Katie W(rites)

Blessed are the Dudes

2012-02-03T00:22:00.000-05:00

There was a good bit of chatter on the interwebs today discussing a recent talk by the popular pastor / author / speaker John Piper. Piper, in his talk, spoke about Christianity as truly masculine, arguing that we should work to maintain this. He pointed to things like Bibilical language portraying God as King (not Queen), Jesus as son (not daughter), that Old-testament priests were all men, and that Christ's apostles were men.

(Notes: I own John Piper books, he says some good things. I'm married to a man, I like him. I do manly things like play sports, watch ESPN, drink beer and burp aloud -mostly b/c I'm pregnant right now - so I'm not anti-man. Many thanks to Rachel Held Evans for inviting responses and curating another good discussion.)

Okay, so to begin with, Piper's arguments seem sorely ignorant in cultural understanding and theology, but other smarter people can address the original Hebrew and Greek Scripture meanings, cultural contexts etc. And others can point more accurately to scriptures highlighting women champions of the Bible (for all those smart-people responses, keep an eye on Evans' blog or Twitter feed.) But I feel led to address Pipers point - that Christianity is Masculine.

It does seem an age marked by Eldridge's Wild at Heart, Driscoll and his anti-effette rants, and even Promise Keepers, which all, in some part, seem bent on reclaiming the manliness of being Christian. “Yeah dude, you can be an awesome Bible-believing Man of God, and go bow-hunting and zip-lining and brew your own beer. But hey, love your wife, too." Some of this dude-centric work is important. Statistics show that women are larger percentage of church attendees than men. And I know from experience that it is often women working behind the scenes (because that’s often where they are relegated) to ensure the smooth-running of many a congregation. Yes, men need to step up: too many kids today have absent fathers, or Dads who are just jerks. Christian guys still do drugs, hire under-age prostitutes and have porn addictions. Yes, men need Jesus and the community of church. But not to reclaim their rightful headship, but just because they need it, like we women do.

Yesterday I was listening to an Orthodox podcast about Holy Week (note: it’s called Our Life In Christ. Only the archives are available online, but it’s great. I’m not Orthodox, just an interested voyeur. ) The podcast highlighted one of the Orthodox services of Holy Week that focuses on the woman who annointed Jesus with expensive perfume, and washed his feet with her tears and hair. In the services and readings, this beautiful passage is juxtaposed with Judas’ betrayal. He who had been one of Jesus’ closest friends, yet poured nothing out at the feet of Christ, but sought his own gain at Jesus’ expense. Is it the man in this story who exemplifies the spirit of worship or the woman? (And to Pipers point that Christ’s appointed disciples were men, was is they who stood by in the vital hours before and after Christ’s death and resurrection? They betrayed, doubted, and ran. And the risen Christ’s first revelation was to whom? A woman.) But I digress, and my snarky rhetorical questions are a good segue to what the progam hosts explain as the point of the services. Highlighting these two stories during Holy Week is not to give Judas a bad rap, but to illumine the participant to the fact that the capacity to act as either character lives in each of us. We can be the annointing woman in one breath, and Judas in the next. God have mercy.

Spaghetti Western

The notion of manly Christianity just seems so Western, so Davey Crockett American. I just can’t imagine it has always been thus. Again to the Orthodox Holy Week, which are probably the oldest recorded services in Christendom, miraculously consistent with Christianity’s earliest days. And here we see great honor bestowed on a woman, a woman who teaches us how to worship. And the veneration of women does not stop there. Several of the feast days that follow Easter are dedicated to women. And, of course, the Protestant-dreaded Marian doctrines of Catholic and Orthodox faiths were of huge importance in the life of the ancient church, as they are today.

Has Western, Protestant Christianity REALLY gotten back to the true manly meaning of Christianity by wiping itself clean of the Mother of God, highly honored from the earliest breaths of our Faith? A Faith that was so entirely counter-cultural as to list Christ’s geneology through his female ancestors in one Gospel. So as to say there is no male or female in Christ, that all are welcome. So as to say we should come to Jesus as Children, who at the time were seen more as nuisances than Facebook photo ops.

This peculiar, liberating, counter-cultural, enduring thing that I’m a part of, by the Grace of God, mustn’t be masculine or feminine. It is Trinitarian, cosmically relational, a Mother Hen and a scrawny shepherd. A caring Father and weeping Mother. It is I AM.

There seems so much more to say than this on the subject. Maybe I’ll follow up with some more later.

The Greatest

2012-01-19T22:29:00.000-05:00

Happy 70th Birthday to Muhammed Ali. Here's an excerpt from from a memoir project I've been working on with my Dad. Interestingly, he's had several encounters with Mr Clay / Ali.

....On one such business trip, my manager and I were traveling in first class and our seats happened to be right behind a very familiar face - the great boxer Muhammad Ali. I'd always assumed that most celebrities fly first class to be left alone. However, only a few minutes after we were airborne, "The Greatest" turned around and asked us if we wanted to hear some of his poems - a hilarious question from a guy that was known to everyone! Here was the former heavyweight champion on his way to recapturing his title and suddenly was kneeling on his seat to face us, reciting his poetry. He entertained us for a long time with all kinds of other crazy stuff - more poems, predictions of greatness to come, and exactly how he was going to knock out his opponents to regain his heavyweight crown. Eventually, he moved to the tourist class behind us where he did the same thing for the passengers there.

Interestingly, this was not my first run-in with the boxer. A few years earlier, when he was not yet champion and still went by Cassius Clay, I had seen his big bus outside a restaurant/bar in Sacramento. Naturally, I wanted to see him, and needed to make a visit to the restroom anyway. Once inside the restaurant, I did not see any sign of him and assumed he had left. But on the way into the men's room I literally crashed into him as he was leaving. He was huge and all muscle, and knocked the wind out of me. He gently apologized for the inadvertent collision and went back to entertaining the bar patrons.

I was to see Ali one more time, many years past his boxing prime. He had been secretly chosen to be the torch bearer to light the Olympic flame at the Opening Ceremony of the Olympic Games of 1996 in Atlanta. He stood just thirty feet from our section and my wife, Evelyn and I watched as this now weakened and ill athlete struggled to control his shaking hands to lift the torch that would light the massive Olympic flame. The occasion was so sad, but also strangely encouraging and undoubtedly unforgettable for the eighty-thousand people there to witness it, along with millions watching around the globe.

A Collapse and a Clumsy Stumble

2011-09-29T13:46:00.000-05:00

I stayed up last night watching my Braves as I have a hundred times before. I was tense, but perhaps not as tense as I may have been in years past, or in different circumstances. See, when a team like the Braves goes into a win-or-go-home game like last nights ended up being, but they have zero momentum, the game loses it's edge. Given the way they have played in the last month, I had little confidence that even should the Braves advance past the best team in baseball with a fluke win, that they'd have anything left in the tank to battle St. Louis. Once the game went extra innings, I began to think maybe it would just be better to end the suffering now rather than prolong the struggle of September. My wish was granted. The game shaped up to be so emblematic of the last part of this year's Braves season: little offense with runners in scoring position, a key error here, too many walks there, a blown save, a squib hit by the other team and suddenly the season was over.

I was sad for Atlanta, especially after such a close, competitive game. My small glimmers of hope that they could get back into an upswing just in time just didn't materialize. The old guys looked old (that's you, Chipper), the young guys looked tired and nervous (that's you Venters and Kimbrell). They just had nothing left in the emotional or physical tank, so they stumbled clumsily out of the playoffs. Meanwhile the team with the hot hand did their job with an exclamation point - big run total, complete game shutout from Carpenter.

At the close of the Braves game, I quickly turned to the other baseball, needing distraction. And thank God I did. I got to witness the other parts of what ESPN's Tim Kurkjian called one of the greatest nights of baseball he can remember. The Rays stormed back, the BoSox looked sure to close it out. So eerily similar though has their track with the Braves been this September, one had to wonder if their 3-2 lead...like Atlanta's...wasn't quite as secure as Papelbon's steely gaze. And indeed, it was not. And perhaps their 9th inning debacle was worse than the Braves' for they had 2 outs, and gave up both the tying, and winning run. Not to mention that they gave them up to a team that, unlike the Phillies, haven't seen the playoffs in years.

I posted on Facebook when the O's tied the game.
sorry Sox nation...but your misery is kinda making me feel better. kinda

At the time, I referred only to surrendering the tying run, and to their dismal September. I had no idea that about 3 minutes later the O's would score the winner, then a few minutes after that, the Ray's would score their winner. I had no idea the true misery that Boston would suffer within minutes. But to be honest, as a sad Braves fan, it helped lift my spirits. Like the same way that people with sad, hurt-filled lives watch sad, hurt-filled reality television because it makes their lot seem not quite so crazy. Or how I feel when I watch Hoarders. "Oh, well my house isn't THAT messy."

So, thank you Boston, for giving Braves fans the space to say, "Oh, well at least our team isn't THAT shameful."

Sure, my Bravos lost a big playoff lead, but with half the payroll of the Sox, with 2 starting pitchers injured for much of the season, other solid players nagged by injury, a young team and a new manager. I will not write them off, just like I haven't all the previous years of enduring dissapointing post-season losses, or like I never did after the 80's Braves were laughable in their awfulness. I still watched and cheered. And I will still look forward to those four beautiful words that signal the advent of Spring Training. "Pitchers and catchers report." It's not so very far away.

In the meantime, Go Phils (that's for Jeff) and Go Tigers (that's for my Michigan family...and all of Detroit really).

Worth a Look

2011-09-14T23:18:00.000-05:00

Somehow between my daughter's first day of "school," a girls weekend to Miami, the U.S. Open Finals, restart of Premiership and the 10th anniversary of 9/11 I've managed to have nothing profound or exciting to write. Or perhaps I've just been busy and satisfied at reading other people's thoughts.

So on that note, I would encourage readers to visit Rachel Held Evans' blog and peruse the "Ask a _____ " series. I haven't read all of them, but I have read enough to have great respect for both the readers kind, well-meaning questions, as well as the respondents honest answers. It's not a perfect tour of a variety of viewpoints, but a nice entree into conversations.

Here's the link to the most recent iteration, "Ask a Gay Christian." You'll find links there to all the other participant Q&A's.

Still Believing? (A Sports Post)

2011-09-06T23:44:00.000-05:00

Hey, remember when I enthusiastically heralded the Klinsmann era, and revealed my not-so-secret crush on the U.S. Men's National Team coach? It seems so very long ago. Two losses later, I guess I'm still Krushing on Klinsmann, but with a firm dose of reality. See, two losses and zero goals later, I'm realizing that no matter what kind of magic Jurgen can conjure he can't make up for the fact that our crop of players just isn't that good.

He was hired for this reason, and for that, I say give him time. The naysayers will bark about formation, style, personnel, but let's face it, some of the Belgian subs looked more active and threatening than the U.S. starters. Yes, we have our Donovan (whose impressive goal tally is largely PK's and who probably wouldn't start for a top-tier premiership team), Dempsey (won't dog him because he went to Furman and I like him), Boca and Cherundolo, and big supply of world class goalkeepers. But the supporting cast just aren't good enough.

Take the Belgian case. While the Flemish and Walloons squabble about language and frites, immigrant kids are busy playing pick-up in Brussels parking lots and parks. And they're the new national team. Still a young group, and by no means a European powerhouse, but that Belgian team showed players with individual skill that far outmatched most of what I saw from the Americans. And their team play wasn't too shabby either. Was it a "dominant" performance, as one writer called it, by the winners? No. Was it only a friendly, meaning result is less important that experience? Yes.

But it's a loss. And in watching the last two losses, I'm seeing why and how past teams have featured the defend-big and boot it forward method. Because we're just not there yet with the possession, slick passing game. Trying it with players that make poor first touches or innacurate passes can expose the team much more than the bunker-down, boot it forward method.

At the end of the day, I'm less annoyed with Jurgen, than with America. Maybe there's a someday when our immigrant kids who grew up kicking the ball around tennis courts and dirt patches will become the next hope.   I think Klinsmann is looking to that day (hence his insistence on playing an outmatched Edgar Castillo), but it does not seem quite here. With the possible exception of Texas-born Jose Torres. I've always been a fan, and am excited that Klinsmann sees what he can add. The potential of a Da Silva like playmaker with good skill, hustle, and poofy hair.

But for now, we may have to be patient with the good German, hopeful for a future with better players, kids who are hungry for success. Who eat, breathe and live the game.   Maybe the recent results are unimportant if Coach he has been just weeding out the no-go's to find the top tier. And maybe, when that top group all comes together for games that actually mean something, they'll figure out how to score goals. How to hold a lead. How to look dominant. Time will tell. But in the meantime, perhaps that open International Friendly date in November should be with some small island nation that we can easily trounce. Just a thought.

Dead Things in My Yard. For Real.

2011-08-23T22:01:00.000-05:00

Buckley dog was doing that terse, unsure barking last night. The kind that says, "I've got prey. I want to play with it, paw at it and such, but it's not moving." Bark. Bark. "MOVE, you stupid thing."

Our big Maglite is out of batteries, and missing. I was in pajamas and barefoot so wasn't going to wander into the backyard to inspect what Buckley was hunched over. I firmly yelled for him to come in immediately and to my surprise, he obliged. I made a quick mental note to check the yard in the morning before letting him back out.

I forgot to check in the morning. I wandered out on the back porch this evening with Hadley, then I saw it. The prey. Mouth agape, tiny teeth glowing, it's body rolled in red clay, and covered in flies. I dared not touch the baby possum, and thankfully, Buckley was disinterested now that it was dead and unmoving. With Hadley by my side I decided to return immediately inside and remove the carcass once she was in bed. I should note here that Jeff is out of town all week, so I'm Weaver Animal Control this week. Dangit.

Tonight, as the light faded, I shoveled up the body. Baked by the sun, eaten away and fly infested, the smell was putrid. I quickly headed for the back of the yard, intending to hurl the little wretch into our neighbor's yard. Yep. I'm that neighbor. I mean, not usually, but in this case I felt my reasoning sound: A. They're renters. B. the back corner of their yard is thickly overgrown and I'm sure no one goes back there since their children are older and they don't have pets. C. Since we have a clumsy dog who roams our yard looking for things, I shudder to think of the smell of his paws were he to accidentally step on the carcass, or God forbid, try to nuzzle it some more to try to bring it to life.

One flick of the shovel sent the little guy flying toward the neighboring underbrush. But he hit a branch mid-flight and landed in thick ivy, on our side of the fence, in the very area where Buckley likes to roam around. See, if Jeff would have been here, I would not have dealt with any of this. As it was, my dead-possum juice covered shovel was making me gag already, and now I would have to go dig the thing out of the ivy for a second attempt. Well the dang shovel kept snagging in the ivy, flinging the crumpled little beast here and there, spraying his stink around the edge of our yard. Finally a clean pull, a furtive flick over the fence and the pest was gone. But his odor lingered.

I sure hope Jeff is happy. All his frolicking around Utah's canyons while I'm dealing with stinky dead things. Blech. I much prefer the sight of a dead zucchini plant to that grossness.

What would you have done with the dead possum? Should I bring the neighbors cookies, just because?

Passive Aggressive Notes - Home Edition

2011-08-19T13:33:00.000-05:00

This is a spray bottle of cleaner that I use around the house. I mix it from a concentrate, but have marked the bottle so we know what it is. It has a lovely fresh lemon scent.

I have a habit of leave the bottle out on the counter instead of putting it away. Most often this is because I intend to use it again somewhere, then forget or get distracted by another pressing issue, say, a toddler falling down the stairs or something. Or its because I'm too lazy to pry the child lock off the under-sink cabinet. My propensity for leaving out the Meyers spray frustrates Jeff. I'm sure it's in an endearing way, like, "aww, that silly Katie always leaves the cleaning spray and aluminum foil out. I'd sure miss that little quirk if she weren't around." Right? I'm sure it's endearing...
One day I came home to find that Meyer's cleaner had a new label:

Poor Spray, feels so abandoned on the counter, must have note instructing user what to do when user is finished. I now refer to the Meyers as "Put Me Away Spray." With this new moniker and new directive, I have gotten better about actually putting Spray away. But clearly I've not been good enough. My sickness must run deep, for I recently found this NEWER label written on the bottle:

Such high stakes now, with this new (passive?) aggressive note. I like to think I put Spray away even more often now. But my record is not peerless. Now, if Jeff sees "IfYouHateJeff" Spray out, he just lets out a beleaguered sigh.

The bottle is running out of room for labels, but what note would you leave to get the Spray put away?

Dead Things In My Yard

2011-08-18T14:59:00.001-05:00

Call me what you will, "Brown Thumb," "Agent Orange," not in touch with my inner-Eve...er, I mean, can I even use that one now? Now that apparently she's not real anymore? Regardless of the metaphor, the end result is that I don't do well with caring for the earth's bounty. I wrote about my battle with the earth in more detail a few months ago, and THAT was when the weather was bearable. So here I am, nearing the end of summer, still wanting to be an uber-spiritual, in-touch with the earth, steward of God's creation, but confessing that I just tend to kill things.

I have a friend who swears she has that effect on ministries. Her heart is so big and willing to help people and affect changed, but, as she would tell it, things just tend to die when she comes on board. She calls herself a "Ministry Albatross." While I enjoy that metaphor, I try to assure her that it's not entirely true (though we can chuckle and list quite a few examples of her hypothesis). However, there is no denying my fatal effect on plantlife (and probably some ministries). Sad green and brown skeletons litter the grounds of my home. And now some photographic evidence that though I love the earth, I'm not the best at caring for it. Does God redeem our intentions?

Dead Basil. Probably could revive it with water. Maybe.

This used to be an English Laurel. Where decorative plants have languished, weeds and pesky growth have flourished.

Foreground: Zucchini Plant. Yielded approximately 2 before it's untimely death. Background: Dead carrots, and other stuff.

Dying Boston Fern. Dying other plant. (Remaining flowering plant is fake.)


Dead flat-leaf parsley. I came to water it the other day and it was covered with caterpillars. This was the net result.

Streaking

2011-08-15T21:20:00.001-05:00

Yesterday, the 2nd basemen with the awkwardly large upper body had his hit streak snapped at 33 games. That player, of course, is Dan Uggla who plays for my home team Braves. It's always nice to have a home-towner getting press from such a streak as his, but I honestly can't say I wanted him to break the great DiMaggio's streak. I mean, Uggla went into it hitting under .200, his own streak of miserable hitting had earned him the name "StrUggla."   But he turned it around, and raised his average like 30 points and has helped the Braves win, but still be almost out of spittin' distance with the insanely winning Phillies.

Sports, and baseball in particular, is a stats-driven game. What would it all be without the numbers to tell us who is good and who needs improvement? How else would we compare athletes from one generation to the next? For what other purpose would Fox use their over-the-top animation graphics?   Goalkeepers can have a shut-out streaks, a basketball player may make 25 straight free throws, a quarterback can have a streak of completed passes, what kind of streaks to I aim for in my non stats-driven world?   What is the measure of sucess on a day to day basis for Joe Everyman?   What could I do 33 days in a row that would be record-book worthy?

Hm....If I made home-cooked dinner for 33 days straight, that'd be impressive. If I made a home-cooked, from scratch dinner for 3 days straight that would be a feat. I'm thinking of the DiMaggios in this realm, the marathoners who feed their families multi-colored plates of goodness every night. Now that's a streak.   Or what if I had a streak where I responded to all emails within 24 hours for 33 straight days. It would be unbelievable, SportsCenter worthy, right?

What would your streak be? What would be a feat for you to do for 33 straight days?

Oh, More Mr. Nice Guy?

2011-08-11T13:49:00.001-05:00

Last night while watching the pre and post-game commentary and interviews surrounding the U.S. Men's National Team Friendly against Mexico, I was struck with how NICE Jurgen Klinsmann seems. The recently hired head coach was utterly positive after a very lackluster first half performance by his new team. He smiled comfortably, vowing that there was still time to play, saying he was pleased with how things had gone for the first 45.

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Drew Hallowell/Getty Images

(Womanly Aside)

But, oh, that smile. Here's a little tidbit overheard in the Weaver living room last night before kick-off. Me: "Ya know, I think I have a little crush on Jurgen Klinsmann." Jeff: "Yea, me too."

Hm, okay, well that was easy. Like Jurgen is easy on the eyes I guess. I don't know whether it's that aformentioned smile that exudes a coolness and nonplussed confidence, or whether its the physique that leads one to believe he could still keep up with the pros in a pick-up game. Maybe it's the European tan, the steely eyes or the German accent, now heavily Americanized.

"He looks like my people," I said to Jeff last night. And maybe that's it, strangely, that his German features are so very similar to my Uncle, Father, Grandfather and so on that they seem comfortable to me. Not exotic, just ruggedly good looking like my Uncle was at his age. Add to that his impressive soccer lineage, and my hopes for his impact on my home-country's national program and well, there's magnetism.

The only thing I find slightly worrisome about any of this discussion, however, is that my attractions are now turning from players to coaches. Lord, am I getting that old? I remember going to England in 1999 and seeing a post-card of Michael Owen in his England kit and having an instant crush on him. I bought the postcard, hung it in my college apartment for several months after returning. Sure, I still think he's great looking, but now I also pine after Klinsmann, Leonardo, Guardiola? Yea, I'll admit it, I even think Mourinho is attractive. You younguns can have your Jack Wilshere's and Chicharitos, I apparently am moving on to the old guys. Sheesh.

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Kinsmann's smiling and positivity before, during and after the game wasn't in pure opposition to his predecessor, it just had added notes of positivity. Perhaps because he had more inflection in his voice than a Speak N Spell, something which Bob Bradley usually lacked. But my first thought upon hearind Klinsmann during his half-time interview was how much it reminded me of Pia Sundhage, another tanned European U.S. National Team coach.

Commentators seemed often bemused by Sundage's positivity during the Women's World Cup, even in the face of poor play, or frustrating calls. But by the end of the tournament, we all expected it, and for me personally, quite liked it. The the key result for Sundhage wasn't to ensure that critics and fans liked her glass-half-full approach, but to ensure that her team responded to it. And they did, in a World Cup Final kind of way.

So does all this happy-clappy on the sidelines represent a turning-tide in sport from the rough-and-tumble venom-spewing macho-men inciting fear in their players? Are we past the days of the Woody Hayes', Bear Bryants, by God, the Bo Schembechlers ? Sure, maybe the gridiron is different, but maybe not. Perhaps even the tough-as-nails ranks of college and professional football are falling prey to the nice guy epidemic. Are we in for more Tony Dungy mentor-types? More Mark Richt's. Sure, they might yell at you in the locker room, but then they pass you a note with an encouraging bible verse and ask about how your sick grandmother is doing. These guys are positive, kumbah-ya coaches and players like playing for them.

Shiny Happy Players

The Wall Street Journal featured a marginally scientific inquiry into the amount of body contact done by NBA playoff teams as it relate to their success. Wouldn't you know it that the Dallas Mavericks, the most affectionately touchy team on the court went on to win the big trophy. Those guys were always hugging, butt-patting, chest bumping and high-fiving. Clearly, positivity pays. (Interesting note that one of the ring-leaders in this hug-fest was German star Dirk Nowitski. Maybe we'd all be happier if we ate more brats and drank more beer. Hm.)

I've seen this happy trend on the Braves bench this year, too. The team is transitioning from future hall-of-fame manager Bobby Cox, one of the planets most fantastically lovable, crotchety old guys to Fredi Gonzalez, a smiley, portly, low-key latino whose first name ends in "i" (seriously? Does he dot it with a heart? ). And you know what I've noticed this year? More hugging. Sure, we loved Bobby's dirt-kicking, spitting, red-faced antics, but maybe Fredi's laid-back style is bringing a new sensibility to even the dirtiest, manliest place on earth - the baseball dugout.

Wednesday night at the U.S. - Mexico game, there was an awful lot of hugging. Coach on coach hugging. Player on player, coach on player etc. Klinsmann's first reaction in the post-game interview: "I really had fun." What coach says that? And after a tie no less. But you could tell he meant every word of it. That positivity seemed to trickle down to his players, even 11 days in. I'm pretty sure I saw him tell sub Ricardo Clark (who plays in Germany) to "Mach SpaB" (that means "have fun" in German) as he ran onto the field. Macht SpaB, eh? Naturlisch.

So, whether or not we are in a new Nice-guy era of sport, U.S. soccer is at least in a slightly upgraded version of that with Herr Kinsmann. And I'd be happy and proud to find myself in the middle of that hug-fest. Ja? Bitte?

In Georgia Augusts, I Dream of Seattle

2011-08-09T22:00:00.002-05:00

Nothing makes me long for the Pacific Northwest more than late summer in Atlanta. By this time of year my patience is worn thin with sticky mornings and evenings, and unbearable afternoons littered with thunderstorms that seem to do nothing to break the humidity's stranglehold. But yet, every third day or so by this time of year, you catch a fleeting breeze that cools, that doesn't carry the burden of 70% water. It sneaks in, cools your face and sends a reminder of what summer in Seattle can feel like.

Three years ago, in an August much like this one, Jeff and I headed west to visit family, soak in nature, and cool our internal temperatures a few degrees. We hiked, strolled, boated, ate and played frisbee in beautiful places. We had sun, drizzle, downpours, fog, sometimes in the same day. We loved it.

While I toil to till the parched earth of our fledgling garden and rue the damage that critters have wrought on everything but the zucchini (it just died from lack of water. Sorry old boy.), I think of my uncle's garden in Kent. How plump and delicious the blueberries were as I picked hundreds of them, my mouth watering in anticipation of eating every one. I think of how awestruck I was by the massive, "pesky" weed of a blackberry bush gone rampant across from Uncle Bernie and Aunt Karen's house. I had to run back to the house for buckets, tupperware, whatever I could grab that would hold the bounty of those deep purple blackberries. My Aunt and Uncle seemed indifferent to my collecting the sweet fruit, while I acted as if I'd never seen a bush nor tree bear anything but leaves in my life. That is Seattle, bountiful in rain, thereby bountiful in beautiful flowers, summer fruits and vegetables and rich green grass. The reward of the gloom I suppose.

