tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-65641380483249485312024-03-13T04:33:41.305-07:00Petunia JuneFamily, faith, and the fullness of joy. Would you care to join me? I'll put the kettle on.Julianna Lawsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01532256832107537206noreply@blogger.comBlogger514125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6564138048324948531.post-53996286487843801652019-08-23T21:28:00.000-07:002019-08-23T21:28:58.001-07:00{The Hilltop Hut}This morning I found myself hankering after breakfast <i>a la</i> Iveta. A platter of farm fresh eggs, layers of sliced meats and cheeses, juicy, sun-ripened tomatoes, homemade berry jam, and hand-kneaded bread would be just the thing. Oh -- and my tea must be a whimsically handcrafted medley of garden-fresh herbs. Thank you.<br />
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Alas, I am no longer staying at a hilltop hut in Slovenia, where the table was daily spread with such delights (don't get me started on the crépes and ćevapčići). We are now three weeks removed from that first morning, where our GoTeam gathered in anticipation of a weekend of team training and camp preparation.</div>
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Our training for flexibility started right off the bat. We shared the hut with another team, a California-based group who would also participate in the orientation. (Their middle school camp would take place in Maribor, while ours would take us to Celje.) The guys' and girls' bunk rooms accidentally got switched around, so that we found ourselves faced with a bed shortage. Unfortunately, this shortage wasn't realized until <i>after</i> several of our team members had already fallen asleep for the night.</div>
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Our host, Iveta, came up with the perfect solution: some of us could bunk with her mother! Allie and I exchanged glances. Sure. Why not. We could bunk with grandma! Iveta mentioned, as a side note, that her mother would probably slip into the room after midnight, due to the many responsibilities involved in running the lodge. Oh, and another thing -- she liked to listen to the radio as she slept. Allie and I transferred our belongings, thankful for a bed and not at all concerned about a little white noise.<br />
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Now, perhaps grandma is hard of hearing. Perhaps she fears the dark. Or perhaps she's nocturnal and doesn't actually prefer . . . <i>slumber</i>. Whatever the reason, grandma's radio preferences far exceeded the bounds of "white noise" and landed somewhere on the scale between "startling" and "aggressive." Thankfully, the words to the music and talk radio were Slovene, so while Allie and I may have been disturbed by the noise, we at least weren't distracted by information that our minds were trying to process throughout the night.<br />
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Of course these are the situations that later make for laughter and stories, so after downing cups and cups of tea the next morning, we were eager -- albeit bleary-eyed -- to get on with our training. As we experienced last year, it was a joy and delight to learn and grow as the JV (Josiah Venture) team taught, and to share in this time of growth with our new friends from California, too.<br />
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The setting is absolutely beautiful, and we quickly felt at home in our hilltop hut. The weekend at the lodge also strategically provided space for us to recover from jet lag before jumping into the rigors of middle school English camp. We were only a few days into our journey, and already we had a treasure trove of memorable experiences behind us:<br />
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A transatlantic flight with our GoTeam, an afternoon picnic in Graz, Austria (the last leg of our journey), reunion with family and friends, and the myriad adventures that inevitably take place on a little chestnut hill near Sentjur, Slovenia. Some of which involved scurrying mice, lightning bolts, bunny dances, wide-windowed showers and -- for a select few -- the rare distinction of bunking with grandma. </div>
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<br />Julianna Lawsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01532256832107537206noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6564138048324948531.post-71160553087206520802019-07-20T00:26:00.000-07:002019-07-20T00:26:47.154-07:00{The Third Guy}We were sitting next to each other, riveted to the screen. The images before us bore the aged look of 60s film, telling a story so incredible that hardly any narration was necessary: Man was about to set foot on the moon.<br />
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Aidan leaned over and whispered, "How'd you like to be the third guy?"<br />
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I smiled. The "third guy" stayed put while Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin left their indelible mark on the lunar landscape. I whispered back, "Yeah . . . but they couldn't have done it without him." Michael Collins was crucial to the success of the mission; <i>he was their ride home</i>.<br />
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Really, the story of the lunar landing couldn't have happened without the third guy . . . or the fourth . . . fifth . . . and sixth. As we watched <i>Apollo 11</i> at OMSI, that was one of the most striking take-aways for me. There were <i>so many people</i> who had <i>precise operations to execute</i>, whether it was before, during, or after man landed on the moon. That "one small step" was preceded by countless other steps taken by thousands of men and women.<br />
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The next day, I found myself in 1 Samuel 30. David had just defeated the Amalekites, and his men were ready to divide the spoil. Some of the men had been too weary to fight; the "wicked and worthless men among those who went with David" into battle didn't feel they deserved a share of the loot. Yet David declared, <i>"For as his share is who goes down to the battle, so shall his share be who stays by the baggage; they shall share alike."</i><br />
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He who stays by the baggage -- he who stays aboard <i>Columbia --</i> shares in the victory.<br />
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In just a couple of weeks, Jamie and I will be taking a team of students to Celje, Slovenia, where we once again have the opportunity to help Johnny and Brooke and their Josiah Venture (JV) team lead an English camp for middle school students. There is much to prepare. Curriculum to review, games to plan, supplies to gather, meetings to schedule . . . and bread to bake.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Last year's Middle School English Camp in Celje, Slovenia</i></td></tr>
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A little while ago, I had the idea to start a "Dough for Slo" project to help raise funds toward our trip. The response was so overwhelming and generous that we have truly been in awe of the many hands who are sending us across the ocean. We may be the ones setting foot in Celje, but we couldn't do it without you: our <i>Columbia</i>, our Third Guy. <br />
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I'm up to my elbows in flour. We've ceased eating dinner at the table because it's perpetually covered with bowls, cutting boards, cooling racks, and parchment paper. We time our oven use around the bread schedule. "You'll probably be baking," Jamie assumes. He graciously decides to grill for us. Again. "What's your bread schedule?" Aidan wonders if he will be picked up from work anytime soon, "It's okay." Our house smells like Italy, and I'm okay with that.<br />
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In the coming weeks, we are going to need (or is that knead?) all the Third Guys we can get. We covet your prayer as we continue to prepare, as we grow in team unity (there are seven of us going), as we anticipate connecting with Johnny and Brooke and their team, and as we think of the students with whom we will be working -- students who have likely never heard of Jesus' deep love for them.<br />
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Will you be our Third Guy? I plan to post updates in the coming days via Facebook and Instagram. You can follow along and keep up to date on how to be praying for us. If you are local and would like to support us financially through "Dough for Slo," I'd love to make you a yummy, crusty loaf! (Orders placed at this point will make their way to you after our trip. Just in time for fall soup!) I also welcome any and all bread-related puns. It's the yeast I can do.<br />
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The theme for the JV camps this year is <i>Home</i>. We are excited to meet these middle school students, to share our language and our hearts with them, to find out what it means to know and be a part of the family of Christ.<br />
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Thank you, from the bottom of our hearts, for being our Third Guy. We can't reach Home without you. <br />
Julianna Lawsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01532256832107537206noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6564138048324948531.post-23130824638492543452019-06-05T13:24:00.000-07:002019-06-05T13:24:01.655-07:00{Grief Unexpected}Never had I been so thankful for a Monday morning pile of laundry. Drew and Maggie had just pulled away, waving their farewells after a weekend packed with wedding celebrations and family get-togethers. My eyes blurred as they drove off . . . then as they returned to grab the Cheez-Its . . . then as they drove off again, eager to tackle the last few weeks of classes at Eastern. <br />
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The day stretched before me, grey and ordinary, especially compared with the excitement of the last few days. To tell you the truth, I really just wanted to curl up on The Big Chair, drink my tea, and retreat. For about a week. Knowing this was hardly realistic, I instead stepped toward the thing I knew would at least get me jump-started on the day. I sorted laundry.<br />
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Somehow, this prosaic act is often the gentle nudge I need to "<a href="https://emilypfreeman.com/">do the next right thing</a>." There's always laundry to be done, and the act of quiet, rhythmic sorting or folding can be the warm up I need to then move on to the next task in my day . . . and the next.<br />
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Heavy on my mind as I sorted and piled, however, was the news that my grandfather was in the hospital, very likely living his last days on earth. Indeed, the next day, a sense of urgency prompted my family to gather at his bedside. My parents, sister, aunt, cousin, and I knew that our "next thing" was now to sit, visit, remember . . . to watch and wait.<br />
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We watched and waited all day, and late that night, after my sister and I had gone home, Grandpa drew his last breath. A text flashed on my phone, and I knew. Even as my eyes blurred over the message, my heart rejoiced. He was released from pain, from confusion, from the mind disease that had infiltrated and robbed him of health and vitality. He was home with his Savior.<br />
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I grieved as memories flickered across my mind, memories of the way he called me "Hunny Bunch" and "Juni," memories of him expertly navigating the tractor over the sands of El Morro . . . memories of him conversing in his Donald Duck voice . . . memories of watching him slow dance with Nanee . . . memories of his strong, work-worn hands resting on his Bible.<br />
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This was the grief I expected. Yet as I looked through old photos and recalled sweet memories, I was blindsided by an unexpected grief. It was as though I'd inadvertently re-opened an old wound, and I grieved anew over the death of Nanee. I wanted to update her on the kids; I longed to tell her all the fun little details she loved to hear; and I really wanted to take her out to Beaches for a nice, juicy burger.<br />
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My mind delved into the deeper strata of loss, and I grieved unexpectedly over my <i>maternal</i> grandparents. Why had my grandmother died at such a young age? I was only eight when she passed at 55, and it didn't seem fair that I never had the chance to share my adult life with her . . . . It didn't seem fair that my own mom never got to share the delight of grandkids with her mom. <br />
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Grandpa's passing marked the end of an era. He was the last of my grandparents, the last of my kids' great grandparents. His passing, therefore, had somehow awakened a sense of loss connected with each of my grandparents. Yet it also threw into greater relief the season in which Jamie and I now live. It's a season of great change, transition, and excitement. Our kids are growing, and while our nest is not empty, our birds do have nice, strong wings. And boy are they eager to use them. <br />
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Yet even here I have discovered an unexpected flicker of grief. It's the grief that comes with change, the grief that comes over remembering what once was and what can no longer be. For over 21 years my life has been devoted primarily to motherhood. And, while I will never stop being a mother, I grieve over the ways in which my role has changed. My kids don't come running up to me with fist-fulls of dandelions anymore. They don't beg for another reading of <i>Goodnight Moon</i> (which I still have memorized). They don't shout from outside, "Mama! Come watch me!" (Yet, thankfully, nor do they holler at me from the bathroom.) <br />
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Yesterday, as I was walking the pond, I listened to Emily P. Freeman's podcast of the week. The topic was remarkably poignant and timely: <i><a href="https://emilypfreeman.com/podcast/the-next-right-thing/85/">Hold Space When Someone Dies</a>.</i> As I circled past the towering foxglove and cheerfully nodding daisies, I wondered if I had "held space" for my grandpa, if I had taken the time to pause and grieve in a way that brought a sense of peace to my heart.<br />
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I then recalled the Psalm I had read the day after Grandpa's death. It was Psalm 100, a passage I had known since childhood. Yet never had I connected it with death. Suddenly, it was a beacon of light: <i>Enter His gates with thanksgiving and His courts with praise. Give thanks to Him and bless His Name. For the Lord is good; His lovingkindness is everlasting; His faithfulness to all generations.</i><br />
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I could envision Grandpa entering heaven's gates with thanksgiving. And I could proclaim in my heart that "all shall be most well" because of the Lord's faithfulness and lovingkindness <i>to all generations: </i>to the generations that now remain, to the generations to come. This, then, is the way of grief. It is a way that hurts, yes. Yet it is also a way that gives thanks, a way that penetrates through the tears and the ache. Whether our ache lingers over a death, a change, a loss, a season of unknown, or even if we find ourselves in a season of what seems prosaic and mundane (see: children who still holler from the bathroom), no matter the ache, <i>we have reason to give thanks</i>.<br />
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Finishing my jaunt around the wetlands, I took a deep breath, wiped my eyes, and gave thanks for a quiet moment to "hold space" for my Grandpa, to allow myself time to consider and give name to the grief I'd held over both the expected and unexpected events, changes, losses, and transitions of the past weeks, months, and even years. <br />
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My phone buzzed and I looked at the screen. (This is the young adult phase of "kid holler.") Bethie had just picked up her cap, gown, and cords. She will graduate with honors. Later, Drew would text me, saying he got the editor position he'd hoped for . . . Aidan would pull together his paperwork, eager to dive into Running Start as a junior this fall . . . and Avery would whip up a fresh batch of cream puffs. Life continues, life is beautiful. And it's okay for a mama to "weep a little weep" of joy, even over cords and cream puffs. <br />
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<br />Julianna Lawsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01532256832107537206noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6564138048324948531.post-85002473691939689702019-03-11T21:20:00.000-07:002019-03-11T21:20:08.152-07:00{My Teacup Runneth Over}<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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On Friday if you had asked me to share a special memory associated with Psalm 23, I would have shared about little Drew, who had the chapter memorized at age 2. Of course I was eager to share his brilliance with extended family, and on one occasion asked him to recite the passage at the dinner table. His sweet voice confidently proclaimed, "The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want . . . ."<br />
