The kayaking adventure that ended in a search & rescue boat

For the first time EVER, all three of our children were old enough to attend week-long camp this summer - the same week. It didn't take Luke and I long to figure out the implications of this milestone. Months ago, Luke applied for and received leave for our golden week of opportunity. The only thing remaining was to decide how best to take advantage of our time together.

Knowing Luke's thirst for outdoor adventure, I promised him I would be up for a backpacking adventure - something we hadn't done together since an epic, near-disastrous trip in 2002. Sadly, permits for the routes Luke really wanted to hike were already taken. As he mulled other options, I remembered a magazine article I had read years before about a multi-day kayaking trip in the San Juan Islands. At the time, it was filed in the mental category of, "Sounds lovely, but impossible for us." Suddenly, I realized that it wasn't impossible any more. The San Juan Islands were fairly close, and we actually had the child-free time we needed during the summer months that trips were offered. I presented the idea to Luke, and we checked on availability for the longest trip we could find. With two weeks to spare, we booked a four day, three night kayaking/camping tour of the San Juans.

Among his family and close friends, Luke is known as a man who eschews the beaten path and blazes his own untrodden routes in search of solitude and adventure. This character trait has prompted sleepless nights and fervant prayers for protection from his mother and others who love him. It has also led to a handful of gripping near-miss stories, the most famous involving a fall into a crevasse on a Swiss mountainside while Luke was alone on a glacier. Knowing that his family tends to worry when they hear he's headed towards adventure, we emphasized to them that this time, there was no reason for unease. "In case you're worried about our safety," reassured Luke in an email announcing our trip, "we're going with a professional tour group with a good safety record!"

"Heather is with you," replied his brother, Titus, with a winking emoji. "Not worried about your safety."

I appreciate Titus' touching confidence in my ability to shield Luke from danger. I fear it was sadly misplaced. We now have another story to add to Luke's storehouse of sketchy outdoor escapades.

* * * * *

The vast majority of our trip was exactly what we signed up for. We kayaked for miles in an expedition double kayak, slowly learning to pull well together and work as a team. We watched a family of seals cavorting in the kelp, and lost count of our bald eagle sightings. We delighted in the company of our six fellow voyagers and Matt, our laid-back, storytelling guide. We pitched our tent near enough to the water to hear the waves, and ate gourmet vegetarian meals we didn't have to cook.

Beautiful sunsets on Stuart Island...

Incredible campsite on Jones Island

The penultimate day even gave Luke the kind of adventure he craved. We made an open water crossing with a stiff headwind, plowing through whitecapped waves that loomed large (to our eyes, at least). Sometimes the front of our kayak would catch a little air, come crashing back down, and pitch under water. Occasionally, a wave hit us hard enough to drench me. Although I was freezing and my fingers were numb, Luke envyed my front row seat. Our fellow paddlers felt slightly uneasy at the size and strength of the waves and the current, but Luke gloried in the action. He pulled out his iPhone and kept trying (but failing) to snap a picture of our kayak diving under water after a big wave. Meanwhile I paddled alone, struggling to keep the kayak facing the waves and emploring him to put his phone away and help me again. By the time we completed the crossing and beached at our final (and most beautiful) camping spot, I was relieved and cold, and Luke was exaltant and satisfied.

Luke got a lot of pictures like this. But he never quite captured a big wave.

Our final morning began with rain. We got a later start than intended, completed our first open water crossing, then took a lingering break. Our initial plans from there were to cross straight across San Juan channel, then paddle along the coast of San Juan Island until we got to Friday Harbor (the primary harbor for the San Juans). We planned to paddle across the harbor, beach on the nearby Turn Island for a last picnic lunch, then cross a narrow channel to where a van would pick us up. Because we were running behind schedule, however, Matt made a last minute change of plans. Rather than cross San Juan channel directly and hug the shore, we would just paddle straight up the middle of the channel until we reached Turn Island. We would be paddling against a strong tidal current and into the wind, but our guide felt we were strong enough to succeed. "Ready to haul ass?" he asked me as I headed back towards my kayak at the end of the break. Yes, I was ready.

* * * * *

Ready to "haul ass" the last day (Matt, our guide, in the background)

It seemed like a fine plan. The current was strong, but not unmanageable. The clouds were scattering, the sun was peeking through, and Luke and I felt a dreamy pleasure in paddling in sync, wind in our faces, breathing in the scent of the sea. After the rough crossing of the previous day, we felt like we were pretty good paddlers. When we saw a line of white-capped standing waves appear in front of us, I felt a little excited and curious. We paddled into the outskirts of the disturbance, and I found that unlike the day before when waves came steadily towards us, this water was disorganized, with waves coming from all directions. One of them hit our kayak from the side, dumping several gallons directly into my lap. The freezing water penetrated my spray skirt and soaked my seat. Matt quickly led us out, steering us off our direct path.

"What was going on back there?" I asked him.

"It gets shallower there and the currents get weird," he explained. "I didn't like it. I wanted to get out of there." We followed him parallel to the line of standing waves, moving towards Friday Harbor, until we reached a place in which the band of turbulence looked fairly narrow and easily crossed. The kayak with the strongest paddlers, a father-son duo, began to journey across, and Matt told Luke and I to follow their line. We were just entering the white water when we heard Matt began to yell. "Keep paddling, keep paddling," he called after the father and son. His voice was edged with urgency. "Nick and Greg, just keep paddling. Don't stop! KEEP PADDLING!" We all took notice. Up to this moment, our guide was supremely laid back, the epitome of chill. It was disconcerting to hear his voice so sharp, so imperative.

I missed the exact moment that Nick and Greg's kayak capsized, but the sight of it upside-down in the middle of a washing-machine maelstrom of white water is forever etched in my memory. Time seemed to stand still until I saw both of them bob up and our guide, upright in his single kayak, at their side. Then I heard Luke's voice behind me. It held the same urgency as Matt's had a moment before. "Paddle, Heather! Paddle hard! PADDLE!"