So as I wallow in the heat of Georgia's August, I dream of Seattle, and Vancouver and the San Juans, and how one day I'll show Hadley these places because they are so stunningly beautiful.

Points if you can name where each of the following was taken. (and if you guess "Katie's Uncle's back yard" on that last one, you're genius)

Stages of Conversion

2011-08-08T22:40:00.001-05:00

I'm completely lifting this from someone who lifted this from someone who lifted this. I'm not sure what the blogosphere / social networking term for all that is, but it may involve more hat tips than a debutante ball.

I picked it up from Pithless Thoughts, a very funny, honest blogger who I check in on once in a while. He is an Orthodox Christian, and I believe perhaps the original poster is as well; however, I'm sure that believers of all shapes and stripes have seen this process, at least a few stages through. I know I have, probably several times. Have you?

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(from Steve at Pithless Thoughts )

Stages of Conversion

I don't think I have ever lifted a complete blog post from someone else's blog (though I've quoted and recommended a few... very few). Silouan posted this on Facebook and I read it. It is about the process of "converting", something many or most of us have done. I'm posting it because I don't want to take the chance that you won't take time to click the link.

Wisdom, let us attend!
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It doesn't seem to matter what version of the Christian faith you join, because this seems to be a near-universal process:

Phase 1: The Cage Phase
So you've found your new tradition, and you've finally discovered all the answers to life's problems encompassed within it. You've also read a few books that explain how every other Christian tradition (especially the one you just left) has absolutely ruined the piss out of the Christian faith as a whole. As God's apostle to the unconverted, it now falls upon you to save the world (especially your friends and family in the old tradition) by enlightening them as to just how perfect everything is about your new tradition and how stupid and wrong everything about their current tradition is. It is very important for you to have a blog during this time so that you can enlighten as many people as possible.

Phase 2: Addiction
After having ruined all your relationships from your past life, you are now disillusioned with the willful ignorance and impiety of all those outside your new church. Let the heretics stew in their heresy. It is now time to busy yourself with drinking as much religious Kool-Ade as you possibly can, preferably until your skin becomes the same color as Purplesaurus Rex and your body's pH levels are completely thrown off. You need to read every theological or devotional book you can, buy lots of the assorted trinkets associated with your tradition, and make lots of pilgrimages to either theology conferences or monasteries, depending on how your church rolls.

Phase 3: Apostle of Renewal
You've recently noticed that most of the other people in your church are not nearly as obsessed with it as you are. They aren't reading those books, and they aren't buying all that crap you've strewn your house with. They're more concerned with paying the bills than why those awful sectarians are wrong. They even have friends outside the church! Many of them are not aware just how right and perfect their church is, or how great their lives would be if they would just fling themselves with total abandon into the kind of obsession you yourself have. This is clearly a problem that must be fixed, for it threatens to destroy the purity of the faith. As God's chosen agent of change, you busy yourself with trying to whip up everyone in the congregation into the same frothing devotion you yourself exhibit.

Phase 4: Beaten by Reality
You've finally faced the harsh truth: The people in your new tradition are, at their core, a whole lot like all those people from your old tradition that you despised so much, with all the same foibles and failings. You give up on saving the world, on restoring your tradition to its purity, and have lost your confidence that God himself has appointed you to fix everything. You've discovered that your new church in fact has a lot of ugliness in its history, has a lot of jerks in its power structure, can't solve all of life's problems, and isn't always all that consistent or believable in what it teaches or what it does.

Phase 5, Option 1: The Rat Leaves the Ship
Clearly, you were had. You thought you had found the One True Perfect Tradition, but you were deceived. You know what you must do--find the tradition that really does get it all right, because it must be out there. Back to Phase 1 for you!

Phase 5, Option 2: Complete Disillusionment
You have realized, perhaps after going through this cycle several times, that you are perhaps the only sincere, thinking Christian in the world. Everyone else is a hypocrite or a dunce, and all these corrupt denominations and hierarchies have ever accomplished is completely screwing up everything. Completely embittered at the idea of organized religion, you isolate yourself in order to go be a true follower of Christ without all those awful other people screwing things up. If you meet some like-minded folk, you start meeting up with them in order to transcend organized religion by organizing a religion. It's very likely that you eventually realize that all religious people are deluded fools and become an atheist or agnostic.

Phase 5, Option 3: Partial Disillusionment and Accommodation
After facing the harsh reality in Phase 4, you've further realized that phases 1 through 3 ought to be renamed "Jackass," "Nutjob," and "Know-it-All," respectively, which suggests that you are, for the most part, much worse at being a decent human being than all those people too stupid and impious to realize how awesome your new religion is. While many of the reasons that you had for joining your current tradition remain, and thus so do you, you decide it's time to cut yourself, your church, everyone else's churches, and rest of the world some slack.

Instant Replay

2011-07-27T13:36:00.000-05:00

Last night's 19 inning marathon of a baseball game between the Braves and the Pirates not only gave baseball fans something to talk about for it's longevity, but gave way to a fresh new debate on the use of replay in baseball. Fortunately, my team, the Braves, were on the lucky end of the questionable (okay, flat wrong) call, but as a game-decider it is unfortunate it had to come down to one man's split-second decision based on eyes that must have been tired after over 6 hours of calling balls and strikes.

So what is baseball to do with this quandary. Always one to hold out in the wake of technology's onslaught, America's game still holds to it's traditions. But when a call can mean a win or a loss, is it worthwhile to use technology? Before I speculate further on whether baseball should go 21st century, I"ll comment briefly on a few other sports and use of replay.

Football. The use of instant replay is so annoying in football, particularly the NFL (I can't even think of what the CFB rules are on replay). That is not to say I don't think it's important, but more that I value my Sunday afternoons too much to have games last for 4 hours because guys in stripes are huddled under dark hoods for 15% of the time. Maybe, just maybe, replay adds to the suspense of the game, but it also adds on precious minutes to a game that last for hours but where only a small percentage of those hours are actually people playing football. The challenge system is a decent way to reign in the chaos of having open season on every close call, so for that I'm thankful, but in a game like football, you win some, you lose some, just let them play.

Soccer. For being as pitifully (at least according to most American sports fans) low scoring a sport as soccer is, it is inbelievably intense for that same reason. One goal can make the difference in a game, and often does. For this reason, I am wholly in favor of using technology for goal-line calls. That soccer has lagged on this for as many years as it has when similarly goal-scant sports like pro hockey have had it for a while is puzzling. Perhaps the fear is that using replay would interfere with one of soccer's greatest strengths, it's predictable time-frame. Games last 2 hours. That's it. Tournament games can have overtimes, but even then, the utilization of penalty kicks still puts a firm end to the contest (different argument for a different day). Since goals are so scarce, I feel that simply adding goal-line technology would do little to slow the pace or tempo of the game. Were technology to be expanded in soccer, the next logical tiers would be to add off-side "invisible lines" which could simply buzz a line-judge if he missed a call. That's do-able right? The second use, which would likely involve replay, would be on corner vs. goal kicks. Because set pieces can change games, and who kicked a ball out of bounds isn't so much a judgment call (as it would be with say, a trip or a handball), I can see an argument for using technology there. But in all, I like the flow of soccer without over-teching it, save on goal-line calls.

Tennis. Love technology in tennis. Those nifty shot-spots are quick, conclusive and truly can affect match outcomes. Allotting a certain number of challenges to players means its not a line-call free-for-all, but that at key stages, a player can question the ability of a line-judge standing 8-10 feet from where a 130mph serve hits the court.

So back to baseball. As America's game loses traction to college and pro football, both of which have replay, adding some technology could help with fan rapport. Plus, games are already long, so what's a few extra minutes to ensure a call is right. From an umpire's perspective, while the use of replay may be a ding to my pride, ultimately it would also take some weight off my shoulders. Don't you think that 1st base ump who missed the out call, thereby thwarting a kid's no-hitter chance would have liked some back-up? If last night's umpire knew that replay technology was part of the game, he might not feel so bad this morning.

I have the utmost respect for officials in every professional sport (Women's World Cup officials not withstanding), and particularly for baseball umpires. I find it astounding that over more than a century of close calls, those guys have gotten it right about 90% of the time, maybe more. But they get it wrong a few times, which is why I think I'm in favor of replay for base calls. Balls and strikes, no way, lets keep SOME drama in the game. But because of the importance of runners on base, allow managers challenges, just like in the NFL.

I would only hope that said challenge system would not do away with portly guys over 50 in tight pants waddling out of their respective dugouts to get in the face of umpires. Because that is a classic part of baseball that no gentleman (or lady ) would want to lose.

What are your thoughts on instant replay / technology in baseball ?

Perspective

2011-07-18T14:59:00.000-05:00

My love of sports is both a blessing and a curse.
Most acutely on days like today.

Let me explain. The U.S. Women's soccer team has given soccer a front page billing for the past few weeks and given me a reason to delight again and again in the joy of sport. Their 11th hour comeback against Brazil, their thorough defeat of a resilient French team; it all seemed to be a perfect segue for a championship. But they lost, after dominating the game against a smaller, overmatched Japan team, somehow they lost. I left the house with 15 minutes to play, the girls up 2 goals to 1 in the second overtime. I headed to a tennis match. And while the fate of the US soccer team unravelled, my tennis-playing fate soon followed. Up 5-0 in the decisive 3rd set, my partner and I somehow then lost 5 consequetive games, ultimately losing in a tie-breaker.

I wanted so desperately to throw things, storm off, because really I made too many errors. Just tooooo many errors particularly down that stretch. Ugh, it's so massively frustrating because of the high respect and love I have for sport. That when I fail, choke, crumble. It's devastating.

I returned with great hope, to finish out the rest of the recorded soccer match and at least have something to celebrate. But another collapse played out in front of me. I suppose the blow was not so harsh watching it on tape, but the message was clear. Sport deals harsh blows as much as it deals great glory. Now I think back on the 2 sporting collapses tonight and feel gutted. Betrayed by the thing that I love so much. But I suppose that's what love is, and what it means sometimes: failure, redemption and everything in between.

But while I feel depressed by losses, I'm reminded of friends and family whose life has dealt them anguish that sport has only temporarily inflicted on me today. Broken marriages, illness, the loss of loved ones seem to abound when you've walked this planet long enough, and most particularly of late.

When sport, or even life deals me blows that leave me scowling or frustrated, I can't help but look to the things I'm thankful for. As I came in the house from my match, my precious daughter was there smiling and saying "Mommy!" She had been well-cared-for by my dear husband while I was gone. And this made me very happy. I held her tight and felt the rush of anger and aggression I had experienced moments earlier just dissipate.

The U.S. lost to a Japan team whose nation still reels from loss, destruction and heartbreak wrought by the spring tsunami. If anyone has perspective on sport, it is that team. I'm glad that for these moments and days to come they can celebrate with their teammates and countrymen the joy and unity of sport. I'm sad it's at my teams expense, but that's the way it goes sometimes in life and in sport.

Journals on Journeys

2011-04-18T21:14:00.000-05:00

It is Monday of Holy Week. The end of this fast and season seemed so far away a few weeks ago, it's hard to believe it's already just a few days before Good Friday. As usual, I feel not as entered in as I'd like. My great intentions for shutting down Facebook, Twitter, and constant gazing at my phone have been rationalized away so not much is different I suppose from last week.

I do feel a bit of the added weight to pray. I feel more a draw to silence. And I've been reflective. In particular, these past 2 days have been a picture of reminiscing. We went yesterday to St. Patrick's Episcopal church. I grew up in that church. I was baptized there, went to Sunday school there, had first communion, first children's play, first friends, first youth group, all that stuff. There. In that early-80's "modern" building with the courtyard and the giant Jesus. Then one day it was all over. Our summer of discontent, or rather, my parents' summer of discontent abruptly ended our life at the only church we'd known. Their views too liberal, their leadership to haughty, whatever it was, we were out, and with us several other families, and eventually many of the youth leaders and peers I'd known. The classic church split. I did okay, I was sad I couldn't go back to the EYC room anymore, but our newly forming church made of the rebellious defectors was a neat experience for me, in its own right.

But being back on Sunday brought back sadness, memories of lock-ins and bible studies and our Montessori Sunday school. I still remember the blue walls, toddling around from station to station. And I remember the painting of Jesus with all the little children coming to him. (it was always a bit of an artsy fartsy church). The building is nearly unchanged, save some additional Celtic paraphernalia, and by God, some icons. Score. Definitely didn't have those when we were there, I think the St. Patrick icon now presides in the nook formerly reserved for that (in)famous 70's laughing Jesus drawing.

There was less charisma this time around. For better or for worse, the congregation seems to have evolved out of that a bit. Not that it was staunch and southern Episcopalian, but it wasn't hands-raising, tongues-speaking, words-of-knowledge charismatic. But I still recognized a dozen faces. Faces more seasoned than I remember them, with more salt than pepper in their hair, but familiar no less.

Memories. Bad ones faded, good ones flood back, and I chuckle at the comedy of what-ifs. What if we wound up back there. On this wacky journey of faith and church that we are on. (could I ever tell my parents!?). They certainly were more scarred from the battles than I.

And today, as I rolled yesterday's palm Sunday experience around like stones in my hand, I ran into an old friend. A friend of the blissful Redeemer days. Those days when I met Jesus in a new and different way, when the Gospel came alive. When this guy with a handlebar moustache and veiny forearms demonstrated such love and openness I couldn't believe it. And there he was in Trader Joe's, sans the moustache, but still with the lines of time and experience on his face, and designer pants. Yes, I've seen him now and again since he was fired from Redeemer. Even since he separated from my friend Lauren. But today brought back this hint of certain joy that I once had about church and community. Upon reflection, that joy has given way to sadness that I don't have that same affection any longer. But I love the memories of those times - my courtship with Jeff, Twister at Susan's apartment, Abby, the Portico, worship in the Chamblee UMC gym, John Thomas, the DeLoach's spooky artwork, walking to church, community weekends in highlands talking about Dallas Willard and Kierkegard, etc., etc.

Journey's go on, and sadness happens, and leavings happen, and, as Greg said today, God is SO patient. When we want it Now Now, He sees the bigger picture. In this bigger picture I have lots of fond memories, and I have to believe there are more still, even as I struggle to see what is immediately ahead.

Is there a place that is particularly poignant as a marker in your journey?

Vinyl

2011-04-16T20:51:00.000-05:00

Today is “Record Store Day,” commemorating all the independent record stores out there, and folks who are, presumably, still selling records. Those honest-to-god vinyl spherical objects with lots of tiny ridges. It’s got me thinking about records: the first record I heard, the ones I played all the time and what is in my digital collection now that would sound amazing on vinyl.

I think that the first vinyl I ever heard was Mr. Sandman by the Chordettes. My mom had this collection of 45’s that I’d give anything for now. Beach boys, Buddy Holly, Jerry Lee Lewis. God, what happen to those 45’s? I think she had a little 45 player, too. It opened at the top like a jewelry box and was maroon on the inside.

When I was older, we’d listen to records on the “nice” stereo. I think my dad brought it into the marriage. My parents record collection was varied to be sure. As a kid, I mostly liked the showtunes, like Oklahoma! and Carousel and Guys and Dolls. I would leaf through those big square record jackets and look at the ones that looked interesting. In between the Streisand and Johnny Mathis, I pulled the Mamas and the Pappas, all nestled so cutely in their little bathtub on the cover. And Janis Joplin, this funky looking brunette lounging on a couch holding a SoCo on ice, who I discovered had soul like I’d never heard before. When the record player got moved from the family room to the upstairs, I’d sit up there in the old mustard-color lounge chair and listen to Janis, and Simon and Garfunkel, and the Hair Soundtrack, and feel entirely hippie and cool.

But it was more than feeling cool, I like to think that good music transcends generations. I must have know somewhere in me that what I was hearing was GOOD music.

The first vinyl I ever bought with my own money was Pink Floyd’s Darkside of the Moon. Looking back, I love how vinyls lent themselves to listening to a whole album. And that is a great album. It was work to switch from song to song. You couldn’t just skip to the big hits, when you had a vinyl you had an album, crafted by the artist as such. I surely age myself by lamenting what we’ve lost with music’s digital age, but there’s just something warm about a record.

Thinking about my current collection of digitized music, albums numbering in the hundreds, there are some that I’d love to hear on vinyl. Probably anything Radiohead would take on a ethereal stripped of digital fanciness. Artists like Iron & Wine or Nick Drake seem almost made for the analog simplicity of vinyl. I’d like to hear that. And of course anything Beastie Boys, mostly just because they’d want to be heard on vinyl.

What was the first record you remember hearing? Buying?
What’s in your collection that would sound better on vinyl?

Buckley O'Weaver

2011-03-16T21:37:00.001-05:00

As we lead up to St. Patrick's day, I felt it appropriate to do a tribute post to the Irishman in the house....our dog.

Here reads the description of the Soft Coated Wheaten Terrier from the AKC website (emphasis added):

A truly Irish breed, the "Wheaten" has a special connection to St. Patrick's Day, having first appeared in the show ring at the Irish Kennel Club Championship on March 17, 1937. The name of this breed describes the characteristics of the coat–soft, silky, with a gentle wave, and of warm wheaten color.

Underneath is a formidable dog that enjoys plenty of exercise every day. Most Wheatens are natural greeters towards people, and extremely alert in their surroundings. They are quick learners and love to travel with their owners. The Soft Coated Wheaten Terrier was first recognized by the AKC in 1973.

Known for more than 200 years in Ireland, the "Wheaten" shares common ancestry with the Kerry Blue and the Irish Terrier, but was not owned by the landed gentry. They were the poor man's dog, an all-purpose farm dog, given to patrolling the borders of small farms, ridding them of vermin, herding sheep and hunting with his master.

Wheatens tend to be less scrappy than other terriers but they are true terriers and will be more active than many other breeds, enjoying plenty of exercise every day. They relate well to children and can adapt to city, country, and suburban life. The Wheaten is single coated and sheds minimally, but needs regular grooming to keep its coat mat free.

Clearly we picked the right breed for our family since we are not, in fact, landed gentry (despite the fact that we currently own 2 properties. Ugh. More on that another time). Buckley has been a fantastic dog for us, first as a newlyweds, then as parents of a baby, now toddler. He is exceptional with our little girl, and she loves him. In fact, every morning, when her fussing gets loud enough to rouse me from slumber, I go into her room, pull her out of her crib and the first thing she says is not "mama!" or "baba (bottle)", it's "woof woof."

Descriptions are correct that this breed needs lots of activity. Even from his youngest days he has been a great walking, jogging and hiking companion with seeming boundless energy. The downside to that energy is that he has always been a leash puller, despite our best (well, sort of ) efforts at training. And his energy is only limited by the temperature and length of his coat. See, Wheatens, or at least our Wheaten, get uncomfortably hot pretty easily. One sunny Saturday, we took young Buckley to a hike up Blood Mountain. Once we'd reached the top, poor pup was hot and thirsty, seeking water at any cost. He found a small, stagnant mud puddle and proceeded to roll himself completely around in the gray soupy muck, much to the chagrin of passers-by. We were frozen, wanting to pull his squirmy body out of the nastiness, yet entranced by the spectacle. Gosh he was dirty after that. That's our Buckley, sad eyes, playful heart.

Happy St. Patrick's Day to our little Irishman. Maybe we'll give him a sip of beer tomorrow....just to watch him sneeze. Works every time.

Will you be celebrating your Irish Heritage on the 17th...or just wearing green so you don't get hassled by co-workers and store clerks?

Woman Vs. Nature

2011-03-14T08:01:00.001-05:00

The weather was stunningly beautiful in Georgia this weekend. It's that time of year here when the mornings and evenings are cool enough where you wish you had an extra layer when you go to your friends house for a cookout. The days are warm in the sun, cool in the shade, and the pollen isn't so thick that you feel like you're breathing through cheesecloth. That time will come...soon. For weeks in the spring, and a few weeks in the fall, my husband and I quell our "Atlanta sucks" grumbles and enjoy weekends like this one.

After a couple hours of pick-up soccer with our regular Saturday crew, my body ached a bit, yet somehow because of the blissfully sunny, temperate day, I was motivated to do yard work. I have an odd relationship to yard work, not unlike my relationship to running, I suppose. I feel good and satisfied when it's over, but I don't really enjoy myself while I'm doing it. I so want to be the person whose soul is deeply satisfied by digging in rich soil, pulling weeds, mowing lawns, raking leaves. I want to love nature and feel in harmony with it, not at war, as I often do when I'm bagging endless piles of leaves. On paper, I should really enjoy yardwork: I'm a self-confessed tough-girl, love the outdoors, hiking, etc. I grew up in the country (that is now more suburb than woodlands, but that's another story) running around barefooted in creeks and leafpiles. I love sports and physical exercise, but doggone if working in the yard doesn't just make me feel itchy and sweaty. My husband would be the first to attest at my absolute prissy attitude toward anything resembling outdoor chores. I huff and puff with the lawnmower cutting uneven rows, grumbling about how sweaty I'm getting. I hate getting scrapes and burns from pulling underbrush and thistles. My back aches after planting flowers. Bagging leaves, the chore which I so heroically took on Saturday, is a total drag. But, determined to conquer my bad attitude, I marched up the hill like the Grand Old Duke of York, hoping and praying Jeff would see my self-sacrifice and be impressed with my valor. Trying to look muscly and tough, my workrate was really quite paltry. I think I filled 5 or 6 bags, but not without knocking them over, bending the sides with the rake so the big bundle you have squeezed between rake surface and (elbow-length gloved) hand goes careening over the side of the toddling bag and back to the ground. Boo.

I hope I will grow to appreciate tilling the soil and working the land. It's quite Biblical (like as in, God cursed Adam with the duty after he ate the dadgum apple and blamed Eve). But perhaps I need a few more years of wisdom. I think of my grandparents and how Grandpa Evan would spend hours chopping logs. He built up a woodpile the size of a school bus and he must've figured axe therapy was a hell of a lot cheaper than paying a shrink. AND, you could have endless hours of warmth in the hearth. My Oma in Michigan had a cherry tree in her back yard that she would tend to and yield gorgeous fruit from. She took pride in her beautiful rosebushes that lined the fence. Yes I hope for that patient wisdom that desires to garden, with all it's joys and frustrations. But for now, I just have to confess that this prissy missy would MUCH rather be playing soccer on Saturdays than getting pesky dirt under my fingernails.

Theology Thursday: Lent and Parenting

2011-03-10T09:38:00.001-05:00

I remembered! It's Thursday, and while I'd planned to do some sort of more focused Lent-related post today - You know, why do it, some good resources, etc. - I will instead share a journal entry I made this morning.

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Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and do not rely on your own insight. In all your ways acknowledge him, and he will make straight your paths. Be not wise in your own eyes; fear the Lord, and turn away from evil. It will be healing to your flesh and refreshment to your bones. - Prov 3

One of today's readings, and SUCH a familiar passage, but one we need to say to ourselves every hour probably. There is too much that I fret about, try to control, or think I am wise about. Yes, He has enabled me some wisdom, but His is infinitely greater.

Parenting is humbling, and an arena wherein I trust God too little, nor do I trust myself much, honestly. The past week or so has been trying as our little 15 month old has more an more of a mind of her own, and has been especially whiny and needy. Her naps have been sporadic, and her night sleep on occasion as well. Of course poor sleep begets poor sleep and makes little babies fussy. Whether it’s teething, pollen, bad parenting or just a phase, I have felt anger well up in me this week that has surprised me.

Yesterday, the first day that we took on the discipline of our Lenten fast, is of course when I was stretched by her. It was rainy and gloomy, I was hungry much of the day, Jeff had a late meeting so was not home until after she was in bed. At some point in the afternoon, I attempted (for a second time) to put her down for a nap. I KNEW she was tired, and I had loads of things to do but she just cried and stomped and would NOT sleep. I jerked open the door to her room and yelled “what!” We were both taken aback I think, She stopped her whining for a moment and I felt immediately awful and morphed into kinder tones. But inside, oh inside my blood was boiling, and I'm pretty sure I hated her in that moment.

Whether it was the enemy’s temptations on our first day of Lent, or God’s tender discipline and exposing of my heart I know not, but I am yet again reminded how much I need Him. Later we took a trip to the gym just so I could put her in the childcare and get a breather for an hour. When I picked her up she started crying and didn’t stop until we were home. The anger and bitterness started to well up yet again, even after listening to an hour podcast on the Purpose of Lent and getting me all pumped up! Of course in hindsight, it seems one of the purposes of Lent is exactly that, to expose our hidden anger, bitterness and pride. But dang, day 1, really!?

I dreaded the evening ahead, counting the hours until Jeff got home and I could shower or just be away. But you know, after she had a snack and some milk, she turned a corner. Suddenly she was my sweet little girl again and we just rolled on the floor and I tickled her til she couldn’t control her giggles. It was incredibly sweet, a moment of clarity within my little doom loop. Despite the struggles, she brings us great joy and I’m so thankful.

Lesson learned. For now. I'm sure it will be promptly forgotten if the same thing happens next week. So a final Theology Thursday point to that ends: we need Lent, and other holidays and feasts that happen every year, over and over again like the seasons. Our memories are incredibly short, at least mine is.

Anniversary

2011-03-08T23:24:00.000-05:00

Jeff and I got married seven March 6ths ago. While we've never been big on celebrations, we felt like this one needed some extra love. Seven years and one baby in we decided on a little getaway. Not too far, so as to burden any friend or family member with caring for our baby for too long, but away enough to feel...away. It's amazing what thrills you when you become a parent, and this anniversary weekend for me, was completely emblematic of what its like to celebrate US as we are now, still in love, but in very different ways than we were 7 years ago.

What Would You Do With a Free Day?

Our actual anniversary fell on Sunday, so we decided to celebrate Saturday night. But first, the weekend kicked off with me getting a day to myself. Jeff took off work and agreed to keep Hadley all day Friday. I left fairly early, contented to sip coffee and read the paper in peace at a local coffee shop (insert quick trip to tag office - a day cannot be entirely non-functional). I then meandered to the mall to make some returns and try on a bunch of clothes at Anthropologie (long story). I took FOREVER. If you've ever shopped with me (that's you mom and sister!) you know it can be laborious. Well I could think of nothing better to do without the encumbrance of time constraints than to shop for clothes. WHY do I take so long? Because I don't like doing it. I'm too analytical about purchase decisions, I'm not entirely comfortable with my body or how I look in clothes and I hate spending money. But anniversary Friday, I psyched myself up and I actually enjoyed the pampering of the dressing room attendant (well, "enjoyed" may be a strong word, lets just say the whole thing didn't make me all sweaty red-faced. I think mostly because I had the luxury of time. ). I even ended up with some clothes that I (might) like.