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At one point Drew paused in his recitation, so his uncle, whom the children called "Bobo," gently prompted him: "What about 'Thy Rod and Thy staff?'" Drew didn't skip a beat, but turned matter-of-factly to his uncle and calmly explained, "They comfort me, Bobo."<br />
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Yes, that would have been my Friday story. But by Sunday afternoon? My Psalm 23 story would have gone a little something like this.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The forest trifecta: moss, creek, and a split rail fence.</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Don't let the halo fool you.</i></td></tr>
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This weekend my cup overflowed with God's goodness and abundance. I took part in our church's Women's retreat and delighted in the many ways God revealed to me the blessing of community. From a skit performed with co-workers and late-night conversations with kindred spirits, to English Country dances with new friends and hikes in the woods with fellow moss lovers, I could feel my somewhat depleted cup beginning to fill.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Glenwood Staff Ladies. Business as usual.</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Dancing with 30 exhausted, hyper ladies is hilarious. </i></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>I love learning from Judy!</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Isn't my Marmee cute?</i></td></tr>
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If I could liken this overflowing "cup" to a cup of tea, I would say the cream and sugar were about to be added . . . in the most unexpected way.<br />
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My dear friend Dayna was our retreat speaker, and she taught from Psalm 23 with wisdom, insight, and encouragement. Her faithful "yes" to her Savior is a constant inspiration to me and many others, and time spent with Dayna -- limited now that she lives in North Dakota -- is always a balm to my soul.<br />
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I regretted not having had more time with Dayna over the weekend (alas, Annie and I had to share her with dozens of other ladies), so I was excited when, at the end of the retreat, she suggested taking a quick hike up to the falls before heading out. Annie and I -- her fellow carpoolers -- were game: the sun was bright and warm, the sky a brilliant blue, and those mossy trees and gurgling streams beckoned irresistibly.<br />
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So we informed Michelle, our fearless leader, that we'd be taking a quick jaunt. She, in turn, informed the camp personnel that a few hikers were still on site. We took to the woods.<br />
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An hour later, we returned to the car, refreshed, yet eager to head home. We pulled out, approached the gate . . . and found it to be locked. Very securely . . . <i>locked</i>. Not yet alarmed, we figured someone must still be on site. We drove around and hollered . . . and honked . . . and hollered and honked some more. Yet the only sign of life was the grazing deer who quizzically perked her ears and then calmly sauntered toward a patch of sunlight.<br />
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At this point we decided to rope Michelle into our awkward predicament. Dear, faithful Michelle, already on her way home, ready to rest after a full weekend; Michelle, who pulled over to the nearest gas station and remained a steadfast point of contact for us as we, one by one, exhausted our resources.<br />
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Resources which included scaling the fence to ask neighbors for help . . . .<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Brave, strong Dayna.</i></td></tr>
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. . . trying to contact the retreat center itself . . . calling friends and family for advice . . . and finally scouring the grounds for implements with which to perform our great escape. <br />
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We looked at each other with calm determination. Dayna reasoned, "We can do this, girls. We've read all about things like this, right?" Surely three literary homeschool moms could break out of a chainlink fence. Dayna valiantly, romantically attempted to pick the lock with a hairpin. It works in movies. It works in mystery novels. It did not work for us.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-1mgH8euZF-o/XIbtqa7eOYI/AAAAAAAAG3c/2kvWb-b2zD4AysJKGj70_f2HPg0YHTNvQCEwYBhgL/s1600/IMG_6824.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-1mgH8euZF-o/XIbtqa7eOYI/AAAAAAAAG3c/2kvWb-b2zD4AysJKGj70_f2HPg0YHTNvQCEwYBhgL/s640/IMG_6824.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Brave, creative Annie.</i></td></tr>
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Annie, who was starting to feel a bit claustrophobic, was ready to resort to more desperate measures. She procured a pick axe and cable from some shed and determined to miraculously combine these tools with her van's tow hitch. I tend to be more cautious, and nervously pointed out that it might be unwise to yank the entire gate out of the ground. This might be considered vandalism? <br />
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I wondered at which point we should call 911. Annie wasn't so sure. "No! We'll end up on the <i>news</i>! We'll be the three <i>lunatic moms</i> who got <i>trapped </i>inside a<i> Bible camp!</i>"<br />
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Where had we gone wrong? At about this time I recalled having passed fellow hiker-friends on our way into the trail. We had waved goodbye to these friends who were just finishing up their hike. It dawned on me. What if the retreat personnel had seen those women return to camp and assumed <i>they</i> were the ones to whom Michelle had been referring? No one would guess that three more women were trapped in the idyllic woods.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KxNQl6I0UP8/XIcXL_N1ubI/AAAAAAAAG4Q/-jsaWxLrZmoyrGk49sXqiONJopeiK8iqwCLcBGAs/s1600/IMG_6760.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KxNQl6I0UP8/XIcXL_N1ubI/AAAAAAAAG4Q/-jsaWxLrZmoyrGk49sXqiONJopeiK8iqwCLcBGAs/s640/IMG_6760.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>A path on one of our earlier hikes. I was so blessed to visit with a number of younger women this weekend.</i></td></tr>
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My phone battery was uncomfortably low by this time, and service was limited. I continued to run back and forth from the van to the one patch of land where my coverage was strongest, keeping Michelle up to date on our escape attempts. Michelle continued to try calling those whom she thought might be able to help us out, and was ready to come fetch us herself. (I could envision the three of us scaling the fence upon Michelle's arrival and began to consider which of my possessions I should toss over. The church curtains would be a definite must . . . . )<br />
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Fairly certain we were out of options by this time, Annie's husband was ready to head north with some bolt cutters. If we were resorting to bolt-cutting, I was thankful to contribute the suggestion that my in-laws lived less than an hour away. I hated to inconvenience them, but I knew they'd not only have the necessary tools, but they'd also be all too willing to help. I gingerly made the call, embarrassed we had gotten ourselves into such a scrape. "Hey . . . so . . . do you guys happen to have any . . . bolt cutters?" My mother-in-law laughed, checked their escape-tool-arsenal, and assured me they would head over as soon as possible.<br />
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Knowing that help was on the way, we began to relax. Yes, we were still locked in. Physically, things hadn't changed; but our outlook had changed: we had a new, calming assurance. So, with Psalm 23 fresh on our hearts, we spread out our coats in a patch of green pasture . . . right beside the still waters. A table was prepared before us in the form of the various leftover snacks we had on hand: Red Vines, carrots, hummus, one apple and several granola bars. Dayna positioned an unlit candle in the middle for ambience. We could survive for quite some time.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>(Kayla, your leftover Dayna-snacks were a banquet that saved our lives. Ann, thanks for letting Annie snag the Red Vines.)</i></td></tr>
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It was a powerful picture to me that these camp boundaries became beautiful in my sight. Here I was, trapped with two of my dearest friends. We were forced to sit, to rest, to talk about the real, heart-felt things. And, really, in that moment, we had everything we needed. We were blessed to think of the many friends and family who were ready to jump in and help. We were blessed by the snacks which had been shared with us by others. We were blessed by a weekend full of laughter-inducing activity, delicious food, gracious camp hosts, thoughtful conversation, and deep wisdom. We were blessed by the warm sunshine that continued to pour down on us. We even found comfort in the rod and staff which reminded us of our glaring need for a wise, forgiving Shepherd.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>He restores my soul.</i></td></tr>
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The cream and sugar were added to my figurative cup of tea. Annie refers to the three of us as the Bermuda Triangle. She's right. But we are also tea with cream and sugar. Annie is the tea: her energy is a hearty dose of caffeine that has always bravely inspired us to push limits and take risks because we serve a mighty God. Dayna is the cream: her words are soothing, her presence calming, her spirit rich, and she pairs beautifully with a piping hot cup of tea. That leaves me as the sugar: I quietly insert myself here and there, sweetly attempting to keep my friends grounded and rational with gentle, unobtrusive questions. Questions like, <i>"Is this considered vandalism?"</i><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The Great Escape.</i></td></tr>
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Finally, my in-laws pulled up, and they worked their magic. Never have I hugged them so tightly. We laughed over the story, secured the gate behinds us, climbed into Annie's van and breathed a sigh of relief. My ever-mindful father-in-law pointed us toward the road we should take to head home. We grinned our cutest grins and bashfully demurred, "Ummm . . . can we just follow you out? We have no idea where we're going." <br />
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<br />Julianna Lawsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01532256832107537206noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6564138048324948531.post-76349349007425890752018-12-31T20:33:00.000-08:002018-12-31T20:33:10.256-08:00{The Twelve Months of 2018: A Musical Letter}<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: 10pt; font-weight: 700; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>Merry Christmas and Happy New Year, Dear Friends and Family! </i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: 10pt; font-weight: 700; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>In lieu of a traditional letter (alas for my sentimental heart!), </i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-weight: 700; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>I bring you this digital format, </i></span><i style="font-size: 10pt; font-weight: 700; white-space: pre-wrap;">which allows me to share pictures so much more easily. </i></span></div>
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<i style="font-size: 10pt; font-weight: 700; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">So pour a cup of tea, let the familiar tune float through your head </span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i style="font-size: 10pt; font-weight: 700; white-space: pre-wrap;">(ignoring the poor rhythms along the way), </i><i style="font-size: 10pt; font-weight: 700; white-space: pre-wrap;">and join me for . . .</i></span><br />
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<i style="font-weight: 700; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">"The Twelve Months of '18!" </span></i></div>
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<span style="font-weight: 700; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">January</span></i></span></div>
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<b><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“On the first month of ‘18 our Bethie, she did say, </span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">'</span><span style="font-style: italic; white-space: pre-wrap;">I’m off to SkyZone today'”</span></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">Bethie turns 18 in just a couple of weeks. She continues to enjoy working at SkyZone, our local trampoline park (she especially loves to see familiar faces, so bring the kids on in!), and keeps up her senior year studies as a Running Start student at Clark College. Her readiness to hop in the car and chauffeur or run errands is a huge help as we manage many ever-shifting schedules! </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 700; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">February</span></i></span><br />
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<b><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“On the second month of ‘18, son Aidan did preside </span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-style: italic; white-space: pre-wrap;">O’er the Glenwood musical slides”</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">Aidan -- our 15-year-old sophomore -- keeps busy with a variety of activities, including monthly slide projection at Glenwood, outreach events with the youth group, and daily texts, memes, and Snapchats (did I get that right?) with his brother, cousins, and friends. He also recently (and bravely) taught me the Hype dance and concluded, "Well, you're <i>doing</i> it right . . . it just doesn't <i>look</i> right." Such is midlife. </span></div>
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<b><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“On the third month of ‘18 the Lawsons, they were bound, </span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-style: italic; white-space: pre-wrap;">For a brief stay away in the Sound” </span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">As our family grows, we become increasingly aware of how quickly time and circumstances change. It won’t always be the six of us, gathered in the home nest! We took advantage of this season of togetherness and spent Spring Break on Whidbey Island in the Puget Sound. How grateful we are for Jamie's video production business -- he's enjoying his 10th year as the owner of Team 302 -- which allows him to work from home and take time off for such special occasions. </span></div>
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<b><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“On the fourth month of ‘18 we sensed eternity </span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-style: italic; white-space: pre-wrap;">And God’s love for the Stevens family”</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">April ushered in a powerful time of transition for our family as my Dad’s mom -- our Nanee -- went home to be with Jesus. How blessed we were to share the last months with her, to hear her spin the final, familiar old stories, to witness her testament to God’s faithfulness through it all: “It’s been a wonderful life!” </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>P.C. Carolyn Nichols</i></td></tr>
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<b><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“On the fifth month of ‘18 my mom and I did pray </span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-style: italic; white-space: pre-wrap;">O'er the birth of our musical play”</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">Many years ago, my mom had a little seed of a dream planted in her heart. That dream was to write a children’s musical. Over the last couple of years, that dream blossomed and bloomed. She invited me to co-write the script, and it was an incredible joy to see the May performance of my mom’s heart work, “Wisdom in the Wild.” And the icing on the cake? Avery Kate -- daughter and granddaughter -- took part in the production. </span></div>
