Worlds Apart

I’ve just returned from two back-to-back trips that left my mind swimming.  Two weeks ago I went with a team of five others to serve on a week-long mission trip at the El Hogar orphanage in Tegucigalpa, Honduras.  12 hours after I returned home, Tim and I took Rachel and Scott on a once-in-a-lifetime three day vacation to Orlando. 

Within the space of 24 hours I went from the Third World to Disney World.  Less than a day after I saw children scrape their plates to get at the last bit of their meager dinner of refried beans, I saw families leave huge piles of uneaten food behind for someone else to clean up.  I went from watching a child without a family play happily with nothing but a piece of yarn, to watching a child melt down because his mother wouldn’t buy him a $110 Harry Potter robe. 

The trips, and my responses to them, were extreme.  I spent a week serving the poorest of the poor and came back filled to overflowing.  I spent three days surrounded by extravagance and indulgence and came back…tired. 

There’s nothing wrong with Disney World or Orlando or fun.  I believe God loves us and wants us to enjoy all the goodness He has to offer (which is plenty!).  I loved being able to treat the kids to such a fun holiday and I am grateful that we had the resources to go on this kind of trip.  But I thank God that I had the opportunity to serve in Honduras first.  It gave me some perspective. 

Jesus came so that we can “have life and have it to the full.”  I shouldn’t mistake a “full” life with a self-indulgent life.  I don’t want to spend all my energies making me and mine as comfortable as possible before I comfort those in need.  Yes, I want to give good things to my family, but they are not the only ones who deserve my attention.  I can’t give only when I have “extra” money or serve when I find the “extra” time.  I want my giving and service to be common in timing and uncommon in generosity.  

And I want to teach that to my children.  I want them to know the difference between the fleeting giddiness that comes from a theme park ride and the true joy that comes from serving.  There is nothing wrong with the first, but there is something profound and wonderful in the second.  I wouldn’t want them to miss it for the world, Disney or otherwise.

WWJS (What Would Jesus Sell?)

The other day a friend of mine was telling me about a Christian female singing group she thought I’d like.  So I whipped out my handy-dandy iPad (now that I am finally a woman of the new millennium I can do that kind of thing) and Googled ‘em.  Though I couldn’t find a website under their group name, I did find something fairly close.  So I clicked on it. 

The webpage that came up was dedicated to “beauty you can believe in.”  It was filled with photos of bronzers and brushes, lipsticks and liners, plus exhortations to exfoliate (with “natural scrub recipes!”).  It looked so much like the Ulta website I figured I was in the wrong place.  Oh no, I thought.  Their website was taken by a makeup company and now their fans won’t be able to find them. 

But then I looked further and realized, with horror, that it was their website.  I had to search the page pretty thoroughly to be sure. But there they were, tucked down low on the right side of the page. 

There was not one word on the page about God or Jesus.  The Holy Ghost?  A total no-show.  Heaven forbid a mention of heaven (however, the page did offer to show me a technique where I could look seven years younger in two weeks, which led me to wonder: if I kept going, could I look 14 years younger in four weeks, and maybe even 21 years younger in six weeks?  Now that would be a blessing). 

Don’t get me wrong.  I’m not looking for them to use Jesus as their celebrity spokesperson.  But if they’re a Christian group, I just figured they might actually want to mention His name, or maybe even offer a little shout out to His Dad.  Dunno, it’s just a thought. 

But the part that really made me kooky (I know, how could you tell?) was that they are selling makeup!  Oh, ewww.  It just depressed me. 

I am not going to name them or their website (although the whole “look seven years younger in two weeks” deal is tempting.  But I would be soooooo disappointed if after two weeks I only looked six years younger).  I’m sure they are good Christian women.  I even bet they have beautiful voices and make lovely music for the Lord.  And I completely understand they have to find a way to support themselves and merchandising is one of the ways many Christian artists are helping finance their ministries.  But of all the things they could hawk, they chose makeup?  Don’t we women have enough “you’re not quite good enough” messages to worry about without our own people turning our spiritual lives into beauty contests?  In the immortal words of Jesus: Oy vey. 

All that being said, I’ve come up with some ad ideas for them.  How ‘bout:  “Jesus loves you, but He’ll like you better with a little blush.”  Or:  “You lay your foundation on The Rock, and we’ll lay our foundation on your face!”  Ok, last one:  “All your sins are forgiven, and our concealers can hide all the evidence!”  

