300/365

This hasn't happened in a while.
My friend and teammate looked up over her computer screen and says to me, "I'm thinking Pupusas."
Pupusas.
Yeeeessssss.
It's Friday.
And it's Pupusas.
And it's my friend.
It takes me about one fraction of a second to respond, "Let me ask."
I text my guy.

Now, in my mind, I'm thinking He might say no. He might just want to stay home. I have the leftover rotini. It will be fine...

One minute later, which, just in case you don't know my guy and you don't ever try to communicate with him, is a Personal Best record time of response, he sends back, "Sounds great"
My response? "Wootwoot!!"

Las Pupusas del Itacate wins my Best Restaurant of Reynosa vote. It's colorful- indoors and out. Traditional tables and chairs fill the cozy inside space. A myriad of roosters and other Mexican art fills the spaces and walls. (ok. so maybe NOT all the chunches (that's Costa Rican for "stuff") are really Mexican. And how do folks in India know about loteria, anyway?) We play I Spy and look for something new every time we dine.

And the food. It's really good, always fresh. I order the jamaica, every time. A tray of pickled purple cabbage and green cabbage and spicy carrots with jalapeños and green and orange salsas come to the table when you order. The tacos ala plancha come with plenty of meat and taste great, more so when you add a slice of avocado and the salsa and cabbage. The namesake pupusas are a favorite. On Friday and Saturday, they serve posole, steaming hot bowls of hominy stew with pork, ready to be topped with radishes and cabbage and lime and ancho chile sauce. Oh, and bonus!- all this goodness and the bill comes in very affordable, besides.

We nearly always arrive to an empty dining room, our American dining habits never quite in sync with Mexican norms. On the coolest evenings since spring, everything worked together to create a sweet night. Sharing a Friday night meal with two of my favorite companions, easy and unhurried, was a great end to the week.
Great idea, Kimmy.

299/365

Normally our grocery store offers the usual roses, daisies, mums for sale. Who knew that giant marigolds, in balls of bright orange splendor, could be a thing? The scent of marigolds transports me to childhood, and tending the garden, deadheading the blooms once they dried.

But many other pictures went untaken on this day. Vendors sell their wares on the bridge at the US/MX border. Businesses flash by as I travel down the interstate. A cart collects groceries that will later provide four meals. Tomato meat sauce and then pasta bubbles on the stove.

A phone call provides the speediest of summaries and a promise to pray is later fulfilled. A chile relleño plate and a giant glass of tea with a wedge of lime- I share the corner of a table with one of my best confidants.

Tables stacked with bibles, Spanish and English both, ready for the evening activities. Plans confirmed, prayers uttered. "True" and "False" written on the board, ready to be slapped with flyswatters. Faithful and eager faces gather around, diligently repeating, repeating, repeating tongue twister words. Political commentary offered when we least expect it and the grins and laughs that follow. Hugs from all as we exit at the end of the night.

Watching two of my favorite shows with two of my favorite girls. A bowl filled with a brownie and coffee ice cream. A silly, lazy, ridiculously furry dog lays at our feet. The numbers on the clock turn much too late while I bask in dim and silence. All in all, a multitude for which to be thankful, more than I can number well.

298/365

Certainly hundreds of different buttons make up the pile I went to work sorting today. How do you even start? Buttons on cards and buttons in bags. Buttons shiny and plastic and wooden and shell. Buttons with thread yet attached and buttons never before used.

Four holes and two holes and shanked.
Light and dark and colored and shiny metal.
Big and little.

And every once in a while I'd fine two, maybe four, one time six, that match. But mostly, single buttons, lost from their pairs.

The entire time I keep one ear on the conversation in the room, trying to keep track should I need to jump in to make clear a word, express a concept with different terms. And with the other side of my brain, I'm thinking about happenings in other places, wondering what conversations might take place, praying for outcomes yet to be determined. 

I break the rule, to be all there, because admittedly, I'm not, exactly. And yet, how does that work in our God's economy, to live in a posture obedient to the command to pray without ceasing? Each move of a button, one place to another, another silent uttering, a praise and a thanksgiving and a petition to Him who is worthy. Tim Keller writes, "Prayer is both conversation and encounter with God. . . . We must know the awe of praising his glory, the intimacy of finding his grace, and the struggle of asking his help, all of which can lead us to know the spiritual reality of his presence."

... on this day, all while sitting still before a collection of buttons.

