Tomorrow it happens.  Tomorrow is the first day of December.  Tomorrow is when Magic happens.

My Dad made a 22-year commitment to the United States Air Force.  The United States Air Force made a commitment to my Dad:  send him around the world - and they did.  My earliest memories of childhood begin in Germany.  The year was 1972.  I got a baby sister for Christmas and fuzzy brown boots that had fur lining and a shiny gold necklace that hung from the branches of an evergreen tree freshly cut from the countryside behind our rental home.

One tradition that began all those years ago and has prevailed during the tenure of my life is the use of Advent calendars.  In Germany, my chubby fingers would open cardboard doors that kept squares of chocolates hidden in plastic molds.  Each door displayed the day of December it was to be opened.

These chocolate Advent calendars have been staples in the Elledge household since my girls were born.  Their tiny fingers would open cardboard doors as they ate the chocolate hidden behind each door ...  just like their mother and Aunt did before them.  Tomorrow, they will open doors once again.  Addison, in her own apartment, in her own town, on a different continent.  Parker and Libby here in our apartment in Vienna.

The girls will laugh as I pull them out.  They will eat the cheap chocolate found behind door #1.  But they will continue the tradition and hopefully pass it along to their children, my grandchildren.

It's no small thing in a life - the preserving of a tradition.  I have no idea if my 24-year-old Mom intended to create a long-standing tradition that I would carry into my adult years when she presented me with my first chocolate Advent calendar.  But she did.  And now my Christmases are marked by these .79 tokens of tradition.

Tomorow it happens.  Tomorrow is the first day of December.  Tomorrow is when Magic happens!
Christina

I was a great kid.  Really!  Just ask my Dad.

I was a first-born, rule-following, obedient, tidy, quiet, even-tempered, self-conscious, always did my homework, never lied to my parents kind of kid.

If ever I did anything to upset my parents, I withered.  All it took was a disappointing look to send me into depression.  If ever I concealed a sin to those who brought me into this world, I would suffer stomach pains until I confessed, did penance, and wiggled back into the good graces of those who provided a roof over my head.  Thus, as you can plainly see, I was a good kid.

My good behavior was driven not by a good heart but rather by the reward of not being disciplined.  I just didn't want to get into trouble.  I didn't like confrontation.  I didn't like the feeling I had disappointed authority.  And so I developed some "rules":

• Good kids didn't rock the boat.  
• Good kids avoided pain.  
• Good kids performed.  

Good kids end up with ulcers.

When I was old enough to understand what a relationship with God looked like - to some degree - I carried my "good kid" image into my relationship with my spiritual Father.  I obeyed.  I avoided pain and discipline.  Imagine my shock, dismay, bewilderment and flat-out, world-rocking confusion when bad things happened while I was busy being a "good kid".

Reality is bad things happen in the middle of a life that often doesn't make sense.  Why does a 38-year-old Mom suffer a stroke?  Why does a house sit on the market for over a year without selling?  Why does a job get lost?  Why does a friend hurt?  These were all things that happened to me even though I had not committed any heinous crime, been willfully disobeyed, sinned, or rebelled.  Yet bad things happened and this good kid was stunned.

So let's jump ahead to where I am now ... a 49-year-old good kid.  What have been the lessons?  What I've come to learn from a good Father is that "discipline" doesn't have to be defined as the punishing of bad behavior.  Discipline can mean training to think about the lessons enclosed within the bad thing.  Discipline can mean re-training my brain, normal response, and reactionary default from freaking out when the bad thing happens to a "what is God trying to show me or use for my good" attitude while in the middle of the bad thing?

The Bible uses words that often tweak my tiny brain:  "Child, don't make light of the Lord's discipline.  God disciplines those he loves."*  I used to think of discipline as something to be avoided.  I had equated discipline with punishment.  However, when I look through the lens of a good God actively participating in His children's daily lives, discipline looks really different.  Discipline looks like a Father using the bad things that happen in my life as a tool to bring out in me something far greater and of more value to me in the future.  Instead of fear, He's showing me that standing face-to-face with an issue and trusting Him smack dab in the middle of it takes my enemy off guard and makes me strong.  Instead of worry, He's showing me that trusting His plan and timing is more productive and beneficial to my health.  He's showing me what life looks like when I look to him in the middle of the bad.

