DPP 2017

 It's that time of year! I checked the archives and reminded myself that I first participated in the December Photo Project in 2009. The DPP has become a holiday activity that I really look forward to- and this year is no exception. Already I see familiar names on the list. (Hi Emma!!) Thanks Rebecca Tredway for getting it going again this year!

Hey you Photogs! Join me!! Find all the details at the December Photo Project Sign Up page.

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I'm fairly certain that my morning commute beats yours.

First of all, I walk to the office. I don't have to get into a car. No need to check the gas tank on the way or wonder if that warning light was on the last time I drove. I don't have to negotiate traffic or crazy drivers or anticipate what's ahead. Well, sure, I look out for crazy drivers when I cross the street, and sometimes a garbage cart passes me by, but that's nearly always with a wave and a "Buenos dias!"

As I leave my house and lock my door, I stop to listen to the sounds coming from the deaf school next door. "Sounds from the deaf school?" Those who haven't spent time around deaf kids may not realize that many are quite verbal. They laugh, sometimes loudly because they have no sense of just how loud they are. They let out exclamatory noises of approval and disdain. They clap their hands. The deaf are very sensitive to movement around them, so nearly always I catch the eye of someone and exchange a good morning wave and smile.

I walk down the passageway to the Bodega, the workshops for the Isaiah 55 vocational ministries. I often smell the fresh cut wood before I am at the shop, by far the best scent going in this neighborhood! In this season, walking through the Bodega is something akin to passing by Santa's workshop. Our students and neighborhood workers form the crew of elves that creates Forever Gingerbread houses. These little wooden houses are reusable gingerbread houses, created to be decorated and then cleaned and then decorated again. The houses are sold at home parties and craft sales and holiday markets in the United States with sales benefiting the Isaiah 55 vocational programs. I wave at the workers and stop to exchange a good morning hug with Norma, our lead worker.

My longest traffic stop comes in pausing to pet our dogs. There's Neighbor Dog, Vecina, the gentle Pit Bull mix with dark soulful eyes who usually drops to the ground so I can rub her belly. Puppy pushes his way into the mix. Puppy is a tall Beagle-something who makes up for clumsy with enthusiasm. Puppy is yet a puppy and still needs instructional reminders not to gnaw your arm or jump up to lick your face. The black lab female mix, Black Dog (oh, I know, we are so creative in names...) is a whiner. It's been 9 months and she hasn't won me over yet, but I suppose there is still time.

Once out the gate, I turn left. Usually, I share crossing the always dusty and sometimes muddy street with the neighbor's chickens. There's always another few dogs in the street along the way. Sometimes other folks also walk down the street, also making their way to work, and we swap good morning pleasantries. Less than a minute down the road, there's nearly always Miguel at the gate. And there's nearly always the same exchange-
"Buenos dias. Como estas?" (Good morning. How are you?)
"Estoy aquí. Va a llover hoy." (I'm here. It's going to rain today.)
And that is whether there is a cloud in the sky or not.

Makes me smile every single time.

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O Gladsome Light
Phos Hilaron

O gladsome light of the holy glory
of the everliving Father in heaven,
O Jesus Christ, holy and blessed!

Now as we come to the setting of the sun,
and our eyes behold the vesper light,
we sing your praises, O God: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.

You are worthy at all times to be praised by joyful voices,
O Son of God, Giver of Life,
and to be glorified through all the worlds.

- from The Trinity Mission, Evening Prayer

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322/365

The Plan for the Day changes multiple times (but who is keeping count?).
Meeting midday for robotics and lunch.
No meeting.
Soccer game at noon.
No, soccer game at one.
No, no soccer game.
Boys coming at 2 for robotics and snacks.
Boys show up at 2:30.
And hey! Guess what! Soccer game at 3!

