New Beginnings

Hi!  I bet a lot of you are wondering what the heck happened to me.  I haven't written in the last 3 months because I have been:

• sick in the mornings
• tired
• emotional
• constantly nauseus
• sick in the afternoons
• spending a lot of time in my 'happy place'
• neglecting housework and kids
• sick in the evenings
• drinking lots of ginger tea
• eating tons of crackers

Guessed yet?  Yes, that's right, I'm pregnant!  Growing a new little life inside of me.  If you've been following my blog for a while, you'll know that I have lost babies in the past. Those losses make this new little one all the more precious.  I'm safely past the 1st trimester mark, which is why I'm sharing with you all now. 

I'll probably be writing only sporatically while pregnant, and during the sleepless-night phase after the baby comes.  But I know you will all celebrate with me on this addition to our family!  Here's to new beginnings!

Coming Home

I  spent the past week in my childhood home.  Or, should I say, my American childhood home.  Nestled among the cedar trees and live oaks of the Texas hill country, this old house has always waited patiently for us to come back to  it.  Even when someone else was living in it, it still stood as a testimony of permanence, standing there like a promise that we would all be together again, some day.

Mom and Dad have moved back in for a time, and my sister has, too.  When the kids and I pulled up and parked under the hack berry tree, whose uppermost branches I used to share with the wind, the house reached out and welcomed me.  The five year old Danica, the fifteen year old Danica, were in there too.

After the clatter of greetings and hugs for everyone, the weight of my life and memories settled down on me.  Parts of me were hiding all throughout this house.  There between the railings on the landing, the four year old me dangled  her feet.  Three year old Danica bumped down the stairs one by one on her butt.  The fourteen year old was hiding up in the corner bedroom with her dreams and castles.  And there I was in the middle of it all, trying to figure out where I fit in, now.

The oddly displaced feeling lasted through our week long visit, and followed me back home to the desert.  The kids and I tumbled out of the car on the tail end of our 12 hour trip.  I watched as they said, Hello I missed you to their childhood  home.  But I still felt disconnected.

The next day, we waited eagerly for Daddy to come home from his conference.  The kids drew with ice cubes on the sidewalk and I watched from the shade of the porch, as we kept a lookout for his little red rice burner.  Finally, it appeared around the corner, and we all jumped up as he pulled into the driveway.

I was the first one in his arms.  And in his arms, I was finally home.

Happy Anniversary to Us!

Today is our 10th wedding anniversary.

We met in college, I an 18 year old freshman (was I ever that young?), and he an older, wiser sophomore at 23, with five years in the Marines already under his belt.  Friendship turned to romance over the course of a semester, and in the spring of 2000, we began dating.

I remember one date at a local pizza buffet.  Tuesdays were buy one, get one free, and drinks were free with a college I.D., so we both got to eat all we wanted for $5.  Gotta love college towns!

We were flirting back and forth, laughing, doing the magnetic dance all young lovers learn.  Pulling away, pulling together, pulling away.  We had eyes for only each other.  Then an old man sidled slyly up to us, took hold of my sleeve, and admonished with a twinkle in his eye, "Ain't no snelly frocking in the pizza parlor, you hear?"

I'm happy to say that there is still snelly frocking going on in the Newton house, and sometimes in public, as well.  Tee hee.

Some college friends of ours just celebrated their 10 year anniversary a few weeks ago.  I'm going to copy her clever blog post (you can read it here), and list where life has taken us thus far.  In the past 10 years, we have:

• Both graduated college
• Put Scott through law school
• Taught elementary school
• Moved to a different state
• Taught middle school
• Scott sat for two separate states' bar exams
• Scott worked as a defense attorney, then as a prosecutor
• Had two babies
• Lost three babies
• Mourned for the death of both of Scott's grandparents, and two of mine
• Bought a house
• Ran for political office
• Scott became a judge
• Started a blog

Happy Anniversary, Scott.  Let the snelly frocking continue!

For My Mom

It was the first night we brought Sophie home.  All of us were crowded into the little, 100 year old adobe house in Cottonwood Canyon.  I was desperate to prove myself a 'good' mother, but completely at a loss as to how to get my baby to stop crying. And boy, was she crying.  Her newborn wails filled the rooms and echoed pitifully through the windows we'd cracked against the February stuffiness.  She didn't want to eat.  She was clean.  And none of the books or blogs I'd read while pregnant offered any help for this situation.  

I had surrendered the baby in despair to the grandparents, and laid down in the bedroom to gather the scattered pieces of myself.  And then, suddenly, Sophie's crying stopped.  The entire world held its breath for a few heartbeats.  I tentatively poked my head around the door of the living room to investigate.  

There my mom was, sitting in our old leather chair, with my daughter draped tummy-side-down across her knees.  Mom had her hand on Sophie's back, and was slowly smoothing her soft skin back and forth.  She looked up. 

"I figured it out!  She has gas.  Poor thing.'  And went back to her ministrations.  

That's my mom.  Capable, practical, always useful.  She pinpoints a problem and quietly works out its solution while the rest of us are throwing our hands up in despair.  

And now, when Sophie comes to me in her distress, I look at her round face and see my mother in her eyes.  I only hope I can live up to it.

I love you, Mom.  Happy Birthday!

The Mommy Vending Machine

Scott left today for a conference.  He'll be gone several days, and as I watched him pack I felt (I have to be honest here), not a small amount of jealousy.  He'll be staying in a swanky hotel.  He'll be eating catered meals.  He'll be having adult conversation.  He'll be driving alone in the car.

The last time I was alone in the car I kept glancing into the back seat, paranoid about why the kids were so quiet back there.  I've only spent one night away from my kids, which means that I haven't slept in or not made breakfast for somebody (What cereal do you want, honey?  Sorry, we don't have that cereal.  How about this one?  Oh, wait, we're out of milk.... how about yogurt?  Hold on ... there's only plain yogurt.  How about toast?  You like toast, right?  What?  You wanted me to cut your toast into squares?  I thought you said triangles ... ) in four and a half years.

Sometimes I feel like I'm a human vending machine.  I have buttons for 'I'm hungry', 'I'm tired', 'I'm bored', 'I'm scared / sad / overwhelmed / frustrated', 'I have to go potty'.

I'm pretty sure my kids have a Pavlovian response to my voice.  Really.  They'll be perfectly fine and peaceful with their daddy until I walk into the room, and then it's "Mommy, I'm huuuuuungry!"  You'd think they hadn't eaten in a week.

Case in point:  I was in a program at church last week.  Scott sat in the audience with the kids as I waited in the wings to go up on stage.  As soon as I was on stage and had been speaking for about 30 seconds, both kids had the sudden urge to go pee.  Now how do you explain that?  Uh huh.  Pavlov.