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<b><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“On the sixth month of ‘18 Julianna did see, </span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-style: italic; white-space: pre-wrap;">A quick plane trip -- and lots of VBC!”</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It’s been a joy and privilege for me to serve on the Glenwood staff in Children’s Ministries for three years now. June is always a busy time in the CM world, and I was delighted to work with the preschool Vacation Bible Camp class this year . . . especially since it gave me opportunity to share Bible stories through a favorite medium: shadow puppets! My parents and I also hopped down to California to celebrate Nanee's life and legacy with family down there. We were so close to Disneyland, that Mary Poppins' mantra proved irresistible: "If we must, we must!" </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10pt; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b><span style="font-weight: 700; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i>July</i></span></span><br />
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<b><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“On the seventh month of ‘18 our household was awhirl </span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-style: italic; white-space: pre-wrap;">As we prepped to journey ‘cross the world”</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: arial; font-size: 10pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">July was filled with meetings and studying and packing and purchasing and double-checking. We were prepping our little hearts out for the August trip to Slovenia: connecting with the students who would be joining us, keeping in touch with Johnny and Brooke for last minute updates, purchasing supplies for the middle school students we’d be meeting! </span></div>
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<b><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“On the eighth month of ‘18 we got the passport stamp, </span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-style: italic; white-space: pre-wrap;">And headed toward a week of English camp”</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Jamie and I had the incredible honor of taking a team of students to Celje, Slovenia, where my brother and his family live. There, we helped lead an English camp for middle school students. </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b><i>We are extremely grateful to those of you back home who supported us through prayer, financial support, and the cheery comments you delivered via Facebook and Instagram as you kept up with our activities.</i></b></span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b><i> Because all financial giving was anonymous, we have not been able to individually thank those of you who joined in this adventure. Please accept our warmest gratitude!</i></b> It was a life-changing opportunity for each one of us. </span><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">On the ninth month of ‘18 we bade farewell to Drew, </span></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-style: italic; white-space: pre-wrap;">Who travelled back to Eastern U”</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">Drew, just a few months shy of 21, is a junior at Eastern Washington University, working toward a double major in Public Relations Journalism and Print Journalism. This fall he was thrilled to land a position on the school newspaper, “The Easterner.” He covers a variety of sports, which is right up his alley, and we’re always thrilled when we pull up the online paper (easterneronline.com) and see that familiar byline!</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 700; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">October</span></i></span><br />
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<b><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“On the tenth month of ‘18 our table stretched and burst </span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-style: italic; white-space: pre-wrap;">With a special meal -- the honorary first”</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">Jamie and I continue to work with the young adult ministry at Glenwood, "The Calling." In October we instituted "Lawson Family Dinner," and, much to our delight, hosted a table full of students for lively conversation, belly laughter, yummy food . . . and even some Neil Diamond records. (Pictured is our November meal.) It is an honor to get to know these men and women, and we are grateful for the privilege of spending time with them.</span></div>
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<b><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“On the eleventh month of ‘18 the days did simply flee </span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-style: italic; white-space: pre-wrap;">As we shared some time with friends from JV”</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 10pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">This year has been marked by many rich, jaw-dropping moments. One such occasion was our opportunity to spend time with Urh and Doroteja Kolar, Slovenes -- and friends of Johnny and Brooke -- who work with Josiah Venture. We gobbled up their time here in Vancouver and delighted (often with misty eyes) over the way God brings His people together. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i>December</i></span></b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i><b>"On the twelfth month of '18 the mixer whipped and whirled </b></i></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i><b>With creations by our Avery-girl" </b></i></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.3333px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Avery, 13, is in 8th grade this year. She spends a vast majority of her time thinking about culinary creations, whether she's whipping up cupcakes, watching the Great British Baking Show, dreaming of fondant, sketching a cake design, or trying out a new puff pastry technique. (As I write, she's pulling vanilla cupcakes out of the oven!) We are all highly in favor of this hobby. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; text-align: left; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>On this 12th month of 2018, we look back with hearts full of gratitude, </i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; text-align: left; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>and we look ahead, filled with the hope of Jesus that never fails, </i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; text-align: left; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>the love of you -- our precious friends and family -- who put action to that love,</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; text-align: left; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>and to the promise of the peace and presence of our Emmanuel, God with us. </i></span><br />
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<i style="text-align: left; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Merry Christmas and Happy New Year, Dear Ones! </span></i></div>
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<span style="text-align: left; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">With love from The Lawson Family</span></i></span></div>
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Julianna Lawsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01532256832107537206noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6564138048324948531.post-49315954991574559932018-08-30T23:06:00.000-07:002018-08-30T23:14:46.639-07:00{English Camp: The Music and the Message}My sister and I grabbed each other's hands and began to twirl around the living room, dancing and laughing hysterically. We had the bare bones of a routine choreographed, but in our teen hearts we were convinced it was <i>phenomenal</i>. At the approach of the chorus, our dad turned up the volume. We pulled out all the stops and kicked our legs up as high as we could, duly impressing our family:<br />
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<i>But I would walk five hundred miles </i><br />
<i>And I would walk five hundred more; </i><br />
<i>Just to be the one who walks a thousand miles </i><br />
<i>To fall down at your door.</i><br />
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Never would I have guessed that this song would bring tears to my eyes. But, three weeks ago, that's exactly what happened.<br />
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By Thursday morning, we had this whole camp gig down pat. We also had the whole hostel gig down pat, which was rather ironic: it was time to leave. There was a period of three or four days where the rooms were unavailable to us, so it had been arranged that we'd stay in the homes of the JV missionaries for a time and then return to the hostel.<br />
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Thus, my Thursday morning tea took the slightest turn. "May I have it in a paper cup? To take with me?" Once again, our hostess understood, and my tea was ready to go. Along with our assorted 50 lb. bags and suitcases. By 7:20 a.m. (We were very thankful for our brawny young men who eagerly shuttled our bags down the flights of stairs and into the awaiting van.)<br />
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Once at the church, we began as usual. Our combined team shared in morning devotions, and when the campers arrived, each team member fell confidently into their various roles, whether describing a game, leading an activity, or displaying song motions.<br />
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One of the highlights of camp was the music. Music brought us all together -- and quite literally, too. Some songs were meant to draw us into the same room (we had a camp song that, when played, was our signal to gather together, which we did with much dancing a laughter). Other songs were played for all-out fun and community, such as "Lean on Me" and "I'm a Believer." Still other songs filled the void in order to enhance hilarious games like "Planes, Trains, and Automobiles."<br />
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Our camp song, "Reign Forever," was a partner song with choreography, which everyone learned. By the end of the week we had those moves down (although I never could manage to make my twirling grapevine land in the right place). We also knew who to partner with in order to achieve a successful trust fall. This was important, for obvious reasons.<br />
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But for me, it was "500 Miles" that caused a lump to form in my throat. I hadn't heard this version of the song -- "We Have This Hope," it was called -- but I sure did know the tune. As soon as Johnny started to lead us that first day, we caught each other's eye. This song had a history. Years of images flashed through my mind in an instant. I pictured dancing in the living room with my sister. I pictured the many theatrical performances we coaxed our brother into joining. (Some of which included signed contracts; we just couldn't risk his fatigue or boredom, inevitable at age 8.)<br />
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We never could have imagined that, one day, he would be standing on a stage in a country called Slovenia, strumming that recognizable beat, teaching it to a crew of students and leaders, with a heart that beat wildly for Jesus. I was proud of him. Tears filled my eyes, and I was in awe of the way God faithfully -- and often unexpectedly -- lavishes the sweetest grace upon grace.<br />
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<i>And I would walk five hundred miles</i><br />
<i>And I would walk five hundred more</i><br />
<i>Just to be the one who walks a thousand miles</i><br />
<i>To stand firm in my Lord.</i><br />
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It's a riotous, fun song. (And not really a tear-jerker at all, I suppose, unless one happens to be terribly sentimental. Like some people I know.) But the message is one we hoped to introduce to the campers that week: <i>it is worth it all to stand firm in the Lord</i>. And it's a message I've proudly watched my brother, sister-in-law, and niece live in their home in Celje: <i>it is worth it all to stand firm in the Lord</i>.<br />
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Jamie and Johnny both had opportunities to share this message throughout the week. Our late afternoon program included a session in which they introduced the Bible, King David and, ultimately, King Jesus. The talks were followed by discussion groups, which were entirely conducted in Slovene, the heart language of the students.<br />
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We all came to camp with our own heart languages that week. It was an honor and privilege for Jamie and me to lead a group of young adults who learned more and more to listen to that language, to understand more and more what it means to walk a thousand miles for our Lord. Sometimes the miles are swift and beautiful, traversing lush meadows and fragrant forests. Other times those miles are dusty, uphill miles, filled with ruts and boulders. But, with our Lord, they are all good, good miles with breathtaking vistas and marvelous landscapes we never would have encountered on our own.<br />
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Thursday evening, in our various missionary homes, we had opportunity to share more of this heart language with one another. It was a blessing to be welcomed into their homes, to talk about the deep things, the things that matter. The week of English camp may have been winding down, but we knew our hearts were still on the path of life-long loving and learning. A thousand miles stretched before us, our Savior beckoning, our Savior welcoming. And we wanted to be counted among those who would walk 500 miles, and 500 more.<br />
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<br />Julianna Lawsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01532256832107537206noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6564138048324948531.post-751741819567329752018-08-24T15:35:00.000-07:002018-08-24T15:35:10.481-07:00{English Camp: Afternoon Games}I sat before my black tea on Wednesday morning, delighted. Our server had arranged our meals on wooden trays, knowing exactly what we had wanted. <i>Language</i> may have been a slight barrier over the course of our stay, but solid <i>communication</i> still took place. She showed us that she understood us and valued us. Once again, I felt the beauty of being understood, of understanding.<br />
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Confident in our ability to exchange ideas, I thought it would now be appropriate to introduce the next phase of tea perfection. I had already located the packets of raw sugar on Tuesday. One thing remained. "Do you have cream?" Her brow furrowed. I clarified, "Milk? For my tea?" Ah! Yes! She smiled and poured the daintiest little pitcher of milk for me. It looked quite charming alongside that wooden tray. I'm sure I was very loud and American when I pointed it out to the other girls, "Isn't this the <i>darlingest</i> creamer you ever saw?" They agreed it was and proceeded to partake of my unused portion.<br />
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In today's post I'll highlight the Afternoon Games, which were organized by our team and directed by Bethie. She did an excellent job describing the games each day. In preparation for camp, she and Jamie had taught the week's worth of games to the rest of the crew during orientation. This proved to be a very valuable sneak peek, as most of the games were new.<br />
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Bethie had the challenge of not only explaining new games to the campers, but in describing them, once again, with succinct, easy-to-translate phrases. Her translator, Iza, also did an excellent job of interpreting and communicating a variety of foreign ideas to the eager middle school students.<br />
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Monday's game was Rabbit Sticks, and it proved to be the favorite camp game. It had to be adapted somewhat in order to accommodate the layout of the church grounds, but once again, Bethie met the challenge, modified the rules, and made it work exceptionally well. (So well that we played it on multiple days.)<br />
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On Tuesday we introduced Haluta, a crazy variation of kickball. This ended up requiring multiple creative explanations, as the concept of baseball (on which the game is loosely based) was also new to the students. We were able to use a nearby field, and the kids pretty quickly picked up on the <i>fun</i> of the game, if not the precise <i>rules </i>of the game. I don't have pictures to document Haluta, as I was valiantly attempting to run the bases myself. Please accept instead this darling picture of Bethie and Nastja -- our amazing camp director -- with two of our campers.<br />
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Wednesday's temperature soared to the mid 90s, so it was a perfect day for the water war. (The day prior, Jamie and a few team members had sequestered themselves on the side yard of the church, where they filled hundreds and hundreds of water balloons.) We began water day with a (somewhat) organized, points-based game, and then unleashed the remaining water balloons for an all-out campers vs. leaders war. This, of course, was a big hit.<br />