297/365

What love could remember no wrongs we have done 
Omniscient, all knowing, He counts not their sum
Thrown into a sea without bottom or shore
Our sins they are many, His mercy is more

What patience would wait as we constantly roam
What Father, so tender, is calling us home
He welcomes the weakest, the vilest, the poor
Our sins they are many, His mercy is more

What riches of kindness he lavished on us
His blood was the payment, His life was the cost
We stood 'neath a debt we could never afford
Our sins they are many, His mercy is more

Praise the Lord
His mercy is more
Stronger than darkness, new every morn
Our sins they are many, His mercy is more

- "His Mercy is More," by Matt Papa

296/365

I know that it's difficult to see and you just might have to take my word for it. But in the photo, a guy lies under the van making repairs. And standing right next to the car, another guy plays the accordion. I heard the accordion and followed the sound until I realized that it was coming from across the street. That's a new one for me, car repairs with a live accordion accompaniment.

I know one thing for certain, the street where I live will never be accused of being boring.

We have animals- dogs, lots of dogs, pregnant dogs, nursing dogs, male dogs, puppies, dogs who bark, dogs who sleep, dogs who bring garbage into our yard...,
cats of every color,
chickens, yellow chickens and black chickens, lots of chickens, and some roosters. Whoever started the idea that roosters crow at daybreak, they were confused. Roosters crow all day long.
The biggest pot-bellied pig that you can possibly imagine, I mean BIG, used to be spotted across the street, but I haven't seen him in a while, and I'm kind of afraid to ask the owner what happened. He was pretty fond of that pig.

Vehicles- we have a lot of vehicles. A lot of loud cars. Pickup trucks. Carts drawn by horse and by donkey. Delivery trucks, coke trucks, beer trucks. And cars with loudspeakers on top- for water, for tortillas, for gas, today- for tamales (that was tempting...). Vehicles going much too fast, that screech to a halt for a speed bump and screech when they step on the gas again. Bicycles and mopeds and motorcycles all roll by.

We have people- all kinds of people. Men, women, children. Young people in uniform, sometimes with a uniform shirt for a school they don't attend. Moms with kids in strollers. Kids- lots of kids. Toddlers toddling. A grandpa with a walker. People that wave. People that don't.

And the activities in the street- men fixing cars, families practicing quinceañera dances, kids playing games, vendors selling drinks and popsicles and snacks, the weekly lotería game. One time a guy loaded down with pottery was walking down our street, selling it from gate to gate, door to door. We nearly always hear some sort of music. Recently we have heard drums echoing their beat at night, practice for upcoming holiday marking the Mexican Revolution.

The other day, one of our neighborhood girls brought a bullet to the community center, a piece of potentially live ammunition that she found in the street. My teammate disarmed it. Sometimes we see the federal police drive down our street. Sometimes we see young men with handheld radios on our street.

There is a permanent layer of dust in our street, replaced only by slick mud when it rains. But the buildings are bright on our street, painted in brilliant shades of blue and green and orange. Sometimes you might happen to be outside at just the right moment, when the sun rises in the east with a pastel palette or sets in the west burning bright orange and red on the horizon. At those moments, more perhaps than at other times of the day, there is a great peace on our street.

We pray for reconciliation on our street, for the families here to know Christ. We don't bring Jesus to this street; he meets us here.
Maybe even in an accordion serenading a mechanic on a fall afternoon.

294/365

The robot car leader left to look for his students a couple of hours ahead of time, to remind them of the morning activities. At that point, hardly a soul was to be found, windows still dark and even the dogs laying still across the front door steps. He took another trip around the 'hood an hour beforehand, another attempt to pique curiosity. Thomas Edison has been credited with saying something along the lines of success is "one percent inspiration and ninety-nine percent perspiration." But he also is quoted as saying, "Everything comes to him who hustles while he waits." Clearly Edison anticipated what Tim's Saturday mornings might look like.

Eventually a group of boys, though not necessarily the boys whom we expected, showed up at our gate. And for a while they poked around with the robotics car, and connected wires and willed it forward and back. It all went by much too quickly. We act surprised when boys are distracted by other boys, as if it were something new. We forget quickly, don't we, all the ways boys turn their attention from one thing to another. And so, the robotics project soon turned to a game of dominoes, followed in quick procession to lunch.

We don't yet have a grill, so my kitchen became a short-order diner, though hamburgers the only item on the menu. I fried up a dozen patties, the grease splattering my sturdy cook top. We offered the usual fixings, lettuce and tomato and onion and mustard and ketchup. Only minutes later, we returned to the kitchen for the bottle of hot sauce and the jar of mayonnaise, the staples of Mexican condiments. Instead of potato chips, we served Takis and chili chicharrones. The boys drained a 2 liter bottle of coke and started in on the grapefruit soda, besides.

We shared the meal with the boys and about 5000 flies who lingered long after the boys did. Right now, everything seems to be a Work in Progress- creating a rhythm to our days, establishing routines, remembering to close up holes that let flies into the house now that the days are cooler and doors can stay open... But our prayer is that we will serve this place well, that we will be able to grow and nurture relationships, and share and show our Jesus through it all.