After a fairly successful shop stop, I got my eyebrows waxed. That's pamper-ey right? Then, almost thoroughly me-ed out, I went home, even managing to ignore the whines of my girl as I whisked back out the gym. As evening drew near, I took a long long shower, then the three of us went out for Mexican food. It was fun and by the end of the day I felt incredibly relaxed.

Will Trade Childcare for Laundry

View of Atlanta from our room

As for Saturday night, an oh-so-generous friend volunteered to watch our daughter for the night, under the condition that she could do laundry at our place. Uuuh. Deal. She said that theyhad a grand old time, and Jeff and I, well we did too. While the fancy hotel and overpriced sushi place were amazing, I truly think we enjoyed the little things with most pleasure. We sat in the hotel's lovely lobby sipping 5 o'clock beers, reading the paper and joking with each other about what conference must be in town to gather the odd variety of people milling about. I took a LONG bath in the incredibly comfy big bathtub in the hotel room. We pulled back the curtains and just stared at the Atlanta skyline, gray and rainy though it was that dusk. We took our time at dinner, ordered expensive things (I had to breathe deeply and be re-assured by Jeff many times that this was okay to do once in a while). We walked arm in arm to and from dinner, through the chilly rain, and it was lovely.

When in Buckhead....Act Like You're in England

One of the delights of being "away" was the prospect of sleeping in. Given that our little bundle of joy has a bit of an early waking habit, sleeping in past 7, and waking of our own volition was a luxury to anticipate. Unfortunately, Jeff was up at 5, and I at 7, unable to get back to sleep. BUT, at least we were able to just relax. We sipped hotel-room coffee and read the paper propped on cushy feather pillows. It was fabulous.

Our kind babysitter took Hadley to church Sunday morning, so we knew we were free until noon. But rather than visit a museum, or pop over to Lenox to shop some more, we felt it fitting to enjoy our child-free time together by going to a nearby pub to watch an English League soccer match. This is another luxury which we don't enjoy very often, watching those 8:30am European games in a pub setting. And after our lean, hip sushi night, there was nothing we craved more than a big greasy Irish breakfast and some footie. And it was a fantastic match. Wins all around on that windy, gray anniversary morning. We truly enjoyed each other last weekend, and the fondness of common rituals that in our current rhythm of life are not so common. An anniversary well spent.

Oh What a Universe

2011-03-07T21:43:00.000-05:00

"Wouldn't it be a lovely headline... ' Life is Beautiful ' on the New York Times? "
- Rufus Wainwright, "Oh What A World"

Last Saturday I had some restless sleep. At about 1am I took at peak at Twitter and was surprised to see author / pastor / speaker Rob Bell as a top Twitter trend. Okay, I know this story is SO last week, but since reading about Bell's forthcoming book "Love Wins....," I've been doing a good bit of reading and stewing on the issues of Salvation, Heaven, Hell and bathroom renovations (but that's a separate issue). Critics quickly pounced on the "universalist" implications of his book promo video. Bloggers called for calm. Tweeters wrote Mr. Bell off. The New York Times picked up the story. It's been a fascinating week if you're into this sort of thing.

Among the things I've been reading:
Greg Boyd's take on the "Is Rob Bell a Universalist" issue. Hint: He's actually read Bell's book.

A thorough article on hell from Tim Keller.

And, because I am a confessed quote-o-phile, I will leave readers with this thought-provoking little gem from Bishop Kallistos Ware, Orthodox Author and Theologian. (h/t theycallmepastorbryan )

How are we to bring into concord the two principles, 'God is love', and 'Human beings are free'? For the time being we cannot do more than hold fast with equal firmness to both principles at once, while admitting that the manner of their ultimate harmonization remains a mystery beyond our present comprehension… Our belief in human freedom means that we have no right to categorically affirm, 'All *must* be saved.' But our faith in God's love makes us dare to *hope* that all will be saved… Hell exists as a possibility because free will exists. Yet, trusting in the inexhaustable attractiveness of God's love, we venture to express the hope – it is no more than a hope – that in the end… we shall find that there is nobody there. Let us leave the last word, then, with St Silouan of Mount Athos: 'Love could not bear that… We must pray for all.'

- Kallistos Ware | The Inner Kingdom

Is there something worth adding to my reading list? Have you heard about this hullabaloo? Bathroom renovation suggestions? j.

Theology Thursday

2011-03-03T14:22:00.000-05:00

Maybe this is the start of something wonderful...a way to focus my blogging energies toward topical posts, since the more I live I discover that I like the rhythm of routine.

So for this inaugural Theology Thursday post, I will simply post some quotes that have struck me this past week. I don't know what it is about quotations that can so often capture the essence of a thought or idea, be it absurd (see any number of the latest Charlie Sheen interview quotes), or profound. Here are a few for today, hopefully they venture closer to profundity than...er...Sheenery.

"Comfort the afflicted, afflict the comfortable" - Finley Peter Dunne, as quoted by journalist (and Furman Graduate) David Gibson when asked what he hopes to accomplish in his work.

This quote challenges me because I am sorely lacking in both comforting afflicted, and being willing to disrupt the comfortable. Probably because I'm too often one of the comfortable.

"Divine Zeal is as a fire, but it does not heat the blood, it cools it and reduces it to a calm state. The zeal of the carnal mind is always accompanied by heating of the blood and by an invasion of swarms of thoughts and fancies." - St. Isaac the Syrian

I find this quote particularly poignant in light of today's reactionary society. The boiling blood of anger and self-righteousness can be particularly evident among Christians, and particularly through blogs, Facebook, Twitter etc. While I am not prone to angry outbursts in person or in print, I am prone to judging those who are, and for that, my own "Divine Zeal" need not lead me to "needless swarms of thoughts," but to contemplation of my own heart.

And to that end, I would be remiss to not point reader(s) ;-) to a blog post I found most illuminating this week, from a blogger who is a new favorite.
Read How to Write a Controversial Blog Post With No Regrets. It's a good primer for avoiding saying things with heated blood in most online contexts.

Any quotes that have struck you this week (they needn't be theological in nature)?

Signs of the Age

2011-03-02T09:06:00.000-05:00

10 Signs that I'm Old(er). In no particular order.

10. We just got our "Willmaker Plus" software in the mail. Blech.
9. I've been to bed before 9:30 twice this week.
8. The show Parenthood makes me cry, like weekly.
7. I thought The Hangover was pretty funny, but was NOT amused by all the baby shenanigans.
6. When I see teenagers at our local park, I sort of grumble to myself, "hmph. crazy teenagers...go somewhere else to smoke and makeout."
5. I *sometimes* turn it to B98.5 (easy listening)..just for nostalgia. (But if I listen too long I feel like I'm at the dentist. )
4. I met an acquaintance for lunch this week. We talked a lot about home improvements.
3. When the local highschool lets out and I see kids (yes, I said "kids") walking home, I sometimes think "how did your parent let you out of the house wearing that!"
2. I always regret not bringing ear plugs to concerts.
1. I recently spent way too much (by my meager standards) for a way-to-little container of "facial creme." Because that's what one does when one becomes an adult. I think.

Twitter

2011-02-21T21:59:00.001-05:00

Image Courtesy: Bicoastally

I'm trying to make sense of Twitter. Whether it is a meaningless, time-sucking medium or something of an ingenious, culturally appropriate way to communicate is hard to say. I mean, I don't think it's the latter, but what do I know. Seriously, what do I know? Not a lot, especially about Twitter. I haven't figured out all the slang, what with all the RT's and @ symbols and hashtags (is there a bank of hashtags from which to call or do you make them up as you go?). I'm also trying to understand the relational aspects of the medium. There's this giant, growing web of interconnectedness. But it's not like facebook where you can comment directly on posts in a personal way. You sort of can, but as I understand it, it becomes yet another worldwidely accessible thing that happens to be directed at a single person solely because you threw an @ symbol in.

Is Twitter a marketer's dream (see: Dogfish Head / Red Cross faux pas gone good)? Will it bring peace to the Middle East (or at least democratic governments)? Will it eclipse Facebook? Will I succumb to the machine and 'follow' Justin Bieber?

Because these questions are being asked (all but the last one, really), I feel I need to be in on it, at least enough to talk about it at the watercooler. Sheesh, I think i just stumbled upon my life philosophy. Be in on "it" enough to be able to talk about it, or enjoy it with friends, but not enough to pay for your college or land you an awesome job. Hm, this self-illuminating moment brought to you by Blogger. And Twitter. #secrettobeingeasytotalktoatpartiesbutnevermakethecoverofTimemagazine

So, Twitter is interesting. My lineup of....er...followees is intersting. Not sure what it says about me, but I'm sure some marketing exec knows exactly what it says about me, and good for her because I don't care. I just want to know what Ellen, Conan, Vanessa Hine, Stuart Holden, Carlos Bocanegra, Thomas Friedman (never posts), Johnny Wier, SportsNation, Kim Clijsters, my sister and a few others have to say about the world. And gosh that @stuholden has a lot to say about the world. And he posts cute pics! And lots of these: :-) !!!! (I've decided that his twitter persona is as 110mph as his onfield presence. And that's a good thing.

P.S. Add me. You won't be sorry. (but you may not be impressed). @kwittgens

Cold & Rainy

2011-02-04T12:55:00.001-05:00

When it's cold and rainy, I think of England.
I think of walking the streets of Covent Garden, listening to David Gray. Of huddling into the British Museum along with the hundreds of others who take refuge in the historic monstrosity on London's rainy days. The main hall echoes with children's shouts, umbrellas and squeaky boots. Then you look up, and some Assyrian god is towering over you. There could be worse places to spend a rainy afternoon, navigating relics, curiosities and slick marble floors.

When it's gray outside my window, I imagine how differently rainy days feel in England than here. In Georgia, where we go from garage, to car, to parking lot, to store, back to car. We need only be prepared for brief interludes of getting wet. We grumble about how the rain impedes our life and activity. When I lived in London, you just went about your day same as before, just better prepared for the elements. Knowing I'd have to walk from my hotel, or guest home, several blocks to the tube meant I was prepared for getting wet. And every other Londoner on the tube was wet, too. And we all stood in silence (that odd European public transportation ritual), hundreds of us, with nary a sound but the clack and rattle of the tube car zipping through tunnels underneath a worldclass city.

I love the bright warmth of the meticulously organised shops contrasted with the damp chill of the streets. I love that shops are accessible simply by walking down a sidewalk and ducking into the doorway, rather than, as we must stateside, precariously navigating through a parking lot filled with oversized cars on a mission for the best spot. And the pubs, by gosh the pubs with their rusty-colored warmth, meeting you with a rush of conviviality as soon as the double-doors open to the inside. The chatter of people huddled together, the glow of the tele playing a match. I even love the warm beer, because, after all, you're already cold. England's pubs would not be famous were it not for England's cold and rain. They go together beautifully, like, well, bangers and mash.

Walking through the parks on a rainy morning takes on a mystical quality. Regent's colors and grandeur that are so alive on crisp, sunny fall weekends, shrink back into impressionistic swirls of faded hues. Wide swaths of gray-green grass lie still, save for a few shadowy figures, traveling the park's sidewalks. Nameless commuters in black overcoats walk with determination on these days, taking in little of the beauty for the sake of a quick arrival at their destination. But the beauty is there.

St. Pauls windows have less glow on rainy days, but the cavernous cathedrals feels just as much, if not more, of a sacred retreat. Candles burn brighter, and the golds are warm and brilliant. Standing on Westminster bridge in drizzle just seems right. The Thames is gray and milky, and nearly fades into the chalky tones of the historic buildings lining it's shores. They are distinct, yet the same.

It is London, and it's cold and rainy. And it is beautiful. (now where is the nearest entrance to the Tube...I'm freezing!)

*photo note: the observant reader will notice this picture is NOT Westminster Bridge, or even London. It's Lyon, France. But it sure was cold and rainy.

Hand in the Cookie Jar

2011-01-24T18:27:00.000-05:00

Sometimes kids are just one running sermon illustration after another. And I'm not even a preacher. I just see Hadley do things and think, "Gosh, I KNOW I heard some pastor tell a story of their kid doing something like this."

Right now, she is playing contentedly with a small babyfood jar and a plastic pacy clip. She puts the pacy clip in the jar, reaches in with her little hand, but realizes she cannot release her hand from the jar whilst gripping the pacy clip. She cries, first at the surprise that her hand now resembles a glass jar. Then at the frustration that she cannot extract the pacy clip.

Guess it's just like us and (insert worldly object of desire here). We can't truly be free until we release our grip on it. Only then can we be released from the...cookie jar? Mmmm...if sin is cookies, then I want more sin.

Anyway, Hadley's moved on to a new game, but it was funny for a few minutes seeing her waving around her little jar-nub hand.

Snowed In = Movies!

2011-01-18T15:38:00.002-05:00

The snow/ice amalgam that rocked Atlanta during the second week of 2011 made everyone homebound for about 4 days, and gave Jeff and I opportunity to watch some good movies, in between puzzles, making dinner from canned and frozen things and losing our minds. Fortunately, we recently got AppleTV so we can stream Netflix movies, making hundreds of films available to us, without having to check the mail (which incidentally did NOT come despite "rain, snow, sleet...").

Here are a few we watched over the holiday / in the snowdome:

The Social Network. I watched this on the big screen at our neighbor's house. Projector, surround sound, the whole deal. It was very good. I enjoyed it in the same way I enjoyed say, Good Will Hunting. Fast dialogue, quirky lead character, a fascinating band of other misfits. The added dimension of intrigue to this tale of course is that it’s real. Or well, real depending on who you ask I’m sure. It’s not only real, but it involves me, and millions of other people who have made Facebook this insanely ubiquitous thing in our culture. It had Aaron Sorkin’s fingerprints for sure: the writing was clever, the way they told the story was engaging, but was it a “best picture” type of film? Not sure about that. Not sure it deserves to beat out something akin to “The King’s Speech” or “Black Swan” which really made people agaga. Having said that, voters for such awards have tended toward lighter fare in recent years (read: Slumdog Millionaire) so who knows. It did just win a Golden Globe. Oh, did I mention Justin Timberlake is in it! He's great as the Napster founder.

Exit Through the Gift Shop. Rarely does a film I’ve never heard of get recommended by three different folks over the course of about 5 days. This having recently happened, Jeff and I gleaned that it was a movie worth watching. And our friends were right, it is worth watching. The film is clever, engaging and has a bit of a twist, which for a documentary, puts it on unique footing. The movie is about “street art” (aka graffiti), so it feels hip with its cool kids and electronica soundtrack. Yet it is very very smart. Cunningly so. And while it tells an intriguing story, it also leaves the viewer asking questions like, “what is art?”, “What makes ‘good’ art?” “Is art that is made for selling a lesser art?” To the latter, I suppose the masked creator of the film may say, “yes.”

For Your Consideration. Funny at times, overly “insider” at many times, dragging at others. While certainly not my favorite Christopher Guest film, Consideration was predictably
clever and off beat in a way that one expects a Guest film to be. The familiar cast (Fred Willard, Jane Lynch, Parker Posey...) made me chuckle at jokes that ordinarily may not be as funny, in the same way a story told by a friend is more engaging that the same tale recounted by someone you don’t know. “Home for Purim” is the Guffman-esqe “movie within a movie” that the characters are working on, looking to Oscar nominations in the same way the smalltown community theatre-ites waited for the famed “Guffman.” Consideration is an okay movie, but not recommended as an entree to the Christopher Guest collection.

An Education. I found this to be a brilliant film. While the plot unfolded rather predictably, it was still a fascinating watch. The 60’s setting was well done with neat cars, London cityscapes, glorious dresses and hairdos, and even a requisite Parisian getaway highlight reel (cue Flight of the Concords “Foux du Fa Fa.”) The premise of the film is off-putting: an older playboy (played by a simultaneously handsome and eerie Peter Sarsgaard) takes a liking to a 16 year old school girl. Jenny (portrayed marvelously by Carey Mulligan) is at once taken by this well-heeled gentleman, and soon her caution and inhibitions are brushed aside by his smooth talk, kind ways, and enjoyable lifestyle. I enjoy a movie that confuses my emotions. I was drawn into the lead characters’ exciting dynamic, despite the clear unhealthy nature of it. Yet also wished for young Jenny to not completely abandon her “boring” life for the sake of this halcyon relationship. Like other stories written by Nick Hornby, An Education was just that, both for the characters involved, and the viewer who is forced to confront questions about what really matters.

Merry Christmas & Happy New Year !

2010-12-29T20:40:00.000-05:00

Merry Christmas & Happy New Year to your and yours.

Last year, the first few Sundays of Advent gave us a truly new appreciation for the practice of "waiting for the babe to be born." As it so happened, our sweet girl came that second Sunday, December 6th, on the Feast of St. Nicholas. Hadley Jane has been a gift like we could not have imagined. We celebrated her first Christmas with family from far and near. She was oblivious to the comings and goings of the holidays, but she sure liked looking at the sparkly Christmas lights! This year, however, she had a little more fun with toys and new clothes waiting for her under the tree.

Here are a few highlights and details from our year:

Hadley: I really enjoyed some good times with my grandparents, aunts and uncles this year. This summer I had fun in the neighborhood pool and going on walks with Mom and Buckley in the stroller. I started off this year with virtually no mobility and I'm about to be walking!

My favorite foods are cheese and avocados. My favorite books are Dear Zoo and the Elmo puppet book. My favorite toys are my stacking boxes and Dad's iPhone (though he doesn't like it when I chew it). My favorite song is ABC's and the songs Mom and Dad make up when they change my diaper. My favorite stuffed animals are Osito, my teddy bear, and Buckley – he lets me climb all over him, and in exchange I throw him food from my highchair and let him lick my face.

Jeff and Katie: Needless to say it's been a year of changes. Just a few months before Hadley was born, I (Katie) lost my job as Programs Director at a small non-profit. I had hoped to return there part time once I was settled in with Hadley, but as it is, I've been thankful to have the time with her that I enjoy. I am fortunate to have had some freelance writing jobs, as well as some paid singing gigs.

Jeff is still at Emory University. He works in Research Informatics, an exciting field that he really enjoys. Despite the economy, he was able to hire someone to help with his increasing workload.

Jeff and I both still volunteer as musicians at our church, and like to sing and play for Hadley. We also both enjoy playing soccer: Jeff plays in a recreational league on Thursdays, and we both try to play pickup on the weekends. We made a number of trips to North Carolina this year to stay at my parent's cabin. We love the cooler weather and beautiful hikes up there, and Hadley does as well! We're hoping she'll love the outdoors as much as we do.

Speaking of hiking, in August Jeff joined his brother and two good friends on an expedition to summit Mt. Rainier in Washington. They had a wonderful trip and returned with great stories and fabulous pictures from the top. I am so proud of Jeff. Meanwhile, I embarked on an equally daunting task – flying by myself up to Pennsylvania with an infant so Hadley could visit her Grandma and Grandpoppy.

A few things other than our infant that we enjoyed this year:

Stieg Larsson's Millenium book trilogy.

30 Rock, Fringe and The Sing-Off.

The Suburbs by the Arcade Fire (whom we also saw in concert)

Go by Jonsi (who awed us with his live show at The Tabernacle)

Trying our hand at a vegetable garden.

Watching the World Cup.

Making pies for the holidays.

Quality time with good friends.

We hope you had many things to enjoy in 2010, and wish you much more goodness in the coming year.

Peace & Joy.

Jeff, Katie, Hadley & Buckley

I Can Post from My Email!

2010-11-15T22:09:00.000-05:00

This newfangled technology (okay, it's probably not that new) may mean I actually update this thing more than 2 times a year.

Oh, and here's a pic of Hadley in her halloween costume.

Hadley's Turning 1

2010-11-15T21:39:00.001-05:00

Elephant Talk Birthday

Shop hundreds of birthday invitations at Shutterfly.

View the entire collection of cards.

Ten Months In

2010-10-05T21:05:00.003-05:00

Our baby will be 10 months old tomorrow.
In a related note, I haven't updated this blog since November of last year. Pitiful, really, but I promise it's not for lack of writing. I've actually been keeping a nice journal of these baby days. Recording things like first sounds, crawls, what types of food the little girl eats and when, frustrations with napping schedules, etc. But really, does the world wide watching web really want to know these things? I'm assuming not, so keeping said journals to myself. UNTIL NOW!

Here's what I wrote today.
Some thoughts in no particular order:
The other day I came in to get Hadley out of her crib and she was standing up, grasping the railings smiling at me like it was the most normal thing ever. Bless her.
Today was a blissfully gorgeous day. We lay together on the trampoline in the backyard and I squeezed my baby so tight I was worried I might hurt her. She is just so beautiful and glorious I feel immensely blessed to be with her as much as I am. And incredibly fortunate that it serves only to increase my love for her. Sure, sometimes it's trying, and completely cliche (like when I'm waiting for that 5-ish hour for "the husband" to come home from work and take the baby..yea, it's a total cliche / stereotype. But what's that about stereotrypes, they only become so because they are cloaked in some truth, right? )

She gets new sounds or faces about everyday. It really makes life exciting. Yesterday she had this pursed-lip look..like she was about to whistle, her mouth that can become so gargantuan when she is smiling, becomes tiny and focused on God-knows-what. It's sickeningly cute. Today she gained a new sound. A clicking noise akin to some East African language. Can you imagine the exponential growth and development of a baby. It's astounding, really.

Jeff got a motorcycle. Were it smaller and /or did we have a King bed, he might sleep with it, like in the excited little boy sense. It's cute. I can't help but think of when my family had our red Yamaha Mo-ped. I waited for the day when I would be able to ride the mo-ped myself. When I would be grownup enough to experience the speed and wonder of the swift Yamaha. Our driveway was so bloody long, the motorized bike was the only reasonable solution for collecting mail and the paper, or going to see neighbors without jumping in the car at every turn. The Christmas before I was to be "of age" to ride the mo-ped, I got a helmet for Christmas. I'm pretty sure it was bright red (the other was metallic blue). I slept with it in my bed that Christmas night. I loved it that much. So if I mock Jeff, or disparage him in some deep place of my heart, I must always remember the moped and my red helmet. I crashed that moped a few years later. Sliced my ankle, at which point, seeing my bloody sock, I passed out from the shock and adrenaline of the moment. I still have the scar.

Black Friday

2009-11-27T06:36:00.002-05:00

Yesterday, I, like millions of Americans, engaged in the once-yearly tradition of stuffing myself with all sorts of Americana-type foods. You know the ones.
This morning, I engaged in that second tradition of Thanksgiving season...no, not throwing up the starchy contents of my gorging the night before...but shopping.

I woke this morning at 5:15 to go to the bathroom, as one does when one is 39 weeks pregnant. But this time, I didn't go back to bed. I resolved instead to participate in that phenomenon that is shopping on Black Friday. Never one to be sucked in marketers' hype, I was surprised that for some reason I wanted to jump into the joviality. Further, I don't have a great many presents to buy this year (my family is getting a baby for Christmas!). So, my participation in Black Friday was more a social experiment, one that put me out abut $180 after all.

In the darkness of our room, while hubbie slept, I rustled myself together: yoga pants, t-shirt, hoodie, toboggan...(people don't dress up for Black Friday shopping right? I mean, I'm hoping to see people in PJ's). Dog was a bit confused about my early morning and hasty exit. Pulling out of the driveway into the still Black of the early morning, this potentially frantic ritual felt strangely calm. And then I heard it, the normally "adult alternative" radio station that was queued up on the car radio was playing Christmas music. Yes, now I was quite in the spirit...of shopping that is. I turned up the music, and enjoyed the peaceful drive to the mall, encountering only a few cars en route. However, when I reached the mall exit, I was surprised at the red-glow of rear lights already skirting along Ashford Dunwoody.

Now about 5:45, I glanced at the lights and carnival of the mall and saw a parking lot almost 1/2-full already. Across the street, Best Buy's lot hummed with activity, appearing nearly full. Busy patrons carried awkward-sized boxes of digital utopia, basking in the glow of the big yellow-lit sign. My fascination remained. Even though I had not planned on trips to Best Buy, or the mall, seeing the cars and vibrant activity made me feel like I was missing out. The strange electricity of the early-morning put a charge in my veins to jump into the fray, like you would if you saw a large gathering crowd on a city street. But despite not having coffee, my focus was regained and I continued to Target, imagining the melee that may await.

Upon arrival, I noticed that the lot was not jammed. Buy, yes. Chaotic, no. Not so far. This being my first early-morning Black Friday, I had visions of either angry mobs in cashier lines 4-deep, or that I and a few other brave souls may in fact be the only ones out and about, snatching up the deals we'd been brave enough to rise early to earn. The scene as I entered the bright-red, neon-light glow of my neighborhood behemoth was neither "Stille Nacht" nor "Party in the USA," though closer to the latter, I would say. Sadly, I missed out on one of the FREE, fashionable re-useable shopping bags given to the first 500 customers. So I had to settle for bargain-finding to make it worth my while.

Like a good shopper (and one who can easily lose focus), I had a list, a goal and I went for it. A highly-marked-down digital gift for my parents. Ah...HERE were the crowds I'd envisioned, all in the electronics department! Carts, families, short ladies with stacks of merchandise and tired-looking adventure-seekers jammed aisles. I zoned in, asking a friendly staff to direct me to the item I was seeking. Ah, THAT'S what that queue by the digital cameras is all about, I have to buy said item at the electronics checkout counter. I joined the line, one of the herd, wondering if this would be my last chance to capitalize on the $10 gift card with every $100 spent. I begged the help of another friendly attendant who told me yes, all purchases must be made together.