True confession, I am still a good kid.  However, I'm not trying to avoid discipline anymore.    I'm in training for living life in a way that is best for me ... and usually, never makes sense!

being "good",
Christina

*Hebrews 12: 5 - 6

Memories are funny creatures.  Taking a trip down memory lane can illicit such strong emotions; the trip can leave you feeling breathless, scared, joyful, anxious, teary-eyed or any number of emotions that were left unsealed from having lived through something that now is called your "past".

For example, Fall ushers in memories of little girls in silver mini-vans looking for the next "Bride of Beauty" (see subject list under archives for full story), stopping at the next 7-11 for a pumpkin spice cappuccino, and munching on candy corn and peanuts at Memaw's house.  Sweet, precious, fond memories of Falls that have settled in the dust of my past.

This past weekend, our oldest daughter, took a trip (literally) to her Grandparents about 3 hours away from the place she now calls home.  She called (Oh thank God for the invention of WhatsApp!) to tell me that she just passed the railroad tracks signifying the entrance into town and did her own countdown.

Let me explain the "countdown".  When the little women that I call offspring were tiny girls and we would travel to Altus, Oklahoma to see Memaw (My Chris' Mom), we played a little game.  In anticipation of entering town, we would pass a certain strip of railroad tracks.  These tracks were the unofficial marker that meant Memaw's house was right around the corner.  Upon crossing the tracks, we would estimate when to begin the countdown to 10.  10 ... 9 .... 8 ... 7 ... 6 ... 5 ... 4 ... 3 ... 2 ... 1 ... tires rattled over metal tracks ... little girls cheered ... "We're in Altus!".  End of game.

So, my girl called to tell me she had passed the tracks and did her own countdown.  What's the point?  Memories have power.  Like little B-12 shots in the brain, memories infuse the keeper with life.  If the memory was good, simple, pleasant, warm, fuzzy, cozy, or sweet ... then - no matter how long after the memory was made - when it's revisited - it stirs up good, simple, pleasant, warm, fuzzy, cozy or sweet feelings.  The "Countdown" was sweet.  The memory even sweeter.

Yet, lets say the memory wasn't so "Norman Rockwell".  What if it was hurtful, painful, scary, unpredictable, rocked your world, out of the blue, induced stress, caused fear, and in general made you want to throw up?  Well, that's a different story, isn't it?  Unfortunately, we've all had those kinds of memories tucked within our memory banks.  What do you do with those?

Can I just speak frankly?  You have a choice.  You let the pain work out good in you or you let the pain make you bitter.  The Bible talks about roots of bitterness.  I believe unresolved pain feeds roots of bitterness.  Out of these roots bad things grow.

We can't avoid pain.  Whether its a tiny toddler hand touching a hot stove, a young heart being broken for the first time, a cancer diagnosis, a financial crash ... whatever ... pain is a part of life.  Yet, as I've spent some time walking with Jesus through a lot of pain, I can personally tell you that no pain has been big enough to overcome me.  Has it felt like it was?  You betcha.  Has pain lingered longer than I wanted it to?  Yep.  Yet because God is a good Father, and promises that all things - even the painful things - work together FOR us - pain can be a part of a chapter that is closed.  The memory can raise it's head, but the pain can be laid to rest.

How do I know?  I've seen it in my own life.  Things too unspeakable to make their way onto my lips and be spoken into the air have been healed and walked through.  They are chapters in my "Book of Life" that no longer have negative power.  They have been used for my good.  They have been stripped bare and diagnosed as no longer useful for my good health.  They are reminders of what God has done, how He keeps His promises, and how deeply He cares for me.

Memories have power.
Make memories - in all seasons of your life - work for your good!
Christina

Photo taken many "Falls" ago of the Mom and the littlest girl in the minivan!

For the life of me I can not find anything on my blog re:Bridges of Beauty.  So if you know me, well, and have heard the tale of the Bridge of Beauty, this would be a good time to go get a coffee and then come back ...