I was glad I had a few days of paddling practice under my belt. My arm muscles had ached the first day, then hardened, and my technique had grown more efficient. For five minutes, Luke and I gave everything we had to paddling through the white, disorganized waves and whirlpools that surrounded and threatened us. Since following Nick and Greg's line appeared disastrous, Luke steered us sideways to try to escape from the turbulence. (He did not reach for his iPhone this time, even though his pictures would have been dramatic.) Finally, it appeared that we were on the edge of the problem area, tantalizingly close to peaceful water. I relaxed a little, only to see an upwelling right in front of us. It quickly became an eddy and jerked the front of our kayak down and sideways. We again paddled like crazy to stay upright and escape the eddy, only to find ourselves in another one. I fixed my eyes on a buoy that appeared to be a couple hundred meters ahead. It was surrounded by still water. If we could only get there, I thought, we could relax and float a little and figure out what to do next. Maybe I could even get out of our kayak and cling to the buoy. It looked safer. (Luke thought that was a terrible idea.) But we couldn't reach it. Like monsters from the deep, upwellings and eddies continued to appear in front of us, trapping us and drawing up back towards the turbulence that had downed Nick and Greg. After about 30 minutes of frantic paddling, we were no nearer to the buoy.

When Nick and Greg capsized, I felt sure that the rest of us were toast. Those guys were by far the strongest paddlers in our group, and had spent the entire trip in front of the group. So we were thrilled and relieved to discover, after our initial survival paddling, that the other two couples in double kayaks were miraculously upright. Just like us, they were on the edge of the turbulence, and were paddling frantically to escape from the nightmare water behind us. Every few minutes, Luke glanced back to locate Nick, Greg, and Matt. Matt was wearing a bright orange hat, and we felt slightly reassured every time Luke spotted it. Then came the awful moment, after about 20 minutes of paddling, that we couldn't see it any more.

Not only were we worried about Nick and Greg and Matt, but we felt very alone. There we were, six inexperienced kayakers in three double kayaks, in the middle of a large open channel, exhausted, paddling madly and futilely to get away from turbulence that had flipped the best paddlers of our group. We were guideless and had no means of communication. We all worried about what would happen if another kayak flipped. Luke was mentally reviewing what he knew about kayak rescue (not much). He decided that we would try to help if there was another capsize, but that the chances of us performing a successful kayak recovery in white water without flipping over ourselves were fairly low. The water was about 56 degrees and we were all wearing summer clothes with light rainjackets. With full immersion, the risk of developing hypothermia within a short amount of time was fairly high. We kept paddling. A sense of desperation began to grow in me. I eyed the whistle hanging from my life jacket and considered blowing it.

As if things weren't bad enough already, we glanced behind us again and beheld, looming up above our heads, enormous waves. They were around three or four feet tall and looked like ocean rollers. They were scary, and they were advancing towards us. We had no idea what had caused them. I was afraid that they signaled an escalation in the severity of the turbulence. We just had time to arrange the rear of our kayak perpendicular to the waves when the first one rolled under us.

Ironically, those terrifying waves from nowhere were our salvation. There were about six of them in a row, and when they had all come and gone, we realized that not only were we still upright, but we had surfed out and away from the turbulence. We were finally free of the current that was pulling us backward, and we could make progress. The other two surviving kayaks were also upright and free.

Up to this point, Luke and my only strategy was to paddle AWAY, and maybe make it to the elusive buoy that seemed to promise calm water. We didn't think beyond that. Thankfully, one of the women in our group of six remaining kayakers was able to realize that we needed more of a plan. Barb had been part of an Outward Bound program the year before, and was trained to remain calm and think strategically in emergencies. She suggested that we stay together, pick the nearest beach we could access, and paddle there.

The scary waves had carried us quite a bit closer to Shaw Island. It was nowhere near our original destination or Friday Harbor, but we could see a couple spots that looked amenable to beaching kayaks. We began paddling towards one of them.

When we were fairly near the shore, a large yacht pulled next to us and cut its engine. A gentlemen leaned over the side and asked if we were okay. We wondered what exactly it meant to be "okay". He clarified. "Are any of you having a heart attack or in imminent medical distress?" When we answered that we weren't, he declared brusquely that we were okay. We felt he was being a little unsympathetic to our plight, but before we could talk much further, another boat pulled up, this one decidedly more businesslike in appearance. "SAN JUAN COUNTY SHERIFF * FIRE" it proclaimed, in beautiful big letters. "Here's your rescue!" announced the yacht-man, before motoring away.

The crew from the rescue boat were a lot kinder and more helpful than the yacht-man. They pointed towards a beach on Shaw Island and directed us to land there. "It's university land," they warned us, "so don't leave the beach or walk around too much." I found this advice quite unnecessary. Why any of us would feel solid land under our feet and immediately desire to wander off and explore was beyond me.

As we were turning our kayaks towards Shaw Island, a second rescue boat drew near. Matt was waving to us from the deck and inside the cabin, to our immense relief, we glimpsed the figures of Nick and Greg. They were shivering and hunched over for warmth, and Nick was huddled in his sleeping bag. But they were safe. I happily set my face towards Shaw Island.

Finally, the glorious moment arrived. We ditched our kayaks, splashed onto dry land and safety, and immediately began hugging each other. We had all survived.

The very welcome Sheriff boat, beached on Shaw Island

* * * * *

The rescue boat beached next to us, and we gratefully clambered aboard. We stumbled into the interior cabin and lowered our dripping bodies into the booth. Our kayaks were loaded onto the stern and we headed off. We were giddy with relief, full of laughter and smiles. The EMS personnel aboard looked us over, determined we didn't need their help, and smiled at our euphoria. They brought out smartphones and took pictures of us, while we took pictures of them. A rescue like this only occurs about once a year, they told us.

As we motored to Friday Harbor, we crossed near the spot that had trapped us. The sight of it was sobering. It still looked insane, a crazy mix of standing waves, rollers, and eddies. One of our rescuers said he had gotten in trouble in that same spot. I felt a renewed respect for the power and mystery of open water.

Our day was far from over. It took a couple hours to unload and empty our kayaks, unpack our dry bags and repack our suitcases, and load everything onto the outfitter's trailer. Instead of the planned Turn Island picnic, we drove to the county fairgrounds and ate our last lunch with a nice view of the skateboard park and playground. Matt broke out a lovely French wine, and we toasted our survival.

At the end of our picnic we debriefed together, each one of us recounting what had just happened from our own perspective. It was nice to piece the stories together. Matt said he had encountered tricky currents in that area before, but never as rough as that day. A class 5 white-water kayaker in a maneuverable single kayak, he admitted even he had difficulty maintaining control. Even so, he had been able to right Nick and Greg's capsized double kayak and help them into it. However, the water was so rough that they were unable to bilge it. Waves kept on splashing over and refilling the seats, and the kayak remained almost completely submerged. After a few minutes of attempting recovery, Matt realized that it was impossible and radioed for assistance. It took 10-15 minutes for the help to arrive. We had missed the moment when the rescue boat fished them out, noting only that Matt's orange hat disappeared. His rescue call included us and had gone out on marine radio, which is why the yacht-man knew we might be in distress.

