Dirty Pleasures

In honor of my 200th post on ILoveMornings, I thought I'd talk about a few of my dirty pleasures.  Stop thinking I'm going to say something inappropriate, stop it.  There IS another definition of dirty, you know.  It is my personal opinion that kids miss out on a lot of dirt because of their well meaning but misguided hand sanitizer-crazed parents. 

So here are a few of my personal favorite ways to get dirty…

1. Gardening.

What can be better than tromping out to the garden in your mud boots and digging up a few rows to grow sweet peas in?  (Commence humming "Sweet Pea" by Amos Lee)  Yes, you will have dirt under your nails and on your jeans.  It's ok.  Just enjoy being close to the earth.  Garden dirt is a clean sort of dirt, anyway.

2. Mud fights.

If this one is successful, you'll have mud on more than your jeans.  It's great after a few days of heavy rain in a low spot with plenty of dirt.  It's good for youth groups, kids, whatever.  Mud-slinging is never so malice free as when you use real mud. 

3. Petting icky, slimy, germy things.

Occasionally, you'll run into things that are deemed slimy and gross.  I think they're fabulously interesting.  Snails?  Toads?  Earthworms?  All favorites.  They remind me of country gardens, summer night symphonies and kissing frogs to test the prince theory.  (No luck so far.)

4. Finger painting.

This isn't exactly dirty, but it's messy enough for mention.  One of my favorite babysitters let us finger paint with butterscotch pudding.  Yum-o.  Whether it's paint, mud, or pudding, it's artsy, it's motor skills, and it's messy fun.

5. Cleaning drains.

I hesitate to include this one.  It's not appropriate for kids, and it requires a pretty strong stomach.  This is a bit of a confession, but let me tell you, I love the feeling of returning a dysfunctional drain to it's proper working order.  Yeah, it can get a little gross, but you'll want to whoop in triumph when you... well, when you get out whatever's down there. 

Don't be afraid of dirt.  Sure, clean your fingernails and wash your hands before you eat, but don't let a little dirt worry you.  Let your kids play in it - the clean kind of dirt, you know, the bug and garden and grassy kind of dirt, not just any chemical laden or sewer-y kind of dirt. 

Much love,

Little Miss Sunshine

Summing Up a Year Down Under

I'm coming home soon, and no doubt you will want some sort of account of what I've been doing for the last year.  What exactly do you do as a youth and families church intern?  I should probably start practicing the spiel now because these sorts of adventures don't happen every day, and people feel obliged to ask about them. 

Answering that question is kind of like trying to cram a year of life into the family Christmas letter.  How can you make people understand that you graduated from university, went on a family vacation, started 2nd grade, bought a puppy that ate the house? - or whatever happened to your family this year.  What's the most important thing?  Usually Christmas letters can be condensed to the following: we did fun things, got older, may or may not have gone through hell and come out alive,  went places, and Merry Christmas to you too. 

What does a year in Australia boil down to?  We learned stuff, met people, went places, and helped out.  That'll be my three second version, just in case anyone is silly enough to ask me as we're passing on the sidewalk.  The more detailed-without-being-drawn-out version is that we taught Bible to 1st and 2nd graders once a week, led a high school girls Bible study, assisted with church pre-k playgroups, spoke at community/church events, led a youth group study at a neighboring church, staffed two camps, organized family/community church events, helped on Sunday mornings and sang in the choir.  Those are the programs we helped out with.  It sounds kind of shiny and nice, hey? 

But those programs just form the backbone of our schedule.  That list of stuff in our planners doesn't convey the salty ocean smell you get when you have coffee at the yacht club in the afternoon.  It doesn't say anything about Miss Margaret's hugs on Sunday morning or Ted's Liverpudlian humo(u)r.  Listing things we did would take a long time and wouldn't capture the magic of Uluru or the startling moment when you realize you're swimming with a stingray. 

We did a lot of stuff.  We baked scones, changed the soap in the soap dispenser in the ladies bathroom, learned how to be waitresses, realized God was in control, cleaned up after kids, babysat, prayed our knees off, cried, set up toys and swings, ate lamb, ate TimTams, watched Australian movies, played cricket, went to the footy, got sunburned, shook hands, hosted dinner parties, celebrated Thanksgiving 3 times, watched God provide for our every need, learned about culture, went to meetings, made phone calls, wrote thank you notes, sang about kangaroos, bush danced, swam in the ocean, stressed out about details, drank tea, got homesick, fell in love with Australia.

