Delicately Devoured, One Byte at a Time

Click. Click. Clackety clackety click. Sometimes, if I'm in a real hurry, it's just two tabs, but lately, it's been closer to five. I can check my Gmail, see how my post about abortion was received, find out what someone from my sophomore science class had for breakfast, and gaze in wonder at the 501 ways to use lace because it's all the rage right now. If I'm feeling particularly socially involved, I'll pull up Foxnews.com and make sure my own country hasn't been overtaken by zombies.

Images, words, ideas, little black dresses. I consume things. I fly through books, love sitting down to a good movie, and scroll through Pinterest looking at all the pretty ways to arrange flowers in a coffee can. Today I bought a little black shirt dress and a coral pink sleeveless button up. Later, I'm going to watch The Man from Snowy River. I snarfed a bowl of tasty dinner leftovers for breakfast this morning, had a butterscotch latte, an apple, and a PBJ sandwich for lunch. I consume things. You consume things. We consume things.

WHAT ARE WE THINKING?!

Imagine it this way. You buy a fancy schmancy water filter pitcher from the grocery store. The package guarantees that it will strain out 95% of all bacteria and gross whoknowswhat that's in your water. You are SO excited. This thing is amazing. Your water is practically sparkling when it comes out the other side of that filter. One day, you notice the sparkle is gone, and the water is back to tasting strangely like sewage. You mention this at dinner and young, well-meaning Jr. pipes up between bites of balsamic glazed mackerel that he took out the filtery part because it was slowing down the water from going into the pitcher.

Your brain is incredible. One famous dead guy even went so far as to use it to justify existence (I think, therefore I am). It's so complex and amazing that scientists still don't understand it all. The brain is the fancy schmancy water filter pitcher in this story. It's a gazillion GB processor. Ideally, it should be able to strain out the lies and the crap and the water bugs that flow in with the flood of information. The trouble is, the information is coming in like a hurricane, and many of us have decided that it's much faster to consume when the filter's removed.

I bought this little black dress, but I won't bother thinking about whether it was produced in a way that promotes people and good stewardship, or whether I should be spending this money on something else.

I read 100 status updates today, but I didn't use any of their information to move me to action to writing some snail mail to a friend.

I watched that Oscar winner with the good looking hero, but I didn't take time to think about what the producer was trying to say about human nature and the balance of power.

Instead of careful thought that leads to action, we settle for sitting in a desk chair in front of a screen. Alone. Thinking about how nice we'd look in J.Crew. Instead of visiting people who are also alone at their desk chairs, we take ourselves out for a little "me" time at the spa and the café. Instead of solving world hunger in a practical, culturally relevant, sustainable way, we overeat and try to make up for it by taking pilates at the gym.

We are being lulled into thinking we are intelligent, informed, even wise, while really, we are slowly losing our ability to reason and discern to the dilapidation of disuse. At a time when information is as abundant as the air we breathe, we should have the best governments, the most effective schools, the most advanced hospitals. Information is no good without action. Knowing the hormones associated with love is one thing. Helping an old man fix a flat tire is another thing entirely.

We have replaced social bonds with social media. We have replaced reasoned, deliberate contemplation with rabid ingestion of data. We have replaced diligently making a difference with merely knowing the difference between the populations of Uganda and Guatemala. We are slowly being devoured by the very thing we're devouring.

And if I have prophetic powers, and understand all mysteries and all knowledge… but have not love, I am nothing. - 1 Corinthians 13:2

One question.

Why are you still sitting alone in your desk chair reading this?

Little Miss Sunshine

Catching swells and hanging ten

It was almost out of that Disney surfer movie, Johnny Tsunami. One of my bros sent out a text "Hey. Going to the beach to play/surf in some bay waves. Txt if keen." Was I keen? There were letters to be written, PowerPoint presentations to be done, and books to be read. I left them to mind themselves, slapped on some sunscreen and grabbed by Australian flag beach towel. I was keen.

My surfing amigo pulled up in his newly purchased camper van. It was loaded with surfboards and a kayak in the back. We headed down to the beach and fought tooth and nail for a beachside parking spot. Will and Aaron hauled the kayak to the beach and I tucked one of the surfboards under my arm. Yeah, like they do in the movies.

First, I did some careful documentation. People had to believe I had really tried surfing. Then I put that awesome ankle cuff thing on that ties you to the surfboard incase you ride a 40 foot wave and it dumps you on your head. Can't lose the board! I pushed the board out into the waves, Will giving me directions all the way. When it got deep enough, I pulled myself onto it and paddled. Like a real surfer who says bro and gnarly all the time, I paddled up and over those waves. Will watched the waves and started shouting "PADDLE!" when it was go time.

