Productivity abounds....

when you get rid of Facebook.
Here's my list...
I have:
made my own coffee creamer
learned how to make sour cream
found thirty new recipes to try
researched and switched savings accounts
made granola bars
budgeted all spending
learned how to cook a whole chicken (haven't done it...but I will)
washed the windows
cleaned my purse with vinegar and oil
made my own body scrub
made my own shampoo
made my own conditioner
made my own facewash
debated making my own deodorant...still thinking about that one...
learned that vinegar is my new best friend (seriously, did you know you can clean just about anything with vinegar?)
learned how to make vinegar (no...I haven't done it.. but you never know when that knowledge might come in handy...)
learned just about anything can be made from scratch
created a stock market game with my class
stopped thinking in Facebook status updates
read Jane Austen
read John Piper
cleaned my closet
cleaned my shoes
decided to go on a shopping fast

Whew... and that's been in two months...
We'll see what the next two months bring. :)

Giraffes, Legos, and Hello Kitty....

Laura and I decided we would venture to our first get together with the adults from our church. We both were feeling as if we were learning more Portuguese and comfortable enough to attempt it.
As hard as I tried, I just felt out of place. I think it just reconfirmed that I've got so far to go...and because I wasn't expecting that...it was just extremely discouraging. So, sitting on the hearth of a fireplace, trying not to look like I just wanted to burst into tears... I found my place.
Two little girls came over and began playing with legos. I tried to converse with them, asked them their names, and tried to engage them in conversation, but even they looked at me with disapproval and caution, trying to figure out why I was talking to them. So I quietly kept playing with them, trying to help them build a house, or put Hello Kitty on an elephant...and gradually, they began to warm up. They started talking to me as if I understood everything. I asked them the names of the animals and inwardly laughed at their perplexed faces (they did NOT understand why I--an adult--did not know the name of the giraffe). They began to engage more with me, and I asked again what their names were. With a look of slight distrust, they ignored my question and kept playing with me. They quickly realized Laura and I could not tell them what to do and began fighting over legos and Kitties... and we tried to figure out how to tell them to share...but were unsuccessful.
Finally, about five minutes before we had to leave I asked one more time if they would tell us their names. One girl looked at us, grinned, and said, "Maria."
Trust.
What an interesting thing... and figuring out how you earn it in a different place is so frustrating. Maybe much of my struggle is due to language... but I couldn't help but wonder at the similarities of how these girls related to us and how I feel others relate as well...

I used to hate reading. In fact one time I was sent to my room for something (probably hitting Jon), and my punishment was to start reading a book.
I remember looking at the cover and telling my mom it was the dumbest book ever. To which she replied, "How would you know if you haven't read it."
"Fine. I'll read it. And then I'll tell you how dumb it really is," I thought.
I opened the cover, thumbed through a few pages, and solely for spite's sake started reading.
Somewhere between chapter one and chapter two I was mesmerized. The kids were playing with pig guts wrapped in cloth for toys, their dolls were made of corn husks, and they churned their own butter. What kind of world was this?
I devoured the book. Laura Ingalls Wilder became my hero. I read every book I could get my hands on, including the four additional series about her children as well as her adult newspaper articles.

The other day I sat down to my computer to see what other things I could attempt to make for supper. Somehow I stumbled on different home-made ingredients. Instantly I was fascinated. Who knew you could make your own brown sugar, or baking powder, or even ricotta cheese?

So I wrote down some recipes and started making the first one on the list... sour cream. It flopped. Apparently I didn't let my milk sour with vinegar for the appropriate time, so I tried again, and what do you know? Homemade sour cream, just like AE's (ok...not quite...but much better than the stuff here).

So, I moved on to my next item: flavored coffee creamer.

It just doesn't exist here...unless you know a woman named Joyce...in which case she can find some at a magical place that only she has access to... but seriously, does she really need to know how much coffee creamer I consume? And what if God called me to a place without coffee creamer or Joyce?



So... I made my first batch, and despite lacking two ingredients, it turned out decently. Tonight I tried again with a few new additions, homemade syrup (it calls for maple syrup...which we don't have) and a tea strainer to get rid of the chunks of cinnamon.


It's ridiculous, but somehow in the midst of living in the biggest city I've ever lived in...I feel like Laura. And I like that. Now...to churn my own butter. No...seriously, that's next on my list.
:)

Not enough....