How can I even begin to talk about the people we met?  To not talk about them seems a dishono(u)r, but to talk about them without doing them justice seems almost as bad.  Ian and his love for Mercedes.  Dick and his storytelling.  Nancy and her attention to details.  Ian the giant farmer.  Allistair and Mae, the gentle Scots.  The crazy twins.  Oscar and his Spiderman suit.  George the old detective with the gentle smile.  Zophia the librarian from Poland who calls us "the writers". 

Perhaps it is enough to smile a far off smile and say it was wonderful.

Little Miss Sunshine

Little Miss Sunshine Goes Vintage

Yesterday, which will be day before yesterday by the time I post it, but will still be yesterday for my American friends, that is, if you read this the day I post it… that is to say, on Saturday, I drove to the city with Chez.  This was no ordinary occurrence, as I was driving on the left side of the road and we were going to a … wait for it… vintage clothing market.

Yes, friends, I, Little Miss Sunshine, was destined for hipster heaven.  (Sorry for all the commas.)  While not claiming hipsterdom myself, I have been known to associate with hipsters, and have even considered liking owls and square rimmed glasses.  Why, you ask, if I didn't even own a beach comber bicycle in baby blue, was I going to a vintage clothing market.  So glad you asked.  (If you hadn't asked, I would have told you anyway.) 

My dear friend Cath is a purveyor of vintage fashion, aka, she has the gift of op shopping and sells her fab finds on etsy.  (Young Pilgrims Vintage, check it out!)  Not only is she a finder of fashion, she is also studying to become a high school teacher.  Because of all these things and recently moving, and it being winter, she had a cold and couldn't go to the market, so she outsourced her labor.  She was going to hire team USA, but SG had to work a shift at the restaurant so we were team United States of Australia and Chez came.  Of the three of us, any combination would have been a winner.  SG is highly qualified because she's a market guru, Cherie because she has funky semi vintage hippy fashion sense, and me because I can fake almost anything. 

Since I was going as an undercover hipster, I searched my closet for something appropriate to wear.  No such luck.  I think I sent my red lipstick and my fake square glasses home with Mom, thinking I wouldn't need them.  Rookie mistake, never send dress up materials or party dresses home with your Mom when you're being a church intern in Australia!  It couldn't be helped, so  I settled for the next best disguise - independent small business owner.  Think skinny jeans, navy stripe top under a black cotton blazer with a chunky necklace and cranberry red nail polish.

We made it to the market, lugged our tubs of clothing into the hotel, and started setting up our things while sizing up the competition.  Wooden cutting board man across the aisle, no competition.  Trendy girls next door who were cleaning out their closets, maybe a little but their prices were higher.  Huge stall across the aisle with the cheap prices, absolutely.  Cath sent us everything we needed, including perfect hipster bunting to hang on the wall behind the stall. 

Once we were checked in with the organizer and all set up, we waited for customers.  And they came.  Old women in feathery hats, hipster teenagers out for a Saturday afternoon in the city, vintage devotees wearing wide headbands and high waisted pants, we had them all.  They browsed and gushed over 50s print sundresses and purple velour leggings.  I just smiled and nodded. 

By the end of the day, we'd sold a few pieces and met some fun people, including Kate, the girl with high waisted demin shorts with shooting stars that she was wearing over patterned tights.  She worked with inner city kids and did fashion on the side, but said she was a Christian and remarked that it was good to meet other Christians because sometimes it seems like you're the only one. 

We packed up the leftover clothes and lugged them out through the afternoon drizzle to the car.  With Chez giving directions, and me at the wheel, we inched our way through city traffic until it opened up and we could sail down the freeway at 100.  (That's 100 kilometers per hour.)  Thus ended my foray into the urban hipster vintage scene. 

Little Miss Sunshine

Confession 54: Why I Go to Church

Confession 54: I am so excited to be back at my home church, but not for all the reasons you might think.

I'm really excited to see my church family again.  They are such a warm, welcoming sunny day in my life, and they are very special people.  The tech crew does cool stuff with backlighting sometimes, and the worship band is good enough to put out CDs and probably go on the road.  Our pastor is hilarious and has a dry sarcasm that comes from his years in the business world.  The grass is always green, and you can buy a caramel soy non fat latte on the rocks after church at the café if you want.  The doctrine is clean as a whistle, and you can give your offering online. 