When we finished our storytelling, Matt apologized to us. He admitted that as a guide, he underestimated the danger posed by the currents and wind that day on the alternate route he chose for us. Even when he saw the white standing waves, he thought we could safely cross them at the place he directed us to. We were under a time constraint (we had to get to the take-out point in time for kayakers to catch afternoon ferries), and kayaking towards the coast first and hugging it would have taken quite a bit longer. So he made an error in judgment, one that put us all in jeopardy. Luke and I appreciated that fact that Matt owned his mistake. We can both think of times when we made errors in judgment, and we were so thankful that the consequences of this one presented a learning opportunity that didn't have serious consequences.

* * * * *

As we waited for the ferry to arrive in Friday Harbor that evening, I reconnected to the internet and tried to figure out what had been going on with the water. I discovered that the San Juan Islands are known for their strong currents. Our trouble spot was where not only a couple channels met, but there was also an underwater shelf, creating an area much shallower than its surroundings. Furthermore, we were in the middle of a particularly strong ebb tide - there was more than a nine foot difference between high and low tides that morning, so the current was moving very fast. Finally, there was a stiff wind. All these factors came together to create what I think is called a tide race or a massive tide rip. Some experienced sea kayakers who know how to roll and self-recover actually seek out tide races for the adrenaline rush. We were not experienced sea kayakers.

I also discovered that most kayaking deaths are caused by hypothermia, when rescue is delayed. This was definitely a risk for all of us. I was not particularly frightened in the midst of the drama - I was too focused on what I needed to do in the moment. But afterwards, I felt a little overwhelmed by what could have been, as well as startled by how an experience can transform from blissful to terrifying in the blink of an eye. Luke was even more impacted. When we departed on the ferry that evening, we sailed right across our trouble area. Luke didn't even want to remain on deck to look at it - it "gave him the willies". When I asked him if he would consider another kayak trip in the San Juans, he answered with an emphatic "NO".

We are both so thankful for the gift of returning to our children strong and unscathed. We've again learned we cannot take that gift for granted. I'm thankful that God understands my petitions even when I'm too focused on survival to put them into words. Thankful for those who pray for us, even when we assure them there's nothing to worry about. Thankful for those terrifying mystery waves from nowhere. If I had known they would save us, I would have tried to enjoy surfing them a little more.

Only a couple questions remain. Is Luke's thirst for adventure satisfied? For how long? The kids head off to camp together again in July 2018, giving us another chance. I fervently hope to have less material for stories after our next outdoor escapade. I wouldn't mind a little less terror mixed in with the delight.

Dazed and confused in Abidjan: allowing displacement to shape us

It was a sweltering evening in Abidjan in 1997, and I was dazed, disoriented, and helpless. About 24 hours earlier, I had hugged my family goodbye in the Chicago airport and set forth towards Côte d'Ivoire, a West African nation, for a six-month internship. Although I was a seasoned international traveler, I had almost always traveled with my family, and I was unprepared for the chaos that would greet me upon my arrival in Abidjan. A "porter" grabbed my luggage and passport, whisked me through lines and checkpoints I didn't understand, then demanded money before returning my passport. I finally made it out of the airport, my luggage intact but my purse lighter, with the uncomfortable feeling that I had been in the country only two hours, but had already contributed to its corruption by paying a bribe.

I drew a deep breath and moved on to my next task: locating Minata, the woman I knew should be there to meet me. Abidjan, Côte d'Ivoire's capital city, is located on its southern coast. The public health team I was going to work with lived near the northern border, a day's drive away. The American missionary overseeing the project wasn't able to come meet me, so she had sent Minata, a young Ivorian nurse, in her place. Minata had traveled all day on a bus to greet me at the airport, and had directions to take me to a missionary guest house in the city, spend a couple nights there with me, then catch a small Air Ivoire plane to Korhogo, the northern city nearest to our final destination (it would be Minata's first flight ever). To my utmost gratitude, we connected without a problem. Then things got hard and confusing again.

Minata spoke French (the official language of Côte d'Ivoire) as well as her native Senoufo language, and I spoke English and had studied French in high school and college. In theory, we should have been able to converse. Unfortunately, the French Minata spoke was so different from what I had learned that at first, I didn't even recognize it as the same language. I understood almost nothing she said, and in my jet-legged, overwhelmed state, I wasn't very good at formulating coherent French sentences, phrases, or even words. I had no way to figure out what was going on.

One thing did become clear to me - Minata was almost as out of place and confused in this busy city as I was. Her puzzled face and worried conversations with our taxi driver did not inspire confidence. We drove around Abidjan for over an hour, heat pressing in the windows, jarred by the nonstop sound of honking (apparently an accepted form of auto-to-auto conversation, even at midnight). It felt like we were driving in circles, and perhaps we were. My head was beginning to feel light from travel and disorientation.

Finally, we stopped at a dark compound containing a house with a semi-constructed wing. Minata paid the taxi driver, and another man whose French I didn't understand took us to one of the rooms opening out of the new wing. Inside was unfinished cement floor and walls and two cots. It didn't look like any missionary guesthouse I had ever stayed in before, and I was convinced that Minata hadn't found the right place, and the taxi driver had instead dropped us off at some sketchy hotel. I made a fool of myself trying to communicate this, and poor Minata looked just as confused as I felt.

Finally, I asked if there was a telephone. I had a calling card with me, and I wanted nothing more at that moment than to call my family back in Chicago, tell them I had arrived safely (mostly), and hear their voices speaking to me in a language I could understand. To my delight, I was taken to a phone. It didn't work.

That was the last straw. We returned to our room and Minata left for the bathroom. I sat down on the bed and began crying and laughing at the same time - crying from sheer exhaustion and helplessness, and laughing at the absurdity of it all. I was not the calm, competent international traveler I envisioned. I was not in my ordinary and proper place at all, and I was overwhelmed.