I paddled like mad to get myself going to match the wave's speed. My wimpy paddling didn't avail much, so I missed a few waves. I tried sitting up on the board like the surfies do when they're waiting for a good wave. That's the part in the shark movies where they see fins and stuff. It's harder than it looks. Now I understand why my surfer friends have 6 pack abs. They sit on surfboards instead of balance balls in the gym.

I caught a few waves, just laying down riding the crest of the wave. After a few times, you pick up on the feel of the wave carrying you. I even got up on my knees a couple times. The trick was getting to my feet. You have to be quick, committed. As soon as the wave starts to lift the back of the board, you have to spring up and plant your feet.  Also, just a note, when you bail, shut your mouth!  Ocean water is gross. 

Aaron finally offered to give my board a push to give me some momentum before a wave. That aided my pitiful paddling attempts. Finally. Finally. On the third push, I GOT UP!

It was only a moment, but it was my moment. I had both feet planted on the board. I had risen, victorious. It wasn't long before I wobbled and pitched off the side and came up hollering "I SURFED! I SURFED!" Granted, I got a push and my form wasn't great, and the waves were baby ones, but, ladies and gentlemen, it counts.

There you have it, my first hand account of surfing in Australia. Today was only day one of many, I hope, in my surfing education. Thanks to all those who aided and abetted this effort.

Good night,

Little Miss Sunshine

Hooligans with Halos

At first glance, they look like boys your mother would not approve of. There is often sand on their unshod feet, and they like beer and meat and playing video games. They're tan and fit and laugh easily. They have been known to do crazy things that could only be dreamed up and carried out by roguish boys.

Like a tie is just an accessory to a suit, however, you'll find their first impression is just an accessory to their character. These are the sorts of guys you should be praying walk with your sons and daughters wherever they wander. I wandered to Australia, and that is where they found me.

They're real men. They aren't simpering ninnies who don't know what real life is like. They do battle with evil every day on behalf of others. They care for the people in their lives - friends, family, strangers from America. If they are afraid to lead, they don't let it get in the way of getting the job done. They take on responsibility with diligence. They practice hospitality.

Some of them still wear the title of "student" or "in transition", while others don't really have titles. It doesn't matter. They might become great, important men some day, but it won't be because they sought to become great, important men. It will be because they were faithful in a little, and were gradually given more.

If you happen to be in their community group, you will hear them pray. Not small, distracted prayers directed to a vending machine, but heartfelt cries to a God who hears. They take prayer seriously. It's not a ritual used to open and close small group sessions, but a time when the human heart can praise, weep, and rest. They aren't reluctant to share how God is challenging them. And He is, because they're walking closely with Him. Not perfectly, not yet.

Before I came to Australia, I didn't really think about the friends I would make here. I thought about programs I could start or places I could see. I thought about working at a church of older people and living by the beach. Then I got here and realized that SG and I would need some friends. (The amazing Aussie women in my life are flowers for a whole other vase.)

Slowly, we met them, at birthday parties and BBQs and informal worship nights. I began to remember that God does work to make the people who follow Him a family all around the world. That I have brothers I've never met, but when I do, we'll be close because of Jesus, not our genes.

So thankful for the crazy hooligans in my life, for the ways they encourage me to run the race and dare me to do crazy things,

Little Miss Sunshine

Schmozzle

Look.  There will be days.  Days when all you were trying to do was a flozzle, but it turned into a floozle, and now everything's a schmozzle.  Sometimes you'll find yourself in the middle of several schmozzles at once.  You might get mad.  You might get sad.  You might wish you were 3 so you could throw a supertantrum.

You'll think about telling them all, "Look, I had a 4.0 at a private university, doesn't that count for something?" or "I was Cinderella in the class play, that's a big deal!" or even "I went to prom with Tate Nelson!  There were girls who'd give their right eye to go to prom with him!"  But they won't care.  They would cock their heads in confusion and put you promptly in the "hasbeenswishtheystillwere" box.

That's the bad news.  High school and college don't matter too much, unless you're trying to get into college or grad school or get a job.  That's quite a small slice of life.  Your boss won't care that you read to small helpless children in your off time.  He will still yell at you for getting that report out late.  Don't even think about bringing up Tate Nelson.