But you know, right in the middle of my jealousy as I watched Scott tuck his book in next to his laptop power cord, as I was picturing myself in the snowy white hotel bed, alone, a queer pang shot through my stomach.  The thought of being away from my babies was unbearable, even as I fantasized about it.

That's the crazy thing about mothering, to me.  You're like this great big mommy lion laying on the savanna, with your cubs climbing all over you and annoying the heck out of you.  They bite your ears, pounce on your tail, want to be fed constantly, and are always wandering away, requiring you to go chasing after them.  But then the moment they are threatened, some primal instinct rises up within you and you'd give your life for those cubs.

So as much as I say I need 'Me Time', in reality the thought of it scares me.  And if I force myself to go away for a while,  I can't help feeling the constant pulling beneath the surface of my heartstrings towards my babies.  Blessed relief comes only when I am finally reunited with them, hug my sweet girl and tousle Xander's hair.

I'm going to a women's conference in the Fall.  Without husband or kids.  I can't say I'm not apprehensive!  Pray for me.

Father's Day Dance

I spent first grade in Dallas, Texas.  My parents were undergoing training with Wycliffe, getting all the necessary tools they'd need to do bible translation overseas.  I don't remember how, or under what circumstances, but my father and I were invited to a father/daughter square dance.  I was excited, spending many days leading up to the dance thinking about what it would be like, worrying that I didn't know how to square dance (Dad reassured me that the caller would lead us in the steps), and planning my outfit.  I knew just what I wanted to wear.  I had a jean skirt that I loved, and a plaid shirt.  I would be a cowgirl.  I would be glamorous.  I would float along the floor.

My excitement lasted right up to the moment when we walked through the gym doors, where the dance was being held.  The car ride with Dad had been so special, just me and him in the soft, velvety darkness as Dallas' city lights flashed by.  I admired the way my skirt draped over my boney knees.  I patted it down and crossed my ankles like I'd seen my grandmother do.  When we arrived at the dance, I clasped my dad's hand.  His was large, warm and comforting as we made our way across the parking lot to where light spilled from the open doors.  

Then we entered the gym.  My confidence dissolved like tissue paper left out in the rain.  The place was packed with strangers, and I suddenly felt unsafe.  I stepped closer to my dad.  It was loud, the lights were glaring.  Groups of girls and their fathers were twirling in the center of the room, and I stared, arrested.  They were.  Beautiful.  They had on short, flouncy dresses and shiny little dancing shoes.  After my eyes recovered from this vision of glamour, I became acutely aware of my jean skirt.  And plaid shirt.  And I was wholly inadequate in my own eyes.  

Just then, a loud lady with loud makeup ushered us to the photo corner and snapped a Polaroid.  "Smile!"  she cooed, drawling out the 'i' to give the word an extra syllable.

The rest of the night passed quickly, in a whirl of lights and music and 'Swing your partner round 'n round!'.  Finally we were in the car, driving home.  

"How was the dance, Danica?  What did you think?"  Dad said.

"Those girls.  Their dresses were so pretty,"  I whispered into the quiet darkness.

There was silence for a minute.  And then, "They did have fancy dresses.  But I think you looked pretty in your skirt.  And most of all I could see your pretty heart."  

Simple words.  But they made an ocean of gladness swell up inside of me.  

The Green Ones Taste the Best

Ship days were always exciting.  Communications on the short wave would inform us of the government freighter's imminent arrival.  News would spread through the village, hopping hut to hut like lice on the heads of siblings.  Excitement would crackle, underlying everything with a subtle exclamation mark.  Smoke filtered free from thatched roofs.  The ship's coming!  A girl pulled water up from the well.  The ship's coming!  A teenager thwacked coconut husks open on a sharpened spike.  The ship's coming!  Men traded drags on a hand rolled cigarette.  The ship's coming!


Every kid who didn't have duties at home (and many who did, but shirked them off) congregated on the ocean side of the island, straining for the first sighting on the horizon.  It would appear as a tiny black dot, minuscule, barely distinguishable against the blue.  As soon as it was certain that it was indeed the ship, runners would sprint in gaggles through the village.  "Keva'a!  Keva'a!  (Ship!  Ship!)"  they would shout.

It was joyful news.  The ship brought loved ones long unseen, supplies, fresh produce that would soon be eaten.  For us, it meant mail, food and other supplies sent by our SITAG support, and sometimes, if we were lucky, there would be a package from home.

Every so often, a church group or maybe family member would get together a care package for us and send it, filled with goodies, half way around the world.  These were rarities (we got about three per year), and greatly coveted.  You never knew what treasures the brown cardboard box would be hiding.  Fajita spices.  Kool-Aid.  Stickers.  Dollar store erasers and pencils.  Travel size shampoos.  Wrigley's gum.  But if we were really lucky, there would be candy.

Real, American candy.  And best of all, a mega pack of M&M's.

I am not ashamed to say that we were intensely covetous of those M&M's.  To prevent WWIII from erupting in our hut every time the ship came in, we had a system to distribute treats.  We were fair.  Maniacally fair.  So fair we were probably diagnosable.

We would all sit around the family table, and watch with eagle like scrutiny as Mom or Dad divvied up the candies.  Literally, it would go by color.  One brown for Nathan.  One brown for Danica.  One brown for Anna.  One brown for Matthew.  One yellow for Nathan.  One yellow for Danica.  And so on, until we all had little piles of the exact same number of the exact same color of M&M's.  Because you know each color of M&M tastes different.

And then, we'd all four of us sit for a delicious moment, taking in the bounty, before dealing with it in our own ways.  Nathan took his to share with a few select friends (who always knew, by the way, to hang out underneath our house when the ship was unloaded).  Matthew would eat his in one fell swoop.  Anna hoarded hers, keeping them almost until they lost their color, and using them as collateral in our sundry sibling wheeling and dealings.  I would eat mine, one by one, keeping the colors even, in order, starting with my least favorite:  Brown.  Orange.  Red.  Blue.  Yellow ... Green.

I would always eat the green M&M last in the cycle.  Because the green ones taste the best.

Compensation

It's funny which Western customs the Islanders pick up, and how they adapt and integrate them into their own culture.  In Honiara, it's common to get Christmas carolers in May.  From the Island perspective, if all you have to do is get a group of friends together and go sing in front of some white people's house in order to get food or money, why let the semantics of season get in the way?

Celebrating the New Year was another Western custom the Islanders took and tweaked to their own interpretation.  For some reason, the people of Guadalcanal had internalized that the first of the year was a time to play 'friendly' pranks.

One January, we had taken a SITAG van out to Bonegi beach, spending a lazy Sunday afternoon picnicking on the black pebbled shore.  When the sun began to sink towards the Western sea, we piled back in, windows down, and began the 45 minute drive back to town.  It was a simple luxury to speed down the hardball, the buffeting roar of rushing air lifting my damp curls and sucking them out through the window as I watched the jungle speed past.