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Thursday's activity strayed from the athletic, but it was just as fun. We headed to the nearby mall for a photo scavenger hunt.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Team Pyramid"</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Find something foreign"</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Recreate a movie scene." </td></tr>
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Finally, on Friday, the kids (and leaders!) participated in a series of silly relay-type games. I'll let the pictures speak for themselves.<br />
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And now, back to Wednesday. Following the water war, the kids made tie-dyed shirts as part of their theme day. We then transitioned to a nice, calm, well-chosen mid-week activity: an afternoon showing of <i>Ferdinand</i>. The church windows were blacked out with large garbage sacks, movie theater snacks were provided, and we all enjoyed a cool, relaxing close to the otherwise very hot and very active day. <br />
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That evening, our Glenwood team headed to the mall in preparation for the next day's scavenger hunt. We split up, some of us to work on the hunt details, some to shop for souvenirs . . . and some to hunt down ice cream, the most important mission of all.<br />
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When we arrived back at the hostel that night, the common room was full, and folk-type music filled the air. I was intrigued. "I think there's dancing or something!" I eagerly announced to the team upstairs. It seemed only appropriate to go back downstairs, order a drink, and linger. Just in case there <i>was</i> dancing. One can never be too prepared.<br />
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So, a few of us sat on the patio with our orange Schweppes (a favorite among the students) and carefully observed. Not only was this dancing, this was <i>organized</i> dancing. The ladies all wore the same shoes, the couples all followed the same serious, measured steps. It soon dawned on us that this must have been a <i>class</i>. Accordingly (yet regretfully), we decided it would be best <i>not</i> to join them. After all, not only had we not even been <i>invited</i> to this class, but we'd been participating in our own camp dance all week; our feet were beginning to show decided signs of wear. But, once again, that's another story for another day. <br />
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<br />Julianna Lawsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01532256832107537206noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6564138048324948531.post-49225659349256468992018-08-22T22:16:00.000-07:002018-08-25T21:14:01.730-07:00{English Camp: Workshops}Tuesday dawned, and I awakened before the alarm went off. Filtered, golden sunlight passed through the trees in the courtyard and whispered, "Good morning!" through the slanted blinds next to my bunk. The air conditioner in the room wasn't working, so it was fairly easy to leap out of bed (I take that back -- I rather creaked), get ready for the day, and seek the cooler downstairs domain.<br />
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Our team gathered in the dining area, one by one, each gravitating to the same plush chairs we had chosen the day before. I smiled at the server and slowly said, "B-l-a-c-k tea, please." Fetching my trusty muesli and yogurt, I was delighted to see the mug appear with black tea. Unfortunately, we were rather rushed that morning, so I could only swallow down a bit. It was lovely, nonetheless, to have been understood, and to understand.<br />
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The events of Tuesday mirrored Monday to a great degree. All 17 kids returned, bright and early; they would consistently do so for the remainder of the week, not once flagging in enthusiasm (or punctuality).<br />
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One of the camp features we offered was a series of workshops. On Monday, students chose from a variety of suggested classes, and, based on their interest and our teacher availability, we decided to focus on drums, sports, art, and video. The same students attended the same workshops throughout the week. Once again, it was a joy to watch them learn and grow in confidence, both in their use of English and in their various workshop skills.<br />
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Somehow I ended up in the sports workshop. I can't quite recall how this happened, but before I knew it, I was running bases, pulling flags, and hurling a frisbee (trying to ignore that rather in-my-forties feeling that asserted itself regularly in the form of sore knees, ankles and feet . . . ).<br />
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The sports workshop was led by one of our students, Andrew. His assistants were Allie, Mike, and Iza (with Brooke, Heidi, and me popping in as we were available). Andrew did an excellent job explaining the rules of various American sports. The challenges were many, for not only were sports such as baseball and ultimate frisbee new concepts to the students, but every sentence Andrew spoke was also to be translated. Each of our student leaders learned -- and learned very well, I might proudly add -- to speak in succinct, easy-to-translate phrases. Andrew had the added challenge of helping define new American words like <i>base</i>, <i>home plate</i>, <i>pitcher</i> and <i>batter</i> to his translator, Iza. At times we resorted to more universal terms, like "safe zone" and "thrower." But no matter the phrase or term used, those kids picked up the games quickly, and we all had a blast.<br />
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(Brooke and I had to laugh when we found ourselves face-to-face on the line of scrimmage one day. "Never thought we'd be doing this together!" she laughed. I chided, "Oh, it's on, Brooke," knowing full well she could whoop me at flag football . . . or any sport under the sun, for that matter. Avery kindly documented our postgame glow.)<br />
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Hailey taught the art class, and was joined by a helper (Bethie) and two translators (Neli and Tjaša). The students enjoyed a number of painting and drawing activities. When I was catching my breath from baseball or football (sometimes I pulled the mom card and stepped out to be photographer), it was a delight to visit their class and see how much fun they were having.<br />
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Drew felt right at home in the drum workshop (with assistants/translators Doroteja and Blaž), where he creatively used one drum kit to keep six students ("student" numbers also included assistants and translators, each of whom participated in all classroom activities) engaged and learning. They, too, grew in confidence throughout the week, and by Friday, they were ready to perform in the talent show. But I'll save that for another day.<br />
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Jamie and Urh eagerly took on the video workshop. Their students learned about perspective, lighting, storytelling and more, and worked throughout the week to script and shoot a mini movie, also to be presented at the talent show. We often saw the crew wandering the church grounds, experimenting with unique camera angles and mysterious sound effects. We couldn't wait to see what they were creating.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>PC: Workshop Student</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>P.C.: Workshop Student</i></td></tr>
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I would be remiss if I didn't also tip my hat to the food workshop. While it wasn't an actual <i>workshop</i>, Gwynne and Avery were a dynamic duo in the kitchen, daily preparing snacks for the whole crew. These girls are birds of a feather, and their imitation of Mel and Sue is spot on. <i>Baaaake!</i><br />
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We were also provided with catered lunch throughout the week, and it was quite a treat to share in traditional Slovene meals. As we experienced at <a href="http://petuniajune.blogspot.com/2018/08/the-chestnut-place.html">The Chestnut Place</a>, each lunch started with a light soup and was followed by a hearty dish, such as potatoes and fish or fried gnocci and salad.<br />
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Tuesday's theme was "pirate," so naturally we played pirate bunco while wearing eye patches for our late afternoon activity. Winners were showered with lots and lots of candy (see: 50 lb. suitcases as described in <a href="http://petuniajune.blogspot.com/2018/08/camp-preparation.html">Camp Preparation</a>).<br />
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And at this point in the day's journey, my mind becomes an absolute blank. I imagine we had dinner that night (my children say we ate sandwiches), and made our way back to the hostel where we prepped for the next day. It's also quite possible this was the night the girls slipped away for a gander about Celje. Because, how prosaic would it be, merely to fall asleep at the end of the day, whilst in Europe?<br />
<br />Julianna Lawsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01532256832107537206noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6564138048324948531.post-43779661708814438242018-08-20T19:54:00.000-07:002018-08-30T23:21:46.497-07:00{English Camp: Day One}My alarm went off at 5:45 on Monday morning. I gingerly climbed down from the squeaky top bunk, groggily wondering how it was that my daughter had managed to claim the bottom. It wasn't the first time that week I was to feel that rather in-my-forties feeling. One by one we rolled out of bed. Fatigue was quickly washed away in the excitement and nerves characteristic of first day jitters, however, and we eagerly got ready for the day. Once down in the hostel's common room for breakfast, we each found a plush chair and grabbed a menu.<br />
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I hadn't yet learned to speak slowly and distinctly, so when our server asked for my order, my loud-and-eager American self requested black-tea and muesli. The word "black" must have been slurred beyond comprehension, for she brought me <i>green</i> tea. I inwardly shrank back in horror, but outwardly smiled my thanks. Maybe the tea was different here?<br />
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The muesli was served with yogurt, and I approached the counter to serve myself. I scooped the grains from a quaint clamp jar and looked around for the yogurt. I saw only a glass pitcher of cream, and asked the server where the yogurt was. She pointed to the pitcher. Ah! One <i>pours</i> the yogurt. That breakfast -- raisin-packed muesli and plain, pourable yogurt -- quickly became my favorite way to start the day. And when I later glanced at Bethie's mug of tea -- which was decidedly <i>black</i> -- I determined to speak more clearly next time.<br />
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Johnny arrived promptly at 7:15 in The White Van. We piled in and headed to the church, a jumble of nerves, curiosity, and enthusiasm. Our team was soon circled on the floor of the church sanctuary, where we gathered to review the day's schedule, answer last minute questions, and pray. Although camp was to start at 8:00, some students arrived earlier, based on their parents' work schedules. We had outdoor games set up for just such an occasion, and each day throughout the week a few of our students would join them as the rest of the staff finished last minute class preparations.<br />
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The rest of the campers were very prompt, and camp was in full swing by 8:00. As they arrived on that first day, the campers each chose a workshop to attend, and Brooke also met with each of the 17 students to determine their placement in the three English classes we would offer. The rest of the crew remained outdoors, leading a variety of circle games and yard activities that would keep everyone entertained throughout the week.<br />
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The camp schedule of events was so carefully planned out and so well thought through by the JV staff, that it was exciting to watch each activity unfold throughout the day, whether it was a morning English class, an afternoon song time, a late afternoon game or a special, themed activity. Our Glenwood team was responsible for teaching the English classes, leading workshops, choosing and explaining the afternoon games, and prepping a number of "circle games" to have on hand. Games such as <i>Mad Cow</i>. (Enter that rather in-my-forties feeling.)<br />
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I guided our English teachers through the curriculum as we prepared for camp, but once Drew, Michael, and Hailey were in their separate classrooms, they ran with it on their own. In addition to having a lead teacher, each class had an interpreter and both English and Slovene-speaking assistants. Brooke and I were like nervous mother hens once those doors closed behind them. Would they need our <i>help</i>? Would they be <i>nervous</i>? Did they have their bag of <i>markers</i>?!? Did they need the <i>banana</i> <i>costume</i> yet?!? We needn't have worried. Each teacher did an excellent job, and it was an absolute joy to watch both teachers and students grow throughout the week. (And yes, we even got to use the banana costume.)<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-GGax3h-JyII/W3tzLi3OZtI/AAAAAAAAGoM/wTzYFxx4mo8b43GPvbKY4ytLmbmRk7bfwCEwYBhgL/s1600/IMG-9979.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="426" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-GGax3h-JyII/W3tzLi3OZtI/AAAAAAAAGoM/wTzYFxx4mo8b43GPvbKY4ytLmbmRk7bfwCEwYBhgL/s640/IMG-9979.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>PC: Urh Kolar</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i style="font-size: 12.8px;">PC: Urh Kolar</i> </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i style="font-size: 12.8px;">PC: Urh Kolar</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i style="font-size: 12.8px;">PC: Urh Kolar</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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English class took up two blocks of the morning, and the rest of the day was filled with numerous opportunities to practice conversational English: we shared meals and snacks, played games, sang songs, practiced the camp dance, and learned new skills through various workshops. (I'll save those details for another post!)<br />
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Each day also had a special theme or event of some sort, and Monday's theme was "cowboy." We giggled as we were lead by Gwynne and Urh, who opened each day's activity with a mini skit. They soon had us donning the appropriate hats and bandanas to pull off the cowboy look, and we closed the day with cowboy games and line dancing.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i style="font-size: 12.8px;">PC: Urh Kolar</i> </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="426" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-1eAvPIpGdEY/W3ty7f0pRAI/AAAAAAAAGn8/9OyJ9CTQAcU0hR5HwCzk65SfL7QaR8z5ACEwYBhgL/s640/IMG-5078.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="640" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i style="font-size: 12.8px;">PC: Urh Kolar</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i style="font-size: 12.8px;">PC: Urh Kolar</i></td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i style="font-size: 12.8px;">PC: Urh Kolar</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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By 5:30, parents had arrived, and we said goodbye to those 17 middle schoolers who were very quickly working their way into our hearts.<br />
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After the students left, Johnny and I whipped up sloppy joe's for dinner in the church kitchen, and then the whole team gathered on the church patio to eat and talk over both the events of the day just spent and the events of the day to come. Of course it seemed only fitting to make a final ending of the day in downtown Celje.<br />
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So we headed directly to the ice cream cart, as one does.<br />
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Julianna Lawsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01532256832107537206noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6564138048324948531.post-21934946972302625932018-08-18T14:07:00.000-07:002018-08-18T14:07:23.309-07:00{Camp Preparation}The morning of Sunday, August 5th, found us traveling away from The Chestnut Place toward Johnny and Brooke's hometown, Celje, where we'd stay for the remainder of our trip. The JV staff graciously hauled our team of nine hither and yon, and it became a daily occurrence to pile into the white van -- in addition to the staff's personal vehicles -- and be expertly escorted to our various destinations.<br />
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I was quite impressed with the many details the JV staff had to juggle while feeding, housing, and transporting nine extra people. They pulled it off flawlessly. My mother instincts never shut off throughout the trip, however, and I was constantly counting to make sure we had everyone. One, two, three . . . .<br />