Since we live within a 1 minute walk of the soccer field, off we go- up the hill and over the berm and to the fields that are very familiar. With the help of the sweat labor of short-term teams, we have spent the last few summers working to improve this complex of fields. And now we get to sit in the stands we helped build and watch the balls go through the goals we set up and painted, our guys playing a team from the other side of the neighborhood. That's a sweet thing.

We climb the stands and take our seats. And wait. Because 3 really means 3:30. Well, 3:30-ish. We watch the boys chalk the field, powder puffing from the coffee can on a stick. The half-line goes a bit wobbly at the very far end, but hey- this isn't quite the Copa Mundial. We watch the warm-ups, and size up the competition, all while we realize that the rest of the crowd may be assessing the two gringos towards the top of the bleachers. It is fun to know Spanish when people are discussing you. (grin!)

Finally our boys take the field. They are a rag-tag team, at best. Forget your images of organized American youth soccer. The field is dirt, with a patch of grass that probably survives because it is fertilized by local animals when they are staked to the goal to graze. One player's dog is on the field until the game actually starts and has to be shooed away. Our boys don't have uniforms today; they just wear their street clothes. A few have soccer jerseys from their favorite teams or teams they played with in the past. One of our boys plays in his jean shorts and plaid shirt. Our guys earn most of the penalties on the field today; they are street-wise and field tough. Our team didn't even bring water for halftime. We know that our boys can run and run, and they did. We know our boys have some good moves, because we see it in our side yard every week when they play the short game, off the walls, never more than 5 on 5. But this is a BIG field, and they are playing a team that has practiced together. Our team is down 0-1 at halftime, and then kind of lose it all at the very end of the game and lost 0-4.

But, I don't think that they are too affected by the score. We go home and get out the garrafón of water and a few plastic cups. The entire team stops to rehydrate in our courtyard before moving in mob on down the street. No doubt, we spill as much water as they drink, and create a mud puddle under the table. Most of the boys leave with a "Gracias!" and the handshake-handslap-fistbump greeting of the neighborhood and we are left with grins on our faces.

Here's to always changing plans for the day, and being in the 'hood, and soccer on a sunny Saturday afternoon.


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A power of Butterfly must be -
The Aptitude to fly
Meadows of Majesty concedes
And easy Sweeps of Sky.

- Emily Dickinson

Gray skies characterize the day. The hours pass slowly, and I probably check the clock one hundred times. It is a Hurry Up and Wait sort of day. 

Finally, I walk over to my house with a friend. There in the midst of drab, a butterfly rests.

Still, I am surprised that such an ordinary thing as a caterpillar morphs into such a beautiful winged creature. Yes, in our Creator's plan, even the mundane is being transformed.

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In a textbook example of What Not To Do as the administrator of the local ESL ministry, I left town for the two weeks prior to the end of the semester and our annual Thanksgiving Celebration. And as testimony to the quality of our ESL ministry staff and to the faithfulness of our students and our God, I arrive back to the good but surprising news that we are expecting over 100 people for dinner on Thursday. 

100 people? 
We added some more tables and chairs and bought some more napkins. 
And I prayed.

We started the Conversational English ministry at Covenant 4 years ago. That very first week we had no idea who would show up. And so we prayed, and continue to pray, that the Lord would give us exactly the amount of people we could handle. That first week, we had three students, and I can honestly say, I was not a bit disappointed, because I really was thankful that we could be trusted with three students. Two of those three students still attend our classes today. Every week after that we continued to add new students, right up to the last week of the year. The ministry has grown every year since. 

So, when we stood at the door and surveyed the fellowship around us, I found myself both giving thanks and feeling somewhat humbled. We figure over 120 people joined us for dinner the Thursday before Thanksgiving. Those faces included students and staff, family and friends and neighbors. I love that our students want to share the night with their family members and their friends. For a long time, I have heard the prayer, "Lord, bring our neighbors to our church." I know from registration forms that most of our students come from the zip code of the church. I know that a few of our students even walk to class each week. Yes, the Lord has brought the nations to our backyard.