There is also good news.  If you were counted as a no one during high school or college, that doesn't matter either.  Just being the tree in the school play is ok.  They won't ask you that at neighborhood block parties.  They don't care.  What they will care about is that you make the best BBQ meatballs on the block.

Back to schmozzles.  You have options.  The first option is quitting.  You can throw in the towel, chuck the report across the room, and tell your neighbor to mind their stinking own business and you didn't really want to win Neighborhood's Nicest Lawn anyway!  You can be so frustrated and so mad that you just walk away and become a hippie living in a teepee and practicing tax evasion as a personal discipline.

As appealing as being a tambourine playing hippie sounds, there is another option.  Re-evaluate.  Ask yourself if they're telling you the truth.  If they are, get better.  If they aren't, let it go.  You have bigger things to worry about than schmozzles.  Chances are, they won't end the world, they probably won't even be the death of you.  Take comfort in knowing you aren't the only one in the middle of one or two or three, and you'll pull through ok.

Courage, dear heart,

Little Miss Sunshine

The Massacre of Miracles

She was five weeks old.  I was an innocent bystander watching as they unloaded the car.  Her grandpa lifted her slowly out of the car seat with his strong hands, browned by many years of work and play in the sun.  Then he was turning and slowly lowering her again.  Suddenly she was in my arms.  I almost held my breath, certain that any wrong movement and this tender, sleeping life would disintegrate. 

Her mom, who I have vague recollections of meeting, chatted away about what a great baby she was, seemingly unaware that I was holding a miracle.  This was not a toy doll, this was not a toddler chattering away.  This was a baby, and she was sleeping in my arms.  Her mom left me to play with her son at the cars and trains station with a casual - if you get tired, just lay her in the stroller. 

I mustered all my instincts and slowly rocked and bobbed in a rhythmic dance that women have participated since Cain was born to Eve.  A few times she slowly lifted an eyelid, being summoned from slumber by a child's crashing block towers, or other incidents of mayhem happening at playgroup.  I tried to adjust the crook of my elbow to the magic angle - the one that wouldn't leave her with a tiny neck ache upon waking.

There it was, life, lying asleep in my arms.  I wonder how often people who cheer on abortion hold babies.  I wonder if they knew anything about the little sleepers they dismiss as accidents, if they's still cheer on a woman's right to choose the death penalty? 

How many authors and artists and economists will never ever be given the chance to transfix the world?  Would we have cures for diseases that plague us if we had spared a future doctor?    Were this a war punctuated by gunfire and filmed by news cameras reporting 44million casualties in one year, something would be done.  The bloodshed would not be allowed to continue. 

But in the back rooms of clinics, you hear no gunfire.  There are no news anchors counting the climbing death toll on the 7 o'clock news with pictures of bereaved families.  Instead, the scratchy sound of pens signing grants to fund the purchase of scalpels for Planned Parenthood and bumpers slathered with "Proud Pro-Choice" and "I can make my own choice" barely make an impression.  Would it be as inconspicuous if it said "Proud supporter of Darfur genocide"?   

A person's a person, no matter how small.  

Little Miss Sunshine

Tales from the Bar

I have a joke for you.

A guy walks up to a bar and asks me for a Jager Bomb. 

This is a joke because I don't know what a Jager Bomb is, much less how to make it. 

Thankfully, Alana came to the rescue and got me out of the joke.  It turns out it's a shot of Jager and Red Bull.  It also turns out we didn't have any, so they had to settle for something else.  My bar savvy has improved since working at this Mexican Restaurant.  I can deal with margaritas, pour wine, and do things that have what they're made of in the name… Jack and Coke?  I still, however, have to read the labels carefully to make sure that Johnny Walker is indeed Scotch. 

Yesterday was a horse race, which means lots of people in fancy clothes drinking lots of alcohol with fancy names. (And yes, the ladies love to wear hats!)  As I have said before, men in suits are just plain attractive.  That is, until they open their mouths and you realize that any compliment or conversation they're about to attempt doesn't count because they have had one too many. 

In some romantic sense, the person working behind the bar is a sort of gatekeeper of society.  They're the ones that keep people from having too many and driving afterwards.  They can be therapists and counselors (this hasn't happened to me yet).  They try to make alcohol something you can enjoy without feeling like you've been hit by a Mac Truck the next morning.  To do this well, you have to know the anatomy of a drunk…

Anatomy of a Drunk

Eyes: probably a little red, not quite focused

Mouth: elocution is out the window, diction is history, dangling participles everywhere

Brain: muddled

Liver: mad

Kidneys: also mad

Hands: unable to play Jenga

Feet: can't line dance because they can't walk in a straight line

Love and tacos,

LMS  

House Sitting

House sitting is fun.  It's different than just living in your house because, well, it's not your house.  For example, you can...