If you've never heard the tale of the Bridge of Beauty ... Once upon a time there was a family that lived in Norman, Oklahoma.  This family consisted of a Dad, a Mom, and three little girls.  (At one point there was a dog - who was a boy - who began to jump the fence and cause the Mom a lot of heartache - but let's not get into that story!).  So focused was this Mom on her daughter's carrying traditions in their heads and hearts of happy childhoods that she created moments - and lots of them.  Taking one of her favorite routes through town via her silver minivan, the Mom realized on one particularly spectacular Fall day that the trees covered the street creating a canopy of sorts of splendidly covered red, brown and orange leaves.  At the moment, she called this her girls' "Bridge of Beauty".  She told them to capture the moment in their heads just as they would a digital camera.  From now on, every time they would see a similar scene, it would forever be their "Bridge of Beauty" moment.

Last Saturday, the littlest girl in the silver minivan, who is now a teenager, took a bike ride with her Mom through a local garden (park).  She couldn't wait to show her Mother a "surprise".  Not knowing what the teen had in mind, Mom peddled close behind until the unveiling of said surprise took place.  When they arrived, littlest girl all grown up, stopped.  She told her Mom to look up.  There she stood, at least 9 years after the original moment, and proclaimed:  "Look Mom, a Bridge of Beauty"!

The moment had stuck.

It was a reminder that all the other "moments" that have been intentionally or unintentionally planted into young girls heads and hearts will find their way out and into real life where it counts.  Little girls will remember and life well.

Enjoying the "harvest" of the season of Fall,
Christina

For years, I lived a principled life.  I knew God.  I trusted Jesus.  I lived religiously.  The principles of conservative, republican, Christian values trumped otherwise "bad" behavior.  It worked.  But alas, I got tired.

I love to read.  I love to write.  I love to use fancy pens to write down raw thoughts.  This has been a practice of mine since early girlhood upon the receiving of my very first diary complete with lock and key.  What started as writing in a drugstore notebook the trials of an eight-year-old has progressed into the writing of a blog the trials of a 47-year-old.

Several years ago, I began to discover that not only is scripture alive and useful for just about anything that comes across my path, the Holy Spirit is a good teacher.  He's the third person in the trinity.  He's sung about in songs.  He's referenced in all the good Bible stories.  Yet the truth about who He is and what He does had been missing from my principled living.  However, very few in my circles talked of Him.  In fact, when I spoke of Him to some, I was labeled.  This got me to scratching my head and digging a little deeper.

In recent years, I've come to realize the role of the Holy Spirit.  That being filled with the Holy Spirit changes me from a principled liver to a participator of the pressence of God.  

The religious leaders and elders were principled.  They followed, taught, and practiced the law to the letter.  When Jesus came along, with a new way to do religion that didn't involve following regulated principles but rather living in the pressence, it was tricky.  So tricky they plotted against him.

So, let's get to the point, shall we?  The "good" in Good Friday is that although we all - to some degree or another - live according to principles, they don't have to rule, guide, or reign over us.  Living according to the direction of the Holy Spirit empowers us to live in the pressence of a good God.  So good, he showed us.  He showed us though His Sons' death.  His Sons' death ushered in the fullness - the resting power - of the Holy Spirit on normal earth dwellers like you and me.

Need proof?

Ok; take a look at the religious priests, leaders and elders.  They asked followers to follow laws.  They bribed guards to keep the news of a resurrected Jesus hush hush AND to spread news that the followers of Jesus actually stole the body of their controversial leader.  Hmm.  (Need further proof look in Matthew 28).

Now take a look at the followers of Jesus.  Before Jesus conquered death on the cross, they tried to live by the principles of His teaching.  One guy, Peter, was at the top of the list - one of the top 10 12 - if you will.  However, when push came to shove, and Jesus was on trial and all of society was in an uproar about killing this Jew who claimed to be God's Son, Peter bailed.  He denied he knew Jesus three times.  But, take a look at him AFTER the Holy Spirit came.  He not only aligned himself with Jesus but he publicly spoke about Him as the Savior.  Such power was there in his words that over 3,000 hearers of this news came forward to take a stand of committment alongside Peter.  This happened in one day!

May I humbly suggest the difference in principled living versus pressence experiencing is too huge to overlook?  May I also humbly suggest that this power is the Holy Spirit?  This power is the promise Jesus said would come after he left planet earth.  It wasn't a one time only kinda deal - it was a promise to all followers who want to be transformed from principled livers to pressence experiencers.    And to me ... THAT'S PRETTY GOOD NEWS!

