Trivia: What band had hit songs that were about two fictional men, the Tin Man and the Sandman? I know this because I was born over 40 years ago, and because my older step-sister had the Greatest Hits (History) album which includes both songs. It was one of the records she would put on some nights to help hide any noise she might make as she was sneaking out her window to go to some party. I would lay in my bed in the next room, wondering what would happen if she got caught, while the words. “I understand you’ve been running from the man, that goes by the name of the Sandman…” were throbbing through my brain.

Since yesterday was Mother’s Day, I’ll give another clue. Growing up, I had the honor of living with the “Flag Lady.” That’s what some locals kindly called my mom because she faithfully flew our country’s flag from a pole in our front porch every single day. Our country and the band share the same name. Got it now? It’s…America!

I’ve been listening to those old America songs lately, and I think that perhaps a resurgence in popularity for them might just be what our country needs. We need the thought-provoking distraction of poetic imagery in pulsing phrases, such as “He flies the sky like an eagle in the eye of a hurricane that’s abandoned.” (Sandman) We need common sense advice like, “Don’t cross the river if you can’t swim the tide.” Of course, we might want to switch up the words a little…something like, “Don’t lend the money if they can’t pay the loan.”

Think of all the couples separated by military service. I’m sure they can relate to the words, “I need you like the flower needs the rain, you know I need you…” (I Need You) And then there’s that other man, The Tin Man. Many people are probably familiar with the suggestions that The Wizard of Oz (the movie which, of course, features the Tin Man) is said to be a parable on the political situation at the beginning of the 20th century. Political commentary is never out of date in America! But, it’s more important to remember that, “Oz never did give nothing to the Tin Man that he didn’t, didn’t already have…”

Then there’s the song that started out with the title, The Desert Song. “There were plants and birds and rocks and things- There was sand and hills and rings…” Desert-dwellers like me can easily relate to those words. “A Horse With No Name” was reportedly banned from radio play in some areas because some believed “horse” was a reference to the street name for heroin. It also caught grief for its grammar, i.e., “cause there ain’t no one for to give you no pain.” Band member and the song’s writer, Dewey Bunnell said, “I’ve never actually spoken that way, but I think it conveys a certain honesty when you’re not picking and choosing your words, and you use that kind of colloquialism.” [source: America Fans website] Colloquialism and song. What a downpour for the deserts in our lives!

I could use a little more downpour in my desert right now. Lately, so much has been going on that I’ve felt like a drained, vast, wasteland. Maybe I need a horse.

My youngest two kids and I are reading The Voyage of the Dawn Treader. Our reading today was from whiny Eustace’s diary. My 10-year-old son raised his eyebrows and snickered at the notion of a boy keeping a diary, and I suddenly felt very guilty for failing to introduce him to one of his big brothers’ favorites, the very masculine Diary of an Early American Boy. As it is, his primary diary experiences involve avoiding seeing the movie The Princess Diaries, and threats from his three sisters to stay away from their diaries. He perked up a little when I suggested he think of a diary as a journal.

Personally, I don’t know many men these days who keep either journals or diaries. I think this is a regretable legacy for young men like my son. My brothers are both good writers. When the older one had a “benchmark” birthday I gave him a journal and encouraged him to record his profound thoughts for posterity. I hope he’s acted on my suggestion.

It seems that women are better at this sort of thing – or at least they used to be. Both of my grandmothers recorded parts of their lives on paper. After my paternal grandmother died my mom sent me copies of some of the pages from one of my grandmother’s diaries. It was touching to read her tender thoughts about my little brother and me during the days she babysat us immediately following the death of our father (her son). I gained an even greater insight into this dear woman and the depths of her love for her family.

More recently Mom sent me some of her mother’s writings. My maternal grandmother died in 2002 at the age of 94. A woman whose talents ranged from running her own doll hospital to feeding wheat harvest crews, she wrote poems, stories and remembrances. In what she titled, “Just Remembering!” she describes her love for the house she and my grandfather built on their farm in 1952. She wrote about how “the gold of the autumn leaves matches the luster in the knotty pine walls,” and about their “picture windows…the one on the north frames the back yard with my flowers, and the front one our lovely old native elms, the lawn and the far distant, ever-changing scene.” Reading her thoughts makes memories from my childhood dance before my eyes, the sights I recall seeing through those very same windows.

I suspect Grandma might even have been a blogger if she’d had the opportunity. After all, blogging does seem to be the new journaling – for both men and women. I know I’m certainly more faithful about blogging than I am about journaling. But please, someone send me a big, fat nasty comment if I ever start whining like Eustace!

My youngest son turned 10 a few days ago. His birth was unique in that he was born in our home. It was a typical rainy Oregon morning, but the midwives who were on hand to assist me, were not typical – at least compared to my one previous experience with midwives. Mary and Amy (licensed, professional, and hilarious!) distracted me with stories of other births they had attended. Never before had I laughed so hard during childbirth. (I think all midwives, doulas, and even doctors should have Comedic Entertainment included as part of their training! Laughter is one heck of an anesthetic!)