In Psalm 27, David concluded,
I believe that I shall look upon the goodness of the Lord
    in the land of the living!
Wait for the Lord;
    be strong, and let your heart take courage;
    wait for the Lord!
Certainly we know that David, too, was known to hustle while he would wait. Perhaps we are in good company.

291/365

Don’t lose your grip on Love and Loyalty.
    Tie them around your neck; carve their initials on your heart.
Earn a reputation for living well
    in God’s eyes and the eyes of the people.

Trust God from the bottom of your heart;
    don’t try to figure out everything on your own.
Listen for God’s voice in everything you do, everywhere you go;
    he’s the one who will keep you on track.

Proverbs 3:3-6 (The Message)

290/365

A 12 hour full day,
a commute,
straight to thinking and speaking in two languages,
straight to thinking and speaking in two languages and waiting on a third,
straight to listening to the inflection of beginning readers,
straight to listening to the nearly controlled chaos of a house full of kids.

When I was in the third grade choir, which happened to be my only year of choir (coincidence? probably not...), we sang an old nursery rhyme,
Inchworm, inchworm,
measuring the marigolds, 
you and your arithmetic, 
you'll probably go far.

Inchworm, inchworm,
measuring the marigolds,
seems to me you'd stop and see
how beautiful they are. 

The inchworm isn't the only one with the problem, crawling ever slowly forward without noticing the beauty along the way,
as the soft glow turns to the bright rays of day,
the smile and greeting of the toll worker,
the bustle of the morning commute on the bridge,
the willingness and creativity of our teachers,
the melody and lilt of my second tongue,
the handshake fist bump of our boys,
the brows of our readers, furrowed in concentration,
the sweet smile hugs of our girls,
the hot pink bloom of the buganvilla in the afternoon sun,
the never changing, never ending, promises of our God,
the leave it all in the dirt efforts of our soccer players,
the evening goodbyes until we do it all again tomorrow.

289/365

My phone buzzed in the middle of eating my Kung Pao Chicken. Normally, I am a firm believer in putting away all the electronic devices during a meal. (well, unless we can use it to check out some fun fact, a question that can be answered quickly and definitively. Admittedly, that can lead to rabbit trails so probably keeping the devices hidden remains the better choice. But I digress...) During this meal however, I was waiting for news, and so I kept my phone tucked under my leg. The seat rumbled and I glanced quickly at the lit up telephone screen. The announcement came in a the form of a text, a simple
"Look who is here."
followed by the image of a most precious tiny bundle of perfect human life, a brand new baby.

In The Weight of Glory, C.S. Lewis wrote, "You have never met a mere mortal." I still marvel at the wonder of new life. The miracle of an infant, perfectly formed in miniature, overwhelms me. No less so on this day. I can not begin to understand the circumstances which bring this little guy into my friends' lives, and as such, into my own. But like my most dear friends, I am trusting He who is sovereign over all things, who fearfully and wonderfully creates all life, to work out this story of His glory, too.

We cracked open our fortune cookies and I am pretty certain that my message came to me a day late. Certainly my unexpected blessings arrived today. I traveled the couple hours south to home, contemplating this new wonder the entire way, praying for the complexities of the situation and rejoicing in the simplicity of such a wonderful gift. But before arriving at my own door, I first made a detour,  for a face to face meet up with this new little guy in our lives. We are showered with blessing, indeed.

287/365

Confession: I stopped regularly making my kids breakfast and lunch many moons ago. I could give explanations why, but suffice it to say, yes, they always have food. But those first two meals at our house... well, usually you are on your own. But sometimes, usually when you least expect it (or if we have a house guest), I jump to the task. And then I do it cheerfully- because I don't do it often...

But this isn't really a tale about breakfast. Rather it's a story of foolishness and the kind man who loves me anyway. To make breakfast on this day, I need to go to the store and gather provision before the rest of the house was awake. Around 7:30 I sneak out and head to our Morgan HEB. (note: Our Morgan HEB plays 80's tunes. That, if nothing else, is sufficient reason to shop there.) Surprisingly, this Saturday dawn breaks gray and foggy, and even though there aren't many of us on the road, I decide lights might be a good idea.