Those are the nice reasons I'm so excited to be going home to Redemption. 

There are also reasons that give this post its title.  I want to climb the church ladder.  I want to get back and be so involved and plugged in and community-ized that people know who I am.  I want them to know that I'm one of those super involved ministry people.  I want to make a name for myself. 

It's the church kid version of the popularity contest.  I want to serve in children's ministries and hang out with my 20 something "life group" and be involved in multi-generational mentoring and teach English to refugees and and and build my kingdom.  Maybe if I just show up to enough events, get emotionally involved enough in worship, take enough notes in the sermon so I can know enough, maybe that will satisfy God.  Maybe I can take that to Him as my offering instead of a contrite heart and a broken spirit.   

Sure, none of those things are bad, and yes, I am authentically interested in getting involved in them.  But the minute that motive changes from "Love God with all your heart, with all your soul, with all your might" and "be a blessing to all the families of the earth" to building my own little desert kingdom, it turns gross.  I start thinking maybe I can make God happy by doing stuff and earn my way towards paying back the debt I owe Him.  Maybe I can undo the work of grace so that I'm under no obligation to do things that make me uncomfortable. 

Bob Deffinbaugh puts it this way in his notes on Israel's demand for a king in 1 Samuel 8.

Men loathe grace. It is detestable and loathsome, because it is charity. Grace does not bolster our pride; it produces humility. When we pay for something (by works or money), we think we own it. We think that when we pay for something we are in control. When we receive grace, we are not in control. God is in control. Grace is sovereignly bestowed, and so we cannot dictate how and when God will grant it to us; we cannot control its benefits. But good old fashioned work (we falsely suppose) obliges God to bless us. When we do the right things, God must respond predictably. We are in control. God becomes our servant. And so men would rather pay – and pay greatly –to maintain their pride and sense of control.  

That's a pretty serious charge.  I want to own God.  I don't want to be out of control.  I would rather pay through the nose and have things my way (which is an illusion to begin with) than let God change my hard, cracked, gnarly heart with His big huge love.  That change is scary.  That change is one reason why hard hitting, super convicting sermons are not on my nice list of reasons I'm so excited to be back at church.  They aren't safe.  They might make my comfortable life unbearable because it has corners not surrendered to God's grace.  They might reveal weaknesses that I have or sin that I'm allowing to stick around.  They might ask me to do something hard.  Who wants to go to church to be challenged?  Isn't it much nicer to just have an emotional worship experience, listen to a pastor talk about the Bible through a few stories and jokes, maybe a hipster cool video to wrap it all up, and chuck ten bucks in the offering box on your way out. 

That denies the human condition.  It denies the purpose of church.  It denies the character of God Himself.  Funny sermons and happy bands lull us into thinking we're OK, that we aren't broken and hurting because of our own choices to do the wrong thing.  Programs that keep you busy and feeling like a moral hero distract you from "spur one another on toward love and good deeds" and "bear each others burdens" and "confess your sins, one to another".  Church without challenge denies the existence of a God who demands and deserves our whole life.

So, why do you go to church?

Love from Down Under,

Little Miss Sunshine

The Beginning of Goodbye

In approximately 5 weeks, I will be walking in my front door, followed by my dad, who will be lugging at least one of my souvenir laden suitcases.  My brothers will likely be at home, and if they aren't, it just means they're dominating a sand volleyball court somewhere.  Mom will be briefing me on the upcoming weekend's schedule and asking questions about who I sat next to on the flight from LA. 

I will return from Australia July 12.  My adventure with SG and St. Mark's Church will be over.  No more meat pies.  No more ginger beer.  No more family dinner with Ian and Joan.  No more Southern Hemisphere winter.  No more superfluous u's… colour, flavour, honour.  No more Aussie friends getting together to swap accounts of the week's escapades.  No more ocean sunsets and beach trail runs. 

The full force of an Arizona summer will welcome me as I step off the plane.  There will be coffee pots everywhere.  Drums will reappear as a part of my worship experience and the organ will disappear.  Old high school friends will again become my coffee shop companions.  Different bed.  Different pillow.  Different power outlet shapes.  There will be more change than an Obama campaign. 