Every so often we'd pass a little village, its huts wedged in between the coast and the road.  At the third or fourth village along the way, some boys stepped out towards our car as we neared the huts.  Sometimes villagers sell produce from their gardens, or locally made hand crafts, and it was not unusual to be approached on the road.  Still, we were tired, and on our way home, so Dad only slowed down a bit to ensure he didn't hit the kids.

As we quickly neared them, the two teenagers stood well into the road, buckets in their hands.  I wondered idly if they had fish in those containers.  One second.  Two seconds.  Three seconds, and we were right next to them.

One boy, tall and slender, lifted his bucket with both brown arms.  In one fluid moment, the contents of the pail rose and fell in a smooth, liquid arc.  Perfectly timed to the second.  Through my mother's open window.

The next instant there was chaos.  Mom let out a sharp scream of shock.  A thick, white substance was dripping down her entire right side.  It was plastered over her hair, covered her right temple and cheek, her glasses, her neck, all were coated in white liquid.

In a confused moment, I wondered how these Islanders had gotten their hands on all that milk.  Dad brought the van to a screeching halt, skidding it sideways onto the roadside gravel.

"It's paint, David!"  Mom was screaming.  Matthew was crying from the back seat.  My dad flung open his door, propelled himself to Mom's side in what seemed like one giant stride.  Did a quick check.  By the grace of God, her glasses had prevented the toxic stuff from entering her eyes, and she had her mouth closed at the moment of impact.  Wheeling on his heel, my father strode into the heart of the village before us.

Each stride seemed to grow his stature, until soon he was 7 feet tall, a bear of a man swelled up in defense of his family.  We all followed along, a scared little trail of ducklings, Mom dripping white paint on the dirt and us kids clinging close to her.  Dad, his Indiana Jones style hat pushed back on his head,  and arms swinging with each wild step, stormed into the clearing around which all the village huts were gathered.

"COMPENSATION!"  he thundered.  "I demand compensation for what your village sons did to my wife."  A few worried men stepped out warily from the trees.  Here was a white man who knew the Island ways.

The value of 'compensation' is deeply seated in the Melanesian culture.  Up until about 50 years ago, 'compensation' meant that if someone from your village is wronged or killed, you raid the offending tribe and kill and eat one of theirs.  After the British colonized the region, these cannibalistic practices were replaced with more civilized ones.  These days, you pay compensation in the form of money, land, or pigs.

The villagers quickly shifted into recovery attempts, the men pulling my dad aside to apologize profusely, assuring him that the boys would be dealt with.  Some women ushered my mom and us kids to a shaded area by the shore, and gently washed her.  We were all fed.

I don't think Dad ever insisted on the villagers giving monetary compensation to us.  Afterwards he explained that he had used that word in order to get their attention, connect with them on their level.  However it was that the grownups eventually worked the situation out, I will never forget the feeling of utter security and protection that pulled me along in my avenging father's wake.  

Pills and Chewing

I have to apologize for not posting this week.   It is because I am sick.  The ugly old Strep bug swooped down and took me out, wrecking gleeful havoc on my tonsils.  During the lowest days, as I lay shivering and sweating in my darkened room, I decided that this was worse than even malaria.  It was can't-do-anything-but-cry sick.  It was I-just-want-my-mommy-even-though-I'm-grown sick.

I am now on the upside, thanks to blessed antibiotics and lots of honeyed tea, but am still in recovery.  So, today I'm hosting a guest post by my sister, Anna.  She writes (fittingly!) about taking chloroquine tablets, which are anti-malaria pills.

(that's Anna in the forefront, me in the back)

Pills and Chewing

By Anna Gentry

I remember in the early days mom and dad tried many things to make chloroquine more palatable.  There was the first attempt: sprinkle a crushed pill on dinner.  This only succeeded in turning a rare treat of mac & cheese into bitterness incarnate.  

They continued the crush  and mix method with a variety of things with identical results.  The one I most clearly remember is honey.  A brimming spoonful of honey.  At first it looked great, it wasn't often that my mom would let me have that much sugar at one time.  I put the spoon into my mouth and pulled it out again through my closed lips.  The small pile of powder hiding under the honey deposited itself right one the center of my tongue.  Swallowing did no good.  Have you ever tried to swallow a spoon full of honey?  Sticky bitterness clung to every corner of my mouth.  The cups and cups of water which washed the honey away did nothing to erase the now infamous chloroquine aftertaste.  It was 10 years before I could eat honey without the taste of chloroquine along for the ride. 

In the end, it seemed that the best method was to throw a pill as far back in your throat as you could get it and chase it with great gulps of water. The trick was to swallow the pill and any contaminated water while minimizing contact with your taste buds. This practice became forever entwined with, as we called it, Gum Day.  

The weekly pills were handed out on Sundays.  The incentive to take the pill was the gum you received afterwards. I am not talking about those little pellets that were sold masquerading as gum under the name Juicy Fruit.  This was real American gum that came in foil wrapped sticks.  It was gum that you could really chew and sometimes even blow bubbles with. Though this was an ever so cool skill that eluded me well into high school. 

In one aspect alone was this treasure inferior to the locally obtainable varieties of gum.  Its Achilles was its  sensitivity to heat and we had plenty of that on a tropical island where air conditioning was a distant fantasy. The glorious sticks of heaven would melt in the tropic heat and humidity.  If I kept it too long it would get damp and sticky.  I usually did, keep it to long that is.  To me, having gum I could chew anytime I wanted, real American gum, was often better than actually chewing it.  For one you could savor the idea much longer than the taste.  For another, if I held out longer than my siblings (this was not hard when it came to Matthew, my younger brother with a sweet tooth) I could have the added pleasure of holding it over them that I had gum, real American gum to chew, any time i wanted to.   

At War

One night, my mom, dad and and I were praying on our veranda.  We had settled beside the opening that dropped five feet to the ground below, catching the soft evening breeze.  A soft darkness had fallen over the village.  For some reason, my sister and brothers weren't around.

Something was bothering my heart, so my parents said, "Let's pray about it."  That was always their answer. Even now, they will pray over the crackling phone lines for me when I come to them with some anxiety or problem.  Listening to my mother and father talk to God is like wrapping up in a familiar blanket and snuggling deep into bed.  It's safe.  Comforting.  Always there.

This particular night, as the three of us sat praying, the anxiety didn't lift.  It continued to deepen.  A great, rolling heaviness moved in through the open doorway.  Sadness pulled at my heart.  Despair turned my arms into lead.  It became difficult to breathe.

Dad continued to pray haltingly, then finally stopped.  An awkward silence descended.

"Why don't you just give up," came a voice to my mind.

Suddenly, Mom slapped at her leg.  Then her arm.  Then she was slapping all over her body.  Slap. Slap. Slap.  It was the only sound in the dark stillness that seemed a little darker than an ordinary night.