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(No doubt this instinct was heightened because one of our students, Michael, failed to come off the plane in Gratz, Austria. We looked back, waiting for him to come down those steps . . . but no Michael. My mother heart went into mother bear mode. I would climb back on that plane and make sure he was okay! He could be <i>frightened</i>! He could be <i>confused</i>! He didn't speak <i>German</i>!!! But the attendant informed me that thunder and lightning threatened, so the rest of the passengers were to remain on that plane until a van could escort them to safety. So there we waited. And waited. Finally, the passengers were released, and we could breathe normally once more and make our way to the family and friends awaiting us.)<br />
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After arriving in Celje that Sunday, we joined the team for morning worship, where Johnny gave the message, which was translated by his friend, Marko. It was a joy to join our fellow worshippers in song. We recognized the melodies, but of course the words were unfamiliar. We tried our best to follow along, and I got about as far as deducing that "noš Bog" must mean "our God." I felt quite fluent in my discovery.<br />
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Following the service, we headed to the hostel, where we'd stay for most of our trip. The host warily eyed our large assortment of 50 lb. suitcases and commented, "Those are big bags." We inferred this must be unusual. (This guess was confirmed as we saw most people sauntering in and out of the hostel with mere backpacks. Well. <i>Clearly</i> they weren't hauling candy and curricula.) We headed toward the stairway, glancing from side to side, looking for the elevator that we were sure must be just around the corner. It wasn't. Up the stairs we went, giggling and grunting as we hauled those 50 lb. suitcases up . . . and up . . . and up.<br />
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Sunday afternoon found us back at the church where we had pizza for lunch and then quickly launched into preparations for the coming week of English Camp. We prepped the church grounds, reviewed the curriculum, games, and activities we'd planned, and learned that, when necessary, a straw broom can be groomed with garden clippers.</div>
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By Sunday evening we were tired but nervously excited for the quickly approaching Monday morning, which would reveal to us the ins and outs of the first day of camp. We enjoyed dinner at one of our favorite Slovene food carts -- Jamie and I could eat kebap on a regular basis -- and headed back to the hostel.<br />
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Climbing into the white metal bunks in our rooms that night, we girls found ourselves wrestling with the fitted sheets -- especially on the top bunks -- which produced another fit of hostel-induced giggles. We were definitely a little tired, a little nervous, a little unsure of what to expect for the next day. But we conquered those fitted sheets and finally fell into an exhausted sleep. Perhaps we could successfully navigate the first day of camp, as well.<br />
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<br />Julianna Lawsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01532256832107537206noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6564138048324948531.post-13972695611956802762018-08-17T17:00:00.000-07:002018-08-17T17:00:36.300-07:00{The Chestnut Place}I chose a worn, secluded picnic table, covered in fragrant pine needles. Brushing them aside, I opened my Bible and began scratching away in my journal. It was 7:00 am; morning voices mingled with the swaying chestnut and evergreen trees. Women in the kitchen chattered merrily in Slovene; I couldn't understand their words, but as their banter floated out the open window I imagined it to be much like hundreds of other morning kitchen conversations that have occurred throughout countless times, places, and centuries. ("Did you gather the eggs? Let's get the water boiling; they'll be ready for their coffee!")<br />
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Simultaneous banter soared from the opposite direction. Some of our students had climbed the tower on the chestnut hill (the tower that made my stomach drop), and there was my Avery's voice among them, her pitter patter steps confidently navigating the steep steel stairway. I was glad I couldn't see her. Up, up, up she went, her little body towering over Sentjur, the distant valleys below blanketed in quiet wisps of fog.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>PC: Gwynne Gardner</i></td></tr>
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Tucked between the two languages, there among the trees, I marveled at the beauty of language, of people, of culture. A student ran up the hill behind me, and I remained at my post -- nearly invisible among the thick trees -- continuing to scribble out my morning prayer. I was grateful that our team of nine had safely made it from PDX to Slovenia (via Amsterdam and Gratz), and, even though we were fighting jet lag, we had already banked hours and hours of new experiences to keep us alert, excited, and eager.<br />
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Our team orientation took place in a hut and surrounding grounds on a chestnut hill near Sentjur, Slovenia. Similar huts appear throughout the countryside, providing refreshment and shelter to traveling hikers and backpackers. No doubt this hut has a name of its very own, but we affectionately referred to it as The Chestnut Place.<br />
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There, Johnny and Brooke (my brother and sister-in-law) and their Josiah Venture team led us through an excellent three day training course, which included not only teaching, but sharing, laughter, games, and music.<br />
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Meals were provided by Iveta, the manager of The Chestnut Place, who quickly became a sweet friend. We were delighted (and very willing) to experience a number of Slovene traditions in the form of food: Farm fresh eggs and garden tomatoes with slices of cheese and homemade bread for breakfast (Iveta says bread is always best kneaded by hand), hearty soups and meats for lunch (lunch is usually the biggest meal of the day), traditional ćevapčići for dinner, and mouth-watering crepes with homemade strawberry jam and whipped cream for dessert, to name just a few.<br />
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Daily we gathered around the table en masse and enjoyed getting to know friends from Slovenia, America, and Northern Ireland. These were the friends we'd grow to love, friends with whom we'd continue to share the essential, core elements of life: more meals, more laughter, more training, more work, more service. Alongside one another, we'd learn to dig deep, to do the hard things, to faithfully embrace the things that matter.<br />
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I penned my last few thoughts and prayers, and as I closed my journal and glanced at the time, merry laughter soared from the kitchen window. No translation was necessary: I smiled to think that laughter is simply understood. I climbed off the bench and rubbed stray tree sap from my hands. The kids scrambled down from the tower. Breakfast was ready, and a new day had begun.<br />
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Julianna Lawsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01532256832107537206noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6564138048324948531.post-60688941657007111452018-07-12T20:26:00.000-07:002018-07-12T20:26:03.940-07:00{Slovenia and Serendipity}"Hey, Grandpa! It's Bethie. Can I get your address? I'd like to send you the support info about my trip to Slovenia." With Grandma and Grandpa moving soon, we weren't sure which address to use. So Bethie -- seated next to a stack of crisp white envelopes -- sent a hastily dialed text to Alaska. She continued to stuff, stamp, and address envelopes.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Ljubljana, Slovenia; PC: John Stevens</i></td></tr>
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Almost immediately, she heard from Alaska . . . but it wasn't Grandpa. "Hey! I'm sorry, but you reached the wrong number. I'm a 20 year old girl from Alaska. Does this happen to be a missions trip?"<br />
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Bethie read me the text in awe. She texted, "Yes! I'm going to Slovenia where my uncle is a missionary."<br />
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The girl replied, "That's awesome! Are you partnering with an organization? I went to Czech with Josiah Venture a couple of years ago . . . ." Bethie and I grew wide-eyed with delight.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Julian Alps, Slovenia; PC: John Stevens</i></td></tr>
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Texts now flew back and forth and quickly turned into Facebook and Instagram connections. We soon learned that we had mutual friends with this girl, and crazy friends-of-friends connections that only the Lord could orchestrate. (<i>He was on your Czech team? I was in youth group with his mother!</i>) It was like playing six degrees of Kevin Bacon . . . or perhaps more appropriately, six degrees of Josiah Venture. I marveled at the way the Lord keeps his people together.<br />
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I also marveled at the way the Lord encourages His people. Having recently finished up a very fun but very exhausting week of Vacation Bible Camp, I felt weary and ill-equipped to switch gears and focus on an overseas trip. Jamie and I are taking this fantastic team of six young adults to Slovenia in August, where we will partner with Johnny and Brooke (yes, with Josiah Venture!) to lead an English camp for middle school students in their hometown, Celje.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Overlooking Celje, Slovenia; PC: John Stevens</i></td></tr>
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As exciting as it is, such an undertaking is also a bit overwhelming for the introvert in me (especially the introvert who has just spent a week with highly lovable yet highly energetic preschoolers). The text from our new friend in Alaska proved to be a sweet, timely smile from God, a reminder that His ways are so much higher than my ways, His goodness so much bigger than I can fathom, His purposes so much more far-reaching, intricate, and perfect than man could ever orchestrate.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Lake Bled, Slovenia; PC: John Stevens</i></td></tr>
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Drew, Bethie and their teammates have all stuffed, stamped, and addressed their envelopes. In just a few weeks, they will be stuffing bags, stamping passports, and addressing a group of middle school teens! We covet your prayers as we join Josiah Venture (JV) in reaching out to the teens of Celje. As you are led, would you pray for our team? Please pray that we will prepare well, whether it's for the more formal English instruction that will take place each morning during camp, or for the lively group games, workshops, and activities that will fill each afternoon.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>JV Team</i></td></tr>
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And please pray that students will come! Even now, Johnny, Brooke, and their JV team are reaching out to their community, inviting middle schoolers to camp, where they will be introduced -- perhaps for the first time -- to Jesus. We feel both the weight and privilege of this appointment and pray that the Holy Spirit would use our small work for His kingdom. For we do know that God uses our small, imperfect work . . . even something as small as a misdialed text.<br />
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<i>If you'd like your very own stuffed, stamped, and addressed envelope, we'd be </i></div>
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<i>delighted </i><i>to send financial support info your way! All proceeds will benefit the entire </i></div>
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<i>Glenwood Community Church GoTeam to Slovenia 2018. Please reach out to me at julianna.c.lawson@gmail.com for more info.</i></div>
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<br />Julianna Lawsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01532256832107537206noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6564138048324948531.post-38317611838521175562018-04-17T19:33:00.000-07:002018-04-17T19:33:22.939-07:00{A Place Called September}My dad texted the crew this morning -- cousins, siblings, grandkids -- asking us to gather the photos we'd most like to share. It didn't take me long to climb the wooden ladder leading to the loft where we store our albums. I approached the stack with one particular photograph in mind, planning to look at the others later in the week; but before I knew it, I was comfortably seated, engrossed in the images, swept back in time.<br />
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Most often, I was swept back to September. To all the Septembers.<br />
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For it was usually in September that my grandparents were free to make their annual trip from Southern California to Southwest Washington. And so the old song made its way into our visits: "See you . . . in September . . . ." We'd dramatically croon our goodbyes; yet somehow the hope of September always made those goodbyes less melancholy. (It was never really "goodbye," however. Nanee preferred the farewell that ran more along the lines of, "See you next time. See you in September.") <br />
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The Septembers quickly piled up like so many treasured gold coins. The events in them were simple enough. Everyday events, like getting perms and sunning ourselves at Klineline, eating Tillamook Burgers and shopping at Ross. Yet they each had a golden glow to them. For it was September, and Nanee was a part of them.<br />
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One September was particularly golden. I was about 12, and Nanee and I took a stroll at moonrise. It was the harvest moon, and its lavish splendor was breathtaking. Hand-in-hand, we walked down the street as though pulled toward the magnificent golden orb. She in her gold shoes, me in my Keds, we followed the irresistible path of light to the end of the road. Our words were hushed. She squeezed my hand and whispered, "We'll always remember this night, honey."<br />
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She was right.<br />
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The years slipped by. Their bodies aged, yet Nanee and Grandpa still made an effort to "See you in September." At first they drove up -- Nanee loved being seated behind the wheel -- but then it became apparent that flying would be best. All too soon, even that mode of transportation proved too arduous, and so a more permanent transportation was decided upon. They moved to Washington.<br />
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It was an honor to share that season of life with them. Indeed, to share all the seasons. For it was not only September now, but December and April and July and everything else in between. This meant that we also shared in the suffering that comes with aging. At first Nanee was up for lunch dates at Beaches, our favorite haunt ("Let's have calamari!"), or trips to Target and Ross.<br />
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We even snuck in a spontaneous mani-pedi on the hottest day of the year. (I could't help but laugh over the spectacle we must have made, me wielding Nanee's wheelchair in a skirt with a fresh pedicure, shuffling in those cumbersome, salon-issued, yellow foam "flip-flops." Did I mention it was 100 degrees?)<br />
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Yet it soon became clear that even brief outings were just not as feasible as they once were. So we brought the entertainment to her. I read from <i>Little Women</i>, family brought movies and burgers, and our world became very small.</div>
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At the same time, our world grew to be very large. For Nanee loved a captive audience and could tell a story like none other. (She wrote not one but <i>three</i> family memoirs.) Gesturing with her ever-expressive and graceful hands, she told us about the war years and her brothers' assignments overseas. Her eyes sparkled as she talked about dances on the lawn, dates at the burger joint, and hitting the town in Navy pea coats with her best friend, Helene.<br />
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She especially loved to tell us about going to the movies in the 40s and snacking on huge dill pickles while watching the greats like Katherine Hepburn and Cary Grant. "People around us would hear us chomping away and move to different seats. We couldn't figure out why!" We grew starry-eyed every time she told us about getting a smile and wave from Bob Hope and an autograph from Clark Gable. (Frantically rifling through her purse for a scrap of paper that day on Wilshire Boulevard, Mr. Gable anticipated her hope. He pulled a dollar bill from his own pocket, signed it, and gave it to her!)<br />
