of my scheduled 14 miles, but not too shabby considering.

The best thing is the peace and comfort that I felt. There was no one to walk with me but Jesus, and He was all the company I needed. All my senses were heightened, and I stared in wonder at the delicate shapes of individual green leaves and the play of the shadows over the sidewalk in front of me.

One of the Trees I Admired

An old hymn came to my mind and rose to my lips: "Holy, holy, holy... Lord God Almighty! Early in the morning my song shall rise to thee. Holy, holy, holy, merciful and mighty, God in three persons, blessed Trinity."

Tears rolled down my cheeks. I felt so fragile, yet so protected. Another fragment of a song played in my head, one I heard at church yesterday: "You go before me, you shield my way." I pictured my strong guardian angel catching me as I fell.

"I am yours, God. Take all of me today," I whispered. "Help me hear your voice so I can obey you."

After about seven miles, I ran into my friend Maria, the leader of our prayer team at church, and her husband. I walked with them for another mile or two, and then at her urging I turned back toward home. "Take it easy today," she advised. "You can make up the miles another time."

The moment I stepped through the door, Allyson asked, "What happened to the stairs, Mommy?"

"What do you think happened?"

"Let me guess," Bill said. "You fell down the stairs?" I nodded. "How on earth did that happen?"

"It was pretty stupid, really..."

After I finished my story, Allyson said, "You have to tell this story on the blog, Mommy. And you have to take a picture of the hole in the wall."

"I will," I promised. "As soon as I finish this French toast Daddy made."

Now that I've stopped moving, I'm tender all over--except for my feet, thanks to the moleskin padding. I hope I'll be able to move when I wake up tomorrow.

Please join me in rejoicing that I didn't break any bones or hit my head when I fell. And please, please learn from my mistake. Don't text while you're walking, and especially when you're walking in the dark. And while you're at it, don't text while you're driving either.

As for me, I've banned the cell phone from my bedroom. And maybe I'm going to give up my title of Texty Texterson. Nah....

Update 9/6/11 8:15 A.M. - Yesterday evening, my mom, my sister Amy, and Allyson laid hands on my back and prayed for me. I woke up this morning with no back pain! Praise the Lord!

I'm With the Band

The last few weeks have been both grueling and exciting for Ethan. He started high school this past Monday, but his school year actually began three weeks earlier, when band camp commenced. He's been in band for several years now, but we're quickly learning that high school marching band is a whole 'nother thing.

Ethan did a fair share of grumbling when he first learned that he'd be practicing eight hours a day for his last three weeks of summer. He was also disappointed that instead of playing his instrument of choice, the snare drum, he'd now be in "the pit," on the marimba.

"The marimba is really hard," he complained on the second night. "We play with four mallets, and we never did that in middle school. It gives you blisters on your thumbs."

Within a few days, however, he was proudly demonstrating his four-mallet techniques, using the couch as his marimba. "It's all in the wrist," he explained. "See, you just pivot your wrist like this, and the rest of your arm doesn't move." He pantomimed alternating between the upper and lower bars of his imaginary marimba.

Two weeks later, when he learned there were a couple of bass drum openings on the drumline, I asked if he was going to audition. "No," he said. "I already have friends in pit, and I don't want to leave the group."

It gave me such relief to know that school wasn't starting for another week, yet Ethan had already made friends.

On the last Friday evening of summer break, we sat on the metal bleachers in the 104 degree heat (40 Celsius) and watched the full band performing their 2011 show for the first time. We couldn't see (or hear) much of Ethan, who stood behind the tall metal chimes, but we were most impressed with the rest of the band's marching. It was hard to believe that they'd memorized all the music and learned those intricate steps in just three weeks. They marched frontward, backward, and sideways, all without missing a note on their instruments.

I clapped until my hands hurt, and for a moment I forgot all about my sweaty legs sticking to the metal bench. And when I spotted Ethan's grin after the performance, I (almost) forgot the shockingly high band fees too.

The true commitment began after school started, when Ethan had to get up at 5:45 each morning for 6:30 practice. On the second day of school, he got there at 6:30 A.M. and stayed until 7:00 P.M. for evening practice. But he didn't complain at all!

We Do Our Share, Too
The band has a website with a list of volunteer needs for each event. I signed Bill up for the hardest job: chaperoning the overnight lock-in at Putt Putt Mini Golf. From 11:00 until 6:00 A.M. Friday before last, he stood around watching the kids having fun, and then, as the night wore on, watching the kids falling asleep on the floor. Ethan, however, managed to stay up the entire night. So did Bill.