"Pam, what are you doing?"  my dad asked.

"It's the mosquitoes,"  my mom said in frustration.  "They're everywhere!"

I could just see the outline of Dad's head as he turned to me.  "Danica, do you feel mosquitoes?"

I hadn't until Mom had said something, and then suddenly they were pricking me all over.  "No ... "

"Me neither.  Let's pray."  We bowed our heads, and prayed.

We prayed for protection.  We prayed for deliverance.  We prayed for God's angels to be with us and surround us.  And as we prayed, the mosquitoes stopped distracting.  The heaviness lifted.  A peace descended in its place.  The great anxiety and despair had to flee in the presence of the Living God.

Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God.And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.  Philippians 4:6-7

Diplomacy

Anna is my sister.  We are 19 months apart in age, and have been the very best (and worst) of friends.  She has the most beautiful thick, smooth brown hair (which I was always envious of), and a mild temperament beneath which hides the tenacity of a tiger.  She is incredibly brilliant when it comes to mathematics, logic, and problem solving.  Dad always makes her pack the car for trips, because of her uncanny knack of making all 50 pieces of luggage fit.

When we were very little (pre-elementary school), we spent most of our time together, either fighting or playing.  I'm sure we got on my mom's last nerve plenty of times with our bickering back and forth.  Then the wild would come into Mom's eyes, she'd pierce us both with a glare and say, calm as the air before a Texas thunderstorm, "Go to your room, and don't come out until you've worked it out."

Anna and I would march sullenly up to the room we shared, anger seething between us.  The line was drawn in the sand, and neither of us budged an inch.  This battle royal was a fight to the finish - somebody had to give in, and I was determined it wouldn't be me.  Anna sat on her bed, arms crossed, glowering at the floor.  I could tell she wasn't planning on giving in any time soon, either.

We sat there silently for a few minutes, each on our own bed.  I thought about the little creek we'd been building with the hose behind the house.  It beckoned me silently.  I looked up at my sister.  I could tell by the hard line of her eyebrows that she wasn't going to budge.  I sighed impatiently.  Really, this was a waste of a perfectly good day.  The sun was shining outside our window, the cedar trees broadcast their spicy aroma out over the hills, and our 'creek' called alluringly.  We had just been constructing a house beside it with sticks and leaves for our My-Little-Ponies.  I looked again at Anna.

I broke the silence.  "Look, neither of us is going to admit she was wrong.  And I want to go play.  Let's just pretend to make up so Mom will let us out."

"Fine."  My sister is mistress of packing a paragraph of meaning into one syllable.

We sauntered out of our room, and called, "Mom, we made up!  Can we go play now?"

A few minutes later, there we were by the creek constructing the My-Little-Pony house beside the dam in the creek.  Just like that.

I thought I was so slick, pulling the wool over my mom's eyes.  Now, looking at it with the fresh perspective of constant referee to my own kids, I realize that we really did learn the art of diplomacy and compromise in that stubborn standoff.  Yet one more thing that Mom was right about all along.

Fly Away Home

Julia Gentry was my grandmother.  She had large, brown, doe-like eyes and a gentle touch.  She always wore skirts and dresses in pretty pastel flower patterns.  She came to the Lord later in life, together with her husband my grandfather changing direction mid-stream and thus altering the lives of her five children.  She was a faithful Sunday School teacher, played bridge weekly, and knew how to speak the language of the Southern lady.  She collected cook books.

Even while we were overseas, Grandmommy was faithful in supporting our spiritual and mental development.  She would buy story tapes for us to listen to:  'Ants'hillvania' and the Odyssey series, spiritual principles broken down for a child to understand.  She was the one who built our vast Lego and Playmobil collections, sending a new set for every birthday and Christmas.  She was the gentle background figure at family gatherings, cooking, caring, creating the environment for us all to connect with one another.

Twelve years ago, at my high school graduation, Grandmommy was busying herself as usual taking care of us all.  But something was a little off.  She couldn't remember where she left her purse - was it at the hotel, or had she brought it to the party?  She filled a cup to drink, and then came back to get another one, the first cup still standing full on the counter.  Her hands shook just a little bit.  Most of us didn't know what some had begun to suspect, to discern hanging on the horizon of her life, ominous and looming, a threatening dark thundercloud.

Four years later, Scott and I attended my brother's graduation and saw for ourselves what had been whispered about at recent family gatherings.  "Grandmommy's forgetting things."  "She can't remember ..."  She knew me, but didn't recognize my husband of two years.

As the years continued to slip by, Grandmommy's memories began to trickle from her brain like sand through a sieve.  She forgot her friends.  She forgot her grandchildren.  Eventually she didn't recognize her own kids when they came, with grey hair and wrinkles and reading glasses.

My aunt took over the primary care of Julia, placing her in a nursing home close by.  Aunt Peebs would go visit Grandmommy every day with a little gift.

"Looook what I have for you, Mom!"

Grandmommy would say in delight, "I love surprises!"  And open the gift.  Thirty minutes later it would sit forgotten again on the bedside table, where Aunt Peebs scooped it up, hid it, and brought it back the next day for her to open again.

Julia Gentry's mind completely left her about two years ago.  The doctors told us that it would be a matter of time before her brain regressed to the point where it stopped controlling her major organs.  So we loved her, and prayed for her, most of us from afar as we lived our own lives.  And she would walk, around and around the dementia ward at the nursing home.  She, who had been the connecting center of the family, was now adrift and lost and alone, unable to find a safe harbor to rest.

This week, Grandmommy finally sailed home.  After years of not recognizing the faces of those she loves, she beheld the face of the One who loves her most.

"Some glad morning when this life is o’er,
I’ll fly away.
To a home on God’s celestial shore
I’ll fly away.


I’ll fly away, oh glory,
I’ll fly away.
When I die
Hallelujah bye and bye,
I’ll fly away."

I'll see you soon, Grandmommy.

Scent of the Past

Ever notice the connotative power of scent?  I can be going along my merry little way, when a sudden, single whiff hitching a ride on a rogue zephyr assaults my nostrils, and transports me years into the past, brings tears to my eyes, or gives me a deep feeling of sudden security.

Baby powder.  It transports me to my parents' bedroom and watching my dad get dressed for work back before we went overseas.  I can still see him putting on his brown dress socks - left foot first, scrunch the sock up into a smooth disk, then pull over the toes, arch and heel in one smooth motion.  His shoes, slightly scuffy, with their delicate brown laces, worn and familiar. 

Lumber.  Also connotes my dad.  I can't walk into a hardware store to this day without feeling like he's right beside me.  The scent of sawdust brings his swift, sure movements as he measures, cuts, and hammers in nails with confident accuracy. 

Kerosene.  A dark hut, low hanging eves coated black with the soot of innumerable cooking fires. Contented, happy faces brown and smiling over steaming mugs of tea so sweet it makes your teeth hurt.  Community, togetherness, belonging. 