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The stories became jumbled as the months wore on. "Have I already told you this, honey? Stop me if I have." She had, but I told her I wanted to hear it again. She was happy to oblige. Soon, she began to add more to her stories. It was as though she felt a sense of urgency, and it was time to impart the most important words, the most important truths. "The years go quickly, honey. Hang on to every moment," she said. I certainly tried to hang on to those moments as she shared, realizing with each passing day that one of them would eventually be our last.<br />
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As she reflected in those last months, Nanee knew that she had been blessed. Blessed with life, blessed with an ever-growing family, blessed with the faithfulness of a Savior who had carried her through each of those stories. She summed it up even as she knew her time was approaching, even as the final golden moon beckoned on the horizon. "It's been a wonderful life," she reflected. The wooden blocks stacked near her bed, to which she often pointed, spelled out her mantra: J-O-Y.<br />
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I'm a girl in Keds again. My perm bobs, and Nanee is wearing her gold shoes. ("I'm not sure if grandmas can wear gold shoes," she laughs, "but that's okay!") We're strolling, hand-in-hand, pulled irresistibly toward the soft light at the end of the road. Our words are hushed. It's time to go home. I remind myself that it's not really goodbye, it's, "See you in September."<br />
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In a flash, all is quiet. I turn in awe, witness to the dawning of Nanee's eternal September. Her best story has just begun.<br />
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Julianna Lawsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01532256832107537206noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6564138048324948531.post-29991621599800035262017-09-11T21:45:00.000-07:002017-09-11T21:49:43.255-07:00{Firsts and Lasts}This week has been dubbed (pretty much only by me) the week of "lasts" for Drew: his last Sunday in church, our last Seahawks game as a family, our last dinner together with "just the six of us." This morning I'm afraid Drew questioned my very sanity as I approached him with my quavering yelp: "That was your last Monday morning shower! Your last Monday morning application of deodorant!"<br />
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I remember experiencing the same sensations surrounding Drew's birth: the last time I'd get groceries, the last time I'd go to church, the last time I'd run a load of laundry. The next time I did those things would be with my newborn baby boy! Well, this baby boy is heading to Eastern Washington University at the end of this week of lasts. And he will begin a lifetime of firsts.<br />
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Yes, I'm sentimental, and the silliest things cause me to tear up. (Like his prosaic text the other day, asking if he could grab a kombucha for me while he was at Safeway.)<br />
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But really, I'm happy. I'm happy as I see my son achieving a goal he's worked toward for a long time. I'm happy he has found a roommate who loves Jesus (and the Seahawks). I'm happy he and his siblings sat up late the other night, piled on Avery's bed, giggling over family photo albums. I'm happy we all live in a time and place that allowed us to witness a surreal, memorable solar eclipse. I'm happy we were able to celebrate Lawson Family Day last week, from brunch in the morning to our long, lazy afternoon frolic -- all by our lonesomes -- along the Lewis River.<br />
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As I walked the pond trail today, I noticed that other people were happy, too. Their happiness struck me, probably because so much recent darkness has caused this world to sigh and mourn and doubt. Why, only last week I was unable to even walk the pond: the devastating Gorge fires had filled the air with smoke and ashes. It was fitting, then, that my audiobook chapter from <i>A Girl of the Limberlost</i> today should include the line, "The world is full of happy people, but no one ever hears of them. You must fight and make a scandal to get into the papers. No one knows about all the happy people."<br />
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Today, I knew about the happy people. I saw a young mom walking the trail as her six children clambered over the monkey bars. One child issued a merry challenge, "Hey mom! You should try to jog the last lap! You can do it!" She was up for the challenge. And she did it. Her children clapped and cheered. "You did it! Good job, Mom!" As I, too, circled the park, she and I struck up a brief but lovely conversation . . . and I was among the "happy people" because of that interaction.<br />
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The Peninsula Man also made me smile today. I don't know his real name. The Peninsula Man frequently walks the pond (it would perhaps be more accurate to say he <i>ambles </i>about the pond), always wearing the same cap and vest. His little dog faithfully skips at his side. (I should explain: the children and I took to calling him The Peninsula Man a couple of years ago, when the pond was just a baby. At the time, a narrow peninsula extended from the shore and was quite traversable. At the end of the peninsula lay a log, upon which this man often sat to observe the birds. Alas, the peninsula is now very overgrown and only navigable by frogs and birds.) Well, as we passed each other today and said "hello," The Peninsula Man flashed a quick, semi-toothless grin which inexplicably made me feel like he'd given me a gift.<br />
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And as I left the park? Another simple gift. A woman pulled up in her minivan. I expected to see a stream of children issuing from the bowels of the vehicle, which is usually what happens in the world of minivans and parks. Instead, she alone came out, bearing a large plastic container. I quickly noticed that it was filled with grass and arrived at a conclusion: "Oh! Did you find a little critter?" She nodded, "Yes, a bunny." She explained that her dog had found it, and this was her grand Rescue and Relocation attempt. It made me happy that a neighbor took the time to care for a helpless creature.<br />
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I was happy later today when my afternoon tea was ready and I decided to change my routine. (My routine: sit in The Big Chair and devour as much tea and book as I can before my family needs me.) Today, I headed instead toward the opposite end of the house, teacup in hand, and tapped on Drew's bedroom door. "Mind if I have my tea in here?" He didn't mind. He was packing, and moms come in handy for that sort of thing, anyway. I sipped my Earl Grey and gave a suggestion or two, folded laundry here and there, arranged boxes, sighed over his childhood monkey, Baboo. Mostly, we just chatted about "the nothings" that make up all "the somethings" of this life.<br />
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That just might have been my last afternoon tea in Drew's room. The rest of our week is racing toward us at breakneck speed, and I'm bracing myself for the likelihood that my afternoon tea might be more along the lines of the "to go" variety. But whether or not it was the "last tea before EWU," I know my son is going forth in good hands. He's in the hands of the Alpha and the Omega, the First and the Last. And that makes this mama's heart happy.<br />
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<br />Julianna Lawsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01532256832107537206noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6564138048324948531.post-13810901201065541782016-07-08T11:33:00.000-07:002016-07-08T11:33:23.765-07:00{One Way or Another}Twenty-five years ago, my sister and I stood before the bathroom mirror, coiffing and giggling. It was the 4th of July and a glorious day awaited. As per tradition, our family would head down to Officer's Row to the home of our very dear "Uncle" Ron and "Auntie" Marlene. We'd gather with other families and do very patriotic things, like wave flags, grill burgers, listen to guitars and banjos, and marvel over apple pies and strawberry shortcakes.<br />
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I was fifteen, my sister thirteen, and it was the early nineties. This meant that our hair was big and held firmly in place by Aqua Net, our nails were fiercely glittered, and our Keds were red and blue. (We each swapped a shoe to make a very patriotic -- and, we hoped, impressive -- statement.)<br />
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What I didn't know at the time was that this day would become a sort of anniversary. After the lawn and barbecue festivities, our families sauntered down toward the gazebo (church friends met "to the right of the gazebo" every year) to prepare for the Fort's fireworks show. My sister and I spread out our blanket and poised ourselves in our red, white and blue cuteness, giggling and watching. Because you just never know who might walk by.<br />
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Well, one certain young man did walk by. It was providential -- some of his friends hadn't arrived, so he went with Plan B, which involved checking out the crew "to the right of the gazebo." We'd known each other for ten years, but something about the excitement of the day (or was it the Aqua Net?) caused him . . . to stay. He and a couple of friends decided that our blanket would be a nice one to share. We welcomed them warmly, flashing our smiles and glitter, and somehow everything just clicked. The fireworks were especially memorable that year, and Jamie and I started dating three months later.<br />
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Over the years, we've celebrated the 4th in various ways, but once kids came along it just never seemed practical to head down to the Fort. That is, until this year. Over our barbecue meal on Monday afternoon, we retold our kids about that festive day long ago, and we suddenly realized it had been 25 years. Something in the significance of that caused us to decide that we really should go to the Fort again this year.<br />
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So we packed our blankets and headed down. Much was the same. Elephant ears called our names (and we answered). Girls still walked around with coiffed hair and boys still joked loudly, hoping someone might notice. Toddlers still ran about in patriotic tutus, and parents still sat on coolers or tossed around frisbees.<br />
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Some things were different. The 80s band played songs that were now considered "oldies." <i>One way or another I'm gonna find ya, I'm gonna getcha, getcha, getcha, getcha</i>. There were frequent pauses for "selfies" among the crowd, and iPhones provided a noticeable level of entertainment and diversion.<br />
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Avery noticed something different, too. Something that smelled like . . . <i>weird popcorn</i>. We hesitated and then broke the news to our innocent pixie. "That's marijuana, honey."<br />
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Pixie was appalled. "Marijuana?!?! Why are people drinkin' marijuana?!?!"<br />
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The fireworks had changed too, in that the show was a bit shorter than it had been 25 years ago. But the delight in our lives was even greater, knowing that we'd shared those years together, and it really wasn't the Aqua Net, Keds, or glitter that had orchestrated our destinies, after all. <br />
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Julianna Lawsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01532256832107537206noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6564138048324948531.post-69135048945991172452016-06-17T10:10:00.000-07:002016-06-17T10:10:59.612-07:00{Cherish the Ordinary}The birds chirped outside his window this morning, the chickadee starting off the day with his merry, <i>chicka-dee-dee-dee</i>! My son, of course, was asleep. He'd been out late, celebrating with friends. For last night was graduation night.<br />
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I'm sure he wasn't thinking about chickadees at the time (his obsession as a 7-year-old seems to have waned a tad), but he just might have been thinking about penguins. The Clark College Penguins, that is.<br />
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He and his closest friends lined up side by side in their caps, gowns, and honor cords, preparing to receive both their high school diplomas and their AA degrees, this first collegiate journey further deepening their bonds as they proudly realized the completion of hours spent studying, comparing art projects, rating professors, looking for the bouncy ball, congregating in the student center, and conquering finals.<br />
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It's been much more than a two -- or even a 12 -- year journey. Really it began 18 years ago. I remember the delight of coming home from Drew's baby shower, arms laden with beautiful gifts. Our church family had blessed us with dozens of darling outfits, and I couldn't wait to show Jamie the little overalls, the miniature baseball cap, the snuggly blankets, the cozy sleepers.<br />
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With pride, joy, and anticipation over the baby to come, I removed the clothing tags, sorted a load of laundry (in which everything was small and soft -- no adult clothing allowed in this load!), and pulled out the pink box filled with brand new, baby scented Dreft detergent.<br />
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That load of laundry was a joy to fold. The tiny shirts, the handsome little jeans, the wee socks that would probably never really stay on his feet, the receiving blankets that were oh-so-ready to receive.<br />
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This baby -- now a man -- does his own laundry these days, but last night was a flurry of activity as he looked at the care instructions on his graduation gown. "Um, Mom? Could you iron this for me? And maybe my shirt, too?" That long gown hung in my bedroom doorway, that handsome man-shirt, so much bigger than the little suit he wore once upon a time . . . and I said yes. I joyfully said, <i>yes</i>.<br />
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I glided that iron with mingled joy, awe, and something nameless that ached deep down, over the folds of that royal blue gown. Every pleat, every tuck. The steam rose and hissed, the heavy metal plate pressing and perfecting. It was such an ordinary task . . . but the significance of it caused me to linger and give myself fully to the work.<br />
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For 18 years I've completed similar ordinary tasks. Each day building one upon the other. Washing a load, folding a load, ironing for this occasion or that. The washing machine runs and swirls, the dryer turns and tumbles, and the days slip by, one by one. All ordinary in their own way, yet here they were, stacked up to this moment, preparing me -- preparing us -- to delight in both the ordinary and the extraordinary.<br />
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Last night the Clark commencement speaker, former POW Jessica Lynch, said something that made me grab my pencil and notebook: "Cherish what you are given." Even when that which you've been given is unexpected, not of your choosing, not the ideal, <i>cherish it</i>. Cherish the days of ordinary laundry when the socks don't pair up and the jeans reveal growing holes in the boyish knees and you end up wearing a dirty shirt after all.<br />
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Cherish the days of the extraordinary, when the laundry responsibilities are indicative of change and growth and a future that gleams hopeful and bright. When it's time to iron the shirt for the dance, the slacks for the recital, the gown for the graduation. Cherish what you are given.<br />
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Among the thousands, there were at least 50 of us clumped together in that stadium last night, cheering for "our row" of kids. We created a streaming din of celebration for the eight graduates who were our very own. The names were called, we craned our necks, and we really couldn't believe it. . . . David . . . Kendall . . . Drew . . . Jon . . . Cori . . . Aly . . . Alyssa . . . Averie. <i>Our kids</i>. The kids for whom we've washed and ironed, wept and cheered.<br />
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And we cherished what we'd been given. <br />