She must have seen my puffy, sleep-eyes, or my pregnant belly and had mercy, allowing me to travel around the store holding my electronic purchase without having to immediately check out. Another tactic for the easily-distracted shopper: carry no basket or cart. If you want it, you have to be able to hold it using only the leverage of your two arms and big belly. Ten minutes, and about 5 items later, I returned to the electronics department. It felt strangely less hectic than minutes before. I think they'd already run out of something. Wow, I guess my early action did in fact save me about $150 I may not have a few hours later.

I checked out, then racked my brain if there was anything else I needed. Well, of course, but anything else that was on drastic sale? No, no...just get back to the car and go home, Katie. See, the fever was catching. I was gaining wisdom into what marketers must already know. These strange shopping phenomena are tremendously worthwhile, the buzz opens minds and wallets to things people never knew they needed. "But it's on sale"..they reason, infected by the dark, chilly morning and bustling crowds.

I climbed in my car, feeling happy for the bargains, but a little empty. Was it over already? The bedlam of Black Friday had only been my companion for a few mere minutes, now I would return home on traffic-less streets, arriving back less than an hour after I left. As drove out past the mall, my hands twitched on the wheel, wanting the strange experience to continue, wanting to hunt for things I don't need amid the melee of other bargain-buyers. Or are half the folks out this time of morning just voyeurs like me? (Voyeurs who still spend about $180). I resisted the temptation and headed home, deciding to be satisfied with what I had gained, both in bargains and life experience. I just wish I would have been earlier to get the free bag, and see if there was actually a line-up at the door. Oh well, I guess my passion for free stuff and social observation isn't THAT keen.

Babies, Blueberries, 'Ballers, Oh My!

2009-07-26T08:53:00.003-05:00

Life seems to go in fits and starts. A few months will seem to hold nothing significant at best, or at worst, a host of significance, each one of which makes you want to cry. Then those seasons come along that seem fraught with, well, good news. I'm no expert in handling, or explaining, either of those seasons, but suffice it to say that God is wise in his conception of seasons, wherein spring indeed follows winter. And as if not enough, the summer brings the bounty that spring has only hinted at.

So there is my weak attempt at Sunday morning philosophizing as a preamble to what season we, Weavers, are amidst. We are seeing the lights of spring, and the bounty of summer after a cold, dry fall and winter where bad news seemed to lurk around most corners, where even in the good, we waited cynically for the proverbial "other shoe" to drop. An unsold house lurked next door, sapping up our monetary and emotional resources throughout the winter. It's 4-walls lurked in our periphery, a reminder of happier days past when our prior tenants, some of our best friends, lived in community with us. But last summer and fall saw the end of that dream, as their lives took one dramatic turn after another ultimately leading them out of our humble rental home, and leaving us with the whiplash of all those fits and starts we'd endured with them. The most traumatic perhaps being their seperation and divorce. How had our perceived communal bliss turned so wintry dead in just a few short months? And to that backdrop of sadness and confusion, we endured death within our walls. I had a miscarriage in the fall, dampening our hopes that things may be turning around, firming our growing hardness toward life and God, and God-knows-what-else.

But life ebbs and flows, we didn't see it then, perhaps only had dim hope that it would turn around. And by-God, it has. All is not perfect in 2009, fallout from the pain of 08's harsh seasons still lingers, and new disappointments arise, but we have renewed hope...a baby girl in my belly for one. At 21 weeks, my tummy is growing, as is our confidence that maybe this one is for real. We love her already and are immensely thankful for life, after so much dying last year.

Perhaps very soon (as in...not in another 3 months as my blogging cycle tends to be), I will touch on the bluberries and ballers alluded to in this post heading. For now, I'll just leave some pics of our baby. The first is a profile...the 2nd, she's looking at you.

A Music Poem

2009-05-03T21:58:00.003-05:00

I read this poem today while catching up on a weekend's worth of emails. It arrived in a newsletter from Friday, May Day. Reading it tonight, in the quiet dark of my living room, lit only by the glow from my laptop, made me re-long for the connection that I have always had with music, for the very reasons this poet espouses. But I have lacked such connection of late. I just haven't been listening to music as much. I have no commute, so no consistent car time to soak in music. I like tunes while I work, but as background, not as distractions that may transfix me. So, here is, in print, my renewed committment to music, my goal to spend those unspent iTunes giftcards this next week, and maybe find something transcendent.

Music

by Anne Porter

When I was a child
I once sat sobbing on the floor
Beside my mother's piano
As she played and sang
For there was in her singing
A shy yet solemn glory
My smallness could not hold

And when I was asked
Why I was crying
I had no words for it
I only shook my head
And went on crying

Why is it that music
At its most beautiful
Opens a wound in us
An ache a desolation
Deep as a homesickness
For some far-off
And half-forgotten country

I've never understood
Why this is so

Bur there's an ancient legend
From the other side of the world
That gives away the secret
Of this mysterious sorrow

For centuries on centuries
We have been wandering
But we were made for Paradise
As deer for the forest

And when music comes to us
With its heavenly beauty
It brings us desolation
For when we hear it
We half remember
That lost native country

We dimly remember the fields
Their fragrant windswept clover
The birdsongs in the orchards
The wild white violets in the moss
By the transparent streams

And shining at the heart of it
Is the longed-for beauty
Of the One who waits for us
Who will always wait for us
In those radiant meadows

Yet also came to live with us
And wanders where we wander.

"Music" by Anne Porter from Living Things: Collected Poems. © Steerforth Press, 2006.
Reprinted from "The Writer's Almanac" produced by Prairie Home Productions and presented by American Public Media.

Holy Week

2009-04-09T15:22:00.002-05:00

It's hard to believe that the Lenten season is almost over. We gave up some food-related stuff for the season, and for this Holy Week, the days as we journey toward Easter, I raised the stakes and signed off Facebook. Now, lest you think this was purely as ascetical exercise, it also had to to with knowing my week was rather full with work, church and some social obligations. To not have the temptation of putzing around on FB when instead I should be clocking paid hours, is a good thing.

But there are "holy" reasons too. On this Maundy Thursday, I've reflected on much, now here are a few of my observations from being Facebook free:

My propensity to meddle in everybody else's news is quelled and that's probably a good thing.

I'm glad to not have to consolidate my life into 150 character snippets. The pressure to somehow say something humorous, clever, profound or provocative every 13 or so hours can be a mounting burden.

My imagined connectedness with people has been cut off for a few days, whereby to find out how they are doing, and what is going on, I must CALL them. I've made many more phone calls and e-mails this week.

I wrote a letter today. A real-live letter. In part inspired because I received one a few days ago, and in part ABLE because I'm not frittering away precious minutes that turn to hours in an imagined community of 350 or so of my closest friends.

Lest you readers feel the heavy-handed weight of judgment if you're an avid FB-er. Because let's face it, after all this illumination, I'll likely be back in the game once Christ has risen.

Oh, and did I mention that my laying aside of the Facebook burden ALSO happens to coincide with Jeff's and my purchase of a brand new HDTV! :-) So, those hours that would have been wasted on Facebook have been instead spent watching anything and everything I can in High Definition. woohoo!

Peace to you this Holy Week. Joy to you this Easter morning.

My Blog Personality

2008-12-03T20:41:00.005-05:00

While you may think I'm shy or introverted due to the infrequency with which I update this dang thing, Typealizer thinks otherwise. In a mere few nanoseconds, this nifty little program scanned the contents of my blog and labeled me ESFP - The Performers.

(my favorite part of this exercise is the saucy little cartoon character the Typealizer used to emulate me. Mini-skirt, sexy boots, plunging neckline and drink in hand. Woohoo. Never knew my musings were such a party.) Anyway, here's what this analysis said of me.

ESFP - The Performers

The entertaining and friendly type. They are especially attuned to pleasure and beauty and like to fill their surroundings with soft fabrics, bright colors and sweet smells. They live in the present moment and don´t like to plan ahead - they are always in risk of exhausting themselves.

The enjoy work that makes them able to help other people in a concrete and visible way. They tend to avoid conflicts and rarely initiate confrontation - qualities that can make it hard for them in management positions.

So, in past personality tests, this isn't far from where I've landed (ENFP is the only one I remember, from ages ago.). Yay for soft fabrics! And here's the handy graph that represents my thought patters when writing.

Tip of the hat to Andrew H

Small and Big Mercies

2008-11-03T20:41:00.006-05:00

I feel it necessary to not let time languish too long following my last few posts which were, well, downers. True, we still have frustrations, sadness...2 mortgages...but mercies abound as well.

Like Virginia in the fall. We took a trip up to the Shenandoah area last week for about 5 days. Jeff's mom and her husband have a time-share at the Massanutten ski resort. So, Jeff's brother and sister both came down and the group of us had a wonderful time together amidst the brilliant colors of fall. Those same reds and yellows that thus-far have reminded me more of death became a salve. The mountains surrounding the resort area were bursting with color and Skyline drive was an absolutely treat to drive along. We laughed a lot, wrestled, joked, played games, hiked ate great home-cooked meals, lounged around and of course, watched the Phillies together. So yes, mercy = Wilbur buds, fall leaves, laughter, snow flurries in October, a Phillies world series win (which, sadly, we had to see the conclusion of once we were home in Atl., would've been nice to be with the fam). Everything is not all gone bad with the world, eh?

-->Ridge Trail view at Massanutten

-->Jeff's Mom turns 60 this week. We got her an early (Phillies) Birthday cake :-)

We returned to the "real world" refreshed and more thankful that we have been in a while. Time is a healer, so is quality time with people you love. Upon our return, I found another way find laughter and mindless fun: Halloween! We dressed up, ate candy, and partied with friends at Sara's house. Pictures abound of the revelry, here are a few. (I was a pig in a blanket, Jeff was Dr McCreepy. )

So, in just a few weeks, a vacation and a halloween party have dulled the pain of the last few months, even if just temporarily. It's nice, and I'm thankful for fall leaves, family, costumes, sweet-tea flavored vodka (i know, sounds gross, but is really good w/ Sprite) ;-), good friends AND that these blasted political ads and circulars will find a welcome end come tomorrow. (I'll end here and spare any further political musing...I couldn't possibly express well all the dialog in my head). I can only say that I WILL vote tomorrow, I will NOT succumb to fear, I WILL hope in bigger things than the results of an election, and try my darndest to avoid finger-pointing, back-biting, judging and any other yuck that elections tend to incite in people. And maybe I'll even wear my pig w/ cigar mask to the polling place tomorrow ;-).

--> Delivery System for said Tea-vodka. Sara the Bier-frau helps set me up.

-->McCreepy in full effect

I So Love the Fall...Just Not This One

2008-10-21T22:53:00.002-05:00

I can't lie...the last 5 months have been pretty crappy for us. (hence the seldom-blogging...we've been mostly exhausted or out of town when possible). Anyway, its just seemed that around every corner some unwanted emotion or event lies in wait. I struggle to hope amidst all of it, but I do, in some small part. But before I get to that, here's a poem I penned while working this afternoon at Starbucks, listening to Elliott Smith (that was probably my first problem...) ;-)

Torrent of bad news.
One more thing taken
A hailstorm of negative.
A maelstrom.

Where have they gone
The memories of such good?
The bliss of sweet May
It was all okay

Now we face the torrent
The unrelenting
Death seems to loom
Who weaves on this loom?

What story is wrought
From such hurt?
Such a downpour of rain
I want spring again.

Things die in fall
With nary a chance to wave
They start to fall
The leaves in droves.

I really do love the fall. I've found momentary solace, lying on my back in our backyard watching the yellowing trees sway against the bright blue backdrop. And we have found solace in fresh cookies from friends, kind words, invites for dinner, mindless television - yes, sport has been even more my friend, especially these last few weeks. When I think God may be absent, I get a call from a friend, or a kind email, and I realize every once in a while that He is more present than ever.

So, I'll hope in that. I'll hope that our vacant house sells, despite the horrid market. I'll hope for peace for loved ones, who seem at war with others, or with themselves. I'll hope that the Phillies win the World Series. :-)*

*I am still a loyal Braves fan.... I have not forgotten those NLCS losses... It's just my husband is from PA, so we pull for the Phillies in the absence of my Bravos. It makes us happy when they win.

To Autumn

2008-09-19T07:54:00.003-05:00

The light is starting to change. A few more gray days have crept into the daily routine. I sat outside the other night and wish'd for another layer. The tips of tree leaves are starting their beautiful dying process. In this season where death and disintegration is a rainbow of beautiful, I also watch things disintegrate in my life, big and small. I do not see the beauty yet, but perhaps it is apt that fall should join me in this journey and teach me how to glory in slow, beautiful death. Because, after all, the sacrifice these leaves are making is only so the glory of spring's life will be that much greater. I don't want to rush past fall and winter for that glory just yet, I will sit in the sad, crisp reality of the 'ber months. I will heed the dying process, but also heed the life that sneaks between, like apples, firepits, soup and the yellow light. Here's Keat's Ode to this beloved season.

To Autumn - by John Keats

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.

Where are the songs of spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, -
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skie

No Umbrellas Needed (except once)

2008-09-08T21:58:00.004-05:00

I read this poem tonight, and I liked it because it's about Seattle. We just went to Seattle, Jeff and me. The only difference between this poem and our trip is that we didn't really seep too long in the gray rainy-ness. But before I say some words about our adventure, soak in these words for a few...

Black Umbrellas
by Rick Agran

On a rainy day in Seattle stumble into any coffee shop
and look wounded by the rain.

Say Last time I was in I left my black umbrella here.
A waitress in a blue beret will pull a black umbrella

from behind the counter and surrender it to you
like a sword at your knighting.

Unlike New Englanders, she'll never ask you
to describe it, never ask what day you came in,

she's intimate with rain and its appointments.
Look positively reunited with this black umbrella

and proceed to Belltown and Pike Place.
Sip cappuccino at the Cowgirl Luncheonette on First Ave.

Visit Buster selling tin salmon silhouettes
undulant in the wind, nosing ever into the oncoming,

meandering watery worlds, like you and the black umbrella,
the one you will lose on purpose at the day's end

so you can go the way you came
into the world, wet looking.

"Black Umbrellas" by Rick Agran from Crow Milk. © Oyster River Press, 1997. Reprinted from the Writer's Almanac

Our Seattle was a little less dreary, though not entirely shiny, but just as friendly. Coffeeshops felt warm and communal, restaurants seemed full of folks who enjoy good food. I loved the local ethic there, where practically every menu from the corner sandwich shop to Tom Douglas' latest joint was choc-full of local produce, meats and cheeses. If I were a restauranteur in the summer in Washington, I wouldn't know where to start with all the tasty gifts of the earth!

We tasted some wonderful things that came from a variety of sources: Blueberries from my uncle's yard were perfectly ripe, deep blue and delicious. Hundreds of blackberries weighed the boughs of some wild bush in a local park. We past it once on a sunny-day stroll, then I returned (for the lovely park sits right across the street from my uncle and aunt's house!) to grab for myself some of those midnight purple berries, gently loosening them from their stems, picking, then eating, picking then eating.

While wandering through Pike Place market in the heart of Seattle, we passed a vendor selling peaches. He sliced us a sample, selling his wares, doing well to convince me that being a Georgian doesn't give me the lock on fine, juicy peaches. I couldn't stop thinking about that peach, so the next morning, after a surprisingly authentic Pain au Chocolat at a local french bakery (a delight in of itself), I found the purveyor of peaches and $2 (yep...a pricey peach) later I had big sticky orange drops running down my chin. The price was steep, but that peach was bigger than any I've seen from Georgia or South Carolina, and of course it was organic and hand-picked and all that jazz.

Then there were those local wines we found in a small tasting parlour right off the ferry stop on San Juan Island. In truth, the grapes for the San Juan Cellars wines are taken from all over the state so they have a wide variety. I'm not sure if it was the kind sommeliers or the gorgeous afternoon, but we rightly enjoyed all those tastings and walked off with a few bottles (after all, you can't watch someone pour you tastes of 7 varietals and walk out empty-handed.)

If travel is a narrative, food memories always seem to be underlined for me.
In the meantime, feast your eyes on this basket of wonder from Ivar's on the waterfront.

Click here to see more pictures

Guatemala Reflections 2

2008-08-07T09:07:00.006-05:00

(stories..continued)

2. Thursday morning, we loaded about 35 youth into a school bus and went to the Guatemala City zoo. We had done the same routine the previous morning with another group of younger children. As we waited for the okay to enter, we waited in the parking lot outside the zoo, I with at least 4 girls crowded around me, requisite hugs, smiles and giggles. Excitement was in the air, and a strange attraction to me from these girls. Soon, I had a bangled bracelet being attached to my wrist...it belonged to Genesis, a slight of frame, long-haired, beautiful girl. I had complimented her on the bracelet earlier, now, in sweet yet awkward exchange, it was mine. I kindly said "no" and "you don't have to do that" but it was not to be heard. She held my wrist with sincerity and said she wanted me to have it. As I weighed that interaction, a few of the older girls that I'd befriended on the bus ran up to me holding a necklace they had just purchased from one of the roaming tchachke vendors in the parking lot. A simple black rope held a small, white rubber dog. I had shown them pictures of my dog on the trip over, they saw that and thought of me. Still reeling from the generosity of these impoverished zone 18 kids, another few girls approached me with a necklace: okay, now this was getting awkward...it was like kissing another guy with your boyfriend watching or something. Wide-eyed, I accepted this new gift, another simple black rope with a shiny, red "E" charm. They excitedly explained that "E" was for Elizabeth, my middle name. I had perhaps mentioned my "nombre secundario" to them in passing once, maybe twice, and they remembered? I have so much to learn from their kindness. But, the truth is, my newly gifted "bling" adorned my neck and wrist, I wondered if there was subtext to this loving display. Were they trying to win me so I would become their "Patrona" (sponsor) like their friends or siblings have. Did they just want to charm a gringa to make a lasting impression, a "connection."? Again, I cannot answer to their motives, and I want desperately to have simply accepted those gifts as love. Christ's love is without condition, no matter how much I want to disbelieve that, too.

3. A few hours after the "zoo bling" incident, we landed back at the ministry center to drop off the youth and say our final goodbyes to them. I accompanied David and Laura upstairs where we had planned to present a gift to one of the youth, Ericka, from her Patrona, Patty G. Earlier in the day, her dark eyes glittered as she asked me questions about "hermana Patty." "Did she cut her hair?....why didn't she come this year?...Are her eyes still blue?" Now, we presented Ericka with a small gift from Patty, and the sparkle I had seen earlier exploded into unabashed joy. As she tore through the red tissue paper to reveal a small blue purse, she was already squealing with glee "Oh...hermana Patty!!! Its so beautiful!" Her fingers moved quickly to unzip the bag and reveal more goodies inside, meant just for her. I was so moved by her uncontained smile and appreciation. A letter was enclosed from Patty, so I tried my best to translate it for Ericka, and when I was finished, I was surrogate Patty, recipient of Ericka's joyous hugs and kisses. "Oh thank you, thank you. I love you!" I hugged her back, held back tears and promised her I would pass along a message to Patty: "Tell her I love her and that I think of her all the time."

Child sponsorship at its most beautiful..no denoument needed.

Guatemala Reflections 1

2008-08-07T08:59:00.006-05:00

I had a handful of trailmix yesterday and thought of Guatemala.

I had a banana this morning with breakfast that wasn't nearly as sweet and fresh-tasting. It'd probably been picked 5 days before I bought it, ripening to some moderate sweetness on my kitchen counter.

I had a few thoughts and frustrations this week and wished I had my wonderful teammates to process with.

Not even 2 days after my arrival in Atlanta from a week in Guatemala, I was whisked away to steamy Athens, GA for a work project, given hardly any minutes, hours or space to think and reflect on what I had experienced in Central America. Only those late hours when my boss had finally found rest on her pillow was I able to sit at the computer in the dark silence of our hotel room. But then it was too late, I was too tired, and the lure of keeping up with emails, facebook and news was too great to give pause for reflection.

Now one week past our first day of VBS at the Hope for Guatemala ministry center, memories and impressions sweep through my head, streaks of gladness in what has already become the ho-hum of everyday here in Atlanta/Athens/Savannah. I memory through pictures posted, souvenirs unpacked (yes, I just unloaded the last vestiges of Guate from my big black suitcase), dirty clothes now clean, folded in my closet that once bore the smells, sweat and sticky hugs of dozens of adorable children.

As I cleaned the kitchen this morning, I discovered the crumbled brochure about Hope 4 Guatemala's child sponsorship program. '...help bring HOPE to a child today..." This wonderful program works like other sponsorship programs such as Compassion International - with $32 a month you pay for their meals at the ministry center, school supplies, clothes, special activities, tutoring, etc. I've never done one of those programs, and even now I wonder why, and I speculate as to why I hesitate with the HOPE version. The brochure shows smiling faces, many of which are familiar, maybe that's what makes this one harder.

As a team we would discuss this opportunity on occasion when we'd landed back at Tina's during the evening. Tired feet and grease-streaked faces, we would lounge in her living room and ask each other, "Have you picked a child to sponsor?" or "got any thoughts about whether you'll sponsor someone?". Maybe that's why I'm ambivalent, it seems a tad like an oddball marketplace where I'm to be looking for the "cutest" or the "neediest" or just that right "connection." Yet, as I look at this brochure and these faces, I know how great the need is, and I reason that I must put aside my skepticism and hesitation, for the sake of one of these little ones having school supplies. Bearing in mind this struggle, I will share 3 stories in this, and perhaps a subsequent post that relate to this matter. Two of which feed my tendency toward cynicism (which I'm not proud of), and one makes me smile...really big. Here's hoping the muscle memory of my joyous smile outweighs that of my crinkled brow.

1. I have some friends stateside who sponsor a child through Hope. I asked Tina about this girl and how she was doing because I had not seen her at any of our activities. "She doesn't really come around the ministry center much lately." This gave me pause, after all, my friends are faithfully sending their $32 and gifting her with nice things above and beyond the "basic need" stipend. Are there repercussions for her absence from the ministry activities? Should my friends be alerted? ....Should I be the rule-keeper and arbiter of whether she should receive this gift of love? ...Is it not filled with so much more grace then if she is a prodigal? I don't know the right answers, but here is one reality of sponsorship - our gift may not have strings attached.

Check out some more of my pictures from our first few days in Guatemala

My Band is Famous for a Second

2008-06-25T13:45:00.003-05:00

Hi friends.
I am queen of multi-tasking at the moment, well, actually at many moments. I'm concurrently working on an article assignment, watching the Euro 2008 semi-final (Germany v Turkey), flipping back to Wimbledon on ESPN2, and now, shamelessly promoting, by way of blogger, an event that my band, The Ming Dynasty, is very lucky to be a part of.

Find out more about what we're doing on Friday night by checking out PASTE Magazine's homepage (yep, that's right, Paste Mag...), or going right to the article about Building HOPE.

If this event or organization sounds interesting to you, let me know and I'll send you the evite with details.

und....Deutschland, Deutschland!!

I Shall Keep Singing

2008-05-22T11:00:00.002-05:00

I like this poem from yesterday's Writer's Almanac. It makes me hopeful and kinda happy, two h-words that I've craved of late.

"I shall keep singing!" by Emily Dickinson.

I shall keep singing!
Birds will pass me
On their way to Yellower Climes—
Each-with a Robin's expectation—
I—with my Redbreast—
And my Rhymes—
Late—when I take my place in summer—
But—I shall bring a fuller tune—
Vespers—are sweeter than Matins-Signor—
Morning—only the seed of Noon—

Mixed Emotions

2008-05-07T23:20:00.002-05:00

Phew. I have some mixed emotions right now. I'm not sure what music suits it either. Something ambient like Thievery corporation or Air may calm me, Patty Griffin would make me cry which is probably an appropriate response given some news I got today.

However, I've just returned from 3 hours at a crowded bar listening to bands perform some of the greatest "sing-a-long songs" of all time - a fundraiser. Our assignment was AC/DC's Back in Black. We practiced lots and had a total blast, but the hours of waiting around were tiring. Our slot of 9:40 ended up as 11:14. oops.

After Drivin n Cryin did "Going straight to Hell" and Colonel Bruce Hampton botched up "Everyday people" on comes Ming... we had fun. I'll just know to come an hr later than promised next time.

Back to my emotions though..so I'm sitting here coked up on adrenaline from rocking for 3 minutes, trying to quiet the confusion in my head. But I think toward tomorrow, and our Radiohead concert tickets...I cannot wait. Then this other thing Friday, then that other thing Saturday...life marches, but underneath it all, the current of friends who are really hurting. So what the hell should I listen to? Aaaah. Jeff Buckley. Perfect.

Fresh! Local! Organic! Expensive.

2008-04-16T20:34:00.003-05:00

My friend Twosquare made an inspiring post the other day about how all her local farmers markets are starting to open up, bursting with fresh produce, a veritable cornucopia of colors, flavors and GOOD produce. It made me reminiscent of our days in France, going to our Nantes market to get all we would need for a few days' tasty nourishment.

Well, there are a few farmer's markets in the Atlanta area, I haven't really researched it, but I know the Episcopal church in Buckhead has one. With this momentum, I was ecstatic when my friend Rachel told me about Moore Farms and Friends They take online orders for weekly produce, and have delivery points all around Atlanta. And you don't have to sign up for some long-term collective, or end up with 2 lbs of carrots or something. For a mere $20 you get a bushel-full (so I imagined) of fresh, seasonal goodies. For a few bucks extra you can pick your produce, or add things like eggs, sausage, herbs and other fun stuff.

We submitted our orders together last week, and have been anxiously awaiting the arrival of our box O yummy fresh things.

When she and I met to exchange produce we looked at our few little vegetables rolling around at the bottom of the box, and big bag of leafy greens, then looked at each other, and said "Hm, not sure if its worth it." Really, I wanted to be excited, but I had in mind what I could get for $20 at my local International farmer's market (where, I'm sure, the produce is chemical-laden, buggy, and not as farm-fresh). Instead, my box had just 2 (scrumptious-looking) large yellow squash, 2 (bright-red, firm) tomatoes, a big bag full of field-greens and 5 carrots.

Everything looked delicious, even if I didn't know what the heck the large stalks of green, leafy goodness were in the bag next to the fresh-picked red-leaf lettuce.