I do my shopping. I'm pretty sure I sing along, out loud but hopefully not too loud, to "Karma karma karma chameleon." (It comes and goes. It comes and goes.) I wisely refrain from the Buy 5 Candy Bars Get 5 Candy Bars Free deal at the checkout counter, pay for my goods, roll out the cart out and approach my car. I notice, the back lights are glowing red. Not Good. Red back lights mean that, sigh, I did it again. We love our little white CRV. It has 200,000 really good miles on it and is still going strong. But its pitfall? It doesn't have a little dingy reminder warning bell when you leave the lights on. Who remembers that they turn their lights on in the fog? I mean, technically it's light outside... And not only that, but our little white CRV has a very short lasting battery. I remember the Sears Die Hard battery commercials of days old, "We are parked here at International Falls, Minnesota on a frozen lake through January, through February, through March, and the Die-Hard STARTS!" Our CRV battery simply would not compete. It would probably fall through the thawing ice in April, not able to start. Sure enough, this time too. No matter my coaxing, my turning off the radio, my tender pats on the dashboard, the car will not start. I call my dear guy, and after only one, "Kristy. You left the lights on again?" he comes to rescue me.
(note: Yes, I know that it's not good for the battery life to run it down. Yes, I know that I really need to pay attention. Yes, I know...)

He arrives and maneuvers the Rescue Van in front of the little white CRV. I pull out the jumper cables. (note: Thanks to this problem, well, ok, thanks to MY problem, we now have really nice jumper cables in this car...) We perform the life support maneuvers on the battery and sure enough, she starts right up. I'm back in business, ready to drive home. My guy pulls out ahead of me. But you know, it's still a little bit foggy out. Maybe I should turn on my lights... (yes, I hear you laughing...)

I get home and carry in the groceries. I make tasty, surprise breakfast tacos and we enjoy a leisurely meal around the table. We make plans for the day, and shower and dress and finally, a couple hours later, we head out to the car. DEAD. Well, I didn't leave it running long enough to charge, I think to myself. I call my guy one more time.

"Sorry, but the battery is dead. Maybe it didn't charge long enough. We'll have to jump it again later," I tell him. Right away he asks me, "Did you leave the lights on again?"

With all my soul, I really want to say, "NO!!! Of COURSE NOT!!!" But then I remember. I remember the fog, now long burned off. I remember the lights. "Mayyyy-beeee," I answer sheepishly. "Well, probably yes..." "KRISTY!" he groans. I close my eyes and nod. Honestly. Twice in one day?

I want to say, I'll never do THAT again. Except I probably will. So all I can say is "I'm sorry."
And I hope that there will be a good breakfast waiting for my rescuer afterward next time, too.

286/365

It is very tempting for Christians to assume that if one has the joy of the Lord they will be gregarious, full, sanguine, and abounding always. But I, like my friend, have found more of God in the autumns and winters than in the springs and summers of my faith. I have found more of friendship in the old ones than in the new ones. More of faith in its absence than in its presence. More of life in the discipline of God than in the gifts of men.
- from "Sufficient for Its Day," by
Lore Ferguson Wilbert on Sayable blog.

Five personalities, five ages, five life stages, 17 kids and some in-laws and some of us working on grands- we never lack for conversation. We try to meet monthly, though sometimes coordinating schedules can be a challenge. On this day one of the band could not join us, and although we missed her much, it did give the other four of us 5% more croissant, more cinnamon roll, more cream cheese and salmon to eat. (just sayin'...) I'm sure I drank her share of the coffee, too.

The two hours around the table passed like a few clicks of the second hand. We take turns, one by one, sharing our heart. We catch up on happenings and family. Life presents us with so many complicated stories, doesn't it? So many questions and endings yet to be written, so few answers and bona fide conclusions. We certainly have known autumns and winters of faith, all of us. We have all had times of leaning hard, of questioning our own sufficiency but never that of our God. We each have sometimes wondered out loud, how is this all going to work out? 

The first time I sat with these ladies, I knew I was home. We prayed together and I cried. When we moved from Omaha, I left a similar group of women, a band that remains more dear than words can really express well, and I was mourning. These ladies are the rare exception in my life, among the few that I have trusted from the very first. They have both rejoiced and mourned with me, as I have with them. They cut to the chase quickly. If I don't want to speak the absolute truth with them, I wouldn't look them in the eye. But I always do. 

I don't know about more friendship in old than new. One I have known for many many years and trust with my life. One I have known for less than a handful, and still, I think of her as my younger sister. Perhaps the other two are my personal yin and yang, complementary and yet dynamic; two sides of a coin, each as valuable as the other. I think it is a rare privilege, to call these ladies friends, and yet the word itself hardly seems enough. They show me the joy of the Lord. I return home and recognize, I am blessed.

285/365

The day before our 27th anniversary, I went to a funeral for a dear man who was married to his bride for 57 years. Think about that- they more than doubled the years I have been married to my husband. At the service, a long-time friend of the couple stood up and talked about how the husband would look at his wife so very lovingly, that in quiet and confident leadership he never stopped adoring her. 