I won't post the close-up photos of our students, because I don't have each of their permission to do so. But I do know some of their stories. One dear friend attends classes with us and at another program in town, and I hear her proficiency improving dramatically. Another of my students holds an engineering degree in Mexico, and aspires to work in that field again, but currently works as a waitress. Never assume! One of my students is young, and has changed classes from beginner beginner to intermediate in just a few semesters, always asking questions, always challenging herself more and more. One of my students became a United States citizen last year, just in time to participate in the presidential election. I see my students and I beam. They are dear to me. 

Micah 6:8 reminds us, 
"He has told you, O man, what is good;
    and what does the Lord require of you
but to do justice, and to love kindness,
    and to walk humbly with your God?

The ESL ministry accomplishes all of that. I'm thankful and exceedingly abundantly blessed that our church opens the doors to share Thursday nights with our English students and staff. 

See you all in January.

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I don't remember not suffering from allergies. "She'll probably outgrow it," the docs would say. Forty-something years later, I'm still waiting. I first had allergy testing done when I was in 6th grade- my back a checkerboard of pin scratches, all welts and itch. Yes, I know you are there, you dust, you pollen, you grass, you mold, you weeds, you trees, you cats... I remember that the allergist suggested to my parents that moving to a new state might be a choice. That wasn't an option.

I took shots through high school, initially twice a week, then eventually once a week, but never less than every two weeks. I'd receive one injection in each arm, wait for the 20 minutes for a check, and then out to the curb with my book to wait for my mom to return. And then I sort of just gave up. I went to college and then I married and started moving and who wants to keep up with new allergists? (I can still hear Harold telling me, "Dr. Zig! Call Dr. Zig!) Over the counter meds improved greatly and it's easy to get used to normal, even when normal means a lot of Kleenex in your life. (Always, always, kleenex! Never scented, never lotion, never Puffs!)

But every once in a while, the allergies get bad and the sinuses get infected and, well, that's not so great. For the last couple of weeks, I snuffed my way through daily life, until I realized that, man, this is wearing me out. I had that tap-your-sinuses-under-your-eyes kind of feeling. Actually, I did try tapping my sinuses to relieve the pressure. It didn't work.

Next stop, Pho #1 (and hey- isn't "#1" a hopeful name for a restaurant, an assumption that there will be more Pho to come?) because what could be better for a sinus infection than pho? Are you familiar with pho? Basically, pho is Vietnamese noodle soup. It is medicinal, I am sure, good for the body, good for the soul. Broth soup in any culture ranks as "comfort food" for me- chicken noodle or caldo de res or Italian wedding soup... But, pho seems Especially Good for sinuses because you can make it hot, spicy hot, that is. Pho has jalapeños and you can add Sriracha, all with the end goal of draining those sinus passages...

Perhaps I set my expectations a bit too high, hoping for immediate relief. Alas. None came, although the pho itself did not disappoint. That night I continued to be a Mouth Breather. In fact, I think I woke myself up snoring. Thankfully my husband and I weren't in the same place that evening...

I considered a visit to the clinic, and I considered that perhaps this one would not resolve itself. So I did what any reasonable person does- I went to the Internet (I know my doctor friends are cringing. So sorry!). I considered "Sinusitis or Allergies?" (thanks WebMD). I researched "10 Natural Remedies for Sinus Infection" (thanks everydayhealth.com). And I ran into one of my favorite advisors at the store and solicited a consult (thanks Kate!).

(Now, I know that at this point many of you are shouting at me, "Neti Pot!! Try the Neti Pot!!" Let me tell you- NO! I just cannot, will not, do the Neti Pot. It is akin to Waterboarding in my book- physical and psychological torture, both. The Neti Pot is NOT an option.)

But, I did decide to give a few squirts of saline a try, a couple times a day. And for 3 full days, that seemed futile, too. I had pretty much determined that the next stop was a prescription for Zithromax (thanks goodRX.com). And then, I thought, I need to blow my nose.