I don’t really know what to think about it.  People keep saying sweet things about missing us when we're gone and won't we come visit some time and are we so excited to go home.  Yeah.  Yeah.  All those things.  Too many things to think about missing.  I'd almost rather run away and skip the goodbyes.  They'd be less painful if I could somehow forget the way these people have been so heartbreakingly wonderful.  If I just jumped right back into Arizona summer, maybe being busy would deaden the "second home" sickness.  I wouldn't miss the way TJ makes up songs as he sings them or how Cath loves both fashion and physics.  I wouldn't have to think about Cherie's amazing drawings or the way Sam taught us how to play cricket.  Ian and Joan would be characters in my journal.  The Matthews would be old people in pictures. 

What's that thing people say?  It's better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all.  Well, they're right.  I can't forget these people.  I won't be able to anesthetize my aorta every time I think of Zoe and the kids or going to John and Julia's for tea.  I'll have to go through the blasted process of leaving and grieving again.  But it was worth it.  Walking  in ministry with so many incredible Jesus loving people was worth it.  Visiting the Great Barrier Reef and Uluru and the Great Ocean Road was worth it.  Telling first and second graders that Jesus loves them SO much was worth it. 

When I signed up for this gig, I didn't think about falling in love.  The position seemed like a good fit.  I wasn't afraid of going somewhere I'd never been.  Australia wasn't too foreign anyway; at least they spoke English (sort of).  It was all logistics.  Passport, visa, resume, packing list.  Great.  Get excited.  I'm going to Australia to do good stuff.  I didn't think about falling in love with the town or the church or the way a cup of tea is built into the daily schedule.  I didn't begin thinking about the end, except that a year isn't too long and don't worry, parents, I'll be home soon enough.  Maybe my expectations were too low, or my faith too small.  Who could I possibly meet in Australia that I could really get to know and love in a year?  So many people.  And I wish you could meet them all and see their dear faces, and know them like I do. 

I fear there will be several more dishearteningly sentimental posts about things I've learned this year and the outstanding people I've met.  Oh, and the books I've read this year, look for that post.  It won't be sappy, I promise, and I've read some all star titles in my free time Down Under.  The average number of paragraphs in a Sunshine post is 7, so I'll close now.

Love,

LMS

Leg warmers, Horchata, and Parsnips, oh my!

Here I am, sitting in the polka dotted armchair, feet propped up on the red leather couch, freezing my American toes off.  Usually, June would mean swimming pools, air conditioning, and making plans for the 4th of July.  Well, they have a 4th of July in Australia, they just don't celebrate our independence.  June in Australia means frosty breath, jumpers (sweaters), and footy (Aussie Rules Football). 

Yesterday, SG and I did our usual playdoughing/puzzling/singing/dancing at playgroup.  Afterwards she was off to waitress at her swank little French restaurant and I was off to the library.  Having no internet at the place we're house sitting makes for lots of library time.  I picked up a few rhubarb recipes.  (Big Ian the farmer brought us a bunch to church a few weeks ago.)  I chatted with Mom about the current sand volleyball match Jar was playing in and chatted with Mark about how much he loves being an uncle. 

I ran into my favorite 94 year old and her two friends on my way out of the library.  We chatted about how cool it is that Marj is turning 90 next month, and how young my mom looked when she came to visit.  I had my guitar on my back, so we talked about that and also about why I was wearing one leg warmer.  Everyone seems to think I've turned an ankle or broken a leg.  It's not a bandage; it's just that I hadn't finished knitting my other leg warmer.  Might as well have one warm leg. 

The grocery store was buzzing with people, and I didn't understand why until I was talking with a couple from church I ran into near the checkout.  The Queen's Birthday!  Oh, of course, everyone's out shopping because of the Queen's birthday.  Right.  Got it.  Just like Memorial Day Weekend.  Have a little winter BBQ, maybe wear a tiara.  (Actually I think they make tea and eat tea cakes.) 

When I got home, I was a little tornado of productivity.  I don’t know what caused such a flurry of get er done, but I love when it happens.  I stewed the rhubarb, turned the kilo of carrots into carrot soup, did some laundry, made some coffee (the ultimate productivity booster), and sang through The Show Goes On a few times (yes, the Lupe Fiasco one), complete with kitchen dance moves. 

The Matthews had us over for tea (dinner).  And there were parsnips.  Let me tell you, before coming to Australia, I thought I had tried a lot of different foods.  Brussels sprouts can't make me shake in my boots.  Now that I've lived here a year, I've decided I was definitely missing out on some great foods, pumpkin and parsnips being two.  We had roasted veggies, steamed veggies, and a beef casserole (stew).  SO GOOD.  We finished up the night with a rollicking game of Rummikub. 