I recently read that, regarding marriage, philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche said, "Marriage is as one long conversation. When marrying you should ask yourself this question: do you believe you are going to enjoy talking with this woman into your old age? Everything else in a marriage is transitory, but most of the time you're together will be devoted to conversation.”

I wonder, what will the conversation sound like after 30 more years? Certainly, the words, and even the tone, has changed over time. 

I remember those first years. We worked through a lot of hurt. We come from a history of mess, both my husband and I, around us and of our own doing, both. We learned a lot about each other, and perhaps not enough about own selves. Then in what seems like a blink of an eye, we transitioned to a house full of demanding little people, compounded and complicated even further by a demanding Navy schedule. We spent months at a time away from each other, communicating through 40 word messages and letters that would be read over and over in absence of presence. In our house, we joke about those times as "The Lost Years," neither of us remember certain pieces. Whether by circumstance or sheer exhaustion, we didn't make much time for conversation in those days.

Conversation takes time, doesn't it? A good conversation cannot be hurried. I smiled when my husband recently asked me to spend 30 minutes a day just talking to him. 30 minutes, that doesn't seem much. But sometimes we sit down in our living room and start to look at each other and wonder what to stay next. We remember that conversation also requires listening. For Christians, conversation requires not just listening to one another but also to the Spirit, tuning and retuning our ears and our hearts to wisdom and to stillness, qualities we rarely thought of in our beginnings together. 

On the cusp of 27 years complete, I can barely start to picture what 30 more might look like. The conversation continues.

284/365

"Grace, Meimei." Charles looked at his daughter. "You are very smart, too. You know that love too much is okay. That is the best thing in life. Love too much."
- The Wangs Vs. The World by Jade Chang

283/365

O sing to the LORD a new song; *

sing to the LORD, all the earth.

Sing to the LORD, bless his name; *

proclaim his salvation from day to day.

Declare his glory among the nations, *

his marvelous works among all peoples.

For great is the LORD, and greatly to be praised; *

he is to be feared above all gods.

For all the gods of the nations are worthless idols, *

but the LORD made the heavens.

Splendor and majesty are before him; *

strength and beauty are in his sanctuary.

Ascribe to the LORD, O you families of the nations, *

ascribe to the LORD glory and strength.

Ascribe to the LORD the glory due his name; *

bring an offering and come into his courts.

Worship the LORD in the splendor of holiness; *

tremble before him, all the earth.

Say among the nations, “The LORD reigns.” *

The world is firmly established, it shall not be moved;
he will judge the peoples with equity.

-Psalm 96, from The Trinity Mission Psalter

282/365

Perhaps the biggest surprise of the trip came when we walked downstairs to the hotel lobby at 6am that first morning only to discover complete darkness. We tiptoed to the front doors, and found them locked. The overnight guy let us out, and told us to knock when we came back. How is it possible that not one coffee shop around the plaza was open? We stopped at OXXO and the guy gave us two cups of black coffee to go through a little slide window in the door. And then we returned and stepped lightly back up the stairs to our room to wait until it was time for breakfast.

My husband and I have entered a new season, traveling by ourselves, without kids. It seems so simple. We only have to agree with each other. We choose where we eat. And it seems so cheap to just feed two. We can wander without having to explain ourselves to anyone else. We only have the other to blame for being late.

We haven't had this privilege often in our life together. When we met, a blond blue-eyed and very chatty three year old came on our second date and sat in the middle between us on the way home, holding my hand. By 11 years later, five more people had joined the ranks. Over these nearly thirty years of knowing each other, we've been privileged to travel often and wide, but rarely by ourselves. We've looked at the world through "what would everyone enjoy" lenses. Now, mostly, it's just the two of us.

Still, I wait while he reads every word on the signs, and still, he stops when I pause to shoot photos. We are each other's best test of patience. And yet, we can sit at a table at a coffee shop and watch the world go by for a good long while. We hold hands walking down the sidewalk and learn to shift single file when a passer-by crowds the space. I will sit next to him on a bus, or nearly anywhere else, for hours on end.

The rest of the week, we waited to get up until 7 and then he brought me back coffee, just as if we were home. I think I can get used to this.

281/365

"Girls, this is an Absolutely True Story that happened to me and Kim and Kate at the market. The guy selling me my shirt asked us, "Are you Christians?"
"Yes," we answered.
"My mom was a  Christian, but my dad was a Jehovah's Witness," he told us, and I start to continue the rest of the story.

"Mom," interrupted my girls, "That is from Nacho Libre."

Like the time that the homeless lady I befriended just happened to have the same name and hometown as a Marvel Comics character.

Life. You can't make it up.