1. make interesting food out of things you find in the pantry (if the owners say you can eat their food).  I wouldn't just go around buying goat cheese and cracked pepper crackers, but they sure do taste good. 

2. make use of a whole new set of dishes.  Depending on the people you're house sitting for, you may be drinking milk out of a wine glass at breakfast, or sipping merlot out of a sippy cup.

3. make tent forts in the living room.  Sometimes it takes living in someone else's house to do the interesting things you never find time for at your own.

4. sing loud and clear for all (just not the neighbors) to hear.  Usually you house sit by yourself, so that's ok, depending on your singing voice.

5. gauge your level of pet-readiness if you're also pet sitting.  Not quite ready to commit to a Fluffy or a Fido?  Try it out for a couple weeks. 

6. feel like a kid if you're a grown up, or a grown up if you're a kid.  For some reason, the only thing people want to be is what they aren't.  You can't chase it forever, but house sitting can be a kind of identity vacation.

7. pretend you're someone else.  A princess in a castle, a miser in a garret, a famous musician, pretend away! 

The most important thing is to take care of the house, so if you do that, spend the rest of the time doing whatever you want! 

From the desk of:

Little Miss Sunshine

Happy Valentines Day to Me

You can run.  You can hide your head under your pillow.  You can avoid the Hallmark aisle. 

And yet.

Whether you be a sighing romantic or a disdainful realist, you cannot deny that today is Valentines Day. 

I have had one Valentines Day date in the whole of my existence, and I hope it stays on record as the spiciest I'll ever have.  My boyfriend at the time and I liked cooking and decided it would be fun to cook Valentines' dinner at a friend's apartment.  I concocted a recipe in my head and ran it by him.  He went for it, so "Creamy Chipotle Chicken" it was.  We got all the stuff at the grocery store, and he insisted on also getting a pineapple.  Little did I know (literary code for: something crazy is about to happen) that pineapple would save the day. 

We browned the chicken, browned the onions, and I diced the chipotle peppers.  *Note to all blossoming chefs - taste things as you go!!  In my experience, chipotle peppers had added a sweet, barbecued peppery taste, so I added them liberally.  We stirred in some sour cream and put it on a bed of pasta.  One bite, and I knew all my chipotle experience was all a mistake.  Soon there were cheeks blushing and eyes watering, and let me tell you, it had nothing to do with the romantic nature of Valentines Day.  We struggled through a few more bites before throwing in the forks and deciding burning fiery holes into our stomach lining wasn't worth it.  Thankfully, there was the pineapple, which we ate as a sweet fire extinguisher. 

That was two years ago.  This year, I'm in Australia.  My travel buddy, SG is currently having a dinner/lunch date with her bf by Skype.  I didn't have any dates, so I climbed the hedge instead.  This is no ordinary 5 foot hedge.  It's an ancient bastion of brush, towering closer to 20 feet tall.  

Disclaimer:  If you do something less than intelligent, don't blame it on me.  I don't recommend you go around climbing hedges.    

At first, the going was quite dusty and prickly, as I came up through the core onto the top of the wall of hedge.  I made my way along the top, leaving my t-shirt braided anklet as a flag marking the way back down.  It was becoming a pretty blasé adventure when the idea hit me.  Why would I go back down the tunnel hole if I could climb down the abutting tree? 

This is where I advise parents and small children to stop reading. 

I weight tested a couple branches and made sure they were green and alive instead of dead and prone to snappage.  I weighed my risk.  How much trouble would I get in if I fell and had to go to the doctor with a broken leg?  How far was this on the stupid spectrum?  Can I swing my legs up and inch my way along the branch to the trunk?  All pre-adventure risk management is theoretical.  There must be a moment where you either walk away or seize the day (or the tree branch). 

I seized the tree branch, stood on the edge of the hedge, leaned out as far as I could to the bigger part of the branch and let go of the hedge with my feet.  Being green, the leafy bough dipped, more than I was expecting.  I worked my hands toward the trunk and tip toed my way on a smaller branch within tip toe reach of my feet.  I finally made it down, heart chugging and covered in smallish scratches.  It was interesting, but I'm not planning on doing it again any time soon.