For the first football game, I signed up for what seemed to be the easiest job: taking tickets. I pictured myself in an air-conditioned booth, perhaps with a fan blowing on my face, counting change and passing out tickets through the first quarter. Instead, I stood for two hours in front of a chain-link fence, sweating in the rays of the setting sun while all the day's heat radiated up from the concrete under my flip flops.

The saving grace was a lady named Kim, the mother of a sophomore clarinet player. We chatted almost nonstop, and I learned all about how band works, and how high school goes.

A throng of alarmingly surly teenagers streamed through the gates--first the cheerleaders, and then the drill team, the color guard, and finally the band. The cheerleaders complained about the locked gates leading to the field and cursed over the darkened bathroom; it didn't matter to them that we were just parent volunteers from the other team's band. [I had hoped the kids at Ethan's school were more polite and respectful, but Ethan informed me tonight that "over half of the kids in high school act like that, especially the girls." What a disappointment! I don't remember the kids being like that back when I was in school. I guess that tells you how old I am.]

When the drill team filed by in their sparkly blue and white fringed costumes, I couldn't resist exclaiming, "Your uniforms are beautiful!" But the two girls in hearing range literally lifted their noses in the air and made a show of avoiding eye contact. I was flabbergasted. While I'd always thought of the term "walking with your nose in the air" as just a figure of speech, now I knew just what that meant.

But there was one young lady in the color guard who smiled at me, and I grinned eagerly back at her. Next to her was a very short, quite tiny girl, with a face like an elf; her ears, nose, and chin seemed a bit pointy. She was so cute, with rosy lips and a sprinkling of freckles across her cheekbones that reminded me of my dear friend Laura.

A wide smile lit up the girl's face just then, and I turned to see her mother behind me, looking up through the railing. "Don't be nervous!" she called out. "You're going to be fabulous. Just pretend it's another practice.... You look beautiful, sweetie."

The girl's mouth trembled, and she put her fist to her lips. The girl who'd smiled at me put an arm protectively over her shoulder, and the younger girl gave a tremulous smile.

I turned to the mother below. "You're going to make me cry," I said, and tears rushed to my eyes.

"Why?" she asked.

"Because my son is playing with the band for the first time tonight, and I wish I were there with him to see whether he's nervous or excited."

The other mother smiled. "I understand."

"Your daughter is a beautiful young lady," I said.

The woman's face glowed. "Yes, she is."

"Enjoy the game," I said.

I said, "Enjoy the game" approximately 17 more times, as I collected 36 tickets that had been purchased from the lady in the little air conditioned booth with the fan blowing on her face--a real district employee, not a parent volunteer.

Long after all the coaches, instructors and chaperones had passed by, and most of the fans, a frantic mother ran up with an armload of Styrofoam cups. "I had to leave and get cups," she said. "I'm with the band."

Waving her in, I pressed my lips together to keep from saying, "Haven't you always wanted to say the line, 'I'm with the band'?"

The first quarter came and went, but the ticket seller informed us that we had to serve until halftime, no matter what the band website said. Reading our minds, she said, "Don't worry. You'll get to see the halftime show."

At halftime I followed Kim into the stands, and we watched the opposing team's show first. They were pretty good, but of course not half as good as OUR kids.

Afterward I craned my neck, straining for a glimpse of Ethan. At last I spotted him pushing the chimes out onto the field. As he looked up into the stands and then out over the field, I could feel his awe. "That's my son," I said. "The tall one with the blonde hair and the glasses."

"Isn't he handsome?" Kim's friend said, and I beamed.

"Yes, he's really turning into a young man," I agreed, flushing with pride.

Here, judge for yourself:

Ethan in Uniform

After the show, I slipped down to the railing and gave a casual wave, careful not to embarrass my freshman percussionist. My heart swelled with pride when he hurried right over to me. "Did you see the show?" he asked, breathless with excitement.

"Yes, you guys were awesome."

"Were we better than the other band?"

"Well, you were both great," I said. "But I think I liked your music best. Are you having fun?"

"Yeah," he said.

He stood still while I took a couple shots with my cell phone, and then he said, "Gotta go. We have to start putting everything away."

"See you soon," I called after him. And I smiled all the way to the car.

Yep, I'm with the band!

Beets, Glorious Beets!

Here are a few tidbits about what's been going on around here. (By the way, you'll be happy to know these stories have absolutely nothing to do with poop!)

For a couple years now, I've been having fun grinding up all manner of veggies and fruits and hiding them in everything from pizza to brownies. But it's gotten harder now that Allyson is bigger; she shadows me and follows my every move in the kitchen.

Last week when we got beets in our organic produce co-op delivery, I racked my brain for a way to serve them so that someone other than myself would eat them. I came up empty, so I drug out the food processor and turned them into a gorgeous purple puree.