280/365

6am departure, and I'm awake at 4:10. WIDE awake. I pretend to sleep, as if I could fool myself, and finally realize that my husband isn't asleep either. With time to spare, we start the day. He makes coffee. The still of early hours make quiet.

The minutes that ticked so slowly when I wished sleep suddenly pass in fast forward once awake. My guy, he's never ready when I am. It took, hmm, about 23 years to figure out that we don't have to leave together, that maybe it's better for both of us if we don't. Finally time to depart, I roll my bag out the door. Be sure, I was only walking to our ride. I promise, I wouldn't really leave that man behind.

We meet our teammates, our friends, finish last minute packing and loading, open and close the gates, and head out. The streets are dark, but starting to come alive, more cars, more people the farther we go. I turn around to talk and spill his coffee on the seat. I once again silently vow to never carry coffee without a lid into the car. My pants soak up the overflow

I confess, I am perhaps disproportionately (say that three times fast in Spanish... desproporcionadamente desproporcionadamente desproporcionadamente...) excited about the trip ahead. We are boarding a bus and driving south for 10 hours. 10 hours of looking out the window, of reading, of sitting next to my guy. I'm a road trip nerd.

The journey does not disappoint. We pass through countryside, Northern Mexico desert turns to mountains. The road climbs. The bus rolls on past roadside villages, past farm and field, past taco stands and fruit stands and honey stands. Brown eventually greens, and even flowers. The violet tint of the window colors all the views, purple mountains majesty indeed.

It's good to get out of town.

279/365

"No, gratitude born from humility is not a gratitude rooted in having more than someone else. It is a gratitude rooted in having anything at all."
Hannah Andersen, Humble Roots

Days that don't go the way you expect, they are humbling, aren't they? My day began with an incredibly ordinary expectation that things would go as they always do.
Except they didn't.

Oh, it wasn't anything life changing, nothing insurmountable that didn't work itself out by the end of the morning. And yet, it became easy to be distracted. Still, as I reflected later, my encouragement, my solace, remains that none of the events surprised my God, the Good Shepherd. I count myself as a people of his pasture, and the sheep of his hand.

And so I give thanks for the quiet of morning, for the beauty of golden daybreak hues, for the sparkly dew and for the cool breeze of fall. For friends that perhaps grow more dear in human frailty. For the wrongs that are corrected with a few papers and signatures and a little bit of time. For lunch with my man and for the excitement of travel ahead. For "gratitude rooted in having anything at all."

277/365

Some days are rain outside the window,
moving really slow,
another (large) cup of coffee,
messaging with a far-away friend,
dreaming about new places,
(checking airline rates),
wade through street ponds in sandals and try not to think about the water,
admire Amazon boxes turned video games,
finish the chicken salad,
unknowingly miss National Taco Day,
listening to readers on the front porch,
singing to the Mexican radio "Who Let the Dogs Out" with teenage boys,
pizza for dinner,
learn a new game,
kiss my husband,
thankful for this crazy life,
days.

276/365

"Los niños están," Miguel tells me before I even have a chance to look across the street. 3:30 in the afternoon, and the students that come for tutoring arrive. But we do not open our gates for the rest of the kids until 5. No matter. On most afternoons, they gather outside the gate anyway. They pester us to open the doors, to let them in early. They push the buttons on the electronic lock, as maybe one of these times some random pattern of beeps will actually work. Some of the little boys consistently start to climb up the outside of the fence, as though we'll congratulate them once they scale the top and land on the other side. We don't. We open the gate and shoo them out.

Some days are louder than others. This afternoon starts lustily. The little boys entertain themselves by chasing a street dog around. "Stop bothering the dog," I shout at them from across the yard. (ugh! why am I shouting?!) I get up and go to the gate and step outside. "Please. Stop bothering the dog and settle down." No one really listens. Finally the dog grows tired of the mob and shows itself annoyed, scaring a boy but hurting no one, and leaves. Without the dog, the boys continue to bother each other. Eventually that leads to a fight, and we separate a couple of luchadores. Each tells us that the other started it. "No matter. No more fighting," we tell them all, "or you won't be able to come in today." The crowd grows, and the pestering at the gate continues.
"Kristy! Kristy! How many more minutes?"
"20."
"Aw."
"Kristy! Kristy! How many more minutes?"
"14."
"Aw."
And on it goes.

At 4:58 we give in, and open the gates to the mob of minis. The din continues. The little boys stack blocks into towers until they tumble and then they do it all over again. The big boys form teams and play soccer until they are covered in muddy dust. The girls chase each other in circles, playing tag, until its finally time to start. They all form pushy compact lines at the door. The little boys race up the stairs, clamor into seats, grab pencils, furiously ready to start.