Please feel free to add your own ad lines below.  

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I’ve decided to end my blogs with some of my favorite recipes.  The challenge is going to be to tie them in with my ramblings.  But this one was easy.  This recipe from Peg Bracken is a staple in our family, one my mother made frequently when I was growing up, and one everyone I’ve ever served it to has loved.  I paired it with this blog because it looks awful (definitely in need of  beauty treatment), but tastes great.  Enjoy!

Skid Row Stroganoff

8 oz uncooked wide egg noodles

1 beef bouillon cube

1 garlic clove, minced

1/3C chopped onion

1T oil

1 lb. ground beef

2T all purpose flour

1t salt

1/2t paprika

6 oz can mushrooms, drained (whole, slices, pieces , whatever you have on hand)

1 can Campbell's cream of chicken soup (don't cheap out, get the real stuff!)

1C plain yogurt (or sour cream, if you don't have yogurt.  Sometimes I use half yogurt, half sour cream)

1.  Cook the noodles like you always do, just add the bouillon cube to it as they cook.

2.  Brown the beef, garlic, and onions in oil.

3.  Add flour, salt, paprika, mushrooms.  Stir, and cook on medium heat for 5 minutes.

4.  Add soup, and simmer on low for 10 minutes.

5.  Stir in the yogurt, keeping heat low so it doesn't curdle.  Heat through.  Serve on noodles.

A Woman of a Certain Age

Apparently, 2011 was the year I came to the sad realization that I have reached “that” age.  I hate to call it “middle age” because it sounds so… well… old.  But simple math tells me that, unless I live to be 150, I can no longer ignore the fact that I am, indeed, middle aged.  Crap!  Who let that happen?!?

Accepting this fact has been difficult.  I mean, I know it happens.  It happens to other people all the time.  I’ve read about it in magazines in line at the grocery store; I’ve seen it on television, in between reality shows.  The scary thing is that now those things are happening to me.  Ewwwww.

I’ve reached the age when:

• I can no longer count my gray hairs because I just don’t have that kind of time. 
• I can pluck at the skin on the back of my hand and watch it as it takes its time to move back into its locked and upright position.
• my teenaged daughter has waaaaaaaaaaaaaaay prettier lingerie than I do, but I have waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay more hairs on my chinny-chin-chin than my teenage son. 
• I produce all sorts of groany, creaky noises when making sudden moves (truth is, I produce those noises when I make any moves, but I can cover up the non-sudden move noises with a well-timed cough).   

It has become an odd experience to really look at myself in the mirror.  When I do, I see the girl-formerly-known-as-Annie, but the heavier, saggier, and well, OLDer version.  It’s like looking in a fun house mirror, minus the fun part.  Plus no funnel cakes.

My aforementioned teenage daughter insists she will NEVER have plastic surgery.  I made that same vow too, years ago, but now I’m considering reconsidering.  Who knew back then that you had eye pads that could get fat?  For Pete’s sake, who know we had eye pads?!?! 

And eye pads aren’t the only pads in my new old-fogey world.  I’m just sayin…’

In my younger days (and I’m old enough to be using phrases like, “in my younger days” un-sarcastically), my conversations were about sex, drugs, and rock’n’roll.  Now they’re more apt to be about taxes, what’s wrong with the world, and my latest failing body parts.  I use the word “apt.” If these aren’t indications of “a certain age,” what is? 

But though I regularly get mail from AARP (hey, what’s the use of attaining a certain age if you don’t get the discounts?!?), I don’t feel any more grown up than I did when I was in my 20s.  What’s up with that? 

I have all the earmarks of being a grown up.  My parents and most of the relatives on the upper branches of my family tree have gone on to their greater reward; I’m on the top layer of my family’s genealogical cake now.  I’m married, have children, own a house and two cars (well, I share them with the bank).  I run my own business.  I use the word “earmarks.”  And yet I still wonder what I’ll be like when I grow up.  How much more “up” do I expect to grow (especially since all my body parts seem to be headed in the opposite direction)?    

But there are a few benefits to this older-ness.  I can now mutter to myself with impunity.  I get a lot of exercise going in and out of the same room because I can’t remember why I went in in the first place.  But the best part:  I’m way too old to be cool, which gives me the freedom to embarrass my children by singing loudly and dancing inappropriately in public (I figure it’ll give them something to talk about with a therapist later in life). 

They should be getting nervous about my heading toward actual old age...