I can now say that everything TASTES delicious, too. (Well, we haven't tried the tomatoes yet). We chopped, oiled, roasted, sauteed and tossed the veggies with some pasta, parmesan and bacon and mmmmm, it was really tasty.

BUT, $20? I just don't know. I love veggies, and I love the earth and stuff, but I think if I get real serious about local, it may have to come from my backyard. Its a nice splurge when opportunity knocks, but I'm not sure I'll make this my weekly produce regimen.

Pictured: Odd leafy green things. Peppery, slightly leathery when raw, tasty when sauteed with garlic and bacon. (but really, what ISN'T).
Any guesses as to what this stuff is?

People Get Ready...

2008-04-13T21:55:00.002-05:00

Jeff and I were asked to come up with a prelude for today's services at church. Preludes are usually contemplative songs or periods of silence that happen before services at our church to help congregants focus on the experience of corporate worship.

Anyway, I've been writing a few things here and there, but nothing I was happy with for that purpose. So, after tinkering around on piano and guitar on Saturday for a bit, Jeff and I settled on People Get Ready, mostly because its easy, I like singing it, and its remotely spiritual. I learned a few more factoids from Wikipedia on the song (like, its a pop song, not an old spiritual). What I did know is that I just love Eva Cassidy wailing it (and really love Eva Cassidy wailing just about anything).

Speaking of cover songs, Ming Dynasty has been invited to participate in a fundraiser called Songs 4 Kids where hundreds of local bands line up and play a song each for like 4 straight days or something. Bands have their pick of hundreds of cover songs. As a band, we've had quite a hard time settling on a cover song to practice and hone as our own. There can just be so much baggage with covers. To date we've done Peter Gabriel's "Mercy Street" live, and "Midnight Train to Georgia." I have also performed "Summertime" at a couple solo shows. As a band, we're currently in talks about doing a Rush or Led Zeppelin song, we'll see if we ever get around to that.

Here are a few covers that I've enjoyed other artists doing:
* Hallelujah by Jeff Buckley (Rufus Wainwright's version is a close 2nd)
* Summer of 69 by MxPx (nostalgia)
* Hit Me Baby One More Time (performed Live by Travis, the lovely irony of hearing Fran Healy sing this with the passion of Travis' other meloncholic tunes was quite engaging).
* Georgia by Coldplay (performed Live at the Tabernacle). Just seeing Coldplay in that venue, then the personal "georgia" touch was thrilling).

What are some of your favorite "cover" songs that bands have done?

The Curious Incident Of the Dog in the Daytime

2008-04-08T00:05:00.004-05:00

Well shucks, I'm up at 1am with nary a thought of sleep yet, so what better time to recount to you, my 4 readers, an odd mystery that hath occurred. You, oh brave ones will be my sleuth investigators and try to solve the crime that has, as yet, eluded us.

Tuesday, April 1st. 1:30pm.
I returned home from work, happy to once again be walking to and from my place of employment, as me and my hungry belly neared home, I glanced toward our neighbors house and their trusty chain-link fenced-in pen where I have so often left our pooch to stay and play during work mornings. Only this time, my dear fluffy Buckley's longing face did not greet me, but only the sight of the gate door eerily wide open: unlatched with not a dog in site.

I panicked, checking my house, my neighbors house, my yard..and nothing. I jumped into my car, not knowing how long Buckley had been wandering Chamblee's streets. After about 45 minutes of searching , calling, and entreating the help of our kindly neighbors, still no Buckley nor answer as to how the gate got opened. Meanwhile, Kelly, the neighbors dog was safe at home, and they had no idea what happened.

Finally, like a beacon, I saw a little white head, bobbing up and down under the restraint of a lead near the end of my street. A dear family who live a few doors down had corralled Buckley (not a tough job since he loves EVERYONE who will love him back) and were walking him back to our house with a makeshift leash (I believe it was an old USB cord). With great relief I thanked the neighbor and his son profusely and trapsed back home with an excited, dirty dog.

Wednesday, April 2nd, 9am.
I leave Buckley next door again with Kelly, having chalked up Tuesday's disappearing act to a meter-reader or landscaper's careless closing of the gate.

10am. Our neighbor calls to tell us that landscapers will be coming and that he will put both dogs instead into our penned-in backyard, with an even more secure latched gate.

1:30pm. I again stroll home, happy to be strolling home. A familiar-looking dog stands in the middle of our street ahead, wagging her long reddish tail. I drop my bags and keys and go to investigate. My worst fears are realized: Kelly, our neighbors dog is wandering the street, an escapee from the back yard. The less daring and adventurous of the two, I know what this means: Buckley is again on the prowl, and again, I have no idea when this great escape occurred or how far he may have gotten.

This time I am a little more right-minded, hopeful that Buckley will haunt the same haunts he did in yesterday's freedom run. I drop Kelly off at home, briefly question my stunned neighbor as to HOW this happened (she was befuzzled as I), then head for the yard at the end of the street where he'd last been recovered. I hadn't finished rounding the house when the same hero from yesterday, ear to his cellphone, came out and pointed emphatically at his garage. Leaning away from the phone he said quietly "your dog's in my garage...I gave 'im some water."

I sensed his kindness had ebbed a shade into impatience at my clear negligence. But who cares! My prodigal dog was ONCE AGAIN lost and now found (stupid idiot!). So..how did 2 dogs escape from our well-secured backyard with no possible way to have mastered the lock themselves?

Monday April 7th, 9am. Now believing that either the dogs, or some venturesome child wanting to play with the dogs to be the culprit, I cautiously leave Buckley next door. I know that the neighbors will be around this morning and would hopefully hear any riff-raff. To ensure that dogs and kids are discouraged from tampering with the loosely hinged gate, I secure it with a chain, then hook a rusty padlock tightly through the links (though not locked).

12:15pm. I receive a call from my neighbor. Another kindly neighbor (not the one on the corner) has just showed up at her doorstep with my dog in hand. "Is this your dog?" he asks. She tells him no, and walking out with him notices that again, the gate to her backyard is swung wide open. Concerned, she directs him to put dear Buckley into our yard, over the picket-fence gate (which we had recently secured with a padlock).

Upon receiving her call, I get home as soon as I can, concerned that some prankster is truly on the loose. Fortunately, this time I find Buckley safe and sound in our backyard. The kindly neighbor comes by and tells me that Buckley had shown up at his doorstep, sniffing around. Upon returning him to our yard, this neighbor also did an inspection of the premises and found there to be a shimmy-size gap on the far size of the fence, probably big enough for Bucks to squeeze through. He puts a large rock in front of the gap, dear man, to prevent escape. I thank him, but don't have the heart to tell him that Buckley's getaway wasn't even from our yard this time, but from the yard next door with the chained gate.

What/ Who is doing this? How is this happening and HOW can I go to work tomorrow without fearing some shady prank will again put my dog on the streets?

Allez Les Bleus!!

2008-04-04T07:54:00.002-05:00

Just thought you'd like to know that France just won the World Cup....of breadmaking.
Not surprising you may ask? They haven't won it in like 12 years. My favorite quote from this article:

Making [a baguette] is alchemy. There are four ingredients -- water, salt, flour and yeast. Baked...it must appeal to five senses.

That is SO true. Its why I've rarely found one here in the US as good as those I got in the market in Nantes. It's not just bread....its sensory.

read the full report here

The Much-awaited Live Show

2008-02-21T19:24:00.004-05:00

Hi friends. The band is finally playing for people, so come by Smith's Olde Bar and bring friends! The more folks come support us, the better chance we have to play again. DOORS at 7pm, first band @ 8pm, we hit the stage @ 9pm.

Have a listen

It's All About Meme

2008-02-03T22:59:00.001-05:00

Okay, so I just learned an internet word today: Meme. I know, most of you really think I'm archaic and old and stuff for not knowing this, but the irony is that I learned about it from a guy with an Orthodox blog. This dude participates in the ancient, eastern practices of Christianity, and he's just informed me about the newest cultural blip on the radar.

Here's a brief set of definitions...then on to The Meme:
1. A unit of cultural information that represents a basic idea that can be transferred from one individual to another, and subjected to mutation, crossover and adaptation.

2. A cultural unit (an idea or value or pattern of behavior) that is passed from one generation to another by nongenetic means (as by imitation); "memes are the cultural counterpart of genes".

Or, as defined in the aforementioned blog, Pithless Thoughts:

...a meme (from what I've been told) is kind of like a "flattering nod/chain letter/networking tool/fun thing to get to know people" blogging game. Someone starts something like "Name the last five sauces you've spilled on your shirt in a restaurant, and the relationship to the person you were trying to impress..." and then "tags" other people who have blogs, who are then asked to tag other people, who are then asked to tag their blogging friends.

Pithless Thoughts goes on to announce the particular meme, which I will now disseminate to you, the very sparse reading audience:

1. Pick up the nearest book ( of at least 123 pages). ("No cheating" was added by someone, probably so our inclination to either want to look smart, or humble or literate and peruse our library for an appropriate book that would present a good facade would be avoided).
2. Open the book to page 123.
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the next three sentences.
5. Tag five people.

You can read Steve's answer Here, then go get a book and answer back on your blog, I guess. Tag, you're it! (whatever that means)

Mine: wow... this is gonna sound pretentious...i probably should have previewed my surroundings before embarking on this experiment. *sigh* Here goes.

From the Jordanville Prayer Book. Pg 123, titled "The Ectenia of Fervent Supplication" (yikes, i don't even know what that means!)
Sentences 5-7:
Deacon: For this holy temple, and for them that with faith, reverence, and the fear of God enter herein, let us pray to the Lord. Choir: Lord have mercy. Deacon: That we may be delivered from all tribulation, wrath, and necessity, let us pray to the Lord.

Okay, so there's my first meme. Thanks for praying...er...playing along. Thanks Pithless Thoughts for the education and humbling.

France and Enneagrams

2008-01-28T18:50:00.000-05:00

First, a poem about me. Then, you'll see why it's about me.

The Very Rich Hours of the Houses of France
by David Kirby, from I Think I Am Going to Call My Wife Paraguay. © Orchises Press, 2004. Reprinted from The Writer's Almanac

Our plane falls from the sky
into France, where everyone seems
so much happier than we are,
but no, it's not the people
who are happy, it's the buildings,
the high-beamed Norman farmhouses,
the cottages with roofs of trim thatch,
the chateaux set in verdant vineyards.
The people are like you and me:
their clothes don't fit very well,
their children are ungrateful,
and they're always blowing their noses.
But the buildings are warm and well-lit,
and even the ones that aren't,
the ones that have bad lighting
and poor insulation and green things
growing on the tile, even these
seem to be trying like crazy to comfort us,
to say something to us in French,
in House, in words we can understand.

Has anyone ever taken the Enneagram Test?

I'm curious what you are. There's some online versions out there in cyberspace. As best I can tell, I'm a 3 with a 4 wing (3w4). How that pans out with me is complete immobilization. I'll explain momentarily, but first a bit of history and resource recommendation.

There are varying explanations as to the origins of the Enneagram ("ennea" = 9 "gram"=something written or drawn). One asserts that notes and drawings have been found which date back to the Desert Fathers. The personality assessment was then apparently honed by the Franciscans. Today there is lots to be found online, but one of the best resources I've found about this test is a book by Richard Rohr and Andreas Ebert which gives a wholistic perspective on what these things mean, particularly for those of Christian faith.

As for my quandary, well, in the aforementioned book, there is an extensive table which details all sorts of things about each personality type in concise language. Classifications like "Representative Color", "Chief Temptation", "Biggest Asset". The one that really explains my predicament comes in the column that reads "Representative Country". See for a #3, that is the good ol' U.S. of A. Three types work hard, know how to work a room, goal-oriented, successful... (there's much much more). Anyway, #4 is characterized by none other than France. Fitting that my personhood would be locked b/t the crushing ideals of both of these cultural behemouths. US culture of success, suburbs, consumption, sporty kids, superbowl ads.... and France culture of, well, culture. Fours tend toward idealism, meloncholy, a feeling that the world is not as it should be. (We)/They have a "Beauty will save the world" attitude. Can't you see why I feel completely immobilized? I like the notion of being a 4, but they can't pay their rent! I have an entreprenueurial 3-ish father who I respect greatly and I like getting praise and recognition for accomplishments.

Anyway, that's my (very four-ish) ramble on my conflicted personality. What's your Enneagram #?

So THAT'S Why I Feel This Way!

2008-01-24T13:32:00.000-05:00

It's been too long since I've posted something...anything. And while I've dutifully commented on many a friend's blog about this and that, my own has been kicked aside, wallowing in shame and emptiness. Perhaps, my blog should heed this article, too.

Jan. 24 called worst day of the year
- British psychologist calculates ‘most depressing day’

Dr. Cliff Arnall's calculations show that misery peaks Monday.*
Arnall, who specializes in seasonal disorders at the University of Cardiff, Wales, created a formula that takes into account numerous feelings to devise peoples' lowest point. Read More

*note: This study was published in 2005. So with his calculations, the most depressing day of '08 was PROBABLY Tuesday 1/22. Folks were back to work after a long weekend, snow was melting, and no more vacation day prospects until memorial day...

Anyway, rate yourself on the different factors mentioned in the article. I know I completely relate with the factors (M) low motivational levels and (NA) the need to take action.

All said, I am proud to say I'm still sticking with the New Years resolutions, only because I didn't really make any.

Happy "Most Depressing" Day!

One Giant Leap

2008-01-04T09:36:00.000-05:00

In honor of Buckley's 1st birthday (12/26), enjoy this short video taken a few months ago.

Notes: Unfortunately this was the best leap we could capture on film, there were others that were even more dramatic. Though it made our yardwork a little harder because he kept jumping into the pile, it was worth it.

I often wish I went after things with the tenacity that Buckley does. Anything you're planning on gleefully jumping into in 2008? (besides leaf-piles...oh, and Northerners, please don't say snowdrifts because I'll be incredibly jealous, so will Buckley).

London Journals (2)- November 2007

2008-01-02T04:59:00.001-05:00

(More journal splashes from my trip to London in the fall)

From the Small Chapel in St. Paul's

London..is whiplash.
glorious whiplash. The bridges that cross the Thames' expanse at once connect old and new. They are like slingshots, my spirit is tossed from modern ramblings on art and culture to the ancient-like pillars of St. Paul's. The beautiful link - the millennium footbridge - between Art and Holiness is telling that the two are not separate, yet they seem to take distinct places in my mind. That's why I love London..the two interplay so seamlessly, and in fact, join the dance with nature in parks and squares.

But while I can see the beautiful, mysterious transformation of wine to blood examined in Rainer's "Weinkruzifix", it's St. Paul's, not the Tate that is intended for God's glory. Gold, relics, glass, stone, all infused somehow, though not always evidently, with the Spirit of God.

Transformation - the word is chained to the walls of my mind. The concept is riveting. His death...my life. the Blood...transformed to Wine. Bread...becomes the Body. Spirit becomes Flesh. My flesh transforms into Spirit. The earth transforms in seasons...

TRANSGENDER* TRANSPORTATION* TRANSCENDENTAL* TRANSCRIPTION* TRANSITION* TRANSIT* TRANSACTION* TRANSATLANTIC* TRANCE...

Pictured at RIGHT: Exhibition in Tate Modern's Turbine Gallery.
"Shibboleth" by Doris Salcedo.
Yep, its a giant crack in the concrete floor. At its widest point, it could fit a small baby, or a sprained ankle. It's intriguing.

London Journals (1)- November 2007

2008-01-02T04:40:00.000-05:00

(Here are some journal splashes from my trip to London in the fall)

Hyde Park - Sunday in November

Damn! I'm in front of a beauty only heaven can match and I haven't a battery in my camera! But...perhaps nothing else would bring my pen to paper. But when I write, I can't see the shimmer. The pink horizon. But I can hear the birds - pesky pigeons that annoy at any other time, now lend a measure of music to this scene. i feel the chill on my sweater...but I'm warmed from walking. Only a few brief moments ago, I fought the rush of humanity all to get here, for a magical sunset, a wonder that pales to any that I thought to pay for this evening.

I'm on a picnic bench. The bright hues of fall explode around me, but they dim quickly as the sun takes shelter beneath the horizon. some weeping willow may hint at sadness, but it is crowed with golden leaves. Betrayed.

An explosion of languages surrounds me, words in a thousand tongues fly through the cooling air. I don't know what a Londoner is, but I want to be one. I am at once drawn to the beautiful French families strolling promenades arm-in -arm and to British children singing songs that I don't know, and Eastern European girls with their skinny legs and tall boots..I want to be like them, too.

Bright green. yellow. brown. black. pale sky. Colors are vibrant, dimming, collected into art.

...how can I complain when I am here. Or when this morning I experienced the presence of the living God...expressed in the gold. brown. blues of the church -

...the Church was entirely foreign, yet approachable. Very distant, yet so present and comfortable. A picture of paradox - paradox that brings me so close to the cross, so close to the essence of Christ. Not that He, or faith, or God are contradictions, but they are mystery. Old&New / Gilded Icons & sunset sky / tired feet from standing & rest found in words of truth / beauty&pain / sin exposed (like..every waking minute) & sin reposed ( like..every waking minute).

The beauty of the chants stirred my soul, or at least, satisfied it - even when I did not take the words at their fullness. I hoped and trusted something snuck into my pores, like the fragrance of worship did to my senses.

2007-12-17T17:08:00.000-05:00

Dear Friends,
Here is a brief update on the Weavers...
2007 was a fine year for us. We celebrated our 3rd year of marriage in March. We both, graciously, attended one anothers' 10-year reunions. Mine celebrated 10 years since high school at Greater Atlanta Christian. Then a few weeks later we were on campus at Messiah College in Pennsylvania, re-uniting with Jeff's old college buddies. We also made several trips to see family in Lancaster, PA; Ann Arbor, MI; Point Clark, Ontario; and Sarasota, FL.

Jeff is still employed by Emory University School of Medicine as the Director of IT for the Department of Medicine. Katie quit her job at National Allergy Supply earlier this year, but continues to do contract writing for the company, in addition to several other free-lance writing assignments. She also developed and maintains the website for her sister's newest business venture, Evan Taylor Designs. Jeff and Katie still love music, staying involved with their church's music ministry, as well as some other projects. Katie has had several concerts in Atlanta over the past year, and the Weavers maintain ties, albeit loose ones, to their band The Ming Dynasty. They hope to actually play somewhere, as a full band, in early 2008. Maybe they'll even write some new songs.

Perhaps the most exciting thing for us this year was the acquisition of an adorable Wheaten Terrier puppy in late February. Buckley is almost a year old and has given us tremendous amounts of laughs, cuddles, leaves, dirt, and chewed things. We love (almost) every bit of it!

We are thankful for you, and pray you have a wonderful Christmas season and a memorable 2008.

Love from the Weavers

Tasty Chicago

2007-12-12T00:17:00.000-05:00

Another day, another city... another gray city. But I don’t fear the gray, it plays nicely with fall’s colors, and be it Nantes, London or now Chicago, I feel strangely at home atwixt fall’s gray days.

But it is not the hue or the air that is my comfort, but the bustling city streets. The tired feet of a day well-walked. The full belly of hunger satisfied by real food, food that you’ve respectfully earned by moving about using your own two feet. I can’t say I like the early sunsets or the drizzle drizzle (though to date, no rain has affected my journeys). But there is no energy like the city.

Of course, not just any city will do. Last night over thick bites of Chicago’s eponymous “pizza” we talked urban aesthetics. First, however, we decided that Pizza so named bares no fair comparison with the “pizza” we enjoy at various Atlanta-side establishments. Our favorite Fellini’s slice is thin-crusted, lightly sauced, and delicious. The Chicago brand would be better-named “pie”. It arrives piping hot in a dish that more resembles a black, oven-burned pie plate. Its “deep-dish” unlike Pizza Hut could EVER dream of. So, from here forward, banish that allusion from your palate. This Chicago pie has a thick crusty bottom, then a layer of mozzarella, then your toppings of choice, all-topped with a (presumably) tasty house-made marinara with fresh tomato taste and just the right spices.

I know, I was on track to pen a treatise on urban aesthetic, but once again, I've been sidetracked by the thought of food, wonderful, local, food. So, I wont stop at describing the pie presentation, lest your mouth be watering without merit.

I will now do an (over-hyphenated) un-professional, pizza-pie taste-test round-up.
Pizzeria Due: You guessed it, the 2nd in a series of, er, two, Pizzeria’s in Chicago’s heart. Due came highly recommend by our gourmand friends D&C. My caveat to the Due assessment is that I was on the tail-end of a 24-hr stomach bug, and Jeff was on the front-end of worrying he may have it, too. So...we ordered safely and avoided the heavy sausage, meaty versions in favor of BBQ Chicken (excellent, but Jeff regrets this un-Chicago choice), and Vegetarian. The pizza arrived, just scooped from a mini-deepdish. My Veggie was edged with black char, but it didn’t taint the marvelousness of my first crumble taste of the crust. In fact, I rather liked the smoky essence of the dark edges. The sauce was fantastic and fresh-tasting. The vegetables tasted equally as fresh: onions, zucchini and more. Sadly, I could only eat about half my pie due to my nervous tummy, but boy did I enjoy it (and the 2nd half made a stupendous breakfast the next day.) Our server was very friendly; the staff was well-dressed in button-ups and ties. The host exemplified Midwest friendly: he reminded me of a guy one of my cousins would marry. So, our first Chicago pizza experience was top-drawer (despite the wait).

A few nights later, another Pizzeria…we just couldn’t shake the taste of those tasty pies from Due. Another call to D&C and a chat with the concierge put us en route to Gino’s East, a larger, more “pizzeria” type pizzeria (read: checkered table-cloths, brick walls, t-shirt donning servers, family-friendly). Our stomach’s fully recovered and ready for the “real deal” we ordered a Supreme (sausage, green peppers and onions). It was tasty. The same style as Due with crust, then cheese, then toppings, then sauce. The yellow-ey crust was not as good as Due, but the toppings, especially the sliced sausage, were mouth-wateringly tasty...

Unfinished. Jeff finished his meeting and I had to go meet him.

Happy Birthday John Milton

2007-12-10T13:05:00.000-05:00

There's a vignette heard each day on NPR called "The Writer's Almanac." The familiar, to some grating, to others soothing, voice of Garrison Keillor reads a poem. He then details a few literary or historical luminaries who were born, died or published something significant on that date. Here's a text version of yesterday's. I like the poem, and I found the bio of Milton to be interesting.

"On His Blindness" by by John Milton. Public Domain.

When I consider how my light is spent,
Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,
And that one talent which is death to hide
Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest he returning chide,
'Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?'
I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies: 'God doth not need
Either man's work or his own gifts; who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state
Is kingly: thousands at his bidding speed,
And post o'er land and ocean without rest;
They also serve who only stand and wait.'

Literary and Historical Notes:

It's the birthday of John Milton, (books by this author) born in London (1608), who started writing poetry as a young man, but before his career as a poet could really take off, England began to fall into a civil war, the king was overthrown and a new form of government, known as the Commonwealth was established, led by Oliver Cromwell.

Milton responded to the situation by becoming a pamphleteer. Nobody really knew how the new government would work, and Milton became an advocate for greater civil rights and religious liberty. He wrote about expanding the right to divorce your spouse and he made one of the first comprehensive arguments for the freedom of the press. The Parliament had recently passed a law requiring government approval of all published books. Milton wrote, "Who kills a man kills a reasonable creature, God's image; but he who destroys a good book kills reason itself, kills the image of God, as it were, in the eye."

Milton eventually took a job as a Latin secretary for the government, translating letters for international correspondence. He was struggling to raise his three daughters, and he was slowly going blind. Then, suddenly, the government he worked for fell apart, King Charles II was restored to the throne, and all the leaders of the Commonwealth were hanged. That summer, a warrant was issued for Milton's arrest, but he was kept in hiding by his friends. His pamphlets were publicly burned. He was eventually pardoned, but he became an outcast, and people said that God had struck him blind for his sins against the king.

Milton was devastated by the restoration of the monarchy, but without a job, he finally had time to devote to his poetry again. He'd long thought that there needed to be an epic poem in English, and he had originally thought it would be about England. But instead, he decided to write the poem about the biblical story of Adam and Eve, and humanity's fall from grace.

He composed the verses in his head, at night, and in the morning he would recite them to anyone near by that would take dictation. He originally called the poem "Adam Unparadised," but he changed the title to Paradise Lost. There was some question as to whether it would be approved for publication by the government, since Milton was such a notorious dissident, but it finally came out in 1667. It begins: "Of Man's First Disobedience, and the Fruit / Of that Forbidden Tree, whose mortal taste / Brought Death into the World, and all our woe, / With loss of Eden, till one greater Man / Restore us, and regain the blissful Seat, / Sing Heav'nly Muse..."

When the poem appeared in print, Milton's contemporaries were astonished. People couldn't believe that a man generally thought of as a washed-up, outcast, political hack had written the greatest work of literature in a generation. The poet John Dryden wrote, "This man cuts us all out, and the ancients too." Milton was 58 years old, and he'd finally become a respected poet.

Reprinted from The Writers Almanac daily newsletter.

Where were you?

2007-09-11T12:19:00.000-05:00

Six years ago today around 9am, I was driving into downtown Atlanta, going to work at SafeHouse Outreach. A local rock station, 99x was doing their typical, un-funny schtick about this or that, then they described something they had just heard over the wire. For a few seconds, after reporting that a plane had hit the world trade center, they speculated that it was surely a hoax or mis-information, or at worst, a incompetent pilot. Realizing quickly that they were in over their heads, they piped in audio from CNN.

A 2nd plane had hit, and the situation now seemed too calculated for careless airmen...I pulled into the SafeHouse parking lot on Ellis street and dashed upstairs. The few of us there gathered around a small black and white television as the drama unfolded. Wide-eyed, we held our breath with the world as the towers billowed smoke. When the first tower fell, then the second, some cried, others prayed aloud and I think we were scared. Truthfully, time has faded the distinctive memory of my emotion.

We ran to the windows of the 2 story brick building, gazing between skyscrapers all around us to check the skies...
Our director called some contacts around the city to find out if Atlanta was in danger. Eventually, like most others that day, we were told to go home: whether for fear, shock or just to be with family or friends.