Minata and I in the real Abidjan guesthouse
(we got admitted in the morning, to my great relief)

Fortunately, the faculty and staff overseeing my internship had foreseen the kind of displacement I was feeling now, and had worked to equip and prepare me. I was enrolled in HNGR, an academic program that culminated in six months of living, working, worshipping, and serving with local communities around the world. My fellow interns and I were placed with organizations whose work matched our vocational interests, and we were expected to live with a national family whose income level was very typical for their area. The goal of HNGR was that we would cultivate a "life-orienting commitment to justice, intercultural humility, compassion, hospitality, environmental health, and peacemaking." Displacement was a big part of that. It was to be expected, and I quickly learned that even I, a seasoned missionary kid, was not exempt.

One of the books in my luggage was Compassion, by Henri Nouwen, Donald McNeill, and Douglas Morrison. One of our first internship assignments was to read it and reflect, in the context of our experiences, on what it means to move away from the competitive life and cultivate a compassionate love that reaches out to the suffering world and moves us to action. According to Compassion, displacement - moving from our ordinary and proper lives - is central to helping us become compassionate people. When we are displaced, we "cast off the illusion of 'having it together' and thus begin to experience our true condition, which is that we, like everyone else, are pilgrims on the way, sinners in need of grace." Displacement helps us recognize our inner brokeness and connect with other people in their brokeness.

It was easy for me to identify the many ways I was displaced over the next six months. I lost a good deal of my competence, control, and communication abilities. I was continually in the position of being served and loved by those considered the "poor" of the world, and I had so little I could give them in return. These displacements became a transforming grace in my life, however, when I let myself rest in and receive them, when I reflected and wrote about them, and when I listened to God's voice in the midst of them. I returned from my internship deeply changed and healed; more fully myself and also more fully alive to community and compassion.

In fact, I returned from my internship confident that I had finally figured things out - that I had learned who I was, how to live in the world, how to hear and respond to God. I knew that everything would be different from here on out, and I was eager to live the rest of my life from my newfound place of freedom and love.

What was true was that my internship experience changed me in fundamental, solid ways. What wasn't true was that I had learned all I needed for the rest of my life. There was still plenty of displacement left to experience in life, much of it less clear-cut and more painful that what I experienced in Côte d'Ivoire. There was still plenty of compassion left to develop.

It's been 20 years now since that night in Abidjan. I recently reread Compassion, and was drawn once again to the chapter on displacement. What struck me this time was the authors' emphasis that we don't need to seek out displacement (like a HNGR internship, a missions trip, or a grand gesture) in order to form compassionate hearts. Instead, compassion grows in us when we "identify in our own lives where displacement is already occuring," then "allow these actual displacements to become places where we can hear God's call."

Here are some major ways I've experienced displacement in the past 15 years:

• Becoming a (literal) dependent of my husband
• Failing in my ideals
• Letting two degrees gather dust while I pursued mothering instead of changing the world
• Recognizing I suffered from mental illness
• Crying alone, often, because I had no friends and no community in the place I lived
• Raising a boy with ADHD

Those are some hard things, and some of them are difficult to write about. But I realize that reflecting and writing on them is exactly what I need to do if I want them to shape and transform me in a good way. I want to let these displacements become places where I can see God working, where I hear his call to discipleship and compassion.

And so I'm beginning a series on displacement, and how it shapes us. I'm planning to write both about the more dramatic displacements of my HNGR internship, as well as the unspectacular displacements of stay-at-home motherhood. My hope is that it will help me to lean into the ways God is continuing to shape and grow me, as well as to help you, my reader, ponder your own displacements and hear God's loving voice in the midst of them. Maybe the journey can help us become better at reaching out to others in compassionate love.

Heads Carolina, Tails California

My brother-in-law Martin has impeccable taste in music - cultured, wide-ranging, studied. I do not. My musical tastes bring him some pain, and he struggles to understand my plebeian enjoyment of genres such as country. He has a generous heart, however, and during our third year in Hopi he assembled an album of popular country music songs he found less objectionable and gave it to me for Christmas.

It was a much-enjoyed gift, and the whole family got to know the songs very well as I played them over and over again on our shopping marathons to Flagstaff. Even Luke, whose musical interests align more with Martin's than with mine, admitted to enjoying some of the recordings. In particular, we came to love Jo Dee Messina's song "Heads Carolina, Tails California".

It's not hard to understand why that song resonated with us so much. Life in Hopi was busy, lonely, and barren by that year. Luke worked night and day, and I was stuck in the house with three young children. Strong, persistent winds blasted dust and sand through the air and under every windowsill, making it difficult to play outside even when the temperature was nice. The weekends Luke didn't work were spent driving four hours round-trip to Flagstaff. Once there, we'd visit our round of stores and businesses, feed and nurse and potty and run the kids around in the corners of time left over, pack the car to the gills with our next two or three weeks of provisions, and try to return home before dark.

"Heads Carolina, tails California," we'd sing as a child wailed that they had to pee and we pulled onto the liquor-bottle strewn shoulder of the reservation road. "Somewhere greener, somewhere warmer," we'd hum as we dodged broken glass and thorns, squinted against the driving dust, and guided the child(ren) behind rabbitbrush to do their business. "Up in the mountains, down by the ocean," we'd chorus as a family as we drove through a pile of tumbleweed blown together in a depression of the road. "Where, it don't matter, long as we're going somewhere together!" Luke and I would croon to each other as returned to our dusty home at long last, threw no-longer-frozen pizza in the oven, and began to put our provisions away and settle the kids for bed.

Of course, getting away wasn't really simple. The nearest major airport was 4 1/2 hours drive, all trips required significant logistical planning, and Luke had trouble getting more than a few days off at a time. But it was really fun to imagine that all we had to do was flip a coin and end up in a place where things were green, warm, and easy. Singing the song to each other was a light way for Luke and I to admit that life was hard sometimes.

"Heads Carolina, tails California...

"...somewhere greener, somewhere warmer!"

Fast-forward about eight years. We live in the beautiful Pacific Northwest now, where summer is the magic time you dream about during wet, gray winters. People from around the world come to visit this time of year because it's so lovely. And - rich irony - this is the summer that we're vacationing in both Carolina and California. We don't even have to flip a coin.

I'm convinced that God has a sense of humor.

It's true that California was warmer.

We just returned from our week in California, which accounted for my silence on this blog. We had a wonderful time with family, which was great - because if we had gone just to experience California itself, we would have been disappointed. We visited during a record-setting heat wave. Our car thermometer topped at 112 degrees as we drove through Sacramento, and settled at 108 degrees at Luke's parents' house in El Dorado County. The mercury easily cleared 100 degrees every day of our vacation. My kids (who forgot what Arizona heat was like) were appalled, and locals scrambled to assure me that it wasn't always like that. We spend a lot of time together inside, playing board games and singing to my adorable 15-month-old niece. We fried an egg on the pavement. Our excursions were limited to a local museum and restaurant, a splash park, a pool complex, and one hike in the mountains (where even at 7000 feet, it was still in the 80s).