Making it a "Good" Friday,
Christina

When my girls were little, they all were given an assignment.  It was actually a life lesson that I wanted them to know in their deepest little parts of their tiny little bodies that would form their identity:  "You are God's Masterpiece." Ephesians 2:10

Because God is a creative designer, each of their personalities could be seen at young ages especially noticed while learning their life identity.  Addison, my dear first-born, driven little leader, would say - usually to a watchful audience -  "I a nasty piece" with all the confidence of a two-year old.  Parker, our precious middle child, carefree and whimsical, would say with a sly grin on her face "I a piece" usually with a fist raised to wrestle you lovingly to the ground.  Then ... Libby.  My youngest and most - passionate - of my offspring would not let the words fully trip out of my mouth when asking her what God said about her.  She would reply - passionately - "I know, I know Mom.  I'm a masterpiece."  She would then proceed to do whatever it was that occupied her at the time without flinching at my request.  She already knew her identity.

My Dad is from a town named Arkansas City, Kansas.  Just across the Oklahoma border, it's pronounced "ar-kansas-city" and not like the state "Arkansas".  If you pronounce it like the state, then you are definitely not from around those parts.  You might be from "the city" which is local dialect for Oklahoma City.  If, however, you refer to the town as "Ark City" then you are a local born and breed.  It's a thing.

Every year the town embarks on a tradition of hosting "Arkalalah".  Now, before you think this to be a po- dunk festival, stop right there!  I "googled" the history of this fine event.  Straight from their very own website, here it is:

The History of ArkalalahIt all began in 1928. The big depression was on the way and everyone was blue and discouraged. John Floyd, Clyde Boggs and "Pat" Sommerfield decided something new was needed for the town - maybe a fall festival of some kind to help the morale of the people. A citizen's meeting was called, committees appointed and the first Arkalalah was off to a flying start.  A prize of $15 was offered for a name. Mrs. J.W. Moore wrote "Arkalalah" on a strip of paper. Ark, for the town and alalah, the Indian word for good time. http://www.arkalalah.com/about.html

We walked the streets of the festival, watched the 82nd annual Arkalalah parade, laughed at the lame jokes told by the local town radio announcer as he MC'd the event and spent lots of hard earned cash on large portions of fried foods.

After the days events, it inspired my Dad to take us (my Chris, Parker, Libby and Mom) around the town to see his childhood stomping grounds.  Most of the buildings no longer stood.  We saw them only through his memories eyes.

As we drove about in the country, I was reminded that these were the paved and unpaved roads that I drove as a 13 year-old-kid.  My grandmother never obtained her drivers licences.  And, since I would soon have mine, she thought I should try my hand at driving.  And, drive I did!  All over that countryside, with little training and no licence.  We delivered Avon.  We picked up milk from a local dairy.  We popped by old neighbors just to visit.

Floods.  Floods of memories.

• The old barn that stood as a reminder of where to turn down the dirt path to my grandparents home place. 
• The white one-room church that my parents got married in.
• The cemetery on the hill where my grandparents where buried.
• The field I would help my grandfather plow while sitting on his John Deere tractor.

In that 8 hour day, I took trips down memory lane.  It was good for the soul.  It was better because I shared them with my family.

Still smiling,
christina

Still counting.  I'm discovering this act of purposeful listing of gifts - gifts that I know come from the hand of God - has become more than an activity, a discipline, or a goal.  Now, it's become a filter in which I am seeing my life.

Yesterday.  Tired when I woke up, I knew there were some "things" that I needed to accomplished.  Not stressful things but rather fun things like getting my hair cut.  I knew my parents, D and J, were going out of town.  It was late morning and I had a nagging feeling that I should ring them up to wish them well ... and possibly meet for a coffee they would buy.  I'm selfish and I love coffee.

At 11:00 a.m. I pushed the buttons of the receiver and heard my Mom's voice excited on the other end.  Her news was shocking.  Old friends from my childhood - friends of my parents, D and S, - were in town on a whim.  They had just driven up in their driveway on their way home to the East coast.

After a few minutes over the speaker phone, I had a plan that now trumped my previous to do list.  Wearing no makeup, I spilled the news beans to My Chris and in minutes we were in the van with a destination and a goal:  he drives and I put on makeup!

When I saw their faces, they seemed altered ever so slightly to what I had trapped in my childhood memory place.  Then, the very next emotion that washed over me, seemingly on some sort of "cue" that I've come to recognize, was thankfulness!!