As I drove north on the same highway I had peacefully driven down only a few hours before, I realized that everything was different now. I glanced at one of the big DOT alert signs that usually signal traffic jams or delays...it just said "National Emergency...National Emergency." I wept...finally, the emotion of the morning swept over me and I blinked back tears all the way to my sister's house. I couldn't be alone.

That was the morning of 9/11...it was followed by countless audio and video clips, talking heads, newspaper articles, memorials, dinner-table discussions, prayers, masses...
9/11 has become for my generation another "Where were you when..." moment, joining the Challenger explosion, and maybe even the OJ verdict. What other 9-11 memories or other "where were you when?" events am I forgetting?

Birthdays

2007-08-31T09:11:00.000-05:00

Yesterday was the anniversary of the day of my birth.
A few other historical things happened on August 30th...Mary Shelley, the author of Frankenstein was born. So was Molly Ivins, famed Texan and humorist. And here's something else that happened: (quoted from The Writer's Almanac)

It was on this day in 1904 that Henry James visited the United States after living for most of his adult life in Europe. He had gone to live in Europe as a young man and hadn't seen the United States in more than 25 years. He sailed into New York Harbor on this day in 1904, and he was amazed at how modern the city had become. When he'd last seen New York, the towers of the Brooklyn Bridge had been the highest points of the city. Since then, the invention of the elevator had made it feasible to construct extraordinarily tall buildings. James wrote, "The multitudinous sky-scrapers [were] like extravagant pins in a cushion already overplanted.

But he found that the city was so different from the one he remembered that he almost didn't recognize it. When he went to find the house where he'd grown up, it was gone, having been demolished by the expanding New York University. He remembered a church being built near his house when he was a kid, but that church was gone too. New buildings were being constructed all over the city, and it seemed to James that all the new buildings were uglier than the old buildings. He began to think of America as a place where all the glorious traditions of the past were being destroyed in favor of the new. A few years later, he wrote to his sister-in-law, "Dearest Alice, I could come back to America (could be carried on a stretcher) to die but never, never to live."

I relate with Mr. James....see, I love rock n roll, baseball, college football and corn dogs, yet sometimes I think I could do without them. Its this time of year again, when I think of living in France, and watching rugby and soccer and other things America doesn't care about.

But all that glitters and speaks French is not Gold. The quandary is as it will always be...I seem to have discovered a unique community here in this America that would be near impossible to duplicate amidst statues and pillars. Even if, as Rufus Wainwright sings, 'All the lights of Paris, play inside your iris'...sometimes the lights of Paris are unable to sustain your soul like relationship does.

Guatemala Journals 4

2007-08-06T10:07:00.000-05:00

After all that tiredness, learning, etc....when I wanted to pass out and rest...God had something else in mind - another home visit. We went to visit Erik's family.

Before relating what we encountered, I should give you background on Erik, one of the Hope 4 Guatemala students. Here is an excerpt from a recent H4G Newsletter:

13 year old Erik is one of 12 children in his family. Now Erik has been diagnosed with Cirrhosis of the Liver and was hospitalized with liver failure the 2nd week of July. He is dire need of a liver transplant.

Doctors are asking us to help them find a hospital to perform his transplant. We have made many calls in the US and Mexico without success, though we continue to seek the Lord for direction and open doors. Please pray with us for the Lord's healing for Erik, for a hospital to perform the transplant surgery, the necessary resources and peace for his family.

We went that day to bring Erik's family some food and encouragement. We showed up unannounced and the "man" of the house, Moises, greeted us at the door. He is 13, though he appears to be about 10 with his small stature and moppy head of black hair. As the oldest son, Moises is in charge of the home for much of the day while his parents work, or stay with Erik at the hospital. With a slight smile, a firm jaw and an air of pride, he led us into his home. One by one we ducked through the rusted metal door frame and into the dark, dirt-floor abode.

His other siblings were inside. The youngest was held by a small girl, about 5 years of age. The baby in her tiny arms appeared to be a newborn. Actually, the baby, named Katarina is 4 months old. She cried from hunger, unable to be fed until their mother returned from work.

In another area of the house, a girl, about 6, went about changing the diaper of a toddler: they smiled as Jose (H4G's leader) joked with them. Where can they find such joy when they have so little?

This family, while appearing to be in the depth of pain and squalor, inspires hope in Jose. They are one of the few families involved with the ministry where there is a father present. He has not fled to prostitutes or alcoholism; rather, he loves and works hard for his family. Jose was encouraged after our visit because he saw the progress that has been made on their home. Yes, progress. The condition was worse on his last visit. Their masonry-skilled father is steadily working, as funds are available, to make their place a livable, multi-level home fit for their group of 14. The work has been slow...Erik's father is deaf and mute so he is not very hire-able. Hope 4 Guatemala has provided him with some work, and given him references for other jobs, which he so desperately needs to provide for the family, and slowly but surely work toward his dream of a "real" house.

We set their crate of food on a rickety table, unpacking its contents to show Moises: beans, sugar, coffee, fortified meal for the children and some fruits and veggies. Around the home we saw the wood plank loft level where the two oldest, Moises and Erik have slept (pictured). We saw the concrete slab, draped with a blanket where several more of the children sleep. Outside of the main walls was a barrel with charcoal for cooking - typically tortillas and beans. Chickens roamed amidst piles of trash and laundry, and around the corner was a dull red curtain. I looked behind it for only for a moment, guessing that it must be the bathroom. With no running water or sewage and a family of 14 it was a pretty drastic picture.

I had a feeling not unlike that which I experienced several years ago at the wake of a friend who committed suicide. I was angry, confused by how unfair it all seemed and all I could do was grit my teeth and clench my fist, as if gripping to hold on to my emotions. Yet, unlike that funeral wake, there was life in this dark room in Zone 18, Guatemala City. There were smiles of children who are loved, who have that unflappable joy only kids seem to have. There was hope: that their home will one day see completion, that they will grow in wisdom and stature from the instruction and hearty meals they receive at Hope 4 Guatemala, that their father will continue to find work and stay with his family...and of course we all have hope, tempered with utter dependence on God, that Erik will live.

Before we left, I had the un-enviable, yet joyous task of praying for this family. With my clenched teeth and my arm around one of the girls, I knew that controlling my emotion while speaking understandable Spanish was too lofty a goal. I asked Jose to translate, and I prayed something that I don't now recall. And I choked back tears.
Please continue to remember Erik's family in your prayers.

Guatemala Journals 3

2007-07-31T16:42:00.001-05:00

7:20:07
The week with the children is over. We will spend today with the youth then go to Antigua. Yesterday we had a birthday party / "goodbye Americanos" party. A small group of kids sang in heavily accented English "Happy Birthday to Paul" (one of our team mates) then they swarmed him like bugs giving hugs. It was a sweet, sweet moment. (then they smashed cake on his face..pictured here) The kids were so elated to have cake and ice cream. They pounded down their food - green beans and eggs (sounds strange. tastes good), arroz y tortillas, of course, just so they could treasure that sweet birthday pastel.

We repeated the drill for the afternoon students, after the team dined on the same yummy meal...plus fresh-made Guacamole. I mean, a giant VAT of it. mmmm. (Since avocados grow in Guatemala - there's a big tree outside the ministry center - they are not such a pricey acquisition as in the US.)

As usual, the afternoon class wore me thin. A bunch of kids in one room with our mediocre Bible lessons... thank God for Rolando, our translator. He knew the ropes with these kids and led them through some songs that were tremendously more fun and hip than those 70s kids songs I strummed on the guitar in days previous. The kids loved the one about how Jesus is like hot bread and chocolate - once you get it, you can't help but share! There was another one about penguins...not sure about the theology, but the kids dug the dance moves.

So, as I stepped back to the front with a sore throat and tired voice to yell the memory verse 5 times and trudged through reading another lesson, I felt a little...useless? Then I realized again that regardless of what I do, I'm loving these kids...that's the impact. My task-oriented self has been rocked and God has been merciful to let me see His grace and love...in ways I do and do not understand.

I think of a comment Hermana Sara's (the regular Hope 4 Guat. teacher) made to me one of the first days. I stressed about the schedule and when to start and kept asking her if we needed to gather the kids or at what time...meanwhile students were being loved and hugged by our team and all I cared for was getting the "real stuff" started. Ha. Sara leaned to me and in her broken English said with a big smile, "Is okay! Reeelaaxxx". It made my shoulders go limper and the muscles in my face tense into a genuine smile. Ultra-efficient, control-freak American girl leveled by love. Awesome.

Guatemala Journals 2

2007-07-27T22:39:00.000-05:00

WEDNESDAY
Two days of class already.
Two days of kids' huge smiles and confusion.
On one hand, this VBS thing feels like a joke..that we're reading from a script: a very boring script read in a bad Spanish accent. But then, I'm glad they're here, even if they're bored. I'm glad they're here and not on the street with gangs. And I'm glad we're here.

There's so much to reflect on..what's happening in and outside of my heart, but even now I'm torn by needing to plan today's VBS lesson!

We went to homes yesterday...the home of 2 of the program participants. We prayed before we went as the area is unsafe (yet these girls walk there very day). We journeyed through what seemed a labyrinth of narrow passages leading steeply down, then steeply upward, passing ladies in traditional Mayan dress carrying large bundles on their heads. We past a place where several people have been killed. The 12 of us journeyed, not the least bit out of place, I'm sure. We carried crates of food and supplies for the family: items like rice, coffee, sugar, fruits, vegetables. We got strange looks from neighbors and gang boys, "maras". Their imprint is unfortunately on this community we ventured through, where families are looking for protection and hope amidst near squalor.

The father of the home we visited is a fledgling pastor - he has a church of 17 which is very close by. I gather that more than a third of the congregation are his family members. The family is living on the mother's meager $250 /month salary she earns at a clothing factory. This can hardly support a family of 7. We did not get to meet her, I believe that she works until about 3 am.

The family welcomed all of us so graciously, directing us to sit on their neatly made beds in the living room: One double bed, fit for the 3 boys and a set of bunk beds, presumably for the girls. A few steps beyond in the concrete block home with steel sheet roof was another "room" which seemed to double as kitchen and master bedroom, as I noticed a small bed in the corner and had not yet accounted for where the parents might sleep. The girls served cold cola to us..likely a rare treat for them. It was a treat for us on that hot day in the stuffy confines of their humble home. The father spoke to Sara, one of the ministry staff, about their struggles as a family, about his story, past, reasons for lost job, but most of all about how good God has been to him and his family, and how he trusts the vision that God has given him for a church. I translated when I could, and strained to hear the words of this man who has experienced so much in life already.

The eldest girl showed us a family album - maybe the only pictures they have. The collection, carefully placed in a tattered, old 3-ring binder also contained certificates and diplomas belonging to the various children for school awards, baptism, etc. The pride with which the eldest girl she displayed the worn album to me was truly delightful. I gazed at the aged photos of her father in "el campo" with his field-working buddies, her baptism photos, a few mugs family and friends and was thankful for that insight into their world.

I'm so glad to have gotten a small taste for the very difficult, yet genuine lives of this family. To accept their graciousness was humbling. We prayed for the father, for his strained relationship with his wife, for his church, and for the children to be good students. They are a lucky number to actually have their father around. Most families in zone 18 have only mom's or grandmothers, and the men who are present in most children's lives would be better off not around, based on the heart-wrenching stories of violence, alcoholism and prostitution that I heard.

*Photos Courtesy of Lynn Henry*

Guatemala Journals

2007-07-26T23:51:00.000-05:00

Firstly, I am back safely, and now that its Thursday evening (well, Friday morning really), I have no excuse but to be quite well-rested by now. My only souvenirs are a small wooden cross I bought in Antigua and the cold I picked up about mid-week. Not to be outdone, most every other member of our team got the same soar-throat, congestion melange. Its no surprise really that we all got the same illness, considering the 2 hours of quality time the 15 of us had together in a small van, and our fates were not bouyed by those collective trail mix bags that we all shared.

I can safely say that I got no other (you know the one I'm talking about ) illness while there. And, despite a few days of doing lice removal (see image above), or shall I say "de-lousing" on several children in less-than-ideal conditions, I don't think I got those little critters either.

The trip was a wonderful, challenging, changing experience. I loved our team, I was impressed with the community outreach that Hope 4 Guatemala is doing, and I am SO thankful for your prayers and support. Here are a few journal entry splices, and a link to my photos. Feel free to browse as you feel:

We are here. We have passed many hours in a small van, playing silly car games, asking Jose questions about this and that.

My hearts condition has vexed me. This place seems familiar, so the newness is not, well, a novelty. My heart and mind have changed perhaps becoming harder since the last "true" mission trip I took. I'm not sure how to name it really. I'm not sure how to blame it really.

Maybe it's okay...Maybe one answer to this tension is that I have approached this trip with a role in mind: My job is to help with Spanish and VBS classes...I offer this THING and thus I have worth. I think my reasons are skewed. Do I want God glorified or Katie?

The second tension... I have generally low esteem for short term mission outreaches. It seems like such a show, so much work for so little ...but as I see more and more, that is a lie. We are part of something bigger here. Jose Armas, the leader of H4G, is so deeply encouraged by our presence, its very exciting. Its amazing to see what has been built up from this ministry..what God has done. I'm excited to participate in that, even if for a short spell.
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Casa de Waffles ...oye!

Yes, its just like Waffle House, but they have Pollo Ranchero, fried plantains and other Guatemalan specialties. Of course, they have Waffles, too. Its the "brainchild" of a Guatemalan pastor who toured the US and fell in love with the Open-all-night yellow and brown wonder that is da Wa-Ho. Como se dice "Scattered, Smothered & covered" en Espanol?

CLICK HERE FOR MORE PICTURES

Various and Sundry

2007-07-13T22:19:00.000-05:00

Hi friends -
Time has ticked by, and so has the appropriate-ness of my planned blogs about the Gold Cup, Fathers Day and other life events that are suddenly tucked away into the past. I did feel it timely to give a brief update on life and ask you to keep me in your thoughts and prayers as I head out bright and earlier tomorrow morning for Guatemala. I'll be joining a team of 15 others from my church to work with an outreach in Guatemala City called Hope 4 Guatemala. We'll be doing things like building a library, marking and cataloging books for said library, and teaching about 150 kids a day Vacation Bible School-type lessons and encouraging then to dream big things for their lives. We'll help feed them...for many of the kids, its the only full meal they get in a day. Plus, each team member is hauling down an extra suitcase full of things like shoes, toothpaste, paper, and other vital supplies for the outreach to these impoverished children and their families.

I'm excited about the opportunity. Its definitely kicked my Spanish practice into high gear having to translate Bible lessons, learn Spanish songs, etc. needless to say, I've been watching more Univision than usual...and not just because they're the only ones showing good futbol matches.

I hope to do some on sight reporting from Guatemala City, but given the patchy internet service, my best bet is good ol' pencil to paper journaling and pictures. Here is our team.

Before I part, I must also mention that I have just returned this evening from seeing The Decemberists at Chastain Park Amphitheatre. I regret that my review will be brief, for the music merits more than a few passing adjectives, however, see above for my raison du brevity. The show was at Chastain, a daunting enough venue for any serious musician as you must compete with yuppies gleefully chatting, the crunch of Carr's water crackers and cheese and the clinking of $10 chardonnay (people spend a few extra when its a concert night...).

Note that I say none of the above to belittle such traditions. I sat happily listening to the Crane Wife, a Decemberist title track, while munching on Gouda and sipping a mediocre white wine. That's what Chastain is for..your inner Yuppie.

Anyway, open-air ambience aside, the music was the main event. I regret there were not more people there to enjoy a marvelous set by the musically diverse quartet from Portland. Of course, the drama was enhanced a few degrees by their back-up band - the Atlanta Symphony Orchestra. While for some artists, this summer-stock fare can add more cheese than have 6 Chastain tables (read: when I saw Peter Cetera a few years back). However, the Decemberists worked well with the accompaniment, their songs were bigger, and still enjoyable.

All for now, I must rest before tomorrow's long day. Hasta luego amigos. Espero que pueda escribir mas despues del viaje. Et pour mis amis Francaise....Bonne Fete du Jour Bastille!! J'espere que vous bouverez un Pastis pour moi et Jeff! Allez les Bleus.

Grace On My Desert Island

2007-06-05T12:20:00.000-05:00

One week ago, Tuesday was the 10th anniversary of the death of Jeff Buckley. I think it odd sometimes, that we commemorate the days when luminaries die. These are "deathdays", but for luminaries such as Jeff Buckley, they may well mark the day when a glimmering star is transformed into a bright shining one. There is nothing quite so intriguing as star quality dimmed by death...a la Janis Joplin, Elliott Smith, Jimi Hendrix... then re-ignited by popular opinion. But for his part, I think Jeff Buckley's brilliance is brilliance regardless of his tragic fate (as it is with those others mentioned). It has been said that Grace is one of the greatest albums of the the last 25 years. I would heartily agree. After all, we did name our dog after Mr. Buckley (Jeff...not William F. just to clear up any confusion). Grace has changed my life - that statement is multi-layered by intention. The album by that title would most certainly be on my "desert island" list.

If your "Oceanic flight 815" were to crash on an island, what would you bring?

I find "favorites" lists to be difficult to concoct. After all, particularly in the realm of music, different situations call for different tunes. Perhaps the following metaphors will help you to focus in on your musical "must-haves". Back to my desert island, methinks that in addition to Grace I'd hope for a few cheerier albums to soothe my ears on those hot, sandy, palm tree days of entrapment...think the Bob Marley Legend compilation or Jack Johnson's Brushfire Fairytales - those are island records.

Had that same plane crashed and stranded me in London's Covent Garden, I would want David Gray's White Ladder. Trapped forever to walk the streets of Paris, I'd want Thievery Corporation's Mirror Conspiracy. If by some stretch I were locked in an old Ford truck to traverse the country back and forth I'd want Lyle Lovett's Road To Ensenada, or anything by Sonvolt...and smalltown AM radio. Locked up for good in an emotionless, gray-walled office or cubicle...I'd opt for Poses by Rufus Wainwright. He makes all things sad and beautiful. If the gods of exercise chained me to a treadmill for eternity I may actually be able to go forever listening to DJ Sasha's Involver.

If my plane crashed into a place where it was always rainy, I would wish Starflyer 59's Fashion Focus to be my soundtrack. And trapped just about anywhere I could listen to Beck's Sea Change or the Indigo Girls Swamp Ophelia over and over again.

I could go on....
But when, by Grace, I am gloriously hemmed in behind the gates of heaven forever, I do believe God will be playing Sigur Ros.

Europe 99

2007-06-05T10:36:00.000-05:00

I went to Europe in the fall semester of 1999. I studied and played, had my first pint, my first mead, first true Belgian Waffle and lots of other memories. It was an amazing experience. I'm starting the process of scanning photos from the trip. In an attempt to bring back the magic of 05, so here are a few shots from 99.

From Top: Paris Skyline; Omaha Beach at peace, Normandy, France; giant beers at Hofbrauhaus, Munich: Aran Islands, Ireland; White cliffs of Etraitat, France; and a pose in front of the Cliffs of Moher, Ireland.

To Mom

2007-05-15T14:27:00.000-05:00

We may be a day or 2 removed from mother's day, but I still feel it important to say a few words to thank my mum. She is an incredible woman.
Jeff (and Dad) helped me make her dinner for Mother's Day, which was an incredibly daunting task: she's an excellent cook.

It wasn't a disaster. The grill caught fire, and we had to call mom in from the bullpen to help w/ damage control (i.e. suggestions for finishing off the fish since the grill was now non-functional). But by-golly it worked and we enjoyed ourselves.

to mom.

if I sing, it is because mom sung first
if I create good food, it is because mom was the original maestro
if I make people laugh, i am thankful that mom first made me laugh
if I know a dang thing about "homemaking", its because mom always kept ours with grace and class
if I travel to the ends of the earth, its because mom did it first
if I smell a flower and smile, its because mom has always done that
if I utter strange and memorable expressions, it is because my mom said them first
if I love people well, its because mom first showed me how to love
and on...and on..

thanks mom.

What I've Learned From My Dog

2007-05-10T16:15:00.000-05:00

Three years ago, Jeff and I became accustomed to hearing that all-too-familiar phrase: "How's married life treatin' ya?" and again and again we were made to reply with various words and phrases that fit within the metaphor. Now that we have done what 3-years married people do and gotten a dog, the new chorus sounds something like this:
“Aah. Dogs are good preparation for having children”

Some people, a few of you perhaps, think that is entirely untrue and ridiculous. After all, you can’t stick your child in a crate when you leave the house unless you want to wind up in a “crate” of sorts called jail. You can’t half-heartedly throw your baby into the backyard unsupervised, hoping that he or she doesn’t find a way to dig out. Dogs don’t require boobs or other special equipment to get sustenance. Children don’t poop or pee in response to command words. I can sit Buckley on my lap when we ride in the car, doing that with your baby means you're breaking the law and shamed by America just like Britney Spears. Those greatly functional and fashionable designer "pet totes” with mesh cut-outs don't work so well with babies.

So, yes, dogs seem less difficult and poor preparation for babies.

However, children don’t chase and corner birds and small rodents with the intent to kill and eat them (do they?). Babies don’t smell like an old mop when they get wet. Kids don’t sniff each other’s butts on the playground to greet each other. Small children don’t instinctively hump legs, stuffed animals or other small children.

But alas, the similarities abound. Which is why the majority of our friends agree that Buckley, our Softcoated Wheaten Terrier is preparing us fairly well for the transition of having kids. I’ll use the following points to illustrate this, with parental buzzwords in italics. While Buckley is growing like a sprout, he is still a puppy and liable have accidents indoors when his routine is out of whack. Schedule is important. If he naps too long or too close to bedtime, he is feisty and whiney. He has boundless energy, and we relish the opportunity to wear him out so he will crash at night. He does not readily obey when he is distracted by toys, friends, people, etc.. In fact, he proves himself to be quite stubborn. We have to adjust our life and schedule to account for our dog. Weekend getaways aren’t as easy. Bringing our “child” places means a car packed with pack n play (crate), snacks (food), bowls, treats, favorite toys, etc. We never had this much stuff to schlep when it was just me and Jeff!

Parents…are you relating yet? Buckley loves mud, dirty puddles, rolling in leaves, stealing other dogs’ (and kids') toys and eating other dogs’ food. He requires of us a newly heightened peripheral vision I’d only seen before in parents. Grandparents and neighbors love Buckley, but they don’t want to keep him forever. Add to that, Buckley is tad high-maintenance with a special gluten-free diet. Wheat gluten can agitate his tummy and is not as good for his hair (coat). Such a diet is recommended for the breed (not just Buckley).

This wonderful world of pet ownership vs. kid parent-ship collided beautifully last weekend when a caravan of us - pets and kids - arrived at my parents cabin in North Carolina for a smallgroup retreat. Peripheral vision activated we all kept watch on our respective charges. But our concentration waned and all of a sudden “mine” had laid a big un-tidy load on the floor of the house, then “Kristen’s” ran unknowingly through it, across the lovely rug with poopy footprints. When Buckley saw the running child he gave chase and said child then jumped on the couch to avoid his pursuer…making yet another brown footprint. We discovered the scene in its aftermath where frustration gave way to laughter. And in between, we acted fast and every spot was sprayed, scrubbed and removed with success.

Despite these teeth-clenching bumps in the road when I want to send Buckley on a one-way Wheaten Terrier pilgrimage back to Ireland, I sure do love him. Its hard to say no to that sad-eyed, long-eyelashed, black-nosed visage. I don't think Jeff and I are quite at Best In Show obsession, but we have our moments.

I think that in getting Buckley we've learned a little more about ourselves, and I daresay, about God. He has been known to use animals and creation to speak to people about His nature. Lest I seem like some sentimental sap, I must say that I enjoy few things more than the excitement with which Buckley greets us. He loves with no questions or conditions, just that little thumb of a tail leading his whole hind-end in hectic wagging back and forth.

PHOTOS: From Blood Mt., GA. Courtesy Marilyn and Matt.
Buckley loves hiking. He also gets hot easily with his thick Wheaten coat.

After a sunny hike to the top, Buckley's panting led us to a small puddle. We figured he may want a drink.

It was quickly evident he wanted a bath.

It was too late to stop him, and too funny to watch

rasta dog

One Midtown Kitchen

2007-03-23T14:09:00.000-05:00

--------------------
Opening Notes...
Thank you for your well-wishes, prayers, attendance, etc. re: the concert this past Tuesday. I think it went well for being my first solo gig since college. I'll try to keep you in the loop about future events.

The following is the restaurant review alluded to in my last post. It was originally written March 7th.
--------------------

Foreword:
I had one of those moments last night that you replay later (like..now) and think of all the cooler, more appropriate things you could have said and done.
It came to be so in this way...
Jeff and I celebrated 3 years of marriage yesterday. 3 years since our wedding celebration. This moment, 3 years ago I would have been having a room-service breakfast at the Georgian Terrace, lookingacross the small table at the greatest guy in the world. Three years later, I still think he's the greatest guy in the world.

We opted to commemorate this year's anniversary, like we like to commemorate just about anything, with a tasty meal out at one of Atlanta's array of interesting restaurants. (Remember my Rathbun's restaurant review from last year was also on the occasion of our anniversary). This year we decided to sample an establishment that has seen it's days of buzz and chatter die down, but by all accounts, still serves inventive, fresh cuisine at reasonable prices: One Midtown Kitchen. One, as I will affectionately name it, is the first child in a family of townie restaurants here. The second to open was Two Urban Licks (you'll find my Tworeview in the blog archives). And most recently Bob Amick has brought us Trois...a more, you guessed it, French interpretation on the hip concept. We've tried all three, and I most prefer One.