Is it just me? Does anybody else feel like they should be doing more, giving up more, experiencing suffering more?
Maybe it's just me. Maybe it comes from my tendency to do everything to an extreme. I know... I know... I struggle with balance.
But sometimes when I read about Adoniram Judson, or William Tyndale, or Amy Carmichael, or Gladys Aylward... or when I watch things like this...

I question my heart.
How surrendered am I? Somewhere tonight in Asia, an eight year old girl's innocence will be sold for $12. Somewhere in Africa a six year old child is now the sole provider for his younger siblings. Don't read into what I write... I'm not saying the purpose of me being on this earth is to provide solely for physical needs... but what I am saying is this: If my Father's heart breaks for them... shouldn't mine too? And if my Father loves them and gave up his very own Son for them... shouldn't I be willing to give up everything I have so that they can know Him?
It makes sense to me...
Call me crazy. Label me whatever you'd like... but this I know: I've told the Lord that my life is His. I've got nothing worth living for here. No family of my own. No husband and children to care for. So I've told the Lord this: My life is His...to do as He pleases. Whether that is a "normal" life... or something altogether different.
This burden/desire is frustrating.
But I'll take frustrated over depraved indifference anyday.

I am highly unqualified to be a P.E. teacher. (As if you really needed me to write that.)
Don't get me wrong, I took a class in college on how to teach P.E. And in that class I remember thinking, "I'd be the last person on earth someone would ask to teach P.E."
I was wrong.

It's not that I didn't pay attention in the class. I listened, participated, and even "taught" a P.E. class for a grade. But, let's be honest, "teaching" a class of your peers is completely different than teaching real, live 6-12 year-old kids.
I really wouldn't mind "teaching" P.E. If only it was "teaching." What I have realized is that the majority of P.E. I don't teach. I referee. I am one person against everyone else. One person who is supposed to see the actions of 17 bodies and make decisions. I become someone who needs to be a split-second decision-maker. Have I ever said how much I do not like making decisions? THAT (refereeing) is what I am NOT qualified to be doing.

Maybe... maybe if I had instant replay capabilities I'd be better. But in the quickness of a catch or a tap... or the smack of a ball close to a line...it's like my brain doesn't engage to think, "Hello, Erin, look alive... you'd better figure out what just happened because in 1.7 seconds 17 kids are going to be trying to convince you that you just saw he/she get out/safe." It's like I can't make a judgment about what is happening in the moment. I watch...I see...and then when I realize I have to make the call...I can't remember when the person caught the ball... or how close they were to the out of bounds...or if they really did touch the base before the other person. It's like I've got "delayed-processing-to-pass-judgment-on-visual-stimulation" disease. Hey, if there's a disease that makes people afraid to throw dog hair away---which I saw on an incredibly reliable, highly informative show that you may or may not have heard of (cough, cough, muffle "Oprah" cough)-- ...I'm sure this is a disease as well, right?

Let's just say... the elementary is getting great practice at good sportsmanship--how to respond to poor refereeing. I guess that's a life skill... right?

On a completely different note, I was told yesterday that I looked like I was in my twenties. To which I replied, "That's because I am in my twenties."
To which said commenter replied, "Yeah, I know...but the first time I saw you I thought you were a young twenty."
Why thanks... let me go grab my walker.

I am my father's daughter...

I really used to think I was much more my mom than my dad. In fact, it used to drive me crazy when my dad would insist I had to fold the towels in thirds because they fit better in the drawers. I couldn't stand it that he thought Saturday should be spent organizing, cleaning, and de-cluttering the home. His way of doing things always seemed to directly contradict the way I thought things should be done. And, unfortunately, on more than one occasion, I made sure he knew I thought that.
But the older I get... the more I realize...the towels do fit better in drawers when they are folded in thirds. And...I actually do enjoy organizing and cleaning on Saturday.
While I'll never be able to see a room of people at a fellowship or wedding and instantly be able to assess a better set-up or line system to get people moving...I am realizing that I am indeed my father's daughter. Nothing said this more than my recent obsession.
I can't even believe I'm admitting this, but I've totally fallen in love with budgeting.
Wow... it's out.
There's just something about putting things into categories and setting weekly goals and calculating weekly expenditures (yes, I just used the word "expenditures." I kind of feel like I should hear a motion for a vote right now)... it's, well, it's exhilarating.
So, here it is, my new obsession.