It was sad to leave family, but it is joyful to be back here, where things are cool and green again. Even the gray sky today was welcome and welcoming.

There's no place like home.

The best question my counselor ever asked me

A little over two years ago, panic attacks abruptly replaced my ability to sleep. After a week of misery, I went to the doctor and asked for help. A battery of tests came back normal, and I was diagnosed with severe anxiety and mild depression. As a part of my treatment, I began seeing a counselor.

My counselor practiced cognitive behavioral therapy, which didn't immediately connect with me. We spent our first session debating the realistic odds of my entire family coming down with intestinal illness on our upcoming missions trip to Ecuador. My counselor tried to convince me that I was severely overestimating the probability of this event. (As it turns out, my odds were pretty accurate. But we all survived, so at least she was correct about that.) I left with significant doubts about the helpfulness of her approach.

Things got a lot better when I started to talk about things closer to the heart of my anxiety, like my struggles parenting my son with ADHD. My counselor had a child with ADHD, and I could tell that this time, she understood me with her heart. She was listening with empathy. She had been there.

This photo says a lot about Josiah.

I can't remember exactly what drama was happening at the time with Josiah and his homeschool support program. Was it soon after he got in trouble for eating his science experiment, despite being warned not to by his teacher? Or was it the time a different teacher told me he had been on his face, eating the dirt between classes? (Turns out he wanted to literally bite the dust.) Maybe it was the week he forgot his email password (because he made it too complicated), borrowed his classmate's email account, and sent out pictures of a blobfish with glasses (with the title "You hate me") to his entire class, a smattering of teachers, AND the assistant district superintendent (because his name started with J, just like Josiah). I had begun to tense up every time I saw a teacher approach me when I arrived to pick up my kids.

No matter what was happening on campus, I know for certain what was happening at home, because it never let up. Josiah and I clashed daily over his schoolwork and his difficulties focusing. He seemed driven to reject every suggestion I offered, every strategy I researched. Rather than reaching for what might help him, I watched him cling to those things that made him miserable and unsuccessful. I struggled with discerning what was genuinely difficult or impossible for him because of his ADHD, and what was simply attitude.

Did someone say attitude?

As I poured out my struggles to my counselor, I could feel her understanding and support. When I paused, she asked me one question: "When you pray for Josiah, what do you pray for?" Oh, I had a lot to say. I prayed he'd find his center, make good choices, avoid disaster, follow Jesus. I prayed I would know how to parent him. I prayed...

My counselor gently interrupted. "What do you thank God for about Josiah?" she asked. I blinked. I had been too busy crying out for help to spend a lot of time in thankfulness.

"Next time you pray for Josiah," my counselor suggested, "try thanking God for what's good and right about him. It will change your perspective and help you understand him."

Every now and then, you hear something that is absolutely simple, absolutely true, and perfectly timed to change you. This was one of those times. My counselor was right. Practicing gratitude for my son profoundly alters my perspective and eases my anxiety.

When we give thanks, specifically, for the good we see in our children, we begin to see who they truly are. We glimpse them as God made them to be - his masterpieces - and we get a vision for what they can become. Those parts of our children that infuriate us, that break our heart - we realize that they don't define them, nor do they define our relationship with them. We begin to view our children through the lens of compassion rather than frustration. We remember that they are gifts, and that God treasures them - and he is just as invested as we are in their future and their becoming.

Josiah is 14 now, and the force of puberty is strong with him. He's beginning high school next year in a large public school. We have not given up petition for this boy! But I have to remember not to start and end there.

Josiah graduates from 8th grade today, one of three graduates from our homeschool support program. I'm supposed to give a small speech, and I compiled a list of what makes me thankful when I think of my son. I want him to hear (again) these things that are true about him, and I want him to know that this is who he is:

• He is funny and good-natured. His craziness is never directed at hurting anybody, and the younger boys in school love hanging around him. He can laugh at himself.
• He is honest. I can trust that his version of what happened is true.
• He is strong and helpful. He will uncomplainingly lend a hand if I ask.
• He is curious and loves learning. He asks great questions. He uses his free time to explore new concepts. He wants to become a professor of political and economic philosophy. He has a wonderful writing voice.
• He is original. He refuses to blindly copy somebody else, but forges a new path. He thinks far outside the box.
• He is generous. He spends almost all his money on others.
• He cares about his friends and the world. He's willing to sacrifice for them. He wants to follow Jesus and make the world a better place.

Writing out a list like that for your child (and remembering it when you're desperate) really does change your perspective, especially if he or she is the cause of your graying hair, or contributes to your sleepless nights. At the very least, it fills your heart with love and gratitude. There's a magic in that, too.

Longing for Home

I've lived in 3 countries, 5 states, and 15 houses (I think - I lose track of the houses). I spent my very first birthday flying to Bangladesh to begin a new life there. Before I moved here to Washington state, the longest I lived in any one place was five years.

I'm not very good at answering the question, "Where are you from?"

My first passport needed extra pages

As a child, home was a fluid reality. While we lived overseas, we spent every second or third summer back in the United States, traveling around to visit family and friends. "Let's go home now," we would say at the end of some restaurant dinner - this meant, "let's get back to our motel room". Home was not tied to a particular place. It meant any spot in which my family safely sheltered together.

My home was Kenya when I graduated from high school, and I left my family there to begin college in Illinois. Although the advent of email brought them a little closer, they were still far removed - I returned only twice in two years. When I left Nairobi at the end of Christmas break my sophomore year, I knew that my family would be packing everything up and following me in the summer. I strained to look out the window as my plane lifted off from Jomo Kenyatta Airport, realizing that Kenya would never be my home again, that I might never return.

The second semester of my sophomore year was a dark time for me. Difficult things pressed in on me, and I was homeless. There was no safe place to retreat to, nowhere I felt loved and sheltered. It was during this period that I began to think about what home meant to me, and to yearn for it. I took long walks and gazed at other people's front windows, imagining the warm spaces that might be within, imagining that I was safe and welcome. I sang the Michael Card song "Home" to myself, and longed for a place to leave the darkness outside.