Rotting vegetables.  The hot, sticky streets of Honiara, decorated red from the betel nut stained spit of countless pedestrians.  Wary brown Melanesian eyes, dented trucks chugging billows of black exhaust, all encompassed in puffs of yellow dust. 

Clinique make-up.  My grandmother in her old yellow kitchen, with its fluffy curtains and dark wood cabinets.  Her kind smile as she hands me a glass of milk.  Skittering matchbox cars across the pea green linoleum.

Plywood.  The house my parents built on Devereux Street, in the Texas hill country.  Its squeaking floors and ancient wood stove, resting peacefully among the cedars and live oaks.  Childhood safety and warmth.

What smells take you back?

Roses are Red

There was something about the whiteness of the sand. Its purity under the cold, grey New Mexican sky was clean, sterile, an open blankness that I could lose myself in. Forget myself in for a moment. The happy chatter of my children and good-natured banter between my husband and siblings were absorbed into the white vastness, buffered by the enormity of the white sands stretching for miles around us. I stood alone, at the edge of a dune. I looked out at the black spots of people silhouetted against the rises beyond mine. I wondered if I looked like a little black spot to them, or if they could distinguish the red hoodie that I wore...

Red stands out against white.

It shouts like an accusing stain of fear when you see it on the toilet paper, when you're pregnant. Newly pregnant. For four weeks Scott and I had celebrated with friends the impending third addition to our little family. The morning before I went to buy the pregnancy test, Scott rolled over in bed and said, "Good morning, Preggo! How's little Rose?"

"Whatever," I mumbled. That comment completely came out of left field. Surely I would start any day now - the tidal wave of emotions I'd been feeling lately were just hormones, a signal that it was almost 'that time of the month'. It's normal to cry at Elmo, right?

Hours later, I came incredulous and filled with joy out of the Walgreen's women's bathroom, with a little pink stick in my hand. I found Scott lingering in the toy aisle with Sophie and Alexander.

"Well?" he turned to me.

"It's positive!" I couldn't wipe the silly grin off my face. The rushing thrill of 'here we go again!', the feeling of cresting the precipice of a new roller coaster ride came sweeping over us. We were ecstatic. A love immediately flooded our hearts for this little child. The love was more immediate and real than what we had experienced with either of our previous children. This little one would be special. We already had her name - Rose, the name God had placed on my husband's heart like a promise that morning. Our little flower.

Four weeks later, I discovered the red stain on the toilet paper. After a long phone conversation with the OB nurse, I was consoled that first trimester bleeding was common, as long as it wasn't accompanied by cramps, or heavy flow, the baby was OK. Etc. Etc. And so on. Scott and I prayed together. My siblings and I prayed together. I called my parents overseas and they prayed for me and Rose. I was overwhelmed by a peace flooding my soul. It was the undercurrent of my entire day, carrying me along, soothing my anxious heart, lapping reassurance and rest around me.

I went to bed that night so surrounded in God's presence that I fell asleep the minute my head hit the pillow. I had expected to dream nightmares, but I slept peacefully, soundly and securely curled up in my Father's palm. I knew that wherever we went together, He would take care of me.

At 4:30 that morning I woke up to wetness between my legs. I lay for a quiet second in my bed, asking myself if I wanted to discover what I thought I might discover if I turned the light on, or if I wanted to sleep a few more hours in unknowing oblivion. I decided I wanted to know. For sure. "Whatever Your will is, Lord, let it be resolved tonight. Don't make me wait, please, not knowing," had been my prayer before I went to sleep hours earlier.

In the bathroom, I felt something pass from me. I picked it up, and held it delicately in my hand. What had been Rose lay there in my palm, red and alien. I sat numbly on the bathroom floor for several minutes, staring at the redness in my hand, saying goodbye to my daughter, letting the reality sink in. This was knowing. For sure. There was no doubt. You don't just pass something like this and go on being pregnant. Please, Lord Jesus, take care of her. She was Yours before, and she is really Yours now, running unhindered with You in fields of glory. I watched little rivulets of blood drop between my fingers. Red staining the white. It was messy. Ugly. An ugly, messy splotch against the pristine sterility of the porcelain bathroom and my pale skin.

When I finally crawled back into bed next to Scott, I still hadn't cried. I didn't think I would.

"Wow, I sure am taking this well," I thought detachedly.

My husband woke up and asked, "Are you OK, sweetheart?" The love in his voice opened the floodgates in my heart, and I began to sob.

"I ... we ... we lost the baby," I managed to choke out.

"Oh, honey, come here," and he enveloped me in his arms. The sorrow came then. The tears were ready and abundant. I cried as the inner me crumpled into a little, rumbled, tender heap onto the dark floor of my heart. My body was just a shaking shell, and I held the hand that had held my baby close to my heart as my husband held me close to his. We cried together there in the darkness before dawn. We mourned our little Rose, for whom God had already given us such a love. My heart had already pictured how she would be (gentle, loving, sweet, delicate), and how she would fit into our family. How she would enrich and widen the circle of love. The waves of sorrow washed over us in the warm darkness, and our Father held us in His arms as we clutched each other, His tears mingling with ours.

The next morning, I wanted to be with my family. I wanted my babies close, and I did not want to be in the house. We packed up kids and adults, and drove out to the White Sands National Monument, about 20 minutes outside of town. The stark, barren whiteness provided a blank space for me to rest a little from the garment of sorrow that had draped itself over my soul. I watched, detached, outside of the action as my family played and explored around me.

Still, even in the blankness, I felt the river of my Father's presence flowing around me. "It's OK, dear daughter," His words whispered to my heart. "I Am here."

Driving home, my sister put on some acapella African CD. The warm tropical voices washed over my soul, crisp and deep and rhythmic. I settled into the music, and another gentle wave of grief began to come over me. It rose like an ocean swell, higher and higher, until it had lifted me off my feet and covered my head. Silent tears began to run out of my eyes as I cried from the crumpled place in my heart. The inner me wore a red dress. Because life is messy. But even so ...

When peace like a river attendeth my way

And sorrows like sea billows roll

Whatever my lot, Thou has taught me to say,

"Even so, it is well with my soul."

Milles Bornes and Pee

We were sitting at my kitchen table tonight, playing a rousing game of Milles Bornes (a French card game and childhood favorite). My sister Anna, youngest brother Matthew and Matthew's wife, Liz, are all here visiting for Christmas. The dinner dishes had been cleared away (plastic plates, for convenience), Alexander was nestled up in the pack-and-play in his old-man pajamas, sucking away at his thumb and dreaming victorious baby dreams, and Sophie was alternating between my lap (trying to steal a cookie), and Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, her current favorite.

The conversation ebbed around the flow of the game.

"Scott, it's your turn," I said to my husband. He considered his hand thoughtfully, calculating, no doubt, the risks involved in each possible move he could make.