Tonight I plan on having a SG/Sunshine date and finding a girly movie and eating chocolate.  You don't own me, Hallmark, but I will enjoy my Valentines Day!

Much love,

Little Miss Sunshine

Diamonds are Forever, not Holidays

Being awakened by the smell of bacon, spending afternoons hunting through op shops and wandering around broad, tree lined avenues punctuated by coffee shops - that's a nice way to spend your holiday.  And I did.  I frolicked and sang and tra-la-la-ed.  Lattes abounded, as did photo ops in the beautiful hill country of Adelaide.  Rolling out of bed at 7, only to return 17 hours later was alright for a week.  Who needed sleep when fun was to be had? 

Then I came back.  Back to work at the Mexican restaurant, back to puzzling through supply lists for craft stations, back to cleaning up my own messes and schedules and dishes.  As suddenly as my holiday had begun, it was over.  Like a kite that rides a down draught of wind, I plummeted back to reality.  Reality was where I realized, diamonds may be forever, but holidays are not. 

Could the entirety of my human existence be worthily spent being awoken by the wafting temptation of bacon and living out of a backpack?  Is there a calling that would answer the question "why am I here" with ambling leisurely where I pleased, picking up volumes of poetry in antique shops? 

The week before I left for Adelaide, I stood reading an article in a psychology magazine at the library.  The article was written about the paradox of the hunt for happiness.  It noted that the most direct way to happiness was not by seeking it, but actually in seeking more grandiose things like the good of others and challenging tasks.  Seeking happiness directly as a product of experiences or acquisition of goods was found to be less successful. 

So perhaps it is better that work and calling pervade the majority of our time.  How could we ever become people of excellent character if it were not for the calluses, the bruises, the sweat borne on every forehead who has ever worked?  Could becoming like Jesus really be brought about by going on cruises and sipping frothy latte foam in the shade of a sprawling magnolia? 

It must be a telling sign that I have much work left to do if the return to such rankles me so.  How many years of work I have left to do!  How many long nights and trying hours are still to come in order to teach me perseverance and true passion for doing what is right!  Holidays are grand and meant to be enjoyed - and I certainly do enjoy mine when they come - but life is not meant to be whiled away in the cover of a beach umbrella with the latest easy-read fiction.  This is not the good life, as some might suppose.  Rather, the honor of humanity is in working out our calling.  Not just a general call from the great beyond to the most highly evolved species, but a high calling from a Caller to His created.  There can be no calling without One to issue it. 

No doubt, there will be more times when work seems less romantic, less deserving of passion than, say, going sky diving or learning French poetry.  In actuality, it is more romantic, more deserving of passion because it is the rise to a great occasion, the abandonment of silly distractions to do what we were created to do. 

With that, I leave you for the company of my pillow, where I will dream wild dreams before waking to a day of… work training. 

Little Miss Sunshine

PS I've been reading Shakespeare, who has left traces of his phrasing in this post, and some of these ideas of calling I credit to Mr. Os Guinness and his book, The Call, which is excellent and worthy of your time.  

Wardrobe Difficulties

Getting dressed in the morning is not so simple as you think.  Oh, perhaps for you, Mr. Businessman, or you, Mrs. Yoga Instructor.  Don your three piece suit and stretchy pants, respectively, and face the day.  Not so for Little Miss Sunshine.  I am neither a Mr. nor a Mrs., in business or yoga.  (Though I have been known to indulge in a little Warrior III.) 

When I roll out of bed in the morning, the world is my oyster, except oysters are raw and cold and slimy… so maybe the world is my freshly picked, window-ripened peach?  Anything could happen.  Really.  One morning I woke up and before the end of the day, I'd seen backstage at Barnum & Bailey's Circus and ridden in a clown car around the ring.  Another morning I rolled out of bed and spent the day cleaning bathrooms, wiping down bannisters and unexpectedly swing dancing with one of the best partners I've ever had. 

I know, you think life is predictable, full of routines and rhythms.  It's a trick.  Underneath the thin crust of that daily routine lies a roiling lava bed, scarlet with passion, ready to explode at the nearest crack.  There are races to be run, trees to be climbed, cartwheels to turn, and strangers to strike up conversations with.  That's what makes getting dressed and ready for the day difficult. 