Without going into the gory details on color (yes, there may have been colors) or consistency (yes, there may have been several grades of viscosity) (yes- let's all utter a collective groan of disgust!), I'll just say, I think the saline worked. It wasn't pretty. But after a few minutes of blowing, I was healed.

I gave thanks! I could breathe! And I've been clear ever since!
Let's celebrate with caldo!

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Something like 13 days and 2700 miles later and there remains only 550 more sky miles until I am home.

Well, sort of.
What is home?

I haven't lived in the town where I was born for 45 years (and actually, that wasn't a town, but officially, an Air Force base hospital, perhaps a sign of things to come...). I have never considered calling that "home."

At Christmas time, I will visit the town where I grew up, where a few family members and friends still live- but I'll spend my days as a guest in other's houses and my nights in a hotel room. Although it is familiar and a favorite place of mine, I no longer consider it "home".

Sure, "home" would be the place where I live right now. But depending on what day of the week, that might change, too. No matter what side of the border I am in, when I leave, I say I'm "going home." I qualify my home by location, but recognize the temporal nature of that, too. I mean, a quick count reminds me that I have lived in at least 20-something homes in my life.

In her commentary on homesickness, Jen Pollock Michel writes,

"As writer Julian Barnes put it in his novel Nothing to Be Frightened Of, we live with “the vicious awareness that this is a rented world.” The grass withers, and the flowers fade: Ours is an impermanent life. At the very least, home is a steadying consolation when the lights go out."

I confess, I am easily homesick. My husband teases that I really can't be away from normal life for more than a few days. I think he exaggerates, but I certainly recognize the truth in that statement. I do love to travel, and I do love to return home...
wherever that may be.

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"If you have a garden and a library, you have everything you need," Marcus Tullius Cicero reportedly said. Cicero might have made questionable political alliances back in the days of the Roman Empire, but certainly, I wouldn't argue with his wisdom on two of the necessities of life.

Now, to be sure, I will never claim to be gardener myself. In fact, I tend to have anti-garden tendencies, so much so that my family counts keeping a single hanging basket alive past the 4th of July as a victory. Oh, I have Really Good Intentions. I used to spend winter evenings paging through seed catalogs, garden dreaming of spring to come, and never actually ordering a thing. I love to wander the nursery aisles, picking flats of young plants for a garden bed. I so admire my gardening friends- Trish who would take me and my littles on the seasonal garden tour and knowingly tell us every name of every plant; Julie who tells me that she "doesn't have much this year," and still manages a fresh produce and floral bounty the likes I'll never ever see.

Therefore, when my mom, the Ultimate Local Hostess, suggested a visit to the Dallas Arboretum and Botanical Gardens, I was all in. The morning did not disappoint. We arrived at the cusp of change, and so saw the best of both the end of fall and a sneak preview of Christmas. We strolled through the deep gold and oranges and bronzes and greens of fall, the mums and marigolds and sage and cornflowers showing off their November beauty. We followed the Yellow Brick Road through the Pumpkin Village, where every known gourd seemed to be on display,
forming huts and houses and a welcome to the Merry Land of Oz.

But we also fast-forwarded into the holiday season with the 12 Days of Christmas gazebo displays. Each scene depicts a verse from the Christmas carol; animals and costumed figures and lights and music wait at each stop. The sharp-eyed (and it took a few stops before we figured this out) were treated to additional treats- even the weather vanes at the top of the gazebos gave a hint of the verse of the song.

Finally, we toured A Tasteful Place- the edible display garden on the grounds. We spied red peppers and purple eggplants hidden among the leaves. We admired impressive stalks of brussel sprouts. We refrained from snipping off tastes of the freshest of lettuces and perhaps understood just a little better how Peter Rabbit found himself lost among the cabbages.

For a girl who lives most of the time in a dusty place, that often seems more brown than green, a morning in the gardens was blessing, indeed. Perhaps the next stop should be the library...