As I sat on Mom's comfy couch, close to Irene, the rhythm of her northern accent and speech pattern took me back to my childhood spent in Montana.  Camping trips.  Mosquito bites.  Mint chocolate chip ice cream.  Homemade wheat bread.  Easter egg hunts.  A swinging bed.  Christian books.  Downstairs basement.  Handle bar mustache.  Fall scene wall mural.  It all washed over me as familiar and cozy as a down comforter being drawn up under my chin on a cold Fall night.  I wanted to nestle myself there for a long time.

Of course reality sucked the life out of the memory time and schedules had to be kept and travels had to be resumed.  However, the hour that I spent near these dear ones - Dean and Irene - made my list.  Their visit is #191.  I could have written at least 50 more entries of thankfulness for what this one, impromptu, surprise visit has meant to me and what it has brought to me.  However, just by writing down:

#191. Dean and Irene

I am filled with such teary-eyed, heart exploding thankfulness that it almost takes my breath away!  Yes, Dean and Irene, they are the gift.  But, now I'm seeing more accurately the GIFT GIVER!  In a normal day, when I was tired, He interrupted the clock and gave me a trip down memory lane.  A trip that explored people and places that are so tender and sweet and so full of child-like giddiness I am undone!  He knew this gift was needed ... would be appreciated.  The magnitude of this simple gift, given by this indescribable Gift Giver, blows me away.

The list is changing me.
The list is changing how I see the world.
The list is changing how I see myself.
The list is changing how I see ... the One doing the giving!

giddy and counting,
christina

Goodbye's are always difficult, at least for me.  Since my Dad was in the Air Force, my life as a child was always sprinkled with goodbyes.  When we would visit my Grandmother, I always wondered why my Mom would cry when she said goodbye.  I knew she would miss her Mom, the daily life kinds of stuff, but I didn't understand the weight of a goodbye ... until now.  Now I know that when my Mom hugged my Grandmother, she wasn't shedding tears for the moment.  The tears that trickled down her face where full of emotion.  These tears contained message like ...

... when will be the next time we see each other?
... you've changed and I wasn't here to notice.
... this hurts and I can't do anything to change it.
... I don't want to forget how you smell.
... I loved eating your home made friend chicken.
... I've changed and you don't understand me.
... is this our last goodbye.

I know, because I've been in her shoes.

Today comes another goodbye.  Today, my family will gather in Texas to say goodbye to my cousin, Casey, who died this week.  The details aren't important; the goodbye is.

I remember Casey as my punky kid cousin who imitated Steve Irkle and took seriously the call to chop anything and anyone in an effort to call himself a Karate expert.  He had a round face and a smile that made his eyes invisible when he flashed those pearly whites.  He gave good foot rubs, until he became a teenager and that became too "uncool" for him.  He wanted to be a chef.

One memory that sticks out is a car ride from Arkansas City, Kansas back to our home in Oklahoma City.  My Grandmother had passed away.  Chris and I were newly married.  Casey rode home with us (we were probably the "cool" older cousins then) and we listened to an oldies rock -n- roll station and sang every song we knew at the top of our lungs.  A song called, "Momma said there'd be Days like this" came on and Casey took over the role of lead singer.  We laughed and laughed and laughed until we thought we would pee our pants.

I don't know how I feel about this goodbye.  This is an unexpected one - it's taken me by surprise. I know this goodbye brings a lot of pain for my Aunt and Uncle, two people that mean a great deal to me ... two people that have helped shape my view of God, life, and family.  Alongside this journey walk my two cousins, Cory and Cameron.  These guys have been like brothers.  They've seen me during my "ugly" years and still love me.  They still think they can tease me like a 7th grader ... and I like that.  Cameron conducted the ceremony for Casey's wedding.  Shannon, Casey's wife has 3 kiddo's to raise alone.  I can only imagine the pain she's carrying around right now ... real or imagined.  I know they are all hurting and it feels like there is nothing I can do about it.

These are the moments when I think God is surprised ... or kept something from me ... or dare I say is off in the distance?  I think these things ... if we are honest, who doesn't?  However, I know (even if it doesn't "feel" like it) these things aren't true.  God is not surprised.  God knew what this day would bring.  God is near.  It doesn't have to "feel" good, but I can believe it.