"This is the point where Nathan would say, 'Fast game's a good game', if he were here," quipped Anna.

"Yeah, fast game's a good game, Scott," I said. He shot me a look and discarded.

"Remember when you used to hide Monopoly money, Matthew?" Anna said.

"What?!!!" I was indignant.

"Yeah," Matt confessed unabashedly, "I used to take the money and hide it under my bed, and then the next time we played, I would pull it out to use."

"That's horrible!"

"Cheater's never win. It's your turn, Liz."

"Except when they do win," Scott put in (always the lawyer).

"And then it's twice the victory. You win because you win, and you win because you didn't get caught," Matthew grinned. He and Scott shared a laugh while us girls squealed in protest. "But that's nothing. Nathan used to want to be the banker when we played Monopoly so that he could slip himself 500's on the sly."

"Yeah," said Anna, "and I hated playing Risk with you and a third player because you would always make an 'alliance' (here she made quotation marks with her fingers) with the other person and I would essentially be playing against someone who had twice the number of armies and countries as I did."

"I hated Risk, too. Did the islanders ever cheat?" I asked Matt. He thought for a moment.

"I don't know ... I don't remember ... "

We played a few more hands, our talk and good-natured ribbing and rememberances creating a warm circle of love around us.

"One time, though, a kid peed on me," Matthew said out of nowhere. The reactions were immediate.

"WHAT?!!"

"No way!"

"Where?"

He proceeded to explain with a twinkle in his eye. "We were playing freeze tag on the beach. I crawled underneath one boy's legs, and he peed on me."

Matthew and a friend (NOT the one who peed on him).

"Awww! That's nasty. Where did he get you? I mean, did he get your head?"

"Naw, he had to work a little before it came out, so I was half-way through when he did it. He got my back."

"Good," Anna said, "Because that would have been nasty to feel that on your head and go, 'Hey, what's that?' And turned your face ..."

"EEwwww!!!" The table erupted again.

Matthew said, "You know in freeze tag, how you crawl underneath somebody's legs to unfreeze them ... "

"What an ungrateful kid!" I interjected.

"Yeah, anyways, I think he just thought, 'Hey, I've got him!' and just let loose. That was the last time I played that game."

Our laughter and recollections continued as the cards passed from one to another. The lights on the Christmas tree twinkled kindly and its ornaments swayed gently in the breeze created by the ceiling fan. It wasn't important who won the game, or even really who's turn it was to play next. We were completely relaxed. For some magical reason, family tensions had been erased for the moment, and every word and glance was salted with love and acceptance. We sat there and celebrated who we had been together, and began to discover who we were now.

Saying Goodbye

The day my father came home and announced we were moving to live on an island, I didn't really understand. I was 6, and my world consisted of the warm little nucleus my mother had created at home for us, church, and first grade. And so, months later when we had undergone training in Dallas, raised the support needed, and actually packed our home, I started to realize what moving might really mean.

My mother, brother Nathan, and I in the woods behind our house.

We had lived up till that point in the Texas hill country, outside of Austin. The house we lived in was built plank by plank by my father. He would come home from a long day of nursing his start-up software business, strap on his worn tool belt, and climb to the rafters to nail drywall. Dad's tool belt, to me, is similar to his wedding ring. It symbolizes comfort, security, and my father's deep strength and ingenuity.

Me, playing in the foundation of our house while it was being built.

My mom would paint and lay tile during the day, while she also watched the four of us. My brother was born in the upper bedroom of that house, his first indignant cries echoing over the virgin hills. The house took 5 years to build.

The last night we had in it, we slept on pallets of blankets on the floor. In the morning, we would climb into our loaded U-Haul and make the trek to Houston, board the plane after kissing tearful grandparents, and head off into the unknown. I was quivery with excitement. Change electrified the air and made it hard to sleep, but I finally did. The morning dawned cool and fragrant with the hill country's special blend of cedar and live oak trees. Morning doves wooed each other from the woods behind our house.

We ate our Cheerios and milk for the last time at the breakfast bar in the kitchen, while my parents loaded the last of our things into the truck. I talked excitedly with my siblings. Our child's minds could not see past a trip to Houston and the grandparents. Breakfast done, we were herded outside. My mom stopped me.

Nathan, me, and my mom holding Anna, in our VW van.

"Danica, do you want to go say goodbye to the house?" I looked at her strangely, wondering why I would want to say goodbye to a house, and was caught by a deep something hidden in her eyes. I think in that moment her heart needed me. So I followed along beside her, taking in the strangeness of the empty rooms. We made our way through the downstairs, then up to my parent's room and bedroom. My room was the last we visited.

I stepped into the barren emptiness. The ceilings stretched high above me, un-anchored by friendly furniture, pictures and toys. The room seemed huge. I stood in the middle of it, lost suddenly in the space, and reality smacked me for the first time in my young life. I grew in that moment, a part of innocence lost, when I realized that this room of dreams, romps, and imaginary playmates, the room that was somehow my friend, had turned its back on me. It offered no comfort, no sanctuary. The blank walls stood aloof and the windows stared in haughty starkness.

I felt my mother's hand on my shoulder, and I looked up to see that she was crying. We sank together in the middle of the nothingness and I cried from the torn place in my heart onto my mother's chest.

From Suburbanite to Missionary - My Dad's Faith Journey

What is it like to go from a suburban small-business owner, to a foreign missionary? As it all seemed like a huge adventure to me as a kid, I will let my father's words describe the process for me. The following are excerpts from our family newsletters as we embarked on the journey that would change all our lives forever.

March 1989 - (the first newsletter ever sent out)
"We are rapidly approaching a crossroads in the life of our family and would appreciate your prayers for us. This will entail some major decisions concerning our involvement with Wycliffe Bible Translators.
As you know, we have been on a fairly normal course up to this point; raising a family, being active with our neighbors, and serving in our local church.
This June we plan to attend Wycliffe's four week missionary candidate program, "Quest". They require this for all potential translators, to judge their suitability for field work. We are praying that God will use the staff at Wycliffe to give us definitive guidance concerning our involvement in Bible translation."

August 1987 - Quotable Quotes from Quest
"Success is not permanent, neither is failure."
~Jerry Allen, our language instructor giving us encouragement the first week of class

"When entering another culture remember, you are the foreigner, not them."
~Scott Smith, missionary kid

Q: "Did you ever feel like quitting?"
A: "About every day."
~ Dan Davis has served with WBT for 23 years, completing one New Testament and serving as a consultant on many others.

"Sometimes God puts us on a holding pattern to make us grow."
~ Ken Wiggers, former Jaars pilot on returning to the US for medical reasons

"The work of Bible translation involves a partnership between those being sent and those who are sending. God chose each member of this partnership before the foundation of the world."
~ Clarence Church has been involved in Bible translation at various levels since he first went to Mexico with Cameron Townsend in 1947.