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If you fall in love with the holiness of God, it’s a dangerous place to be. Your attitude towards the nations, the unreached peoples of the world will undergo a profound change.
- John Piper, "Holy and Good- But Never Safe"

All day long, for three days, really, long, full, dawn to dark days, I remind myself, "I am an ambassador for Christ." I talk to people about missions. I talk to people about how to use English to reach the nations. I talk to people about what we get to do every day in northern Mexico. I talk to people about the enormity of the grace of Christ, about ways to serve, about making disciples, about "Go, therefore..." 

But also, I see and hear of what is happening around the world. I talk to friends who serve in places around the globe, who labor in faraway and difficult places, who are doing such remarkable things, who are seeing the answers of the prayers of the saints, who persevere through the seemingly impossible. I am awed and I am grateful. I remember, not so long ago, I looked at those works and thought, "maybe there, maybe we should go there..." 

Today I am thankful for exactly where I am, for exactly what I am doing, for exactly the people I serve alongside. I am grateful.

And one called to another and said:

“Holy, holy, holy is the Lord of hosts;the whole earth is full of his glory!”

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PAVE PAVE EVERY ROAD (ISAIAH)

Words and music by Caroline Cobb (ASCAP). Copyright 2017 Sing the Story Music.
CCLI # 7097303. Key: G (Capo 3 E). Tempo: 110. Written March 2015.
Isaiah 40:3-5, 61:1-4, 9:1-2

Verse 1:

Pave every road with repentance
Bring the proud heart low
Let the humble heart sing
Break down all your walls, your defenses
Swing wide your gates 
For the coming of the king

Verse 2:

Lo, he has come to rebuild the ruins 
Lo, he has come set them captives free
I know he has come 
To bind up the broken
It's the year of his favor
The year of Jubilee

Verse 3:

People livin' in the darkness
Lift up your heads and see the sun
I see a new day dawnin'
It brings good news for everyone

Bridge (2x):

I see the sun risin’
I see the sun risin’
I see the sun risin’

Verse 4:

One day we'll all hear a trumpet
He will return with reckoning
I'll follow my king into glory
Who here is comin with me?
Who here is comin’ with me?
Who here is comin’ with me? Yeah!

Bridge (2x):

I see the sun risin’
I see the sun risin’
I see the sun risin’

Outro (2x):

Get up, get ready
Get up, get ready
Get up, get ready
For the king to come
 

Who here is comin’ with me?

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The kids filed in, single file and full of energy, wiggling and bouncing and nodding their heads and waving their hands, eager to begin their songs. No doubt, the event kept the majority of the young singers up much past their usual weeknight bedtime and they were excited. The choir came from For the Nations Refugee Outreach in Dallas. But really, these kids came from across the globe. Their faces show the unique beauty inherent in each of God's image bearers, melanin from light ivory European to deep ebony African and the spectrum of shades in-between. The singers opened "Welcome the Refugee," the pre-conference to the MTW Global Missions Conference. 

10,000 refugees from 28 countries resettled in Texas in 2015. Those people represent 10,000 different stories. Certainly, refugees are not new to this country, nor are they new in light of history. From the very beginning of Scripture, we see examples of people displaced, whether it be due to sin and the actions of others, or to famine and disaster, or to human trafficking, or to war, or to religious persecution. 

Those of us who call ourselves Christ-followers also know what it is to be a stranger in the land, as Paul reminds us in Ephesians,  those who were "separated from Christ, alienated from the commonwealth of Israel and strangers to the covenants of promise, having no hope and without God in the world." We see the mandate to care for the strangers in our midst throughout His word, and we see the promise that His gospel is for people of every nation, tribe and tongue. In the two days of speakers and seminars, we were challenged and exhorted and encouraged to not miss the opportunity to serve the strangers among us in the United States, right here, right now, today.