And yes, those are envelopes marked with Crayola markers. :) Ok... so while I am my father's daughter... I'm also my mom's child as well.
Let me just tell you, the check-out lady at the grocery store was pretty intrigued with my "Grocery Money" envelope. Something tells me she doesn't see that too frequently. :)

Not quite the Friday night I was expecting...

I really thought I was going to our church's prayer meeting tonight. I don't know what happened... all I know is that when I walked in I thought, "Wow! They really decorate for this meeting!" Normally the back hall of our church has a round table where people eat snacks in between Sunday school and the morning service. When I walked in, I saw a large, rectangular table covered in white lace and huge bouquets of flowers. While I thought it was a little odd, I just brushed it off as one more thing I don't understand.
I decided I'd sit as close as possible to the door. I'd heard that the meeting can go pretty late, and after a week of teaching, two hours of prayer in Portuguese seemed a little daunting. How grateful I am for that little choice. :)
As I sat down I looked around at the eight other people there. I realized that I only recognized three of them from church. The others were faces I'd never seen. "Oh well," I thought, "maybe they work on Sundays and can only come Friday nights."
Just about this time, my brain began to focus and concentrate on trying to understand the conversation. It was apparent that it was very intense and very emotional. That's when I heard it.
"We know he/she is in a better place now."
Uh-oh.
Instantly I jerked my head up to focus my attention on that large rectangular table. Sure enough, when I looked at it I realized it was a casket. Not a casket like you would see in the States. This casket opened down the center, lengthwise, and was completely open. The white lace that I mistook for a tablecloth upon first glance was no tablecloth...it was covering a body.
I wish I could record here the next five minute dialogue that I had with myself. All I know is that it went something like this.
"What on earth? I thought they said this was a prayer meeting? Do I leave? How do I ask if I accidentally walked in on a funeral? Or wait, maybe the funeral is over and these are the people sticking around for prayer meeting? What would this be in Portuguese? Ok... think I've got it. I could just say 'Not the prayer?' in Portuguese and maybe they'll understand. BUT WAIT... I don't want to ask the family of the person that died. That would be awful! Then I would majorly insult them by revealing that I thought I was coming to prayer meeting by walking out! There's only eight other people here. What if this is the funeral and only eight people showed up? That would be horrible! I can't leave now!"
Yeah... it was somewhat like that.
I decided my best option was to just sit, look sad, and not attempt to ask anyone anything. I listened to a man read passages to encourage the family members that this person was now in the presence of the Lord. I inwardly cringed at the thought that I was intruding on such a personal time.
Finally, a few more people showed up that I knew. As each one entered, I read what translates in any language (most of the time...): facial expression. Maybe I was just paranoid, but it looked like every person that walked in and saw me thought, "Huh... what's she doing here?"
"Yeah, I'd like to know the same thing," I wanted to say.
We did pray, and sing, and pray, and sing some more... and finally I figured out who had passed away. Or at least, I thought I had...until he walked in halfway through the meeting. I decided tomorrow I'm spending the day working on language. Clearly I cannot distinguish between "he/she" and "brother/sister" when they are said quickly.

As I listened to people talk about this person, I realized that death is a universal pain that just stinks. Profound thought, I know. But something about watching it all, without understanding what was being said, was surreal. Seeing the raw pain of a husband who is now a widower... it's just heartbreaking. And even though I clearly don't know him...I found myself gripped by his new reality. I'm thankful that for me, for him, for all those that are found in Christ... this is my only hell. For me, this earth is as bad as it gets because I've placed my trust in the One who as I type is preparing a place for me. For me... it can only get better from here.

I don't really know all that transpired tonight...or how it came to be that I accidentally attended a funeral, or memorial, or prayer meeting around a casket...I'm not sure which. But I watched as the time concluded and everyone began to walk towards him to comfort him, hug him, and provide some sort of help for him... and I decided it was time to quietly exit.

As I drove home through intense fog, I was reminded again of the brevity of life. Here I am, proudly thinking and planning... knowing I've got a year and a half left here... and frustrated that I don't know what's after this...
I know God divinely arranged for me to attend whatever it was that I just attended... I needed the reminder. Tomorrow is not a promise. And if God grants another tomorrow, He'll also provide a plan for it. I don't need to do it for Him.