Of course, I always pack my green egg shaker.  It's small, and I never know when I'm going to happen upon a jam session or be needed at Christmas Chapel (December 2010, it happened).  There are other things to be packed too, like a Bible, a pen, a scrap of paper in case the next big hit suddenly woos me with it's melodic genius.  Water bottle?  Yeah, that can be helpful for car trouble, or watering a poor, withering petunia.  Pocket knife?  Do you really need to ask?

That's just stuff!  What about wardrobe?  Can I really say: I'm classy and professional, let's climb that tree, I could beat you in a gummy worm eating contest and I love Shakespeare, all in one outfit?  I want flashy earrings, but they can't be too big or else my ears will be sore if I have to run somewhere, and they might pull a hole through my ear if I find a dance and my earrings get caught on my partner's watch.  As a general rule, I wear shorts under skirts and dresses.  It just makes climbing fences, doing aerials and impromptu ocean swims much simpler. 

Shoes can be quite tricky.  Have I pedicured lately?  Will I be doing a lot of running and skipping, or only a moderate amount?  What is the likelihood of needing to hike over something or be able to keep my shoes on while dancing?  Is the ocean within a ten minute walk?  Will the outfit be enhanced by heels more than it will be a physical pain to wear them?  I do love heels, you understand, but walking all over Australia has given me an appreciation for the cushion of Chacos.   

One of the keys to getting ready and out the door is simply not buying expensive stuff.  Who cares if I get my $7 dress muddy slogging through a field?  Not I!  If I break a heel in an impromptu footrace, it won't cost me three months salary to replace it.  My friends all know I'm cheaper than Scrooge himself, but it sure comes in handy when the options are sit on the sidelines or say yes to adventure.

Dress for success, so long as success is defined correctly,

Little Miss Sunshine

Kangaroos, Poetry, and a city called Adelaide

I had a plane ticket and a place to stay.  That's all I knew when I left the house at 6:00 in the early grey blustery morning.  Summit Ministries has some far reaching connections, and this was no exception.  I had met the Aussie version of the Three Amigos while working there in 2010.  Since being in Australia, KJ had been pestering me to come for a visit to Adelaide.  So.  I.  Did.

The bus left just after 6, which took me to the train station, which took me to the city, where I caught the bus to the airport.  Usually I have parents or some version of a responsible adult getting me to the airport.  This time, it was me and my makeshift itinerary sketched out on a piece of notebook paper shoved in my back pocket.  Somehow, I managed to make the connections and arrive at my gate with time for a latte.  The guys sitting next to me were already downing a breakfast bottle of beer (bee-ah). 

I didn't know what to expect when I got to Adelaide.  It had been a year and a half since I'd seen the Three Amigos, and while at Summit, I'd only had a few conversations with them.  But hey, they went to Summit!  That was reason enough to believe I was in good hands.  There were 9 pairs of good hands, as it turned out.  I found out on the way to the house from the airport that KJ had 5 sisters and a brother at home.  I tried to keep the names straight as I met them on our trek from the basement garage up through the halls and stairs of the modern suburban castle Mr. J is in the process of building. 

Before I had arrived, sisters 1 and 2 had made a long list of sightseeing ideas for the week.  These included thrift store diving (resulting in a sweater, beach dress and volume of poetry), visits to a giant rocking horse, and a concrete dam where you can whisper at one end and be heard at the other.  KJ gave me a tour of the University of Adelaide and some old hamlets just outside the city.  We hiked up to Morialta Falls, where we found wild blackberries and an even wilder KOALA!  There were coffee breaks at small cafes often for recaffeination. 

There are things that might seem normal to Australians, like a game of netball or petting a kangaroo.  Let me tell you, that is no ordinary occurrence for this American!  Netball is most similar to basketball, but as in ultimate frisbee, you can't run with the ball.  I jumped in and did my best, whispering a frantic "what do I do?!" now and then when the refs would level a glowering glance my way.  As for petting the kangaroo.  I will admit it, I was scared.  THEY HAVE CLAWS, ok?  But they ate bread out of my HAND. 

When staying with friends, there are usually just ordinary wonderful things that happen along the way, like singing Tarzan soundtrack songs at the top of your lungs in the car or having jam sessions on the piano, or sitting down to a table for family dinner.  There are fish and chips picnics on the beach and movies and good conversations about who God is. 

Spending a week with a big homeschool family was a little like being home.  Schedules are crossing like railroad tracks at a station, cars are being shuffled accordingly, and dinners are full of the day's news.  I am thankful for the opportunity to have traipsed around Adelaide this week and glad for the far reaching influence of Summit in my life. 

Much love,

Little Miss Sunshine