Home is a comfort, and home is a light
A place to leave the darkness outside.
Home is a pleasant and ever-full feeling;
A place where the soul safely hides.
   -Michael Card, "Home"

Mercifully, my family settled in my college town that summer. They were gifted with a year of low-cost missionary housing right on the edge of campus, a house with a light-filled bedroom that became mine. I didn't have to gaze into windows any more, because I was inside. I was safely home again.

* * * * *
This sense of home as refuge, no matter where it is found, remains strong in me. I now find shelter in my husband's embrace, and being with him is, in some ways, home for me. But not completely. As I continue to mature and develop (and move), I realize that finding sanctuary is not the same as belonging, and I long for both.

I'm a third culture kid (TCK), which means that for a large chunk of my growing-up, I was raised in cultures that didn't match my passport. One of the common characteristics of TCKs like me is "cultural homelessness". Even though we quickly adapt to and function in a new culture, we belong to none. After almost two decades of living in the United States, this culture is still foreign to me. I often feel like a participant-observer, peering in from the outside. Even when I am welcome and included, I don't belong.

Cultural homelessness makes frequent moving easier, even desirable. There are no deep roots to rip up. No decades-long relationships to disrupt. If you've never belonged, it's not that hard to leave. And there's always the excitement of a new place, new beginnings, and new adventure ahead.

But there's a dark side. If you live in a place more than a few years and remain a participant-observer, a terrible loneliness sets in. It hurts to not belong. Our souls long for home.

We've now lived here in western Washington for eight years, smashing my previous record. We have no plans to move. It has not been easy. Staying put for this long has forced me to face my soul's yearning for home. I'm learning that if I want to be inside a circle, I have to find the courage to step in, reach out my hands, and trust that there's a place there for me. I'm learning to see my friendships here as long-term, and to invest in them accordingly. And I'm learning from my children.

Over the threshold! Our home for eight years now and counting.

After we lived here a year, I made an ill-conceived April Fool's joke about moving back to Arizona. My two older children burst into tears, and I felt terrible. I had always felt more excited than sad about moving, and for the first time, I realized that my children were different. They have a home, and it's more than just their family. It's here, in this house, in this town, in this state. Only my oldest son remembers living somewhere else, and only in snapshots. My children know where they're from, and they're teaching me what it's like to belong somewhere.

I receive fleeting glimpses of what it feels like to belong to a place, to find home in a location: Grief rather than anticipation during a vivid dream that we have to move. Profound relief when I awaken and realize we can remain here. A quiver of joy as I gaze at the Olympic mountains from the ferry deck after a vacation and they look like old friends, delighted to see me return.

I never anticipated that my life's journey might offer me the gift of rootedness. I'm slowly finding the courage to open my hands and receive it.

Those are "our" mountains now. They welcome us home.

* * * * *
And yet...there's a paradox. As I stretch my roots down into Washington soil, I find that the other places I lived also rooted themselves in my soul. They fill my dreams and they return to me in odd moments. Monsoon rains in Bangladesh; the prairie trail in Illinois; salt marshes in Georgia; wisteria in North Carolina; never-ending skies in Kenya; locust trees tapping on our windows in Pennsylvania; desert evenings in Arizona - all of these are home to me. All are pieces of where I belong and are wrapped up in my longing.

One of my favorite children's books is "Grandfather's Journey" by Allen Say. Through lovely watercolors and spare, lyrical prose, it tells the story of the author's grandfather, who grew up in Japan and immigrated to the United States. I'm unable to read the last couple pages of the book aloud without choking up: "I return now and then, when I cannot still the longing in my heart. The funny thing is, the moment I am in one country, I am homesick for the other." This is my story, too, except that sometimes I'm homesick for a place that both includes and goes beyond all my homes.

I believe that one day, my heart's longings will be filled. One day, I will perfectly belong and will find the home my soul yearns for. And I wonder: will all those places that shaped me, all that diverse beauty that lives in me - will all that be a part of eternity? I hope so.

Nobody tells you, when you get born here
How much you'll come to love it and how you'll never belong here.
So I'll call you my country, and I'll keep longing for my home.
I with that I could take you there with me.
   -Rich Mullins, "Land of My Sojourn"

Ten things I learned this spring

This March, I discovered a delightful What We Learned link-up on Emily Freeman's website - a space where bloggers are invited to share what they learned over the previous season. I really enjoyed learning from the journeys of others, and was excited to make my own list. As I reflected back on everything that's happened this spring, I picked up the dual themes of surprises and new beginnings. So much change, and so much transition yet to come!


1. We belong here in Washington.
In February, our family took a trip to Arizona and visited our old house on the Hopi Reservation, as well as a lot of the places that brought us joy when we made our home there. It was a lovely and bittersweet trip. Despite our delight in watching the kids revel in the landscape and wonders of the Southwest, it was very clear to us that we didn't belong there. The Hopi Reservation was no longer our home, and there was no desire or calling to return. Luke, especially, felt the pain of being a stranger in the Hopi Health Care Center he used to "own". Strange as it seems to me (considering what I thought my life would be like 20 years ago), our home is now here in the generous and abundant Northwest. (I wrote a little about our Hopi journey in this blog post.)

Beautiful for a visit, but no longer our home.

2. I can give up homeschooling. 
I've homeschooled for ten years now (since Josiah was four years old), and it's been a central part of my life and identity. Homeschooling has been my primary job, and I poured tremendous amounts of focus, energy, creativity, and resources into doing it well. When friends asked me how long I planned to homeschool, I always answered, "We'll see. We take it year by year, and reevaluate often." Privately, though, I wondered if I would ever be able to give up homeschooling. I was passionate about it, and was continually mapping and tweaking our scope and sequence for years to come. I hoped that God would never call me to sacrifice this bedrock of my life, because I wasn't sure if I could.

Over the course of one day this spring, I discovered that I could let go. The day began with an unexpected email informing me that the kids' homeschool partnership program was in jeopardy. As I wondered what we would do if the program folded, I briefly considered the possibility of sending all three kids to public school, then immediately rejected it. I had already purchased curriculum for the following year, and was deep into the excitement of planning things out.