Today, in my own way, I say goodbye to Casey.  My tears hold messages, too.  My tears carry questions and bear pain and hold memories and bring laughter and desire closeness to my family.  It's funny how physical death can make you feel alive ... and brings every experience into HD.

To my family, Aunt Kelly, Uncle David, Cory and Cameron ... and Shannon ... you are loved.  In this pain I pray you see God, see yourself, and see Casey in the light of truth.

Webster’s dictionary defines “Pilgrimage” as: a journey of a pilgrim; especially: one to a shrine or a sacred place.

As I journeyed back to the place of my birth, I felt as if I was visiting a sacred place. Time is such an odd bedfellow. It tramples memories and pasts at break-neck pace, yet the present seems to confound the amount of time that has truly passed. As I stood on soil that hypothetically could have been ground my 19 and 21 year-old parents could have trod … I felt a sacred connection to them. Past and present collided.

From my Dad’s memories, I calculated what I believe to be the house he and my Mom lived in for the first year of my life. I imagined them laughing together. In my mind’s eye, I saw my pregnant Mom walking down to the nearby pastry shop. I had visions of my Dad driving their tiny Fiat toward Vicenza, the Army base 2 hours away from their home and my birthplace. I tried to envision life 43 years ago. It was sweet … and sacred.

There is a certain truth about getting older. There is a deeper sense of who you are … and where you come from. Having never seen where I came from, it was a missing piece that I wanted to put a picture to …create a memory of … to wrap my head around. Now, I’ve done that.

I am left now with quite reflection as I pictured and empathized with my young Mom. I could physically see places she would have seen. I got to experience the vibrant hospitality of the locals. I got to drink in the culture of that quiet and charming place.

There is sacredness to seeing the place where it all began for me … and my parents. There were no lightning bolt moments, no rockets, and no fireworks. But, somehow just being there, I have a bigger picture of myself … and of my parents.

Perhaps one of the most profound things that happened to me was the day our friend, Pam, took us to a local vineyard. While there, we met several Americans who live and have lived in the area for many years. They were having a brunch with the vineyard owner and quickly extended empty chairs and plates for us to occupy. As we talked and discovered one another, they knew a very prominent local figure that was born in the same village I lived. As I exchanged some basic geographical landmarks my Dad could remember, they knew the places of which I spoke. As we were parting company, one of the older men, Don, grabbed my hand and said, “Welcome home.” It was profound. This place I never knew felt like a place of “home”. When he uttered those words, I felt so moved. My head instantly fast forwarded to a day that will someday come. One day, I will enter my true home, one that Jesus has prepared for me for a very long time. As I enter this place, I know I shall see a baby Chris and I lost, I will see my Mom, and then I know I will see my Jesus … face to face. What a deeply intense moment that will be when He grabs my hand and says to me “Welcome home.” I will finally be at a place I’ve never been but was always meant to be … I will be home. Home will be sacred … and I will be complete.

Reflecting,
Christina

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Why is it that most of my childhood memories … ok … maybe adult memories as well … center around … FOOD?

This week I did some baking. This week I also shared some of my past with a new friend. Today, I mixed the two together … baked while thinking about my past. The end result … peanut butter cookies!

My Mom was a great cook. I have memories of her baking things seasonally that kicked-off a new time of year. For example, Monster cookies meant we were down for the long winter. She would have my Dad get “the big green bowl” to mix up the monster recipe. After making a few dozen for us little hungry peasants to sample, she’d tuck “the big green bowl” into the freezer until the next time. She’d make up a batch of spiced tea and hot chocolate mix, each having their designated Tupperware containers, for those cold winter nights. Dutch babies (a northern inspired soufflé kind of thing with lots of eggs) were a Saturday morning treat, reserved for cooler days. They came complete with homemade syrup. Homemade ice cream, vanilla only, from our turn crank ice cream freezer was always a summer staple. And, finally, the Pièce de résistance was cookies! Peanut butter, no bake, chocolate chip and snicker doodles were a regular cookie treat … but … the one cookie my Mom made that made my chubby little mouth water were … potato chip cookies.

Aww … potato chip cookies. I’m sure the FDA never got wind of my mother’s recipe, for if they had there would have certainly been some sort of “not safe to feed small children” warning accompanying these tasty morsels. Ingredients: sugar and lots of it, and, you guessed it … potato chips. The crowning achievement was the butterscotch chips that were added for pop of sugar.