ONE MIDTOWN KITCHEN REVIEW:

One exudes the same sleek, trendy flair as it's siblings, and even Rathbun's (now our dining benchmark). It's first impressions, a neon-lighted purple facade and huge hammered steel door, can be intimidating. (The entry lacks only a velvet rope and it could pass for an see-and-be-seen LA Club.) But once inside the, er, velvet curtain, the place warms up and the open kitchen's pleasing aromas leave no doubt why you've come. We were immediately greeted by a friendly host, more local-theatre charisma than to-cool-for-school pretension often found at similar establishments. To further bolster my confidence that this would be a positive experience, joining us in front of the host pulpit also waiting for a table was one of my music icons. Casually clad in a striped button-up, worn jeans and Chuck-T sneakers, Emily Saliers of Indigo Girls fame was shown to a booth with two friends and I knew that One must be a good spot. Honestly, it's not unsurprising to see Emily out and about in Atlanta, and she is a restaurant proprietor /foodie herself. But to me, she is the musician who so often spoke to my soul when I was a teenager, and even now. And here she was, seated one table over, eating through a platter full of raw oysters. But enough stargazing, this evening was about Jeff and me, and the food. Neither of which disappointed.

The service was good, not memorable. Our waiter was efficient and friendly. As we deliberated a wine selection, he brought samples of 2 for us to try: a good move on his part as we ended up with the pricier French pinot over the also-tasty Chilean version. We're just suckers for the taste of French wine. The Roncier du Bourgogne was a good pairing for our selected dishes. Oaky with that old-world tingly character that was good to sip, but showed its life with the various foods we had.

The pre-meal bread selection rivalled Rathbun's in presentation and tastiness. Flavorful, thin breadsticks anchored the bread bouquet which also included delicately fried lavash (or something like that) and a gummy-crusted sourdough - all excellent, and embellished by the house condiment: chickpea spread, sans tahini (so it was not hummus), but with garlic, thyme, oil and a creamy texture. I like the inventive spreads touch, as Trois offered also. We split a house salad as we prepared our palates for the main event.

The dishes came beautifully presented, each with their own sized plate. Again, I must rave about any restaurant which takes care on its menu to think outside the "meat-and-3" box that caters to our American starch cravings by dully pairing (insert fancy-named protein here) with heaping mounds of rice or overly garlicked "smashed" potatoes. By contrast, One's menu items took account of tastes and textures, savory and sweet, and presented them in appropriate portions. Thus the foods' convergence on the plate was less like a well-balanced business meeting, and more like a dance.

The dance that Jeff (and I) enjoyed was a beautiful medium rare cut of salmon, bright, naturally pink and fleshy inside, milky pale pink on its seared exterior. It was topped with deep green swiss chard, plentifully buttered and flavorful. The attractive stack was then crowned with a crispy pancetta round and 2 deep-fried apple rings (think onion rings, but apple! Brilliant..and artery clogging). A cote, an apple-leek turnover that was to die for. Unbelievably rich, not overly sweet and a clever compliment to the other partners in the ensemble.

The group number that transpired on my long rectangle plate would make many a gourmande shudder, but I think it worked. The downbeat was a spicy melange of tender Tuscan white beans and chorizo sausage. I wondered whether the Spanish chorizo's flamenco kick would overpower the elegant seared scallops which sat innocently atop the mix. Sometimes, it did, and then I would alternate between bites of pure, melt-in-your mouth scallops, then fill the end of my fork with white beans and sausage. Once I'd scooped up the last bits of spicy sauce with that gummy bread, I wondered if I had room for dessert. In fact, I probably don't have room here in this post to describe our dessert, but I will try, ever so briefly because it was yet another movement in the symphony where the parts played so well together.

Again I was refreshed by the not-so-standard-fare dessert offerings. Each choice was simple in name, but complex in ingredients. We chose "Kit Kat Bar" which arrived on one of those same long plates, the eponymous Bar in the center atop an artful paintbrush stroke of dark chocolate. On either end of the presentation sat small scoops of house-made goodness: peanut sorbet and curry ice cream. The sorbet was light, not overly sweet, yet full of roasty peanut flavor that played wonderfully with the dense, layered Kit Kat-tasting stack in the center. But I think the dessert's highlight was the curry ice cream. As a fan most any curry-infused cuisine, I was anxious to try the tiny scoop and it didn't disappoint. "It tastes like soap!" I mused to Jeff, wide-eyed. "You mean, it tastes like soap smells" he clarified. Yes, it had a sweet, flowery taste and I wished there'd been more. But, by that point, I was so full the small scoop was just enough.

So, in all, I would mark One Midtown Kitchen among my favorite Atlanta restaurants. Maybe it's not quite Rathbun's but it was a delightful experience.

Oh, and about that moment I'm replaying, wishing I'd said something cooler....
I approached Ms. Saliers' table, apologized for interrupting and said "I just wanted to say 'Thank You.' I probably wouldn't be a musician today if it weren't for you." Which is entirely true. She then asked if I play around town, (insert a few more lines of banter here). She asked for my name, shook my hand, and introduced her sisters with whom she was dining. I then said something stupid like..."wow, you guys are a real talent pool...". Whaa? Anyway, my brush with local fame. Probably could've said everythng better, but I'm glad I at least got to say thanks.

..and Thank YOU for sticking it out through this review and story! Keep your thoughts, recommendations, etc. coming. I like them.

The Newest Weaver

2007-03-13T18:17:00.000-05:00

Frankly, I've dreaded this first blog entry in months and months. Why? Well, la vie Weaver has been awash in changes and I just didn't feel like going into all of it. So, for the sake of brevity, and to not use up my verbiage capital on a pure "update" entry (there is, after all a restaurant review all ready for posting!), here is a bullet list of what's new. And accompanying pictures:

I quit my job at National Allergy Supply, Inc. (but will continue to do contract authorship of their monthly e-newsletters). Don't worry. I still believe in non-drug allergy, asthma and sinus products.

We have a new "child". Vital stats as follows:

**Name: Buckley (aka Buckles, Buckster, Buddy, Boy, Child, stinkin' dog)

**Age: 11 wks. (pictured w/ Jeff at 8 wks)

**Breed: Soft-Coated Wheaten Terrier

**Key Features: Hypo-Allergenic (i.e...no dander or shedding!) and massive cute-ness

**Size: Increasing by the day. He'll be about 40 lbs

**Favorite Activities: Stealing shoes to chew on, chasing leaves, playing with my nephews, hiking...then sleeping.

**See some professional quality photos from Buckley's "photo shoot" HERE - courtesy Michael Shivers.

..and more news...

We're moving...into my sister's house (not with them...). It's next door.

Their fam (pictured here minus 1 boy, plus our dog) is moving away from our beloved neighborhood. I'll miss them so much. They'll miss Buckley.

We're planning on renting our house to our friends Rick & Kristen and their fam.

Coming soon: Dual housewarming blowout. Monitors work b/t the houses.

Jeff and I just celebrated our 3 yr anniversary last week...hence upcoming restaurant review.

And last...but still least:

I have a small gig next Tuesday. You're invited. I'm playing piano and singing Ming Dynasty songs. I don't really play piano well, so you should come, just for the spectacle.

That's us, in a nutshell.

Kiss and Makeup

2007-01-29T22:36:00.000-05:00

I did something extra-ordinary last week. Perhaps it’s not extra-ordinary for most women of my age, but for me, purchasing makeup is very out of the norm. In fact, I can safely say that I’ve actually bought real makeup (face creams don’t count) about 2 times. And I usually only have bought it when the company of choice has a “bonus”. For those of you not in the know, that’s when company’s offer trial sizes of things that people don’t usually want in the big or little sizes. People that is, excluding me, because to me, anything is something and if it has color and some sort of application mechanism –i.e. a tube, a spongy q-tip… - then I’m game. And I’ll wear that little free gift eye-shadow for the next 10 years.

I’m still working on my eyeshadow duo that I BOUGHT, about 10 years ago. Seriously, I know girlie magazines would tell me I’m THIS close to getting some sort of nasty eye disease, but I’m just too lazy and make-up averse to care. It’s not that I don’t like primping, or the way I look when I actually have a well-done dose of color enhancements on my face (like, on my wedding day), I just don’t care enough to really invest in it, AND, truth be told, I’m intimidated by the whole process.

See, much of my aversion to make-up stems from my distaste of shopping in general. My retail shopping regimen typically includes Target, REI, maybe DSW for shoes, but beyond that, I’m just plumb intimidated. Like the other day when I sauntered into Perimeter Mall (hardly one of Atlanta’s most uppity shopping spots). Be that as it may, I strolled through the glitz in my dowdy work clothes, end-of-day oily face and hair and way out of fashion glasses.

I did some positive self-talk and snuck into Sephora, a rather hip emporium for all things beauty. I felt immediately out of place, but trudged on through rows of pretty colors from brands that I know only vaguely by name. Like Urban Decay which seemed very hip and edgy with cool looking eye-shadow “books” that had a multitude of oddly-named shades to fit my rock star/allergen-avoidance persona. I stood perplexed, lining the top of my hand with metallic blue, soft green and gun-metal gray streaks of eye liner and shadow from various brands and eras. But my senses were too overloaded, and my mind just couldn’t get around what kind of margins these people must make on a teaspoon of compacted, colored powder. And I figured you just can’t worry about those things if you want to look pretty. Then I snuck back out, past the dark-haired lady in the black smock with racoonish eyes. What must she be thinking, I thought to myself. She must dream in beautiful, metallic hues.

When in times of great doubt and consternation, as I obviously was, one goes with what one knows. I got some of my first makeup from Clinique, probably mom got it for me because of its hypoallergenic qualities or something. So, from then on, I've always defaulted to Clinique with their neat-o slide charts to figure out your skin type and their yellow Dramatically Different moisturizer. I'm not convinced it's THAT dramatically different from something I'd get at CVS, but, it makes me feel better than those other ones. Then there's the squeaky clean white coats, maybe that's what lures me. The clean, crisp medicinal quality that says, "No monkey business, just giving you what you need to be a woman in today's culture. Not embellishment, just survival tools."

As I perused the eyeshadow and eyeliner colors I met the (yet again) overly black-lined eyes of the makeup sales associate. One look at her visage, like that of countless other makeup counter sales associates, made me again second-guess the whole beauty scene...why do so many of the "pros" seem to have unhealthy skin and bad makeup? (my own beauty-biz friends excluded) If only the average makeup sales girl could look more non-cakey natural and less Robert Smith in a lab coat with strong perfume. Nevertheless, my Clinique clerk was friendly enough. And I was desperate.

She kindly put big swipes of pressed powder on my porous cheeks to test colors as I said things like "low maintenance" and "doesn't look like I'm wearing makeup." While she didn't personally ascribe to the subtle method, she seemed to understand my plight. Once settled on a flesh-tone foundation powder, we headed toward the eye makeup. I then remembered how completely confusing current styles are. Just as I've been getting comfy with browns and bohemian earth tones, 80's blues and frosty greens are back with a vengeance, gracing the lids of skinny girls with long hair and thick pleated red leather waist belts. I'm not convinced it'll last, but I do have fond memories of my sister making me over with those very same colors when I was 8. I let the lab consultant follow my nostalgic gaze toward the frosty rainbow. However, she cautioned me that electric-youth blue would not suit me as much as a warmer green. Though it was safer than my original edgy intent, I believed the expert. Admittedly, with my earthy green eyeshadow duo in hand, I couldn't shake the voice of mom in my head explaining the she and I had the same Color Me Beautiful season meaning that blues work, but greens makes us look jaundiced. For most of my shopping life I've never bought green things because I fear looking jaundiced. But I got over the fear for a fleeting moment and bought the green shadow. Again, desperate times call for desperate measures.

I wore my purchases a few nights ago: the matte neutral powder is spot-on and from my vantage point the eyeshadow doesn't make me look like a sickly baby or like I've gotten into a bar fight. Phew...safe for another 6 years.

Anything you're unreasonably intimidated about shopping for?

On Curious Food Traditions

2006-12-28T17:02:00.000-05:00

Merry Christmas & Happy New Year!
One of the things that made our time in France last fall so wonderful was the wealth of new food experiences we had (like Jeff's chestnut creme Belgian waffle at right). Well, back here stateside, I’m stuck again with Chick-fil-a, China Inn and Tex-mex. While I’m quite fond of any of the above, they tend to blend into the humdrum of life.

Then arrive the holidays. That particular time of year when we gather with family, whether willingly or unwillingly, and somehow the nostalgia of it all seems to brush the rough edges a little smoother. And there is none so central to these holiday gatherings as food, and at no other time of year do more traditions make their way to the communal table. For example, my employer went all out for a traditional Thanksgiving meal (okay, well, it was a potluck. They bought us Turkey, I brought store-bought pecan pie). However, for Christmas, we had catered barbeque lunch. Call it bucking tradition, but who knows that for some of you, the smell of pulled pork and vinegar sauce means nothing less than Merry Christmas.

My family’s holiday table has never been too steeped in oddity, but we like tradition. Turkey for Thanksgiving, never anything made of sweet potatoes (to Jeff’s horror), and Sister Schubert’s yeast rolls. Christmas dinner tends to center around a pork roast or some sort of beef with a fancy name. I believe this year was “standing crown roast”. Methinks we should have all been seated in some royal hall, wearing pelts and fancy headgear lifting our goblets. Sadly, it was just my sister's kitchen table, though we did raise our goblets, er, glasses to Christ, since He is after all the reason we do celebratory things this time of year like indulging in crown roast and Sister Schubert’s yeast rolls (yes, we have them on Christmas too).

While I appreciate my family's traditions, one thing I love about being married to Jeff is the decidedly Amish-country bent that his family’s traditional meals have. Foods of which I could ne'er have dreamt have been gracing their holiday table for years. And now, I can freely say, I’d been missing out before I had them. Have you experienced home-made hamloaf? Think meatloaf, but with a sweet glaze and several lovely Mennonite women with head coverings joining you. Corn pudding is another Lancaster favorite. It joins the ranks with Himalayas Indian food as something Jeff and I will eat until we’re sick.

Then there are the food oddities that have nothing to do with Pennsylvania Dutch culture or the northeast, but are just Weaver. Jeff’s mum’s homemade pizza is always served with applesauce and peanut butter, unabashedly, as if these were natural pairings. Chicken Corn Soup is another favorite of mine, and in his family’s home, it’s always served with blueberry muffins. Logical, perhaps not. The warmth of tradition that makes all right in the world for an hour, absolutely.

We all have them, odd holiday meals that serve as benchmarks for us, funny dinner-table traditions that no one else could understand.

What are some of your family’s traditions or regional foods that may seem odd to us, but make you smile?

Almost Famous: The Music Addition

2006-11-13T23:53:00.000-05:00

aaah, the simple days of 1 yr. ago.
No car, just legs. -->
Before my intended post...I'll fish for sympathy, or laughs, or both with a brief rundown of the Weavers' last 36 hours. We've, wrecked our new car rendering it undrive-able. Today we (read: I) got a ticket with the other car - illegal left turn. Immediately after, it got a flat tire. In short, the wreck was not our fault and nobody was hurt. Ticket, I deserved it. Tire, 2 plugs could not fix the gaping hole...only removing the darn tire from its frame and patching it from the inside could remedy the problem, for now. And, while I waited for the fix in the freezing cold, I thought again of those blissful days in France when we didn't have to deal with bloody cars. Done.

Now to Music

Some of my favorite family photos include one of my Uncle Henry at a young age hunched with full concentration over his shiny accordion. I don't recall if the moment was captured while the family was still in Germany, or if it was state-side. Regardless, this image was a telling sign of things to come for the Wittgens family. Many a Michigan family reunion has included Uncle Henry leading us through accordion sing-alongs. Seriously. And I love every minute of it.

A few years before my Oma died, we discovered a Mandolin hidden away in the corner of her tiny home, another hint at the music in our veins. My Uncle Jim used to serenade me with that WWI classic about studdering "K-k-k-katie, beautiful Katie."

And one of my greatest Grand Rapids family memories, and I think others would agree, is our trips to "Roaring Twenties", which later became "Good Time Charley's". The whole Wittgens clan would cram around a long table - kids at one end, adults at the other. We'd eat mediocre pizza and wait with bated breath for the main attraction. When that giant pipe organ would ascend from the musty floorboards like it had a thousand nights before, with all the fanfare of a head of state. Smoke, flashing lights and ooh's and aahs became accompanyment to the booming pipes of "Good Time Charley" serenading us during that magical rise from nowhere. As the night progressed we would sing along to old favorites, the adults would make their way to the small dance floor and surprise, or likely embarrass, us kids with their refined dance moves to some Sousa waltz.

I remember returning to Good Time Charley's some years later, and from the settling smoke of Charley's Pipes a karaoke set had arisen. Sad for Charley, but perfect for a few of us cousins who put together a parent-pleasing rendition of "My Boyfriends Back". Dubbed "the Wittgens Chicks" from then on, we cousins became the talk of the family for our musical antics. Now, many years removed from karaoke and those living room jam sessions on Aunt Betty's old Hammond organ, we're still making music.

My cousin Andrea Wittgens may have missed out on that fateful karaoke night, and her career is the better for it: she just opened for Grammy-award winning artist Shawn Colvin a few week's ago! How cool is that. Andrea's a Seattle singer-songwriter who I daresay I look up to. She used to awe me with her acrobatic swan dives and flips from Aunt Betty's diving board, now its her voice and songwriting. Check out Andrea's web site and new EP, Alibi.

The Ming Dynasty is a little musical project that I've been working on with Jeff and some other friends. Now, we haven't opened for any Grammy nominees or anything, but we have ascended to MySpace-dom. I admit to being a rookie at this whole thing but if you want to listen to a few songs and be our "friend", come visit our MySpace page.

We've not played a show as a band in a long time, but Jeff and I did have a pretty cool "solo" gig a few weeks ago. We recently took a trip to Brazil to visit some friends and while there, we did an extremely "unplugged" performance of 2 Ming Dynasty tunes. Our audience was a group of youth, both middle-class and poor, orphaned teens, togther on a friday night in a run-down public school activity area in a Rio de Janeiro suburb. About 35 youth (a few future fans pictured below) listened, and sang along as we played through a couple of our songs. They may not have understood many of the words but they were incredibly appreciative and became quite a Ming Dynasty fanclub. One of the students' moms actually works for a Rio radio station (albeit an easy-listening station) and was a tad over-enthusiastic about the music, assuring us a radio-sponsored concert there should we return. We all had a good laugh about the whole thing.

What made this performance so special and unique was the kids and their enthusiasm for music. Knowing even small pieces of some of their heartbraking stories, we were so glad to bring song to those kids for a few minutes. Many of you have asked to see pics from our Brazil trip. I apologize that life has become quite full since our return and the media still sits on our camera.

Almost Famous

2006-10-20T22:14:00.000-05:00

I don't know if I should take it as a sign that my musings are missed, or that my friends are just bored, but 2, count 'em, 2 folks commented to me this evening that I hadn't updated the blog in a while. It gave me a fleeting warm fuzzy feeling to know that they cared and were checking in. The fuzzies were quickly overshadowed by a brow-furrowing sadness that my life has become either too busy, or too boring to have anything to write about.

So, I scanned last last October's blogs, and decided we'd get in the 'ol way-back-machine for a few minutes and reminisce about 1 year ago.
I was resting up (it is 6 hours later in France, after all) after a misty, beautiful Friday drive from Nantes to the Normandy region. Perhaps we were in Bayeux, looking into small but brilliant Cathedral nooks like this:

A few hours from now, we would be waking from comfortable slumber (remember, any bed other than our thin, tiny trailer park bed was like heaven). Our day probably started with thick coffee with thick milk and some divine locally baked pastry - enough to fuel us up as we took to the beaches made famous by D-Day. The bright sunshine seemed to fade those ghosts of years past who took those shores like heroes. We just stood and contemplated the placid sea, thinking of those young people, not too different from us, who had been there over 60 years prior. .

But reminscing can only get you so far. Today is today, and while I often miss France desperately, back here at home we have friends, family, and well, a touch of fame to enjoy. Not only has bizarro Jeff Weaver helped pitch his Cardinals to the World Series (eh..see we didn't have October baseball's magic to enjoy last fall), but the REAL Jeff Weaver has a touch of fame as well, along with several of our other pals.

Backstory: Our community group from church did a volunteer project one saturday at Cafe 458. In short, they serve good, dignified meals to Atlanta's homeless community during the week, then raise funds on the weekends by serving good, dignified meals to whoever will pay for them to support the Cafe's mission. We all played wait staff and dish-washers for the day, and really enjoyed ourselves and the folks at Cafe 458. The spirit was captured wonderfully on film by patron (and fellow community-groupie) Michael Shivers. Some brass at Mastercard found these photos on his flickr.com page and bam! Moolah for Michael and 15 minutes for Jeff and some of our friends. Visit Priceless.com (quickly before some new do-gooders steal our thunder).

Coming Soon...."Almost Famous - The Music Addition"

A Cool Thing Happened

2006-09-05T20:10:00.000-05:00

Did you know you can put my blog on RSS, direct to your desktop! That means every 4-5 weeks, when news breaks from Katie's Blogdom...you are the FIRST to know.

So, a cool thing happened, speaking of...someone actually checked into the blog UNPROVOKED by an email! Thanks Matt A for commenting on the Two Urban Licks Review (see Aug. 31 post below).

What I did on my holiday weekend -
The birthday lingered on with Salsa dancing at Havana Club on Friday night 'til about 2am. We got an early start on Saturday for Highlands, NC where we spent the weekend in the beautiful Appalachian mountains with my wonderful family. We picked some fresh blueberries from the backyard, read, played games, visited friends in Asheville and just enjoyed the time. 'Cause, you know, God lives there. We love it. Jeff and I took a hike on Labor day in and around Yellow Mountain. We even managed to avoid rattlesnakes this time (but not yellowjackets).

Representative Highlands picture below: "Outdoor Ken" Comes complete with hand-held GPS, quick-dry hiking clothes and Subaru Outback! (Euro-hip glasses sold seperately).

Two Urban Licks

2006-08-31T22:49:00.000-05:00

AUG 31st.
I sat down a few days ago and penned a blog entry about “good things”. About how 2 of my friends, on of them particularly jobless got jobs. And how my friends’ baby just turned 1…. Her story is one of heartache that has ended in delight. But see, then one of my aforementioned jobless friends’ dad died. He lost his battle with AIDS last week, and she is devastated. And that job fell through. Now another friend is sitting beside her dad as cancer closes in, and there are others.

So, amid the mixed emotions, I suppose I’ll write a restaurant review. Certainly a few good things in the form of food and my husband have come along for me this week. We had a lovely birthday dinner out at a restaurant I’ve wanted to try: Two Urban Licks.

Upon opening, “Two” was the IT restaurant in Atlanta. Part of the now-booming downtown revival, just down the road from the Carter Center and MLK memorial, the folks of Two took an old garage / warehouse and converted into the hipster foodie hangout that needed months for weekend reservations early on.

It’s a hunt to find, but once there, and once having turned your car over to complimentary valet, the place oozes urban hip. Tall stainless steel doors bring you into a high-ceilinged, well, warehouse. Complete with steel grey curtains, candelabras climbing up the black walls and a trend-setting crowd around the bar, sipping mixed drinks listening to live jazz. Further into the space, the open kitchen is the centerpiece. Fires blaze while hurried men in white coats flip things, prep plates and look busy. It is anything but distracting though; rather, the stainless appliances and white-coats tend to meld into the modern, industrial décor.

The edginess of the black, gray and stainless steel is tempered by candlelight and the giant red silk chandeliers that cast a pleasant hue on diners. Then there’s the calm that comes from the art. On one of Two’s giant walls, an equally giant painting looks over the space and brings serenity. I’ll leave the painting for you to discover and get on to the meal.

If the review thus far sounds vaguely familiar – converted warehouse space, haven of the new urban hipster scene – you’re right, from the moment we entered it had the feel of Rathbun’s, which I’ve previously reviewed. Thus the bar was set, everything which followed our first steps inside Two Urban Licks had to be compared with Rathbun’s, whether we wanted to or not.

The service did not disappoint. Kerry was informative, seemed to enjoy his job, and had some good tips and descriptions as we sorted through an appropriate wine choice. More on that later.

Despite Jeff’s general aversion to tomatoes, it was my birthday and I wanted to try the recommended Two Salad – think Caprese with class. It was predictably scrumptious with vine-fresh tomatoes topped with fine Italian mozzarella and fresh basil. The three little pieces of art were then drizzled with olive oil. Jeff even ate one! I thought it was a tad salty, but Jeff disagreed. Regardless it was an exploration in local, fresh ingredients, so hard to come by in restaurants these days.

Ah, a brief bread mention…uninteresting to say the least. An apparent hoagie roll sliced then buttered with garlic and herbs, wrapped in paper. Not a far cry from any Italian restaurant’s opener, but very far from the wonderful artisan breads we enjoyed at Rathbuns.

But the bread is not the feature here. So, it was on to the meal. Two, like Rathbuns, crafts its menu around a New South type cuisine incorporating elements like grits, low-country shrimp and the like. But while Rathbun’s combined these things into fresh-tasting memorable dishes, we were less impressed with Two’s version. They arrived in boat-like oblong dishes, more hip, less artful than I would have expected. The first hint that maybe Two’s fancy comfort food concept is lost somewhere in the middle. And, as I told Jeff, no matter how gourmand you are, Fried fish and coleslaw is still fried fish and slaw. Granted, it was the best fried fish I’ve ever tasted, and probably the most intricate, flavorful slaw, it was still…well, you know, fried fish n slaw.

My scallops were seared beautifully, that succulent melt-in-your mouth quality that just comes from good scallops. I rarely eat them, but when I do, I savor every bite of those tasty medallions. These were dusted with something a little more fiery than I was expecting, which took a little from the scallops’ flavor and the wine. They rested, er, floated on smoked Gouda grits, which were richly delightful, but less than hearty. The smoked tomato puree on the side was a lovely addition and nice, inventive dip for the scallops.

I was perhaps most pleased with the wine, a California Pinot from Russian River Valley. It had a beautiful complexity that, surprisingly for a Pinot, was great for sipping, but of course, paired well our food. Especially the Caprese salad.

In all, we really enjoyed our time there, the space was amazing, and the food was great. But... it just didn’t have the Wow factor that Rathbun’s did, where every bite seemed perfect and where any conversation took back seat to the food.