Still feeling the effects of the afternoon's cup of coffee, I stayed up making horchata and knitting (and watching Miss Congeniality 2) before turning in around midnight. 

This morning danced out of bed and finished my other leg warmer.  Here's a picture of the finished product.  The flower is just from a sun dress I have at home.  It's on a safety pin, so I use it on my cardigans or in my hair or now, on my leg warmers. 

During breakfast we had a small kitchen fire.  Ok, it wasn't the whole kitchen, just the toaster.  I suggested SG try toasting her peanut butter banana toast by holding the toaster sideways.  (I'd seen it on Pinterest)  I think there must be an important part of that process that involves timing.  Next thing I knew, SG was saying FIRE FIRE FIRE and I was saying GIVE ME THE TOASTER and trying to remember what not to do in an electrical fire.  She unplugged the toaster and all was well, except the bottom of the toast, which was decidedly scorched. 

After breakfast, I finished making the horchata.  Part of the fun of drinking horchata (Mexican cinnamon rice milk) is that it's cold and you're hot and it's usually accompanied by Mexican food.  As this morning was frigid and there's no tacos in sight, the horchata was a bit of a flop. 

Leg warmers, parsnips and Mexican rice milk, just the usual life in Australia,

Little Miss Sunshine

Carrot Soup from The Thrifty Cook by Jacki Passmore (love this book!)

1 kg carrots (2.2 lbs)

2 med brown onions

1-2 cloves garlic

2 Tbsp olive oil

3-4 cups chicken stock

Salt and pepper to taste

Directions: Read all directions before beginning

Peel and thickly slice carrots.

Peel and chop onion.

Sautee onions until lightly colored.

Add carrots and garlic.

Stir over high heat for 2 min. to give carrots a roasted taste.

Add stock, salt and pepper.

Simmer until carrots are very tender. (20+ min)

Puree in a blender.

Optional: Serve with a sprinkle of cumin, lemon pepper, kaffir lime leaves or shredded lemon myrtle. 

Stewed Rhubarb from Allrecipes.com

10 cups rhubarb

3 cups sugar

1 tsp. cinnamon

Place the rhubarb in a large pot and fill with enough water so that it is almost covered.

Bring to a boil, then simmer over medium heat until starting to fall apart, about 20 minutes. Stir occasionally.

Remove from the heat and stir in the sugar and cinnamon until sugar has dissolved.

Serve hot or cold over vanilla yogurt, cereal, oatmeal, ice cream, or whatever the heck you want. 

When Your Mum Comes to Town

When your mum comes to town, special things happen.  You go on trips and see sights.  You take her out to dinner, and she cooks you whatever you want.  You take her for walks, and she tells you what's been happening at home.  She tells you Dad and the boys have been working hard, though they work hard at different things.  Dad works hard at keeping the company on its feet.  Jordy works hard at saving money and learning how to be a good teacher.  Jar works hard at helping customers at the bookstore and increasing his vertical jump. 

When your mum comes to town, you have to do some things.  You have to vacuum the little leaves you've tracked in the front door the last three months.  You have to clean around the bathroom sink where you miss when you spit your toothpaste.  You have to buy vegetables and make your bed.  That pile of shoes that accumulates around the front door?  You have to straighten it.  These are things you should do, but if you don't get to all of them, that's OK.  She'll still love you.  She's your mum.

When your mum comes to town, you want her to meet all of the people you've met while you've been away.  You drag her around town to meet the small children and the children's mothers and fathers and their fussy little baby sisters.  You take her to church with you so she can meet all the lovely old people who are now your friends.  You introduce her to people and laugh as they comment that you look so alike.  They always say that.  You show her the places that have become important to you, like the library and the taco shop and the ocean and the houses you've lived in. 

When your mum comes to town, you try to be responsible so she won't worry about you when she leaves.  You make plans and dinner reservations and omelets.  You buy her lunches because she's been buying yours forever and it's about time you had a turn.  You skip enough to let her know you're happy, but not enough to make her think you're crazy.  You go to bed at a reasonable hour so she knows you sleep, but late enough so that she knows she's special enough to stay up late talking with.

At least, that's what happens when my mum comes to town.

Thanks for coming to town, Mum,

Little Miss Sunshine