"Welcoming the Refugee" closed with a video of a Somali woman resettled in the United States being reunited with her husband after several years of separation due to displacement. I watched the face of the beautiful brave woman who gathered her children to wait at the airport customs area for her husband to walk through the doors. And I wept. Tears streamed down my face as I was reminded of faces so similar to hers, in situations so similar to hers, faces that I knew and loved when we lived in Omaha and met the nations in the basement of the church and in the hallways of crowded apartments scented with foreign spices, and in the aisles of my local grocery store. I remembered sharing life through that hard process of learning language, through the shock of the first blast of Midwest winter, through the struggles of parenting in a new culture, through the demands of meeting health demands of a special needs child, through the challenge of beginning life brand new in a far away foreign land. 

My heart remains soft for the refugee and the immigrant and the stranger in the land. My prayer is that many are challenged by the grace of the gospel of Christ to share his outward-looking, stranger-seeking love.





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312/365

‘Do not cool. Look to Him to keep you burning and shining’.
- included in a letter to missionary Amy Carmichael.

311/365

He writes the Chinese characters under each English word, the symbols that appear to have absolutely no connection to the Roman alphabet. When learning to read, my kids used a phonics workbook titled Explode the Code. Certainly, that is what it takes for this kind gentleman as he slowly and deliberately learns to decipher and explode the English code.

I spend the morning observing and enjoying the international community that comes to the church in Rochester, Minnesota to learn English. These faithful come through the doors from distant places on the globe, brought to the town by work and by loved ones and sometimes by circumstances in their faraway homelands far beyond their control. They greet their friends at the door with broad smiles and eager handshakes. As we are introduced, each welcomes me, today's newest stranger in the church, with a "nice to meet you," and I smile wide, too.

The writer of Hebrews exhorts us, "Let brotherly love continue. Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for thereby some have entertained angels unawares." I wonder, perhaps that entertaining happened just this morning in a church in a town way up north in Minnesota. 

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“So they all went away from the little log house. The shutters were over the windows, so the little house could not see them go. It stayed there inside the log fence, behind the two big oak trees that in the summertime had made green roofs for Mary and Laura to play under. And that was the last of the little house.” 
― Laura Ingalls Wilder, Little House in the Big Woods

Just to be clear, I don't remember life without Little House. I can remember going into Plaza Books at Coronado Center in Albuquerque and picking out the next installment in the Little House series. I can remember sitting in the very back space of my mom's Volkswagen Beetle reading Little House books.  (Yes- that would be me seated directly over the engine at the very rear of the car. Yes- that would be me seated without any safety restraint system. Yes- that would be childhood in the mid-1970's.) I can remember reading through the series, and finishing The First Four Years, shelving it, and then starting back in The Big Woods once again. I was The Target Audience of the TV series. I could take my bath, wash, rinse and dry, and be back on the couch before the commercial break ended. 

My kids will attest with nodding heads, the lessons and experiences of Little House have stuck with me to this day. Mary and Laura and Carrie didn't have a VCR in their covered wagon across the plains, and we'll be just fine on our cross-country move, too. Could I too be content with an orange and some stick candy and a corn husk doll at Christmas? That one girl who was such a spoiled bully in elementary school- she was such a Nellie Oleson. I can't look at a grasshopper without thinking of the plague that hit Pa's crops on the banks of Plum Creek. When an Omaha winter seemed to last forever, I knew it was nothing in comparison to The Long Winter in Dakota Territory. The thoughts of Ma making and keeping a home as a pioneer on the prairie have long been a comparison point for me- if Ma can do that, well then surely, I can face the challenges of 21st century life well.

I don't remember how my dear hostess Arlene learned of how I adore all things Little House, but when she did, she promised that she would take me to the cabin. Arlene has many many good qualities, but if there were none other than this promise, she would yet be endeared to me! And so, when setting the itinerary for this trip north, a trip to Pepin filled the space for Monday. 