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Julianna Lawsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01532256832107537206noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6564138048324948531.post-4637571079924971702016-06-15T11:58:00.000-07:002016-06-18T11:40:25.660-07:00{Next to Him}We looked at each other last night, just a bit in awe. Our four children were creating their usual noises and messes, hammering away at the piano, shooting hoops, strumming the ukulele, dumping legos. Three had just performed in their year-end piano recital, and our oldest had just finished his very last, last day of school. He would graduate not only from high school, but also from the local community college.<br />
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Tucked in the midst of our everyday kid hubbub, we let our glances linger longer, our kiss hold just a bit more sweetly. For we knew it was no small thing: we were celebrating 20 years together.<br />
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Yesterday morning, as I sipped my tea over Nehemiah, my eyes landed on the repeating phrase,<br />
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<i>Next to him, the repairs were made . . .</i></div>
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The Israelites were stationed around the wall of Jerusalem, each one working to repair sections that had been broken and burned during their time in exile. Their names are listed, each man (and some daughters, too!), side by side, shoulder to shoulder.<br />
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The poignancy of that phrase touched me as I thought of the last twenty years I've spent with the man I love: <i>Next to him</i>.<br />
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I've written about those years. <a href="http://petuniajune.blogspot.com/2010/06/anniversary.html">The early years when I was a blushing 11-year-old, stealing sly glances toward a tall boy in the youth group.</a><br />
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I've also written about the difficult years. <a href="http://petuniajune.blogspot.com/2014/03/so-youre-forty-today.html">The years of growing children and growing older . . . . </a><br />
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And about <a href="http://petuniajune.blogspot.com/2015/06/these-days-are-ours.html">the early months of our marriage when we were down with mono . . . .</a><br />
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And I realized we couldn't have done any of this without holding onto that very phrase: <i>Next to him</i>. Side by side, shoulder to shoulder, we've faced brokenness and burns in this wall that is the Lawson family -- even seasons that felt slightly akin to exile and bondage. Yet by the grace of God "the repairs were made" and we've been able to meet each season next to <i>Him</i>, next to our Master builder.<br />
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Last night we grinned wryly over the eternal busyness of this month and as we tried to determine when we'd celebrate our anniversary Jamie said, "Why did we get married in June???" I reminded him that we were in college, so it really made the most sense at the time. I also reminded him of my more sentimental reason, straight out of <i>Seven Brides for Seven Brothers:</i> "Oh, they say when you marry in June, you will always be a bride!"<br />
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After 20 years, I can tell you that there's another way to "always be a bride," and it doesn't matter when your anniversary lands. Ladies, stand <i>next to him</i>. Stand next to your husband, stand next to your Savior. Men, stand next to her. Stand next to your bride, stand next to your Savior. Face that wall together, making the repairs as they come. Don't let breaches and burns turn into bitterness and bondage. Rather, face them as the Israelites did and proclaim, "Let us start rebuilding."<br />
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As we drifted off to sleep last night, me next to him, Jamie said, "You know, we really could be only a third of the way through our marriage." My mind looked ahead to our eighty-year-old selves and I knew that our age would never matter. I'd always want to be right there, right next to him. <br />
<br />Julianna Lawsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01532256832107537206noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6564138048324948531.post-69004744179900511412016-04-04T14:42:00.000-07:002016-04-05T22:37:08.937-07:00{A Temple to Build}I don't expect you to call me Mother Bear anymore. Actually, I haven't expected it for about thirteen years now. But you did say it was okay if I slipped and called you Little Bear every once in a while. (I'll try to avoid it in public.) Old habits die hard for a Mother Bear.<br />
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The days of Little Bear and dump trucks, Thomas the Tank Engine and ornithological obsession seem to belong to a distant past. But as I scroll through the pictures, I can see the becoming that God was working in you through the years.<br />
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Where you once lined up matchbox cars and trains, where you once pored over recycling brochures and animal encyclopedias, where you once organized your friends and family according to their Thomas the Tank Engine names (you were Rusty, I was James), I now see a new creativity, a new appreciation for order and design, a reaching for faithfulness and goodness.<br />
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I see it in your love for music, your ability to recall sports statistics, your positive work ethic, your sensitivity toward others, and in your drive to further your education. I see it in your devotion to friends and family, and most of all I see it in the way the Lord is continuing to call you to Himself.<br />
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This morning I was reading I Chronicles 28, and I kept thinking about you. King David had prepared everything that was needed for the building of the temple of the Lord. However, he would not be the one to actually build it. That honor was given to his son, Solomon.<br />
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On the cusp of this mission, King David gives a charge to his son:<br />
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<i><b>Serve [the Lord] with wholehearted devotion and with a willing mind . . . . </b></i></div>
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<i><b>If you seek Him, He will be found by you . . . . Consider now, for the Lord has chosen you to build a temple as a sanctuary. Be strong and courageous and do the work. Do not be afraid or discouraged, for the Lord God, my God, is with you. He will not fail you . . . . </b></i></div>
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Drew, this is my prayer and the prayer of your father, too. We've seen this "wholehearted devotion" and "willing mind" throughout the years, in so many various (and often humorous) scenarios. You once memorized over 100 countries and could point them out on a map. At age two. This shows a willing mind. You often called THE ENTIRE family to the front window to watch the garbage . . . and recycling . . . and yard debris trucks circle through our cul-de-sac. Every week. This shows a wholehearted devotion.<br />
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It's still there, it's just matured quite a bit. (Trust me.)<br />
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And now you have a temple to work on: "The Lord has chosen you to build a temple." You're on the cusp of a new mission: the mission of adulthood. We -- along with many, many friends and family -- have given you tools and plans and guidelines over the years . . . and now it's time. It's time for you to step over the threshold with those tools in your pocket and to "be strong and courageous and do the work" the Lord has placed before you.<br />
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I know you will do well, Drew. You already have, and we are so proud of you. There will be bumps in the road. I know that you know that. For this I say with King David, "Do not be afraid or discouraged, for the Lord God, my God" (yes, I too can attest to His faithfulness) "is with you. He will not fail you."<br />
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He will not fail you, Drew. Which means that -- <i>in His hands and with your open hands</i> -- your temple will be strong and mighty, a fortress that will declare His glory and majesty.<br />
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Your mission is a grand one, my son. Such a grand one! And I'm excited to see where the Lord will take you. I'm thankful for 18 years of delighting in your being, of marveling at who you are and how your mind and heart work. I'm thankful for your sense of humor, your generous heart, your respectful bearing, your responsible actions, your faithful friends, and your thoughtful nature.<br />
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Most of all, I'm thankful that God entrusted Dad and me with you. Apparently, you don't mind so much either. Last night, as you headed to bed and flashed that characteristic grin our way, you closed the first book of your life and eagerly cracked open the next, calling back, "Thanks for a great childhood!"<br />
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Yes, Drew. Thank you. Thank you, so very much. <br />
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<br />Julianna Lawsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01532256832107537206noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6564138048324948531.post-54239248190760768602016-03-17T20:57:00.000-07:002016-03-17T20:57:02.763-07:00{Waiting for Death}My heart reacted to each notification. Each "ping" had me anxiously checking messages, wondering if the time had come, wondering if my uncle had been called to his eternal home. My parents were on the other end in Nevada, sending us updates. Hours passed. Days passed. The "pings" continued.<br />
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We passed the time here at home, trying to go about our normal routines. Music soothed our spirits. Aidan suggested that we listen to Crowder's <i>Neon Steeple</i>, and it quickly became an integral part of the prayer-worship-supplication that filled the atmosphere of home.<br />
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I was especially moved by <a href="https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B00K5RKWKQ?ie=UTF8&keywords=crowder%20neon%20because%20he%20lives&qid=1458268508&ref_=sr_1_1&sr=8-1">the Crowder-Gaither rendition of "Because He Lives"</a> and sent the Amazon link to my dad. Perhaps they could listen to it at some point.<br />
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<i>Because He lives, I can face tomorrow,</i><br />
<i>Because He lives, all fear is gone,</i><br />
<i>Because I know He holds the future</i><br />
<i>And life is worth the living</i><br />
<i>Just because He lives!</i><br />
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A few minutes later, my dad wrote that they had just listened to it all together. It was one of my aunt's favorite songs. "Give Uncle Harry a kiss from his Jules," I texted. Auntie Cher kissed him for me, and we continued to wait.<br />
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And then on a Tuesday night, my mind elsewhere, I quickly checked my messages before helping the kids get ready for bed. My heart stopped. Tears filled my eyes as I read and then re-read that my uncle's struggle was over. It was finished. And I had missed it. I had missed the final message. Really only a handful of minutes had passed, but in a way my delayed grief felt like a betrayal. I thought back over the last half hour. What had I been doing? What had distracted me from the waiting?<br />
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I recalled my prosaic activities. They were not worshipful, they were not prayerful, they were not driven by imminent loss. <i>I was doing the laundry and making some bread</i>.<br />
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But as my eyes brimmed and my throat constricted, the Lord whispered to my spirit: <i>water and bread</i>. I was washing, I was baking bread. <i>I was living</i>. While waiting for death, I was living.<br />
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And then I thought of Jesus' ministry. The Living Water and the Bread of Life. He, too, was waiting for death. <i>His own</i>. But with each intentional, passion-driven step He took toward that cross, <i>He was living</i>. He looked into the eyes of those He loved, He met their needs, He embraced them, He wept, He walked alongside them, He washed them, He broke bread with them, <i>and He lived</i>.<br />
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I thought of my uncle. He, too, had lived. It gave my Uncle Harold great joy to share with others. Often he'd call me out of the blue to recommend a book, share a Bible verse, or ask about Jamie's work. When we'd visit in person he delighted in giving us experiences, whether it was a swim at Tahoe, a drive in his Jeep, or an intense round of croquet.<br />
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It was hard to imagine that now the song "Because He Lives" had been fully realized for him. The stanza that always seems to dwell somewhere in the distant, unimaginable future, had happened.<br />
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<i>And then one day, I'll cross the river,</i><br />
<i>I'll fight life's final war with pain;</i><br />
<i>And then, as death gives way to victory</i><br />
<i>I'll see the lights of glory and I'll know He lives!</i><br />
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What could I do, but live? Death gives way to life, to the bread and water, the washing and renewing. Because He lives, we can face tomorrow. We can wash the laundry, we can bake the bread, we can put the children to bed. We can even wait for death as Jesus did: walking, loving, washing, living, eating, laughing, crying and embracing.<br />
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Today is my aunt's birthday. A celebration of life, even in the shadow of death. My mom -- her sister -- is with her now, and I can just imagine the mingled tears and smiles, the stories and reminiscing, the Italian eccentricities we proudly embrace, and maybe even some laughter, too. There's joy in spite of the sorrow. And there's purpose in the waiting. All because He lives.<br />
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One of my favorite childhood memories is watching the Nevada lightning storms at my aunt and uncle's house. I was given the opportunity to write for my Uncle Harry's memorial service, and this poem was born as I waited for death and rejoiced in his life.<br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">A Marvelous Light</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">You held out your hand with that gleam in your eye, </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Saying, “Come, little Jules, your Auntie and I</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Want to show you the sky</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Breaking open tonight.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">We walked to the window, each one in awe, </span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Witnessing splendor we seldom saw:</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Flashes and peals,</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Unleashed, wild, and raw.</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Standing in wonder, sky-fire in our eyes,</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Such glorious power caught us each by surprise,</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Though harnessed, we knew,</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">By the King of all Light</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Who holds out His hands with the Light in His eye,</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Saying, “Come, My child, your Father and I</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Want to show you the radiant</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Love from on high.”</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">We rest in this love as we gaze on His face,</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">And He carries our burdens -- amazing grace! --</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Even holding the tears</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">We have shed in this place.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">For He held out His hand with that Light in His eye,</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Saying, “Come, precious jewel, my Father and I</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Want to welcome you home</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Where no more shall you sigh.”</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">You walked through the window, healed and in awe,</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Grace broke wide open; you finally saw</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Flashes and peals,</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Unleashed, wild, and raw.</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">So we hold out our hands -- though tears dim our eyes --</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Saying, “Thank you, dear Jesus: our praises shall rise! ”</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">And the skies will break open</span></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">With marvelous Light.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span><br /></div>