"What's that?" Allyson asked as I surreptitiously scraped the last of the puree into little baby food containers for the freezer.

"Why, it's beet puree!" I announced cheerfully, like a 1950s TV commercial announcer.

She scrunched her brow. "What's it for?" she demanded.

"Oh, I don't know," I evaded. "Maybe I'll make some more pink pancakes with it."

"Mmm! I love pink pancakes."
 
"Only I don't have any ricotta. I'll think of something," I promised. And then I went online and found this recipe for chicken nuggets with beets:

Can You See the Pink?

It was a very messy recipe, a pain in the behind, really. I mixed the beet puree with a beaten egg, dipped the chicken breast pieces in it, and then tried to make my healthy whole-wheat breading stick to them. My fingers were stained crimson for several days afterward. And while the nuggets in the online picture looked like perfectly normal nuggets, mine were decidedly pink even after I browned them in a bit of olive oil.

"What's for dinner?" Ethan asked as he breezed through the kitchen on the way to the pool.

"Chicken nuggets," I said.

"Really? Awesome!"

I smiled, knowing he thought I'd broken down and bought the greasy kind you get in the grocery store freezer case. When I called him out of the pool a few minutes later and handed him a plate to eat on the patio, he exclaimed, "Hey, why are these pink?"

I sighed. "Beets."

"You made chicken nuggets with BEETS?" he repeated. "Why would you do that?"

"Just try them," I coaxed. "They're really good. You can't taste the beets at all."

"Yeah, try them, Ethan," Allyson called around a mouthful of nugget. In her mind, their pink hue was actually an asset.

Ethan nibbled his first nugget cautiously, and then popped the next two in his mouth and practically swallowed them whole. "Can I have more?" he asked.

Before I had a chance to bask in my victory, he made it even sweeter. Standing at the pool gate and waving a nugget in the air, he yelled, "Hey, Christian! Try one of these nuggets my mom made. They're pink!"

His friend climbed out of the pool. He hesitated for a moment, and then took a nugget. "Mmm," he agreed. "That's good."

Ethan and his friends didn't bat an eyelash the next evening when I offered them pink banana muffins. In fact, they liked them a little too well; between the three of them they polished off six muffins in three minutes. Naturally, Allyson was even more thrilled with her pink muffin.

Beet & Banana Muffins

Besides the muffins and the nuggets, we also got two days of pink oatmeal out of the beets. I saved the water from the steamer's drip tray and mixed it into the boiling water. The juice didn't change the taste of the oatmeal, except maybe to add a hint of sweetness--plus a LOT of nutrients. Most importantly, the pink oatmeal made Allyson feel like a princess!

Isn't the Juice Gorgeous?

Pink Oatmeal

Allyson really wanted me to show you pictures of the pink pancakes I made with our last beet delivery, but I couldn't find the picture. "Be sure and tell them about the pancakes," she said. "Those are my favorite."

Bountiful Harvest... Almost

In other news, we harvested the seeds from Allyson's very own sunflowers recently! It had never occurred to me that we could actually eat the sunflower seeds until our neighbors came by for a swim--the same neighbors who gave us the pumpkin pie Christmas before last. Shawn said the sunflowers reminded him of growing up in the country, and he told us how much his family enjoyed the seeds.

We let the sunflowers dry on their stalks, and then Allyson and I spent a couple of hours at the picnic table, meticulously working the seeds free from the dried flower heads. The proliferation of seeds in one flower was staggering, but we soon found that others had beaten us to much of our harvest. About two of every three striped hulls had a tiny black hole at its base, and the inner seed was either completely gone, or rotten.

Some of the little thieves were still crawling among the seeds, so I had to be very cautious. Allyson didn't mind the little beetles at all.

Getting the seeds out of the flower was the easy part, we soon learned. Extracting them from their hulls was much harder. We could think of no other way besides splitting the hulls with our fingernails and nudging the tiny seeds into a bowl.

After a couple more hours of labor, my too-short thumbnails were literally bleeding. I consoled myself with fantasies of the whole-wheat walnut and sunflower seed bread I planned to make with our harvest. But do you know that all those hundreds of seeds from two flowers yielded less than a quarter cup of seeds? I had to supplement with seeds from the grocery store. Still, the bread was so yummy.

Yesterday Allyson and I went to Sprouts Farmers Market, and I spotted raw sunflower seeds in the bulk section. As I dropped scoop after scoop into a bag, I marveled at the ease of of it, the luxury. And I didn't even so much as chip a nail! Still, I imagine they can't be quite as tasty as those seeds from our very own backyard. No, definitely not!