By the end of that day, however, after discussing possibilities with the kids, the inconceivable was suddenly very conceivable. Within a week, I had submitted enrollment paperwork and my days as a homeschool mother were numbered. Something that I thought would be a gut-wrenching decision just happened, swiftly and quietly, without drama (although looking back, I can see multiple ways God prepared me for that moment). I felt a little like Galadriel in the Two Towers movie, when Frodo offers her the Ring of Power. She imagines taking it, and becomes enormous and freaky as she envisions what she would become with the Ring's power. Then she shrinks down again to herself and gasps, "I passed the test". Of course, giving up homeschooling isn't anything like refusing the One Ring of Doom, but I still feel like I passed the test. I was able to let go when the time came to let go, and now my hands are open to receive new and exciting things. It is a delight with terror in it.

P.S. Now that I know I won't be homeschooling next year, my motivation to finish strong has dropped precipitously, especially when nice weather beckons. We are limping to the end.


3. I am a fast bleeder. 
In March, drawn by the promise of free Equal Exchange coffee, I walked into the Bloodmobile in the grocery store parking lot and offered up my arm. Back when I lived in Chapel Hill and worked at UNC Hospitals, I donated platelets every couple of weeks, a process that took a couple of hours and returned my red blood cells to my body. This was my first experience of donating whole blood. The technician told me it usually took around 20 minutes, but that the record was a little more than four.

It took me 6 minutes and 20 seconds to produce a pint of blood. I felt slightly disturbed that my body was so eager to rid itself of its essence. The blood people weren't disturbed, though. I got a phone call from them today (just two days after I was eligible again) urging me to come back as soon as possible because there is a pressing need for my blood type.  It's kind of nice to know I am useful and wanted, even if it's only for my blood. I don't have any particular desire to surpass my record, however.

I'll be doing this again next Wednesday.

4. Thin Lemon Oreos are delicious. They taste exactly like the lemon creme biscuits we ate a lot of when my family lived in Kenya. My sister agrees with me, and these Oreos take us back to sunny Nairobi teas in gardens full of hibiscus, bouganvillea, and tropical birds.

Unlikely doppelgänger to British tea biscuits.

5. How not to bite my nails.
After years of wanting to quit my habit, I've finally learned the secret: Invisalign. It's impossible to chew my nails when my mouth is filled with plastic and my teeth are sore. My nails haven't looked this good in years, and I even had to clip them with real nail clippers because they got too long. It's kind of an expensive and inconvenient solution to nail biting, but it works.

Speaking of Invisalign, I also learned that before you receive your alignment trays, you get sharp little spikes of synthetic enamel sculpted all over your teeth. The spikes are perfectly matched with corresponding pockets in your aligners, and help create some torque to wrest recalcitrant teeth into shape. I did not realize this until the day I showed up to get my trays. The little set of fake teeth with Invisalign trays the orthodontist showed me when he sold me on the process did NOT have any spikes on them. My teeth now sport 18 spiky spikes, half of which protrude front and center. The spikes snag on the inside of my mouth when I take my trays out to eat, and they are not invisible. I do not like them, not one little bit.

But at least my nails look good. And I hope that before too long my teeth will, too. (I don't mean to sound ungrateful. I recognize how blessed I am to have the opportunity to fix my teeth.)

Frankenteeth (but nice nails!)

6. How to train for a half-marathon.
This is a Google search I never thought I would do. I was a sprinter and a jumper in high school, but longer distances never appealed to me. Until yesterday, I don't think I ever ran more than three miles without stopping. So when my dear friend in Germany messaged me a couple weeks ago and asked me if I wanted to run a half-marathon in Tanzania with her next May, it was a bolt from the blue. But to my surprise, it felt like an adventure I was excited about pursuing, and when I forwarded her message to Luke, his immediate response was that I should go for it.

So I am now a registered Muskathlete. I committed to raise at least 10,000 Euro to benefit Compassion International, an organization that combats child poverty worldwide, and to run 13.1 miles in a row. (I should also brush up on my French, since this particular Muskathlon is only open to French and German speakers. At least my friend speaks fluent German.) Three challenges in one!

I was relieved to find many half-marathon training plans online that look do-able and minimally intimidating, with assurance that a beginner like me could get in reasonable shape for a half-marathon by next year. It's still a little scary, though, to think of running that far. I ran 4.4 miles yesterday and it felt like a long, long, hard slog. I'm going to have to trust that if I faithfully follow a training plan, running 13.1 miles won't seem quite so impossible a few months from now.

Yes, I still have a long way to go!

7. Cholera used to be known as the Blue Death.
That's because people get so dehydrated, their skin turns bluish-gray. I learned this while reading The Great Trouble to the kids. It's a fascinating historical novel set in London during the Industrial Revolution, and it chronicles Dr. John Snow's search for the source of a cholera outbreak, as well as his efforts to convince people that their ideas about disease transmission were wrong.

I have a masters in public health, and one of the things my fellow students and I frequently lamented was how public health has an image problem. It's hard to wrap your mind around, it's not exciting, and it's not sexy. That's why I was so tickled to find a gripping children's book that was all about public health. Although the writing is somewhat stilted, the story itself is captivating and incorporates multiple issues and challenges central to public health, leading to good discussions. It was especially rewarding to see how riveted my children were in the narrative. Hurrah for public health! And for clean water!


8.  My girls don't know the difference between raw ground turkey and raw sliced beef (but cooking together as a family is really fun).

A few weeks ago, we were given a coupon for a free Hello Fresh delivery. We received a huge box in the mail, containing everything needed to cook two family meals. The kids were excited and worked together with us both times. I was surprised at how much fun it was to cook as a family, as well as how much the kids could accomplish in the kitchen. Even though the girls got mixed up and marinated the ground turkey for the beef and broccoli stir fry, thus leaving the beef strips for the turkey enchiladas, both meals tasted great. We usually cook vegetarian, and it hadn't occurred to me that my kids wouldn't be able to identify and categorize raw meats.

It was so much fun to cook together as a family that I thought about how we could do it more often. As much as we enjoyed Hello Fresh, I can't stomach the weekly cost of subscribing to such a service, or the amount of waste that is generated when every single ingredient is pre-packaged. Then I realized that the main things that made the kit so family-friendly were the large, colorful, step-by-step recipe cards with directions and pictures. And I realized that you can access those same beautiful recipes and directions online for Hello Fresh and for other meal services, and buy the ingredients yourself at a fraction of the cost. I let Anna browse through the vegetarian recipes and choose several she wanted to try. I purchased the ingredients for a couple of her choices and the girls made them with me. It was delightful to cook together, and turned something that's usually a chore into a special time. I plan to do much more of that type of activity this summer.