The Big Woods Cabin sits about 7 miles northwest of Pepin,Wisconsin. It is the birthplace of Laura Ingalls Wilder. Well, to be honest, it is the replica of the cabin. Goodness, when you think about it, what cabin really could survive 150 years? I found two things about the site fascinating. First- the cabin no longer finds itself in the Big Woods. In fact, at this point in history, cornfields surround the little cabin. But second- the cabin is open all day, every day, completely accessible and in wonderful condition. Doesn't that renew a tiny bit of your faith in society? 

Laura Ingalls Wilder wrote, "“The true way to live is to enjoy every moment as it passes, and surely it is in the everyday things around us that the beauty of life lies." Our day-trip along the Wisconsin Scenic Byway was such a delight! To meander with friends and enjoy the views along the way, to savor good food and good company, and even to fulfill a piece of a childhood dream- what more can you ask of a day? 

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When we left the house in the morning, the skies showed gray and the temps settled low, a pretty cool (and I'm not meaning "hip" or
"fashionable"...) fall morning, even by the standards of the folks who live here. And I was freezing. I gazed out the window as we drove by the cornfields, thinking of my farmer friends, thinking of the harvest yet coming in. And then I realized- there was white scattered over the dark earth. I considered, what could it be?
I even asked my husband, "What's that white stuff in the fields?"
Ummm...
Snow. It was snow.
(full disclosure- I realized my error VERY quickly! And then I had a good laugh at myself, honest, I did!)

Dear Midwest,
You are lovely. But it's the front of November. And I've been living in south Texas and northern Mexico for a while now. My blood has thinned; I really do think it has.

Now I remember what I don't miss...

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I look out the bedroom window, over the roofs of houses, over increasingly bare tree limbs waving their last goodbye to fall. I could have been looking out the back window of my house in Omaha; except for the hill in the distance, the scene was that familiar. I realize once again- I never expected to love the Midwest. But I do.

I love the old houses, built in the early 20th century. I know exactly how the wood in their attics smell, the dust of the years, the bite of cold in the winter as you stick your head through the square in the ceiling. I know exactly the faint must of the basements, the creak of the wooden staircase, the drafts that try to drift through the window case gaps. When we lived in an old neighborhood, we knew that only three families had dwelt in the home before us. That sturdy old house matured during a time when people stayed put and in a place where families set roots for generations.

I love the buildings down in the town, the brick structures that have been used and re-purposed again and again over the decades, the faint paint of signs of years past still clinging to the exterior blocks. I look at the upper windows and wonder who lives over the shops and who has improved the doorways and who dreams about working on the street where generations have made their businesses. I cheer renovations and revitalization in long established areas of town, making the old new again.

I love the old churches, their steeples rising above the horizon, their stained glass windows giving a hint of the beauty inside. I love their pews, smoothed over decades of worship, generations of families filing in next to one another for praise and for prayer. I love the old signs that tell congregants what number hymn they are singing this Lord's Day and I love the rich wood that gleams from years of elbow polish and maybe some Old English besides. I hear the voices of the saints when I walk through the doors, the harmony of voices in song, the petitions of prayer uttered aloud. I think of the community that has mourned through hardship and rejoiced in celebration with one another.

I love the hospitality that greets us here. I love how eager Midwesterners are to show you their best. This week my hosts made sure that we visited The Best Donut Shop in town. They gave us a riding tour and told us how things were and how things have changed. They drove different routes to make sure we saw all the countryside. We finish thinking, what a great town! What can we see next time?!

I will always think of myself as a girl from the West. I'm awfully proud answer "New Mexico," when asked, "Where are you from?" But, I'm equally as proud to share how the nearly eight years we spent in Omaha impacted my life. Yes, my temperature finger has been on the edge of numb for a few days. Even so, I'm glad we have opportunity to be back in the Midwest.