December 1987
"Last week Nathan's bike was parked behind the family van and got crushed. Later Matthew toddled out the back door and became stranded in the back yard with his little bare feet in the sticker burr patch.
It seems that our kids are always getting into situations that they can't resolve alone. Similarly, our desire to do Bible translation is getting our whole family into a situation where we cannot proceed alone. So, we are in the process of looking for people to make u support teams at churches, who will be our partners in this venture. These teams will be involved in financial support, daily prayer, and keeping the church and friends up to date on our activities.
'Unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies it remains by itself alone; but if it dies, it bears much fruit. He who loves his life loses it; and he who hates his life in this world shall keep it to life eternal. If anyone serves Me let him follow Me.'"

September 1988
"I crossed the front yard and took a look back at the home we had just completed. The big rental truck was packed. The boys and I climbed in and lumbered up the hill, past the homes of friends. Our hearts were full of memories as we left the life that would be forever changed when we return.
We lumbered through Westlake and headed north on I-35. Matthew's excitement had worn him out. he was sound asleep in his car seat, cheeks flushed in the heat. Nathan was quiet, staring out the window.
As the mile markers slipped by, my mind was in the past ... Cub Scout meetings, teaching kids in Sunday School, men's Bible Study, work, soccer practice. July and August had been an incredible storm of activity as we finished the house and moved with a great surge of help from our friends.
Our last hours in Austin were full of tears. It was very difficult to leave. We realized how much of our hearts were in our home, our friends, church, and community ... we miss you all.
However, we know that the Lord is our Shepherd and we trust that He has still waters in store for us. Please pray that we will be able to be still and trust Him for what lies ahead of us as we train to translate God's written Word."

November 1988
"We have been assigned to the island of Ontong Java to do Bible translation. This is near Guadalcanal and New Britain islands in the Pacific Ocean north of Australia.
During World War II, these Pacific Islands were inundated with U.S. Soldiers who were fighting the Japanese. The U.S. Army brought in mountains of supplies to keep the war effort going: clothes, canned food, vehicles, radios, weapons, etc. The local people had very little contact with white men up to this point, and were very interested in how they came by all of this 'Cargo'.
The local people knew that all power to produce goods, to make gardens grow, to make pigs bear young, to be victorious over enemies, all of this power came from the spirits of ones ancestors. To have powerful ancestors meant to have much wealth. So they thought that these white men must have powerful ancestors indeed.
The local people learned from missionaries that their God was named Jesus. This Jesus had been a man. He had died and gone to the place of the ancestors, and had then returned to men for a period of time.
Of course this made things very clear to the local people. Jesus must have learned the secret of 'Cargo' from the white ancestors and had given this secret to the white men. The obvious problem was that the white men were not about to give away the secret to such wonderful power.
Since the local people knew that ancestor power is appropriated from ritual, they decided to watch the white men, and listen to them very carefully in case they slipped and let out the secret.
The missionaries told them that they should believe in Jesus and be baptized. This the people gladly did. They told the people to build a church and bury their dead in a graveyard near the church. This the people also gladly did. In fact they had observed the white men talking to their ancestors on radios with wire antennas which received the voices of the ancestors. So the people strung vines from their church building to the graves so that their prayer requests for 'Cargo' would be transmitted to Jesus and the white ancestors.
The people prayed, they made air strips, they decorated the graves of their ancestors with flowers; they copied the white men in every way they could. But still no cargo came. Finally they became angry. The white men were holding out on them. There was obviously enough Cargo to go around. These white men were really selfish and miserly. To refuse to share with your village, when you have plenty, is the worst sin they could imagine. Finally, they decided that these white missionaries were bad people. The people turned away and rejected them and their God.
The missionaries were dismayed. The responses to the gospel had been so good at the beginning. What had gone wrong? How could this confused response to the gospel have been remedied?"

March 1989
Our first news letter went out last spring. In it, we talked about the transition from suburban life (work, soccer, scouts, and Sunday outings), to being Bible translators overseas.
In retrospect, it has been a lot like training to sky dive. Last spring we were at the back of the plane chewing our fingernails, and now we are at the door and ready to jump.
We just got our passports back. Next we get shots; hepatitis A & B, tetanus, and oral malaria. Nathan, Danica and Anna are dreading that, and Matthew isn't too thrilled by their reaction to the word, "shot".
A year ago, one of the kids in our Sunday school class heard that we were planning to be missionaries. She approached us and volunteered to send us $5 a month, which was our first promised financial support (and a hefty sum for a first grader).
Looking back on that incident, it reminds me of the time that Elijah had defeated the prophets of Baal. This victory turned the hearts of Israel back to God. So he prayed for God to end the three year drought that was a punishment for Israel's idolatry.
As Elijah lay prostrate on the ground, he sent his servant to the hilltop to look for rain clouds. On the seventh trip the servant saw (not a thunder cloud, but) a cloud the size of a man's hand. Elijah's reaction was RUN, before "the storm of rain washes you away."
Over this past year that "little cloud" of $5 has grown to about $1700 / month of the $2400 / month that we need to leave for our overseas assignment. I am continually amazed at how God continues to provide for us, and aware of how much this effort of Bible translation depends on His faithfulness.

June 1989
Nathan received this letter from Samuel Daams, son of Pam and Nico Daams, WBT translators in the Solomon Islands:
Dear Nathan,
I keep wondering when you will come here. I hope to show you how we shoot birds and eat them. I also hope to go and spear shrimps and fish in the creek nearby.
I have many friends whom I have told about your coming. They are looking forward to it and we will show you how to make many things such as trucks out of wood, bows and arrows, and slings.
There are lots of fruit here nice to eat such as guava, mango, sugarcane, coconuts, cabbarei, and pineapple and banana. There are lots of bats and birds here.
I hope to show you a parrot of mine that I shot myself and is still alive and very tame. It likes to crawl along peoples hands and chew their hair.
Yours faithfully,
Samuel

What do we think about The Move? A quick poll revealed the following thoughts:

David: I am looking forward to getting to know people and feeling at home there. I want the kids to find friends soon too.

Pam: I think that we are going to have lots of surprises. Leaving the familiar is difficult but I feel expectant about what lies ahead.

Nathan (age 10): I think it's going to be fun. I am going to be able to shoot birds and spear fish. I am looking forward to going.

Danica (age 8): I wonder how many friends I am going to make. I am looking forward to making a shell collection. I'll bring some special shells when I get back. I will miss my friends in Texas.

Anna (age 6): I think that home school is going to be exciting. I think that it will be fun and I am looking forward to getting on the plane. I like the food that they have on the plane. I hope I find a friend and I hope that they are nice.

Matthew (age 4): Can I have a Popsicle?