We stand and wait for them to be quiet.
We pass out the pages.
And then, almost like a miracle.
Near silence.
For more than 20 minutes, these boys, sweaty, loud, generally irreverent boys, crayons gripped tightly, color cats in peace.
The two boys that were fighting in the street less than a couple hours ago stand next to each other, all smiles, eager to show off their work.
And we shake our heads, amazed at ordinary grace once again.

275/365

Last week I read an article about moms who feel "touched out." Nursing babies. Infants who pinch and touch and pet. Toddlers who need to be carried, who need to be assured with a kiss, who get swept up in a hug. Preschoolers who should be kept close, "keep your hand on the cart." Kids who probably will not learn how to read unless they are physically connected to you.
Let me simply state-
five babies in five years.
I know.

There was a period of time when perhaps I was thought of as unaffectionate. That very well might have been absolutely true. But it wasn't out of mean-spiritedness. Certainly, at no point in life has this introvert been mistaken as overly affectionate. But, for a long period of time, I recognize now, I was "touched out." It only has been within the last five years or so that I have neared recovery.  Still, I probably will never be accused of being super demonstrative. At this stage, I have grown to adore the hugs that come in the Latino culture I live in. It is normal for me to greet friends with a pat on the shoulder or even a hug. I love when my kids give me an embrace.

Even so, every once in a while, I am tested. Like when the neighborhood girls want to do my hair. Really. I've had short hair, more or less, since I was 5 years old. I never had ponytails or braids or barrettes. I remember watching my nieces "style" my father in law's hair and cringing, so glad they chose him, not me. These days, especially, I'm pretty low maintenance. Morning shampoo, a few minutes to blow-dry and I'm done. On this particular afternoon, my up-do lasted about 5 minutes. Thankfully, that's around how long the styling took as well. I took a deep breath and survived.

Baby steps.
Maybe one day I'll get a massage...

274/365

The song from morning worship still played through my head as we headed west into the sunset, Let us love and sing and wonder, let us praise the Savior's name... We spent just over 24 hours at home, and I left thankful for it.

The afternoon before, we arrive back at home just after a car has crashed through three of our neighbors' fences, two wooden and one wrought iron. The car stops mangled in the middle of the corner yard. All of us neighbors gawk, incredulous, but it seems everyone survives the wreck. We arrive in time to comfort our girl, because the reverberations of such an impact can shake the best of us.

We grocery shop and stop for egg rolls and prepare a meal together. Everyone with a task, the computer screen shifts from recipe to recipe (isn't that the most convenient way to find a recipe and make a list these days?). We feast on peach crisp for dessert, probably the last of the season, while watching another episode of our on-going drama together. We skype our far-away family and smile and nod and wish we were 1000 miles closer. When our other girl arrives home from work, we heat up another plate of food and laugh over nonsense skits on late night TV.

Sunday morning brings the routines of habit, quiet and coffee and reading and memory work and ironing and jumping into the shower and leaving just at the moment to not be late. I take my place on the sofa for prayer, and the familiar voices around me offer petition and balm, both. I greet friends and try to catch up weeks in a moment. I miss faces, and I wish that I could talk to more. We soak in truth and "love and sing and wonder" at the mercies of the God we come to worship.

I leave with a friend to meet another, and soon, the gray skies pour down rain once again. We stop for for a cup of coffee, two for here, one to go, and share a piece of banana-supposed-to-be-pumpkin bread. We visit a friend, her stay in the rehab facility longer than her liking, and I hope we leave her encouraged. We ponder aging and families and laugh at our own growing frailties and weaknesses.

I dodge the rain and dash to my front door and settle on the couch for my Sunday afternoon shows. I stress out with bakers and laugh out loud at the running commentary my friend, watching simultaneously at her house, offers. We finish with a chat and a prayer, always grateful for easy in the midst of life hard.

An early dinner and a scramble for belongings, hugs and kisses all around, and we are back on the road. The sky changes as if playing a Technicolor film reel before our eyes, a fine finish to the extraordinary ordinary of a day.

273/365

Tim invited a few boys that he has been doing a robotics project with on weekday afternoons to come over to our house this weekend. They'd work on the robot car and have lunch with us. One of our girls overheard that invitation and she wanted to come, too. Sure! So we made a date with these kids and waited for Saturday morning.

The boys had the robotics project, but I didn't have anything special to do with my young friend. I figured that we could make cookies. Maybe play some Uno. Now before any of you go getting upset and thinking that I'm being sexist while the boys do science and I make cookies in the kitchen with the girls... fine. All I can tell you is that I'm doing what I know how to do. Tim knows robotics. I know cookies. And I can play Uno.