306/365

Now I taught the weeping willow how to cry,
And I showed the clouds how to cover up a clear blue sky;
And the tears that I cried for that woman are going to flood you Big River,
Then I'm going to sit right here until I die.
- Johnny Cash, "Big River" (1957)

We cross the border between Iowa and Wisconsin just so we could drive the road alongside the Mississippi River. The Big River runs 2350 miles top to bottom, from the Minnesota headwaters at Lake Itasca to its destination end at the Gulf of Mexico near New Orleans. The Mississippi/Missouri river system ranks as the fourth longest river system in the world. But at this stretch along the way, it seems difficult to believe that these meandering waters creating only a series of ripples along the way could ever make it that far. The skies have turned gray and rather gloomy by the time we reach the lookout point on the side of the road, the sun not far from day's end. Those old lyrics and Cash's deep baritone voice run through my head, a familiar refrain that today found exactly its own place in time.

304/365

I'm pretty sure that nearly everyone from the Rio Grande Valley would agree- every road trip out of the Valley begins with breakfast tacos. Accordingly, on the stop to fill up the gas tank, we also make our way indoors and line up to place our order. I watch as the workers scurry, alternating between filling a bulk order and the requests of those waiting patiently but anxiously, this surely the first stop of their long day to come. One woman rolls balls of dough with a small wooden dowel; another flips the discs on the grill, checking the tell-tale brown spots for readiness. Finally, our turn at the counter and we place our order, "Dos con juevos y tocino, por favor." She scoops the scrambled eggs with pieces of bacon and fills the center of the tortilla, rolling it all up in a shiny foil wrapper. I walk away and open the package and unroll the bundle to spoon in pico de gallo and salsa verde, taking that nearly always losing gamble that it won't drip onto my shirt in the final bites. The coffee also presents a risk. Although usually known to be pretty good for a gas station brew, today a definitely burned flavor exists, and not even a splash of half and half covers it up. I drink it anyway, watching the sunrise along the way. We are off.

303/365

In truth and in short confession, I know that the rules state No Photography. I'm pretty sure that does not just mean No Flash Photography. But I'm awfully proud of this girl- today is her first day of practice with the team. And I don't have opportunity to stand in the doorway and sneak peeks at her flip-flop twisting and leaping very often. I want to document the moment. So I hold my phone stealthily, as if I'm tricking someone, as if I'm intently looking at the screen and not at my gymnast as she somersaults her way across the springy floor. I know, I know- the lighting is too bright and the subject is blurry and overall, the photo is lousy, and I don't get a second pass. Yet despite all that, for me, this photo I'll keep, a visible reminder of this point in time. This capture of a moment will remind me of the faithfulness of our God to answer prayer and to work out the details when we didn't know how, of just how quickly time passes, and of the girl I could once hold in two palms who now springs across the gym.

301/365

We never know how many are going to show up on a Saturday, and that makes planning tricky. Certainly, no matter the country, young men are known to eat a lot. Today's menu is quesadillas. Tortillas, already pressed, are stacked up, ready to cook on my built-in comal. I slice the queso Oaxaca, the salty stringy ropes that will melt and ooze out the sides of the folded tortilla discs. I cut lunchmeat turkey into ribbons- admittedly, not a traditional quesadilla filling but maybe providing these guys with a bit of protein for the day. I half the avocados and portion out the green half moons, spreading across the plate to form bright fans. The salas are in jars and bottles on the table, my favorite green, Tim's spicy red, and the boys make fun that we can't agree on one. They fill up their plates with spicy crunchy Takis and chicharrones and they fill up their cups with coke. We pray, and thank the Lord for good food, and for good friends, and for the opportunity to enjoy one another. We sit and eat and the boys giggle at each other and at us. They ask us questions about our family and about our home en el otro lado, and try to figure out why we're in the neighborhood. In Romans 12, Paul exhorted the saints to practice philoxenia; literally, to show love to strangers. Today we turn that around, and even though we're the strangers, as the author of Hebrews reminds us, perhaps today we will entertain angels.