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Julianna Lawsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01532256832107537206noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6564138048324948531.post-34894856163738399022015-12-31T12:35:00.000-08:002015-12-31T12:35:24.420-08:00Devotions On the Eve of a New YearMy morning devotions are rather simple and routine. I read a passage (usually just one chapter), slowly working my way through the Bible. After I read, I copy down a single verse that jumps out at me and then turn to my journal. There, I write my way through a prayer-conversation about that passage.<br />
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I'm always touched by the way certain words leap to the forefront at just the right time, as though God knows just what I need. Because, of course, He does. Furthermore, His Word is "living and active," which means it will always hold a rich cupful of truth for me to linger over and receive.<br />
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Today's reading was no different, although the words, interestingly, came from the less-than-stellar King Ahab:<br />
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<i>One who puts on his armor should not boast like one who takes it off.</i></div>
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<i>1 Kings 20:11</i></div>
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A fitting proverb, poised as we are to enter a New Year. 2015 has come to a close. We take off the armor of 2015, boasting only in what the Lord has done. But we cannot enter 2016 on the strength of 2015's victories. We cannot boast of what's to come, "This will be the most victorious year ever!" <br />
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<i>Rather, we must put on our armor anew, moving forward in the strength of His promises.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
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As Spurgeon wrote, "Under the most happy circumstances you cannot give light for another hour unless fresh oil of grace is given you." Neither can we remain faithful and strong in our armor for another hour (let alone another year) without the power of the Holy Spirit working in and through us.<br />
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"Great is Thy Faithfulness" quietly streamed nearby as I read from 1 Kings this morning. I can surely attest to and boast in my Lord's faithful love and care throughout 2015.<br />
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This coming year holds new adventures, some expected (my oldest son's graduation among them!), but most of them unknown. And so we prepare ourselves as warriors who are sure of victory . . . but also as warriors who know that opposition and attack are a part of this earthly work.<br />
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(I'm reminded of a powerful poem a dear friend once wrote: <a href="http://duskthemeetingplace.blogspot.com/2010/07/epic.html">The Epic</a>.)<br />
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We faithfully put on our armor with confidence until that final, triumphant day when we will lay our swords and shields at our Savior's feet for the last time, reveling in our worthy King's glorious victory. That, my friends, will be the best "New Year" ever.<br />
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Julianna Lawsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01532256832107537206noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6564138048324948531.post-64946850159068311422015-11-25T19:18:00.000-08:002015-11-25T19:18:47.613-08:00Please Pass the GourditudeWe sat around the table, gabbing rather mindlessly about nothing in particular. There were occasional lapses in etiquette, selfish tendencies cropped up unexpectedly from time to time, and eventually a general spirit of unrest had me squirming with dissatisfaction and frustration.<br />
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My kids aren't so little anymore. I used to enjoy the quaint November projects that reminded us to be thankful, projects such as writing notes on colorful sticky notes, rubbing leaf patterns onto cards, or adding verses of gratitude to construction paper artwork.<br />
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But they've outgrown the turkey hand-tracing phase. No longer would it be appropriate to invite my teen to stand on a chair and quote, "How Doth the Little Busy Bee." (Although if he did volunteer, it would probably be pretty entertaining. I'll have to keep that one in mind . . . . )<br />
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Still, no matter our age, our hearts must practice gratitude in order to grow, in order to truly live. With or without construction paper and marking pens, we must continue to train our hearts to "praise God from whom all blessings flow." (If you have ten minutes, I strongly encourage you to listen to <a href="http://www.aholyexperience.com/2015/11/happiness-strong-relationships-nourished-by-one-unexpected-habit/">Ann Voskamp's talk on the subject of gratitude.</a>)<br />
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<a href="http://www.bbnradio.org/wcm4/english/RadiobrBroadcast/Programs/ProgramScheduleandLinks/tabid/459/ItemID/636/Default.aspx">Elisabeth Elliot, whose radio program "Gateway to Joy"</a> I've been listening to quite a bit lately, said:<br />
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<i>When we learn to give thanks, we are being obedient to God, we are delivered from a mean and complaining spirit, and we maintain unbroken fellowship with the Lord.</i> </div>
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This is what I want for my family: unbroken fellowship with the Lord. So as we sat there around the table, I suddenly grabbed an especially odd-shaped gourd from the centerpiece. I figured it was worth a try. Clearing my throat I sat up straight and announced in sonorous tones, "This is the gourd of gratitude."<br />
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Jamie was quick to catch on. "The <i>gourditude</i>."<br />
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"Yes, the <i>gourditude</i>. We will now pass the gourditude around the table (you must hold it by the handle, like so) and share something kind about the person on your right."<br />
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The giggling and snickering commenced. We passed the gourd (holding the handle like so), and the tension was lifted. Kind words began to come from our lips, words that gave birth to more words of generosity and appreciation.<br />
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The passing of "gourditude" continued the next time we gathered, and I silently praised God for such a simple act that spoke to the teen and pre-teen hearts in our home.<br />
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This action reminded me once again of how crucial it is to be developing gratitude in my own heart. I'd allowed certain disciplines to slip -- disciplines such as Scripture memory and gratitude journaling -- that were instrumental in keeping my heart and mind focused on that which is "right, pure, lovely, admirable, excellent and praiseworthy." And my family suffered as a result.<br />
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A wise woman in my church once shared a key to motherhood that was both succinct and convicting: "It's my life or theirs." So simple, yet so difficult. My life . . . or my child's life?<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Photo by Peter Bartausky</i></td></tr>
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Yet in order to be able to sacrifice, in order to be able to give and give to my family again and again (and with joy, no less!) I must be filled. I cannot fill my life in my own strength, but I can ask the Lord to fill me. And He delights to do so.<br />
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<i>The true value of a human being is determined primarily by the measure </i></div>
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<i>and sense in which he has attained liberation from self.</i></div>
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<i>Einstein</i> </div>
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And so up went the Scripture passage above the kitchen sink (I'm working on a section of John 15) and out came the gratitude journal. And you know what? A funny thing happened. The atmosphere in our home shifted. My daughter, who has been prompting me on my memory cards, decided to write out some verses that she now wants to memorize. The words in our home are more inclined toward kindness, and a general feeling of peace and calm is not so out of the ordinary.<br />
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<i>It's my life or theirs</i>. Jesus was faced with the same decision . . . and <i>He chose us</i>. He chose me, He chose you. Such love prompts my heart to choose Him, to choose my husband, to choose my children . . . above myself.<br />
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<i>Christ's love compels us.</i></div>
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(2 Cor. 5:14)</div>
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Sometimes it takes a little push to remind us, and sometimes it takes an oddly-shaped gourd. How thankful I am that my Lord has both a generous, patient heart . . . and a great sense of humor. </div>
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Julianna Lawsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01532256832107537206noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6564138048324948531.post-85011606204822276142015-09-10T21:22:00.000-07:002015-09-23T20:42:35.427-07:00{Murmur and Glisten}<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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A little something new . . . . Come for a walk with me?<br />
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(With the correct link this time!)<br />
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<i><a href="http://murmurandglisten.blogspot.com/2015/09/the-suburban-diary-of-autumnal-lady.html">The Suburban Diary of an Autumnal Lady</a></i><br />
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<br />Julianna Lawsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01532256832107537206noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6564138048324948531.post-4155531388374253372015-09-04T18:46:00.000-07:002015-09-04T18:46:13.247-07:00{Best I Love September's Yellow}<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
I couldn't get away from the yellow today. And I didn't mind one bit.</div>
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<i>Best I love September's yellow,</i><br />
<i>Morns of dew-strung gossamer,</i><br />
<i>Thoughtful days without a stir,</i><br />
<i>Rooky clamours, brazen leaves,</i><br />
<i>Stubble dotten o'er with sheaves -- </i><br />
<i>More than spring's bright uncontrol</i><br />
<i>Suit the autumn of my soul.</i><br />
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<i>~Alexander Smith</i><br />
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<i><br /></i>Julianna Lawsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01532256832107537206noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6564138048324948531.post-55204188073008620222015-09-01T20:59:00.000-07:002015-09-01T20:59:15.881-07:00{Ten}She's been grabbing pieces of paper for a year now. Scribbling out ideas, making lists, weighing the pros and cons. She's a planner. Kinda like her mama.<br />
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Her cousin would spend the night. There would be friends and cousins and games . . . and a hedgehog cake. The colors would be purple and green and everyone would play charades.<br />
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There would be doughnuts and bacon and fondue and strawberries on her "actual birthday." This girl knows what she wants in life. She's a visionary. Kinda like her daddy.<br />
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Her ears would be pierced and the celebration would last for the whole weekend.<br />
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There would be giggling and dancing and decorating. The theme would be: Small Animals. Especially Owls. <br />
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And she would be ten. This baby of mine, ten.<br />
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<br />Julianna Lawsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01532256832107537206noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6564138048324948531.post-82404578333805146912015-08-13T23:40:00.000-07:002015-08-13T23:40:16.046-07:00{Dreaming}<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Tonight as I prepared for a meeting at a coffee shop, I had to resist the urge to don a petticoat and sweep up my hair in a large Gibson Girl knot. (I settled for a wrap-around skirt and casual updo.) This may sound strange. But not if you've been lost in Maud Hart Lovelace's endearing Betsy books as I have this past week.<br />
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You know how it is. (Or at least I <i>hope</i> you do. I <i>dearly hope</i> you do.) You get so lost in a story, the characters become so real, that before you know it, 1908 -- or wherever your book takes you -- becomes your reality. (1908 is a lovely reality, by the way. <a href="http://petuniajune.blogspot.com/2012/08/i-knew-it.html">I've mentioned before how much I adore the Edwardian Era, have I not?</a>)<br />
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One of the benefits of enjoying the Besty books in this day and age, I've realized, is that we now have access to the internet. When I come across an unfamiliar custom, costume, song or person as I read, I need only google the thing and <i>voila,</i> I've learned something!<br />
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This tool was especially helpful as I read <i>Betsy in Spite of Herself, </i>set in 1908 Minnesota and based on the author's actual high school experiences. The main characters (they call themselves The Crowd -- don't you love it?), often gather around the piano for entertainment. They pull out the latest sheet music and croon away.<br />
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The songs were new then, but they're over a hundred years old now. I don't know them. But I can look them up! I can even hear a <i>recording</i>. I've been "Dreaming" all week. My husband thinks I'm batty.<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/g3AFUVa_Gwc" width="420"></iframe><br />
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When I'm not dreaming, I'm thinking about Merry Widow Hats. (So, still kind of dreaming, I guess.) I learned that actress Lily Elsie, who played the lead in The Merry Widow operetta, was one of the most photographed women of the time. Isn't her hat to die for? It reminds me of Marian the Librarian's hat in <i>The Music Man</i>.<br />
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Speaking of which, my sister and I used to try to pull off the look when we were in high school. (Well, not literally <i>in</i> high school. We limited our theatrics to the home.) We were particularly smitten with the hats. Naturally we used black and white film to document with authenticity. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The Music Man: Marian the Librarian</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The Music Man: Eulalie Mackechnie Shinn</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Eliza Dolittle (in her pre-Henry Higgins Days, of course)</i></td></tr>
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But that was over 20 years ago. These days I force myself to remember that I'm a grown up and I try to do grown up things, like feed my children and fold the laundry. But lately, even as I'm doing these things, my mind wanders and I think about how lovely I'd be with a Gibson do. And the accompanying bored sigh. Surely this would be appropriate while folding laundry?</div>
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I snap to and realize I'm being ridiculous. But then I find myself in conversation with other women who "long for a ball" and giggle with delight over the thought of having tea parties and raspberry cordial. They love English Country dancing and the swish of petticoats. <a href="http://petuniajune.blogspot.com/2012/12/playing-dress-up.html">There are women who know that I will dress up at the drop of a hat and even join me in doing so. </a></div>
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And then, on nights like tonight, I meet with dear-to-my-heart women who suggest, "We could dress up!" My heart skips a beat. Am I dreaming? No! There is hope. </div>
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And I'll be working on that updo, just in case. </div>
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Julianna Lawsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01532256832107537206noreply@blogger.com2