Here's my problem. I've never baked in my new oven. I'm a just a little bit afraid of it, the oven part, that is. It is gas. And the automatic ignition, well, it clicks a lot.

When we lived in Costa Rica, our rental house had a gas oven. To light it, I had to turn the knob and start the gas and then reach in with a lit match to ignite the torch. I'd hear the hiss of the gas, and then I knew, the clock was ticking before the time bomb would explode. Indeed, every once in a while, it did. One time, the gas lit with a small boom and I found myself sitting on the floor beyond the kitchen door. Now, in the interest of full disclosure, the kitchen was about 4 feet square, so I wasn't moved far. And thankfully, I still had eyelashes. But friends, the fear is real.

Considering all that, on Saturday I opted for no-bake cookies. The kind I can stir on the stove top and cool on the tabletop. I gathered the ingredients and waited.

The boys arrived, and did their robot thing for a while. But my friend never showed. Who knows why not. I'll find her today and ask. I made the cookies anyway. Then I heated up taco fixings, and warmed tortillas. (Neat feature of Mexican stoves- the cast iron tortilla warmer in the center!) We all ate lunch together and played a couple rounds of Uno. I offered them some cookies. Um. Well. They weren't a hit. Too chocolatey, too rich, I think.

Maybe next time I need to lite the oven...

272/365

This afternoon we set out on another visit, seeking to go to a lady who visited the summer medical clinic. We tried earlier, several weeks back, but she has been in the hospital. She’s home now.

Her home. 
Really, I think that it might be one of the economically impoverished places I have ever visited.  It took us a little wandering, a couple of u-turns and guidance by phone, to find the place. We left our neighborhood and we left even the relative "smooth" of the pitted paved roads of familiarity. We found ourselves on dirt roads, perhaps made more rough by recent rains. Surprisingly, we passed some pretty nice brick houses on the way there- but lots of not nice places, too. We passed all manner of animals on the way, horses and goats and pigs and dogs and cats, wandering on the road, wandering in yards. 

This family lives in a little peninsula of Mexico carved out by the river. They live in what not very long ago was dump land- as in, the ground under where we were standing was not solid, really. Maybe being surrounded by trash particularly emphasized how sad the situation is. Their house was not more than a shack. The shed for the toilet was directly behind where we were standing, a blanket nailed to the doorway covering the entrance. Certainly, it was a pit toilet at best; certainly, no sewage in that place. Garbage was everywhere, because, well, basically their yard is an extension of the dump. A little guy, not quite a year old, in a diaper and nothing more was toddling around the yard, holding on to a broken push toy. Another little girl, his sister I think, elementary school-aged, watched him. She was bright-eyed and part of me I wanted to take them both away from the garbage. Some adult family members were around. Chickens roamed in and out. A couple of dogs, both with goopy eyes and mangy fur (really mangy- not just disheveled) walked around. Horses walked around behind the house, fenced in by barbed wire marking other boundaries. There was an open fire with a grate where they were cooking- probably a pot of beans, and the smoke drifted by us. Mercifully for everyone, it wasn’t hot and there was a lot of cloud cover, so it didn’t smell at all, but even so, flies were everywhere. I can imagine the stench, the flies, on a hot, sunny day. 

The lady we were there to visit probably isn’t all that old. I’m guessing late 50’s or early 60’s (but I really am a terrible guesser). She is diabetic. Her sugar numbers remain constantly, dangerously, high. She was in a wheelchair but I’m not sure how they could really push her on that uneven ground. Her left leg has been completely amputated. Her right leg is still intact but has several concerning sores. She has limited sight. She says they struggle for food. Her husband was once a trash cart garbage collector but hasn’t worked in several years. From what I understood, something happened with “los malos” and he is afraid to work. Even though that sounds lame, it is very likely very legit. The needs for this lady, for her family, are so tremendous. We prayed with her, for her health, for provision for her family, for peace and for assurance. But I confess, it can be hard for me to believe, to hope, in these situations. I know our God is sufficient and I trust that He is sovereign. But when such basic human needs are hardly being met, I wonder, do they wonder, where is God? She said that she wants to know more about the Bible, about Jesus, but obviously getting to us is nearly impossible. We need to come to her.

We left her a couple of bags from the church, the most basic of groceries- beans and rice and boxed milk and toilet paper and such. We apologized that it was so little. We left humbled. Our Aquiles neighborhood certainly would not be considered among the finest of neighborhoods by most standards. This afternoon, however, crossing back into the neighborhood and onto paved roads, it suddenly looked like luxury. Sitting in my little house later in the evening, I feel like the top 1% of the world’s richest people. 

Songwriter Sara Groves sings "I saw what I saw and I can’t forget it…" 
I feel the same.