Dreaming of Food

After months of nothing but rice, coconuts, and things you can get out of a can, we all began to crave 'real' food. One morning over the breakfast mat my father related a dream he had, where he was fishing a carton of ice cream out of a refrigerator, and it kept melting before he could get it to his mouth. Meal times became dream fests. We would all take turns to relate what we would be eating, if we could.

"I want a bowl of Cheerios, and some cold milk," Matthew said. We all licked our lips and mmmmm'd in agreement. I gazed forlornly down at my own bowl of burnt granola we had made in a stone oven a week earlier, drenched in watered down powdered milk. I stirred it with my spoon and a little dead weevil came floating to the top, circling in the eddies my spoon left.

"I want some pancakes, with real syrup, lots of it, and scrambled eggs," Anna said. My mom made pancakes occasionally, but we ate them with peanut butter (for more protein, she said), and jelly from a can. Eggs were a rare treat, brought to us by the occasional village kid. We never knew if they were from chickens or ducks, or if we would find the nice little treat of a half-formed chicken embryo inside. I still can't crack open an egg today without a little shiver of horrified anticipation.

Nathan just sat there glumly, chopping at his granola with his spoon and waiting for his first opportunity to bolt.

"Danica, what would your ideal breakfast be?" My dad asked, turning to me. I thought a bit.

"I want Pop Tarts," I said. "The kind with frosting and sprinkles on them." Pop Tarts had only just come out when we left the States, and even then my family was too poor to buy them (and my mom was probably philosophically opposed to them anyway, because they had the dreaded 'too much sugar'). But I had tasted them at my Aunt Peebsie's house, crunchy and sweet, chewy on the inside, with sprinkles that stayed last in your mouth after everything else had gone. I took another bite of my granola and closed my eyes, imagining it was a strawberry Pop Tart. Yummm.....

A Birthday Doughnut

When I look back and try to recall my first few days on Luaniua Island, my mind fills with a whirl of shapes and colors, like a glass of water you use to clean your painter's brush in. My brain during that period was constantly whirring on all cylinders, organizing and synthesizing the rush of sensory input that bombarded it. From the moment I opened my eyes in the morning (pinpoint lights dancing through the thatched ceiling as the tropical rays found their way past the leaves), to when I lay back down on my coconut mat for 'bed' (the wind blinked past, making my mosquito net breathe a giant breath), my new world was slowly becoming part of me.

As the first and second days off the ship rolled past, Islanders would periodically appear at our door, with steaming plates of unknown substances in their proffered hands. We dined on smoked fish, fish soup, fish on rice, fish on taro, with sometimes a side of disgustingly grey, sticky, gelatinous taro pudding on the side. We would sneak out at night to feed that to the fishes, subversive and sinister as the New York mob.

The third day on Luaniua was my birthday. I woke to my mother prying open the plywood crates that had come on the ship with us.

"I am making donuts for your birthday breakfast!" she announced bravely. We all clamored round her; already the island diet had grown old, and we were starving for some comfort food, something to remind us of home. She continued to dig in the crates. A wok appeared. After that, a single Bunsen burner. Thirty minutes later, Mom had unpacked half the crates we owned, and a pile of necessities was slowly growing beside her. Us kids were starting to protest in hunger, ("Hurry, Moooom!"), while Dad had long since given up and made off into the village to start his day of language learning and relationship building. I could see the sweat droplets start to gather on my mother's face, as the stress rose within her.

You can tell that my mom is getting stressed out because it builds up from her feet. Like the old-timey Donald Duck cartoons, when he starts getting mad and the red rises from his toes, until it finally bursts his head and steam pours from his ears. My mom does this, only it's when she's stressed out.

So the stress was building, and us kids were whining and complaining. She staved us off with a plate of leftover rice and fish broth as she finally located her mixing bowl and spoons. No cookbook had surfaced yet, but the intrepid heroine of this little story quickly went to plan 'f', and started throwing ingredients that might make up donuts into her bowl. The stress was now showing in her arms, as they stiffly beat the flour and leavening just a little harder than was necessary.

Matthew and Nathan were the next to give up the wait, wandering outside to meet the ever-present spectators of 'The White Man Show'. They had commenced a game of shoot-the-rubber-band with the village kids when Mom finally got the burner started. However, a wok, as it turned out, is not designed well for deep frying. The oil never got hot enough to really cook a doughnut the way it's supposed to be cooked, and after several tries, my mother finally managed to produce one sad little circle, lopsided and still a bit chewy in the very middle. This she handed to me, with the red simmering just a little below her ears. "Happy Birthday, sweetheart."

I took the doughnut, holding it in my hand for a few beats. I could see that the only thing keeping the lid on the pot that was now boiling inside my mother was her love for me. It looked out of her eyes at me, saying, "Please be happy with this. I want you to have a happy birthday. I tried to make it special. Please don't be disappointed." And I realized, looking into my mother's eyes, that I wasn't.

I took a bite of the sweet, chewy goodness and let it sit on my tongue. I rolled it around my mouth, feeling the satisfying way it chomped between my teeth. I swallowed it slowly, and my stomach jumped as it hit, clamoring for more. I ate that doughnut probably the slowest that I've ever eaten anything in my life. I savored every bite, except the last three, which went to my siblings, whose puppy-dog looks told me that I really couldn't eat it all by myself. But I ate most of it. Because, after all, it was my birthday.

A Portrait of My Parents

My story begins, as most pertaining to children do, with my mother and father. My dad can best be described by a mug my mom gave him in the eighties. It has a picture of a rainbow, which arches the span of the mug and ends as a cascade of bricks forming a wall. The caption reads, "Under Construction". My dad always has a project he is building either with his hands or with his mind. He constantly talks about his grand dreams and plans - some of which get done, while the rest remain gloriously incomplete as castles in the sky, untouched by reality or harsh physicality.

My mom, on the other hand, has her feet firmly planted on solid ground. She is a giant willow tree, her branches supple and far reaching, with lots of room underneath her to shelter, hide or rest. Her roots cling to relationships, memories, traditions, anything that can stay substantial in her ever-changing life.

My parents met and fell in love in the height of the disco era, although they were more flower children than club hoppers. They saw the first Star Wars movie on their honeymoon. They moved to Austin, TX to start a fledgling software company (more rainbows) a few years later, bringing my older brother, Nathan, myself, and my sister Anna in tow. There, they also began building the house of their dreams, my mother wielding a hammer during the day as she looked after the three of us and grew my brother, Matthew, in her belly. Dad would come home from nursing his new company to work late into the night, building his own private castle.

I am convinced that had Dad and Mom known Ma and Pa Ingalls, they would have packed up the covered wagon right along with them, and headed West. I would have grown up running the prairies with Laura and Mary, and mean ole' Nelly Olson. As it happened, though, there were enough uncharted territories in 1989 to fulfill my parents' wanderlust. And that's where the little island of Luaniua comes in.