Some of you might now be picturing me with hairy armpits and Birkenstocks. Actually, that more closely describes the doctor who was supposed to deliver my next baby. I never saw his armpits, but he did wear Birkenstocks and have a ponytail. I say he was supposed to deliver my next baby because he didn’t seem to take me seriously when I told him I would probably have the baby pretty quickly. He left to “run a couple of errands,” and missed the delivery. Providentially, there was a midwife attending the woman in the birthing room next door, and she came over to help bring our baby girl into the world. I have wondered if My Dear Hippie Doctor didn’t intentionally extend his errand-running that day. He knew Ginger, the midwife, and he knew I had used midwives before. On one of my first visits to his office, I’d told him that one of the reasons I was looking for a new doctor, was because our insurance no longer covered midwife services. (Another reason I had checked into his office was because it was only five minutes from our house.) It was purely coincidental (or Providential) that this doctor and his wife had used midwives for the home births of their kids.

I’m not the kind of woman who thinks that everyone ought to use midwives, but it worked well for me. (I also had babies in hospitals.) My two-fold reason for checking into midwifery might seem a little mundane: (1) I’d had a couple of close calls in getting to the hospital in time, and (2) I hate having IV’s stuck in my arm.

So, I’m not on any midwife bandwagon, but I am thankful for my own experiences. These things are really on my mind because that home-birthed son’s birthday, like the birthdays of all my children, reminds me that it’s not how they get into this world, but that they do get into this world. To state the obvious, births are just the beginnings. The real good stuff comes when they live many miles away from you and they call you to tell you how great their jobs are going – or that their car broke down. But those are other stories, and even the best midwives can’t top them.

Saturday morning, my husband and I had a breakfast date. There’s nothing like eating ham and eggs at the counter of a local breakfast hotspot to remind one that life is a crowded, aromatic, tattooed, precariously maneuvering, noisy, coffee-cup-dropping, mixed-up order, savory exchange between people and the things in their individual but inevitably overlapping pathways.

After the draining events of our previous week, this date was just what my husband and I needed to revive both body and soul. It certainly proved a more comforting means of distraction than our movie-watching endeavor of the previous weekend when we rented The Changeling. I won’t ruin it for anyone by going into details, but the movie is disconcerting and disturbing on a number of levels. It was not the movie to buoy our flagging spirits. However, at the very end of the movie, the heroine (superbly played by Angelina Jolie) does express hope in the future. And hope is, ultimately what life is about, isn’t it? If you’re like me, you need occasional reminders of this truth – perhaps even signs.

One sign many of us were probably reminded of yesterday (Easter Sunday) is the sign of the empty cross. The resurrection of Christ provides the ultimate hope for hungry pilgrims in life’s diner. Signs also come in forms that are more mundane.

I’ve told a number of friends about the sign (a calligraphied note, really) that I saw taped to my mother-in-law’s dresser mirror the first time I visited her house. It was a quotation from Joel 2:25, “I will restore to you the years that the swarming locust has eaten.” At the time, I thought it a very peculiar verse for someone to post so conspicuously. The more I got to know my mother-in-law’s story, the more I understood why she found so much hope in those words. Eventually I began applying them to my own life experiences. I began to understand several things about life: 1) there are locusts in life, 2) they swarm, 3) sometimes they eat for years, and 4) God does promise to restore those years. Incredible hope.

Last summer I saw another sign of hope…a literal sign of Hope. It announced the tiny western Arizona village of Hope, Arizona. I took a picture of the sign because even then I realized it was more than a marker announcing a town through which I happened to be passing. It was a great visual reminder of why we persist at sitting at the counter just beyond reach of the gigantic expanse of golden hashbrowns.

This past week was one of the most difficult that my husband and I have experienced in nearly 24 years of marriage. My husband has compared it to the night he walked into his parents’ home and found his father with a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head. If you know my husband, you know there’s not a dramatic bone in his body to make him just say something like that. He can be an impatient man at times, but when it comes to major issues, he’s not the type to make knee-jerk decisions. I’ve literally waited years for him to make some decisions, and as difficult as it was to be a trusting wife in those times, I can’t think of a time when his delays led us astray.

This time the decision was to find a new church home. I know such a decision might not be a big deal to some people, but it was for us. When we joined our (now former) church we vowed to support the church, its leaders, and its members. (Some have compared these membership vows to marriage, but I’m pretty sure that the Bible doesn’t make that comparison.) Still, I firmly believe that church membership is a good thing, especially in an age when it’s easy and acceptable to hop around from church to church, completely avoiding accountability and commitment. It should hurt to leave a church, and believe me, it does – even when you’re fully confident it is the best thing to do for your family.