P.S. If you're not so much into restaurant stuff, at least go see Little Miss Sunshine. Great performances and quirky characters brilliantly craft potentially sad situations into humourous ones...I laughed hard.

It's Atlanta!

2006-07-15T22:20:00.000-05:00

Can you believe it's already 10 years since the '96 Atlanta Olympics?

You probably have some memories of that year. It was a major event in the lives of Atlantans. This was made strikingly clear to me the other day when, in a conversation with Jeff, I jokingly said, ”To Dee City of….Ahtlahnta” in a very Juan Antonio Samaranch accented voice. Jeff is not an Atlanta native, thus he had no idea what I was referencing, as many of you may not. I was imitating that famous early-morning announcement by the IOC President that our city had captured the dream. My school parking lot rang out with honking horns that morning and the city was abuzz for the day, weeks, and years leading up to our chance to welcome the world.

Maybe you didn’t live here, but us Atlantans remember eerily empty rush-hours, United Nations-like representation on Marta trains, the world’s news teams camped out in our city and a corporate “Olympic city” like none the world had seen. It’s like the Fortune100 threw up in downtown, giant chunks of glitzy, neon, Olympic marketing.

Now, I'll admit I was in collusion with this, some would say, uglier side of the Olympic memory. I volunteered at “Nike Park,” a multi-level homage to the goddess herself. The goddess wears expensive tennis shoes and makes lots of money convincing everyone else they should too. I won’t lie to you, my Swoosh summer was exciting: ushering people to one of various interactive stations where they could hop next to a regulation beach volleyball net or line up in track pose next to a cardboard cut-out of…gold-shoes guy…ah yes, Michael Johnson.

I got a neat outfit – a pair of Nike Ked-like sneakers, blue Nike shorts and a couple T-shirts which had “96” and a swoosh emblazoned on them. Rumor has it that in the Olympic memorabilia frenzy one of my co-laborers was offered $500 for the shirt off his back. I said at the time that had it been me I don’t think I’dve sold it. I’m stupid. I also probably thought I'd need that commemorative BellSouth Olympic pin someday. In all, my Nike park experience was a good one. I got to be downtown in the mix, see some celebs and attend the memorable post-bomb re-opening of Centennial Park.

My Nike gig came about as part of my participation in missions organization YWAM's olympic outreach. YWAM worked closely with olympic organizers to provide volunteers at all levels of all ages. So when I wasn’t directing people toward those misting “cooling stations”, I was going to worship services with a thousand other YWAM volunteers, playing hackey-sack and sleeping on a gym floor for 3 weeks with 250 crazy teenagers like me. We shared about 10 showers between us all. To avoid cold water and long waits, I developed a routine of waking up at 4am to shower, then returning to the “comfort” of my spot on the floor for another few hours. I ate lots of peanut butter and jelly that summer.

Its amazing to think that us YWAM kids were just 250 of thousands, tens of thousands of people young and old who flooded our city to work, volunteer, preach, sell stuff, you name it…all to be a part of this global event. We were a community in glorious struggle for 3 hot July weeks. God was very good to us and to our city.

What are some of your recollections or leftover memorabilia from that summer, just 10 summers ago?

Final World Cup Thoughts

2006-07-10T08:50:00.000-05:00

7-9-06
I feel rather exhausted at the moment. I’ve just finished mopping up the last of my “breakfast for dinner” scrambled eggs and toast. Sure, I awoke at 7:45 this morning after a late night, sang in two church services, and just a few short hours ago my house bustled with the excited faces of American soccer fans. Those who came into this World Cup adventure swearing that they wouldn’t care, then finding themselves swept up. That made me happy. But I didn’t know I would be so exhausted and sad when it all ended.

As anyone at our little Championship gathering can attest, the Weaver allegiances were unmistakable: A giant blue hydrangea with a hangtag reading “Allez Les Bleus” adorned my front door. My table spread with all things red, white and blue to support… France of course. There was Parisian kitch (from Target no less), blueberries, cherries, and the requisite baguette, butter and camembert. Sadly, the $10 Champagne still rests comfortably on my fridge’s top shelf. There was no need for uncorking or celebration this afternoon.

Sure, I am sad that France lost, but sadder still at the surprising exit of Zinedine Zidane, who had fast become my tournament hero. The 34 year old star returning to the game, as beautiful as ever, exchanging handshakes and hugs with opposing players, rarely feigning fouls (“diving”) during games. His playing is beauty and Zidane seemed to me a class act. Which is why his senseless head-butt to the chest of an opposing player, resulting in his ejection was so frustrating. Even had France won, what a blemish to endure. French papers reported the stunned disappointment of French fans, packed onto the Champs Elysees, unable to relive the glory of ‘98.

I hope they don’t blame “Zizou” for the loss, Italy played outstanding defense and deserved to win. But I’m still sad to say bye to Zidane that way, and equally as unready to say goodbye to this quadrennial funfest of international togetherness. To flag-waving Germans who finally feel safe to rally around their country again. To Ivory Coast players whose World Cup presence halted civil war. To the mediocre American broadcast team on ESPN and ABC who tried their darndest to get all of us ignorant gringos to like soccer. To my lovely, non-sporty mum screaming at the TV and talking footie like she’s been watching it for years. To now-empty pubs, and streets and city-squares that hosted millions of fans of all colors, sizes, economic backgrounds all there together to watch, dream and soak in every moment of one of the globe’s great equalizers: sport.

Thanks for enduring the soccer craze. I’ll get back to restaurant reviews and travelogues soon enough. Allez Les Braves.

Copa Mundial

2006-06-25T21:13:00.000-05:00

sorry for your team...(5th of World (FIFA) that is a
big mistake...)

bisous de france

i write you later after we win the world cup
-Matthieu B., in an email to me

As predicted by some of our French friends, the US is down and out of this World Cup, in no small thanks to their inability to create offense. So now my sights turn to the remaining teams. It seems that nearly each country gives me a reason to root for them. Here are some of my favorites (In no particular order)…

Germany – This is an easy one. My people. I am a Wittgens, the child of a German immigrant. Before his family fled the Russian occupation, then emigrated to the US, my dad spent his youth in East(ern) Germany playing fussball in the streets and rooting on Borussia Dortmund. Surely the host nation has my Deutschland heart. I think... They sure looked brilliant against Sweden, I would not be unhappy if they took it all this year.

France – Mon pays deuxieme. You don’t spend 4 months in, amidst, around a country like France and not love it, at least not if you’re Jeff and Katie Weaver. We watched Ligue 1 matches with friends, saw the national rugby team play live, drank Pastis, and trash-talked about soccer. As Matthieu kindly pointed out, our team didn’t live up to the hype, mais franchement...neither have les bleus so far. I still have to root for them though, at least their rouge, blanc et bleu made the 2nd round.

To have France pitted against Spain (Tuesday afternoon) is a difficult quandary. Spain is like my forbidden fruit. The one nation in Europe that most intrigues me, and the only mainland nation where I can speak the native tongue, yet I’ve never been there. I have good friends from Spain and I really love Manchego cheese. But I must raise a glass of Bordeaux rather than Tempranillo for this confrontation.

England – Another of football’s alleged superpowers who have looked less than stellar this tournament. From a pure aesthetic standpoint, the boys in red and white have possibly the best looking team on the pitch, and a charming feature film named after one of their stars. I’ve lived in England for a spell, watched many a Hyde Park pick-up game, and even taken in a Tottenham match at Whiteheart Lane. I know how much pride the English have for their footie. Take it from our favorite ex-pat in London (check out his Blackgate Blog!). I'm sure there will be utter devastation (and lots of drinking) the day England loses.

Speaking of drinking... The keeper on my recreational team is English. He showed up for our game the other night after 5 hrs and even more pints at the pub watching his boys battle. Best part is, he kept an amazing game for us, helping us win. Gotta love the English.

Switzerland – Perhaps Jeff's and my favorite country in Europe. God lives in those mountains (right Michael S.?!). I’ve had some of my most memorable experiences in Switzerland, as has Jeff. The
vistas,
cheeses, chalets, they all seem near heaven to me. I don’t think the Swiss have a yodler's chance to win the Cup (don't know what that means but it's got a nice ring); however, for their next match vs. Ukraine, I'll pick chocolate over borscht. Allez les Suisses.

Brazil – They epitomize the beautiful game. The yellow clad artists show gamesmanship and skill unlike other teams. And their team is favored to win this thing again. The culture of Brazil intrigues me: soccer and samba, carnivale and caparinhas, and on and on. I was a Latin-American studies minor in college, but never visited Brazil or learned Portuguese. I’ve heard that if you visit, you’ll never want to leave. I have friends from Brazil, and friends living in Brazil (more on them later...we hope to visit this fall.) I even have a small Brazilian flag. I need an excuse to wave it some more, so I’ll pick them to move on, probably to the finals.

Australia – The Socceroos have a cute name. Their fans boo like our US fans (all the others’ whistle when their angry). Or maybe their just yelling “kangaROOOO”. (I apologize for those who’ve heard that “joke” already from me.) The Aussie’s have played with such grit and excitement that they’ve probably converted longtime cricket and rugby fans into soccer crazies. Plus, who understands that Australian rules football anyway? I’ve got friends (okay, and an old flame) who’re Oz, and they love their country and will be feverishly rooting on their boys to victory at some ungodly hour in the streets of Sydney. While I love Gelato as much as the next person, I'd love to see Vegemite nation triumph in the upcoming Aussie-Italy clash (Monday).

And a word on Ghana – The Black Stars knocked out my US team. However, as I stood kavetsching with friends about our missed chances, I realized that whatever doom or frustration I've felt is SO far eclipsed by the sheer joy in the entire nation of Ghana, it makes it easier to take. My highschool biology teacher was from Ghana. A friend and co-worker once lived in Ghana. Plus, I'm a sucker for the underdog. All said, I think their next opponent (Brazil) is just too good.

So, there is my culinary, cultural, and virtually un-strategic reasons for picking favorites.

And finally..for a TRUE insider view and wonderful commentary on the world cup proceedings, and Europe in general, visit Andrew and Donna Helms' blog. They're back home stateside now, but their fan-hood and fun euro experiences make great blogging. (I should know, Weaver blog has gone way downhill since we left inspiring France).

So who are you pulling for?

World Cup

2006-06-12T08:49:00.000-05:00

Jeff and I just returned from 4 days of vacation at Amelia Island, courtesy of Emory. Jeff actually had to work the mornings, but in the afternoons we were able to do fun things like play tennis, read by the pool and throw frisbee on the beach. (And stroll lovely canopied paths like that pictured at right). Mind you, any of the aforementioned activities required fierce fueling up with electrolytes, or just plain water since the heat and humidity were pretty intense. Oh well, what better place to be in such conditions than by the pool with an ocean breeze (or on a breeze-less tennis court? ...we're crazy like that).

Speaking of tennis...I found that in lieu of reading celebrity gossip magazines by the crowded pool, I preferred to hunker away most mornings in the hotel room, enjoying sports heaven. I tell you, I had French Open finals to watch, and World Cup matches from 9-3 everyday and no other real obligations...my kind of vacation. I'm not like most other girls with this sports fascination, and I'm okay with that. But, so I don't sound like too much of a vacation spoiler, I did sit by the pool and read through one whole celebrity gossip magazine and sip a pink frosty drink while a guy played Jimmy Buffett covers in the background. In my other free time, I preferred to join with the world in watching the greatest game, with rapt attention.

Sadly, our US team's much anticipated opener vs. Czech Republic didn't go as well as I'd hoped. I had a dream last night that we'd gotten the game time wrong so we couldn't get to the pub in time. I had a hard time falling back asleep. I'm pretty excited about this World Cup thing. As exhibit B - Jeff and I skipped work today to join some friends at a pub and watch the match. Despite the loss, I was glad to have done it.

Hey, if we can't live in France anymore...at least we can act like Europeans!

Allez les Bleus (pour mes amis Francais!)
& Go USA.

"Don't blame the sweet and tender hooligan..."

Peanut Butter Is A Many Splendored Thing

2006-03-30T00:07:00.000-05:00

Family Update: The last few Weaver weeks haven’t been too busy - I've watched lots of basketball, Jeff has studied, I've beat Jeff in tennis (sorry..had to say it), and we hit the studio with the band to lay down tracks for our 2nd song. It's still got some tweaking to do, but we're pretty excited about it. I'll try to post a clip when one of the 2 is nailed down. No news of upcoming gigs as of now.

Tonight, I tended to a sick husband. To join his spirit’s solemnity in remembrance of his father’s death 12 years ago today, Jeff’s body took a day of rest. It started as a 103 degree fever and has declined in severity to a bad throat-ache and lots of soup and saltines. Two years into this marriage thing and only a few sicknesses later, I’m still learning whether I’m to coddle him like a mommy or just get the heck out of the way. I think a certain amount of coddling is called for (held in good balance with getting the heck out of the way).

Ode to Peanut Butter.
I started this post with a restaurant review, but I scrapped it because I got distracted trying to get peanut-butter from the roof of my mouth. Nothing says midnight like some toast smothered with peanut butter topped with raisins or dried cranberries. Mmm.

Peanut Butter is a national past time. It’s like baseball…without the steroids. Throughout the world there are wine connoisseurs, coffee snobs and cigar aficionados. I wouldn’t necessarily use any of the above adjectives to describe my relationship with peanut butter. However, based on our sheer consumption, both Jeff and I could use the less admired descriptor, peanut butter addict.

Tonight I indulged in Jif – straight-forward creamy style. While I like the notion of chunky, its just hard to spread and you end up eating lots more I think. For the value I find Jif creamy to be good, spreadable, and much nuttier tasting that generic versions of the same ilk. Hydrogenated oils and other odd additives aside, Jif Creamy is good eating.

The ultimate in my opinion is, Smuckers’ All Natural Creamy. You know the stuff with the big oil pool at the top when you open it. True, I have to work at a new jar with a knife for a good 5 minutes. Its a careful mixing process - combine the oil and peanuts while not spilling the fragrant peanut oil on myself and suddenly smelling like a Chic Fil A cook. I keep a jar of this golden splendor at work, which is probably feeds the habit to have it so handy..oh well. I must note that I have also tried generic brands of Natural Peanut Butter, Publix, Target, Kroger…none compare to Smuckers. The others get dry and crumbly at the bottom of the jar and don’t have the salty, yet nutty sweetness of the Smuckers. It is so rich in flavor in fact, that I probably use less of it than I would of conventional creamy PB.

I missed my Smuckers while in France last fall…but we were not totally deprived of our favorite food/condiment (?). Mississippi Belle Peanut Butter was one brand we discovered in France - the ONLY brand we found in France actually. Who knows how long it sat on the shelves of that Nantes supermarket before we stumbled upon it. After all, the notion of making a spread of cacahuetes is rather revolting to the French. Intestine sausages: A-okay. Peanut spread: Degoutant! Found snuggled in between locally grown honey and Nutella, Mississippi Belle was our comfort food. Great on left-over baguette for breakfast, as a dip for digestives (a favorite cookie of ours that we smuggled from the UK) or just plain by-the-spoonful eating.

Mississippi Belle peanut butter is imported to Europe – chalk up one for US food product exports! Chipping away at our whopping trade deficit one American in Paris at a time. I heard that to object US foreign policy decisions, the French were smearing the streets with Peanut Butter. Mmmm….foreign policy protests.. ;-)

And speaking of protests – check out CNN or the BBC coverage of the massive protests you may or may not have heard about in France. Unrest is alive in well in many French cities, including Nantes,where within the last few days around 40,000 students, teachers and workers have taken to the very streets we walked a few months ago. This is a very critical time for France.

In Closing...
Odd things that Peanut-butter addicts like us combine with peanut butter…

Jeff – Cottage cheese, honey, peanut butter.
Jeff ‘s family – Pizza, applesauce and PB
Katie & Jeff – carrots dipped in PB, bananas n PB, apples n PB, celery w/ PB & raisins...
Katie – Oatmeal with cream, strawberries, and PB

You may have some favorite brands, other nut spreads or odd combinations with Peanut Butter. Feel free to share.

Restaurant Review and Other Surprises

2006-03-13T23:11:00.000-05:00

Once again, you may or may not have been wondering what I've been up to lately. Besides not blogging. Well, truth out...you may not have seen me on the Barbara Walter's special, but I have had a little side project going on.
http://www.imdb.com/name/nm1801858/

Somehow between my Thunderbolt Kicks, Jeff and I managed to celebrate our 2 year anniversarry on March 6. It's been 2 amazing years of adventure, love, misunderstandings laughs and lots of Indian food.

Speaking of food...to celebrate our two years as Weavers, Jeff took me to a restaurant that I had heard good things about, but never tried. It turned out to be quite possibly the best meal I've ever had in Atlanta not cooked by my mom.

Rathbuns - American cuisine tucked away in a converted steel mill which lies in the heart of Atlanta's Urban renewal explosion. While countless mills and factories in the area have given way to lofts and condoes, so for the neighborhood's most valuable addition is the brainchild, and namesake of renowned Atlanta chef Kevin Rathbun. He has taken his Buckhead restaurant experience at spots like BluePointe and Nava, and added his own nouveau southern accent to create an outstanding melange of fresh, culinary interplay.

The offerings, both "small plates" and larger entrees are a creative blend of Asian, French, fresh, and tres fatty. But make no mistake, this is a restaurant in the heart of the new south. Sides like country ham grits, creamed corn with gouda and smoked mashed potatoes pay homage to Mr. Rathbun's roots. As did Jeff's entree - Seared Cod and sauteed shrimp over smoked mashed potatoes with slivered almonds and cranberries.

Now, you won't find many a gourmande making cod fancy, but this was an outstanding preparation of no-knife-needed fish, and some of the freshest tasting shrimp I've had in a while. My small plate sampling included Rathbun's signature dish, and his mama's recipe, of Eggplant fries dusted with powdered sugar, served with a brilliantly yin/yang side of tabasco and powdered sugar for dipping. While delighful and different, this was probably my least favorite of the plates. My lamb scaloppini was out of this world, its apricot sauce had fresh mint, bacon and little teaser cubes of goat gouda. Okay, combining the sharpness of chevre with the creamy comfort of gouda..I couldve eaten a block of JUST the cheese.

Perhaps the most surprisingly good small plate were the salmon tostadas. How can a smoked salmon taste THAT fresh - not overly salty, but perfectly smokey with a sunset pink hue that melted in my mouth. Each little chunk was served on a crispy cracker with a habanero creme fresh. An exciting kick on the back end of each bite. I should also note, that the pre-meal bread was the best I've ever had at a restaurant for pure freshness, unique herb flavors and salted-crust taste.

Dessert, briefly, because it was tiny, but just what our stuffed tummies needed - a banana peanut-butter creme pie. Seriously, had one of us happened to get a head-wound or have a digit cut off during dinner...we would have stayed for the pie... It's Jeff's favorite combination of flavors and I'm just a general sucker for sweet things. It was fabulous, and just the right size (they do "small plate" desserts too).

Final libation note: on our waiter's recommendation, we tested a Pinot Noir (2003 Porta, Bio Bio Valley) from surprising Chile and it was outstanding in value and taste. A classic burgundian bite that accompanied our diverse meal selections wonderfully.

Ambience: Very hip, but not pretentious. We saw all types there - business casual folks, hipster friends and elderly couples. High ceilings and textured brick walls make it less intimate than some other options, but we were successfully able to enjoy each other company and conversation... then the food came, all chatter ceased and for the next 30 minutes we gazed lovingly at the food before us and our empty forks... Visit Rathbun's.

Review over. Maybe more to come, if we can think of more anniversarry's to celebrate. Next big event - Jeff's graduation (finally!) from MBA academy. May 2.

Writing Again, at long last

2006-01-31T23:36:00.000-05:00

We’re back. Well, that’s obvious. We left from France over a month ago. I’ve been in silent mourning since our departure, thus the promised postlude has been slow in coming. Truly, our return in December was overwhelming, busy, family-filled, wonderful, sad and suddenly we were right back where we’d left 4 ½ months prior. 8-lane highways, crowded malls, comfy bed (ah, yes, how I missed the comfy bed), TV watching, eating Mexican food, spending time with family and community.

The precarious mix of good and not-so-good things that fill our normal life took shape once again, and sometimes I forget I was able to step out of it for a season. The questions are waning- “how was it”, “how’s the adjustment”, “didn’t you miss America?” etc. I haven’t minded answering them. I think that the overwhelming experience of having to articulate our wonderful French season at a moment's notice, and to explain the inexplicable to someone’s inquisitive eyes has helped me to process. And that, my friends, must be why I haven’t written. I have needed no outlet here in my English-speaking world…there is community all around, and it is wonderful. Mais...ils me manque mes amis en France.

I had promised them that my first entry when we got back would be in French, just for them. Maybe that’s why I haven’t written. Alors, desolee mes amis. Bien que ma francais est mauvais. Vraiment c’est dificile a ecrire en France presque maitenent il y a plus d'un mois depuis nous avons parti. Me manque le fromage, le Centre Ville, les heurs paser dans LU…bien mangee et bien bu. Merci petit Jesus.:-)

Now, my world is occupied with real life. This American Life. I commute 20 minutes everyday in my car to work at National Allergy Supply. You can watch this clip to find out why I do some of what I do. Or googlestalk us and buy some allergy products. Tell ‘em Katie sent ya.

Jeff works HERE. He’s moved up in the Emory world and is still trying to figure it all out. He’s learning a lot, and finishing out his MBA studies this semester.

We both play in a band that is still nameless…but we’re whittling it down. Those of you in Atlanta are invited to come see us play on February 10th. It’s a church-basement gig, so I have to take out all the cuss words, but there will be tasty coffee, lots of weird people who I love, and a little bit of rock and roll. The fun commences around 8:30.

Before this starts feeling too much like a Christmas letter, I’ll just sign off with a Thank You - to all of you who form our community of friends and family. You made it much easier to come home. And...with a picture of Jeff and I with Otis, a dog that's not ours (long story).
More pics from our last few weeks in France to come.

Death By Sudoku

2006-01-31T23:28:00.000-05:00

..ah, the good old days.

-Nantes, Dec. 13, 2005

Captions Welcome.

Christmastime In Nantes

2005-12-15T05:41:00.000-05:00

I plan to make this entry shorter, with more small paragraphs, quotes and suspense. See, I didn’t get as many comments on my last entry, so I figured folks are holiday busy and need some classic short-attention-span reading.

"But Katie," you might be thinking, "will it still culminate with the heart stopping unveiling of your latest photographs from Nantes and elsewhere?"

"Mais oui!"

Christmas in Nantes:

Christmas markets in Nantes, and more famously in Eastern France and Germany, are small wooden chalets where various artisans, gourmands and kitsch-pushers sell their wares. In the heart of Nantes, chestnuts roast on open fires, a carousel entertains small children, and a Pere Noel (Father Christmas) booth allows those with an American bent to get their pictures taken. All the while, the scent of vin chaud (hot spiced wine), hot chocolate and warming pretzels wafts through the chilly environs. And in the other Christmas Market square a few blocks away…more ugly jewelry, bad art and wind chimes. Oh, and a giant, steamy vat of Tartiflette – a tasty Savoie (French Alps region) treat of roasted potatoes, cream, Gruyere cheese and bits of smoked ham. Next-door, you can get a dessert Guafre (Belgian-style waffles) with your choice of chocolate, Nutella, caramel, or just plain sugar. But enough about food…

Christmas in Nantes…the streets are adorned with lights and many store windows with trimming. Music is piped through the busier-than-usual pedestrian streets. However, not the Christmas standards you may imagine, but rather a strange mélange of salsa, American pop and adult contemporary. I guess traditional Christmas music is bound to step on somebody’s toes? Oh well, it makes for a nice little soundtrack for shopping, but makes me itch for some Bing Crosby crooning.

There are some organ concerts and other sacred music events at local cathedrals. We visited the city’s main St. Pierre Cathedral last weekend. No Christmas carols, but we did witness the lighting of the third advent wreath candle, and as a bonus, the priest was a stunning likeness to St. Nick. Speaking of St. Nick, he is not Santa here. Santa is Pere Noel (father Christmas). St. Nicholas’ day has already been celebrated earlier this month. Our Romanian friend Daciana brought the class chocolates to commemorate the day. Also part of the French saintly celebration is the eating of the Galette des Rois (King Cake). Yes, the concept is similar to the Mardi-Gras season King Cakes…something is hidden in the innards of the confection and he (or she) who finds it is not only “King for a Day” but must also make the cake next year. Well, I was fortunate to ascend to Kingship last Friday evening.

"Oh...I think I've found it!" I cried when I spotted what I thought to be the traditional crèche (manger with baby Jesus) in my 2nd piece of Galette. I delicately picked the pieces of marzipan and pastry off the figurine to reveal...not the Christ child, but a tiny likeness of Bob l’Eponge…aka - Sponge Bob Square Pants.

Okay, first no Christmas music, now Jesus has been replaced by Sponge Bob? I almost makes me miss the uber-Christian cultured U.S. South. And it made us all laugh really hard.

Christmas in Nantes means some people get trees. In fact, I think my favorite moment from the last week was sitting on a comfy couch in the home of one of the French students, Thomas. His family welcomed us for a “Big French Meal” (to be referred to as BFM) last Sunday afternoon. (Pictured above at Chez Thomas, pictured center) Given that an imbalance of this blog’s words have been about food, I will sadly omit detailed explanations of each superb bite, but will only say….it was a gift to be in a loving, welcoming home… with a lighted, decorated Christmas tree. And in true Franco-American style, we even sang a few lines of "O Tennenbaum.

“So, are you happy to be returning home?” Many have asked us this question, and we Americans have asked one another. Honestly, the idea of leaving behind this ephemeral French life that we've enjoyed for four months - BFM’s, cheery well-walked streets, welcoming friends and countless other joys - is saddening to us. We anticipate the culture shock of being swept back into “real (American) life.” But of course, the treasure of family and friends awaits. And for that, I will continue to let my emotions wrestle. I may even cry as when we lift off from Nantes-Atlantique airport, as what was the unreal present becomes memory, and for how excited we will be to have our old bed back!

VIEW MORE NANTES SCENES AND OUR WEEKEND IN LILLE