I love my memories … and the food they center around. The best thing about the memories – no calories! However, as I bake my peanut butter cookies with my girls (and a visiting friend, Alyssa) I can’t help but wonder what little memories they are tucking into their brains while they are cramming the yummy goodness into their bellies.

In 1976, during the winter Olympics, Dorothy Hamel made a deep and lasting impression on me. I was young, very, very young. I lived in Montana where it was cold, very, very cold. Ice skating was popular, very, very popular. And, with my new found role model, I began skating lessons and got my hair cut like my Dorothy. That’s about as far as it went. Ok, so Dorothy made a short lived deep and lasting impression on me … but one thing stuck. I can still skate!

Sunday we all took to the ice. The Rathaus (our government building) serves as the backdrop to a winter skating wonderland during the winter months. I couldn’t believe the transformation. They cover the whole grounds with plywood (so those of us w/ice skates can walk about), install ice rinks and paths, construct WC facilities, have an on-site D.J. and host several wurst and hot punch vendors. It’s fantastic!

Parker has been going there once a week for school, but this was the first time we all went as a family. We packed a lunch, our skates (yes, we have our own like all natives do!) and spent the afternoon skating about.

After tucking away my skates during my Dorothy Hamel days, I have not been on a pair of ice skates since Chris and I went (on one of our first dates – be still my heart) over 20 years ago. Back then the sheer adrenaline of being with Chris set my feet to moving. Now, however, I wasn’t sure if that would be the case. After one round, Parker (my sweet used to be favorite child) says to me “Mom, I’m impressed. I didn’t think you’d be any good but you are.” Out of the mouths of babes.

Such simple fun. Such simple goodness.

The rest of the week – a wash out! Monday and Tuesday Libby stayed home from school sick. Tuesday Addison and I start to feel bad. She and I stayed sick through today. Chris played nurse mate, taxi driver, Mom, cook, etc. Hats off to him, again!

Thought some pictures of the Rathaus might put wings to your images in your head of our time. Enjoy!

Many of you know that often times ... more than often times ... ok, almost always ... I process life through words. It's some weird (a good weird) way God has wired me. This morning I knew I was to write, so I wrote a little email to Chris' Mom. After I wrote it I thought "Hey, why reinvent the wheel? I'm using some of this for the blog." Now I cut all the really gushy personal stuff I wrote to her out. That is just for her to do with as she likes. However, my personal reflecting I did keep. So, please take a peek into my heart this morning.

Well, we woke up to snow covered ground this morning and its cold ...and it does put me in mind for the holidays.

Last night Parker and I cut sweet potatoes, shredded bread for dressing, made a carrot cake and frosting, mixed up a green bean casserole, cut veggies for snacking, burnt cranberries (at 2.99 Euro a package and I had two packages!!), cut onions and garlic and other seasonings for dressing, and assembled ingredients for a chocolate pie to be baked today ... AND ... ordered pizza because we were too pooped to fix anything to eat for dinner!!

Even though today isn't really Thanksgiving, it does feel like a holiday to us! Funny how what you do traditionally, no matter what day you celebrate, actually feels like a holiday.

Its funny how when you are doing life (the everyday stuff) you know you are not "home" but it doesn't seem abnormal. However, the holidays are though! You carry with you nothing when you arrive here ... nothing you can see. No furniture, few clothes, no dishes etc ... however, it's the holidays that remind you how many memories you've tucked away in your suitcases without even knowing they were there ... until they unpacked themselves each year around this time. The same will be true of Christmas...

I just wanted you to know the value I put on the things no one else see's in my life ... my little memories. These are the things I treasure most. These are things that will live on ... in the minds and hearts of my girls ... and I've got to believe that these are the things God tucks away(not sure how this measures up biblically, but it makes me feel good so I'm putting it in here), these good memories, in His suitcase and unpacks for us to share and repeat over and over again.

There are 3 young ladies who have tucked countless memories in their suitcases ... who knows where and when they will unpack them. My goal is to live so obediently to God that when they unpack the ones that concern me, they will be filled with gratitude, hope and pee-your-pants offlaughter! God willing I will still be alive for them to call me up, wherever they may find themselves, and share them with me over the phone!

Off I go! Let the festivities (and memory packing) begin!