We knew that there would be those who would not understand our decision. This was confirmed in an email message we received from a church member. Though the message expressed love for us, it was also filled with anger and false accusations against us and others. It included baseless assumptions about our background and thought processes. Even though having the truth on your side helps you to be more compassionate toward the offending party, I still found myself wanting to respond somehow. I had a desire to find words – a good quote or something – to counteract the difficult words I had just taken in. I started to reach for a book by one of my favorite authors. Then, I caught myself mid-reach, thinking, “God, I should be reaching for Your Word right now. ” So, I took down my Bible and opened it to begin my search. I’m not a “place-your-finger-on-a-verse-and-that’s-your-message-from-God” kind of person, but these were the first words my eyes fell upon:

I happen to have a husband and daughter who love to cook, so our home always smells like food. The smells and the sights are constant reminders of God’s tangible, daily goodness. Yet, I so often fail to be grateful. This photo montage is a reminder to myself, but I hope you enjoy it, too.

In today’s edition of the Arizona Republic, AP writer Paisley Dodds reports that a London department store has started selling men’s girdles in hopes of cashing in on the metrosexual revolution.(If you’re unfamiliar with this revolution, it refers to the conscientious efforts of heterosexual men to take great pains with their appearances.)The garment has been dubbed a “mirdle.”A mirdle?That sounds strikingly similar to Myrtle, a female name popular in the early 1900’s when the girdle’s upper class cousin, the corset, was in vogue.It conjures up images of bouffanted aunts struggling to cram dimpled saddlebag thighs into garments resembling lacey, prim biker shorts.If the moniker “mirdle” is supposed to be a masculine-sounding contraction of men and girdle, it fails.Contrarily, this type of garment’s original name, girdle, connotes visions of masculinity in Biblical proportions.The apostle, Paul’s admonition to the Ephesians to “stand firm therefore, having girded your loins with truth, and having put on the breastplate of righteousness,” resonates as downright Gladiator-ish.I can imagine Russell Crowe in a girdle, but a mirdle? Men, especially, those determined to be the types who “call a spade a spade,” would be better off calling a girdle a girdle.

Today is my sister’s birthday. Well…not really. My sister is a “29-er,” a “Leap Year Baby.” I won’t tell you which birthday she’s celebrating – or would be celebrating if she had normal birthdays – but she’s in her teens now…barely! The novelty of her birth date has provided much celebratory fun and silliness over the years. And it’s a convenient cop-out for memory lapses: “I didn’t really forget your birthday; you don’t even have a birthday this year!” Just joking! I would never really say that to my dear sister, but I would be lying if I didn’t admit to holding that card in my hand – “just in case” I ever need to use it. I do remember consoling her on her 30th birthday by pointing out that she was “really only seven and a half!”
Growing up, my sister’s birthday did mean more than just Leap Year Baby jokes. It meant that our mom would make a heart-shaped Red Velvet Cake. Yes, THAT legendary cake! I only know two people who have regularly made Red Velvet cakes throughout their lives: my mom and my friend, Rebecca. Rebecca’s husband is so protective of her recipe that he tried to sabotage it when she gave it to me. I didn’t fall for his “special ingredient,” though. One-half cup “soy sauce?” Please!
Everyone knows the true special ingredient for Red Velvet cake is red food coloring; however, the amount is up for debate. One cookbook I own only calls for one teaspoon, but I’ve seen recipes that call for 1/3 cup – and if my calculations are correct, that’s still less than what Rebecca’s uses (two 2-ounce bottles). ( I read an on-line recipe that called for zero red food coloring!)
I’m sure my husband probably wishes I would actually make a Red Velvet cake in honor of my sister’s birthday. But how could I share that with all of you? Instead, I’m giving you the opportunity to take this little Red Velvet Cake Quiz. So, it’s a little dry…that’s usually the way my Red Velvet cakes turn out!

I’m not known for my inspirational breakfasts. Most weekdays we have cold cereal or Pop Tarts. (Please no scathing comments – I’m well aware of the consequences of eating such fare. I once inhaled a Brown Sugar Frosted on my way to see my OB/GYN when I was eight months pregnant. I know about elevated glucose.) But today I did serve eggs and toast, and my seven year old came to the table singing, “Don’t stop thinking about tomorrow…” When she continued after we sat down, her brother expressed some annoyance. To that she sang back to him, “You can’t always get what you want!” After a momentary pause she started up again, “You’re a real tough cookie with a long history…” When I pointed out that she’d covered Fleetwood Mac, The Rolling Stones, and Pat Benatar in a matter of minutes, she responded, “Oh, and I just thought of another one…” She began to sing, “Another one bites the dust…” I was beginning to be impressed by her repertoire of classic rock. Still, I had to ask, “What made you think of that one (Another One Bites the Dust)?” I may have contributed to her music-loving tendencies, but her answer immediately humbled me. “That pile of dust by the chair over there.”