9. Like running, you need to work out at writing to stay in shape. 
I really enjoy writing, and used to do it a lot. Not creative writing, like my sister, but reflective, narrative, sometimes analytical writing. And I was pretty good at it, too - I could polish off an eight page paper in a few hours, and get great feedback from professors.

But then I had children and took a long, long break from regular writing. When I decided to resurrect this blog about a month ago, I envisioned myself sitting down a couple times a week, an hour at a time, and whipping up an articulate post before I resumed the regular business of the day.

Anybody who writes regularly will laugh and nod to hear that's not what happened. I was rusty, and quickly rediscovered that good writing takes a lot of time. You don't just pick up where you left off. My writing muscles are a little atrophied, and it's going to take discipline and effort to tighten them up again.

But I want to take the effort to be a good writer again. I know that it's through writing that I reflect deeply and ground myself, that I make sense of what's going on in the world and in me. Part of my goal in the next year is to find my voice again, and to share it with others. Another delight with terror in it.


10. Facebook is actually kind of fun. 
I joined Facebook three weeks ago. I resisted a long time. And I prided myself on remaining aloof from that time-sucking behemoth of modern American culture. Every time I heard somebody lament the time they spent on Facebook or read an article about how Facebook damages true, authentic connection, I felt morally superior.

But in truth, my reasons for avoiding Facebook were not particularly laudable. My main reason was fear - fear of being too visible or of not being visible enough (nobody caring about what I post), fear of being out of my element and not very good at something, maybe even fear of becoming like everybody else, of losing a countercultural identity.

I've learned that fear is almost never a helpful motivation for me when it comes to making good, solid decisions. Nor is pride. And the reality was that I wasn't connecting more deeply with my community because I stayed off Facebook - quite the opposite. It helped me remain in the shadows. A lot of my friends shared lovely pictures, reflections, and family news on Facebook, and I missed out on connection by not becoming a part of it.

So I joined Facebook. I didn't tell anybody for two days, then my sister helped me find the courage to make some friend requests. It turns out that there are people who are willing be my friend and even like me. Although it's still a little scary to go to Facebook, I'm getting braver, and I'm learning that nobody minds a nice comment left on their post, even if it's from me.

Summer vs. Science (Spoiler: entropy wins)

After a dismal few months of headlines such as "Seattle Crushes Rain Record", the heavens finally opened up this past Monday and poured forth sunshine and warmth. All day long, my children stalked the outdoor thermometer display, with minute-by-minute updates: "It's already 3.6 degrees warmer outside than inside! Only a minute ago is was 69.9, and now it's 70.1!  Mommy! Mommy! It's 79.6 degrees!" Yes, we even hit the unbelievable 80 degree mark by the close of day.

Nothing is perfect, however, and Monday was but the first day of four weeks of school remaining to the students of our district. As mostly-homeschoolers (my kids go to classes Tuesday and Thursday but are taught at home the rest of the week), we have a greater measure of freedom than many other families. But I felt I should at least make a show of finishing strong, and sat down after breakfast to churn out weekly assignment schedules for my kids.

I succeeded in planning out enough math and language arts to avoid absolute truancy. Then I looked over what remained of our ambitious history schedule, mapped out with great care and intention last fall. I felt profoundly unmotivated. Watching history videos together during lunch would be just fine for this week, I decided. I erased the rows in the girls' assignment schedules for history reading and projects. Finally, I pulled out our girls' physics curriculum and started looking through the week's plans. They required me to pull together materials and supervise a series of labs involving the three classes of levers, fiddly measurements, and critical thinking.

All at once, I was done. Physics just didn't matter anymore. Resistance force, effort force, ideal mechanical advantage, identifying how many and which kind of levers go together to make a pair of scissors - those things were important to me last week. But suddenly, as I sat at the computer and warm, sweet air drifted through the open window, I couldn't care less.

This is more of what I had in mind.

But I wasn't ready to completely abdicate my role as a responsible educator. I erased the girls' science assignments and substituted the task of selecting a science kit from our cabinet and putting it together.

The girls were thrilled at the change, and after a very unfocused day of plodding through basic schoolwork while running outside and checking the temperature every few minutes, they chose a make-your-own-hand-crank-flashlight kit. "Score!" I thought. "Electricity! It even correlates with physics!" I wasn't excited enough, however, to read them the little educational book that came with the kit. I tossed that aside and asked them to just look at the directions and put the flashlight together.

A half hour later, it became clear that the kit components were unbearably fiddly and kid-unfriendly. I made a valiant effort to help the girls get the flashlight working before I released us all from our labors and drove them to their cousins' house. At least, I reasoned, I used the scientific-sounding words "completing the circuit" several times as we struggled with wiring. That was something. Check for science.

Later that evening, Luke picked up the girls from their cousins' house as he drove home from work. Luke is gifted with both a scientific mind and a passion for understanding how and why things work the way they do. His insights and explanations add great depth and clarity to what we study in homeschool, and he was ready to engage the girls in conversation. On the short drive to our house, he asked the fateful question: "What did you learn in school today?" They chose to tell him about their attempts to assemble the flashlight. And succeeded in shocking him deeply.

"The girls know NOTHING about electricity!" Luke exclaimed soon after entering the house, as I dished out our supper. His voice did not carry anger, but rather a combination of shock and sadness.

"Well," I sputtered defensively, trying to sound a little less like a slacker, "we were focusing on - uh - engineering instead of science basics - on putting things together and problem-solving." I regained my verbal footing and executed a brilliant switch-the-responsibility tactic. "But you could explain electricity to them. You'd do a much better job than I."

We sat down to supper, and Luke spent a few minutes valiantly attempting an overview of electricity, beginning with electrons and flow and moving on to---. I'm really not sure where his explanation went after electrons, because I got distracted by the evening sunshine filtering down through the leaves in our backyard and stopped listening. Occasionally, Eliora tried to interject a sentence about her day, but was told to wait until the electricity lesson was over. I was recalled to the conversation by Luke's voice, both incredulous and appalled, declaring, "These girls have absolutely NO interest in electricity!"

At that point, I abandoned any pretense of actually caring about electricity myself, and pleaded the sunshine and impending summer break as excuses for our appalling lack of scientific curiosity. I'm not sure Luke thoroughly understands and accepts this, but he loves us anyway.

On the bright side, the next few weeks of our homeschool may be a brilliant case study of the scientific concept of entropy. I believe Monday marked the beginning of this irreversible process, and I am more than ready to relax into it.