Because mirrors should be nicer...

A few days ago, I posted about how, even though I try to do better, sometimes the mirror can best my self confidence.  As the band, SuperChic[k], put it, "Sometimes I have good days and it's good to be me. Sometimes I get the best of insecurity, and it's quite alright to be the one and only, but today I feel like the one and lonely."  I believe we all can understand that feeling from time to time.

I have been thinking about how many  battles I have had with the mirror, the goriest of which were done during my preteen and teenage years.  People often do not know about children's battles with the mirror, because the children fear that if they mention that something about themselves haunts them, someone might agree that it's true: they really are ugly, awkward, stupid, worthless.  We would all rather fear that it might be true than take the risk of asking, and having someone confirm our fears.

As many of you know, I sponsor some kids through Compassion International.  These kids are really important to me, and it may sound strange, being as I have never met them, but I love them.  When I first signed up to be a sponsor, I did not realize the opportunity I had been given, but it only took a short time for Liline to show me how much she looked up to me, just for choosing her.  I really don't deserve to be this considered  this cool, but for some reason, she places great import in everything I say.  Because of this, I try to see areas where I can encourage my kids where the people in their daily lives may not be able to.

With my sponsored kids, I can't be there to pick them up, and brush the dust off of their knees, or put the bandaids on broken hearts.  I don't know what is being said to them daily.  I can't know when they are having good days or dark days, but I try to make sure that when they are having their dark days, they have a full stock of letters and reminders to scare off those beasts that lurk in their darkness.

So, one day, as I was perusing that dangerous place known as Michaels craft store, I came across these paper mirrors for a dollar a piece.

A light bulb came on, and I bought three, and a 20 pack of markers.

I don't know about the rest of you, but I find that when I am most discouraged or disgusted with myself, I will at least once glance in my mirror, as if to see if it really is as bad as I feel. The problem with this is that the mirror often has a sharp tongue, and rarely disagrees with the dark feelings.  We use a mirror every day, before we leave the house.  I am going to take advantage of this fact.

Because, it's about time mirrors started showing people some love.  Alok Nath, being in India, writes in a script that I can't even figure out which side is up, so I will have to tell him that word means "Handsome" and that is why I chose to cover the rest of it in hearts, so instead of reading it, he might be able to get the gist of love. (There is a protective plastic to protect the mirror. For a paper mirror, it has quite a good reflection under that plastic)

This one goes to Abigail, who lives in Ghana and speaks some English.  This one is not as artistic, but I wanted her to look at this mirror and think nothing but good about herself!  Especially "Loved"   It is my theory that most of our insecurities, and self abusive choices we make stem from our fear that we are not lovable.  In my mind, it is most important that we let the people that we love know it...often!

This last one is for Liline, whose given name is Magarette. She will be 13 this summer, so I thought she might like something a little more elegant than playful. She speaks Creole and is learning French in school, so I looked up some French for her. "God loves you"  "I love you" "Beautiful" "Intelligent"  and "Precious"  are what I chose for her.

I am really pleased with how these little projects turned out, plus I enjoyed the opportunity to color again!  It delights me to think that when they look into these and see themselves, they will also see things like "Beautiful"  "Smart"  and "Loved" and hopefully they will associate those things with themselves more often. I hope that they will be cheerful little candles for my "kids" on their dark days.

Because, quite frankly, it is about time for mirrors to learn their manners, and for us to stand up to them.  It is also time for those of us who are older, and have already seen the reflective battlefield too often to step in, help our younger loved ones to develop positive habits when looking at themselves, and show them how to put that reflector in its place.  It starts by us filling their reservoirs up with love, so that when they are feeling low and they turn to look at their reservoir, they see a lake and not a puddle.

Happy Birthday, Dad

Today, my dad is 50.

There is a lot that can be said about him.

I'll start with one of the most obvious: he is a horrible person to try to find a recent picture of. This is because he is constantly dodging the camera, insisting on being the one to take the picture, or he is moving (he never stops moving unless he is sleeping...and that's not really an attractive picture), or if he catches you focusing a camera on him, he gives you the "If you take that picture, I'll ground you for the rest of your life." glare(which fails more and more, as the majority of his kids have moved out).

Dad is 50 and I am 25. Weird.  What is even weirder for me is to think that 25 years ago, Dad was holding his 1 month old first born, thinking about what kind of parent he would be.

Well, 25 years later, let me tell you about the man who raised me.  He is the dad who started with nothing, and scratched out a living at every odd job available to provide for his family.  For the sake of his family, he did something that likely scared him into needing a change of pants: he went back to school.

He has provided an existence for his kids where they rarely knew they were lacking.  If he couldn't buy it at full price, he found it in a yard sale and then fixed it, or if that option wasn't available, he often made toys for us.  The toys he made were by far the best toys we have owned.

Deny it as he might, he is a mechanical genius.  He looks at something and understands how it works. If anything breaks, Dad can fix it.  One of the first phrases learned by the toddlers in our family was "Fik it, daddy."  And that rings true not only for dolls whose heads fell off, and action figures who no longer said their phrases, but it continues to ring true for heater cores in a certain vehicle that would have otherwise cost $800 to repair (twice), trucks that need new speakers and engine work, and more.

He took us on the adventures our hearts thrived for: sleeping on a bluff that turned island every time the tide rose, petting the galapagos tortoise at the zoo(if anybody asks, that never happened), deep sea fishing, swinging on the rope chair over the stream.

He drove us hard to match his work ethic when we were working with him.  We cursed him for it as teenagers, but learned quickly when we got into the working world that we were ahead of the curve. Because of dad, we tend to earn good reputations within our jobs. 

To work with Dad you must learn to be hungry. Dad sees no point in wasting the 15-30 minutes it would take to stop and eat lunch. He has offered to take me out to breakfast, and decided to make a quick stop at the apartments to look at something that needed a repair.  Each time we finished one thing, he would see another "small" job that needed to be done.  That day, we finally got breakfast at 6 pm.  Beware of the breakfast offer!

He loves a good pun....and a bad one.  He's a candy monger who loves to share (both his and yours).  He loves to scuba dive, especially if he can bring up lobster with him.  He and I share the same joy of standing the breeze and pretending we can fly. He loves to give presents, and is the hardest person ever to buy presents for.  He is insanely artistic, though he also denies this.

And this blog has reached a point in length that he would probably decide not the waste the time reading it, so I could technically start adding insults in and get away with it, but as today is his birthday, I won't.

Happy Birthday, Dad!

Love,
  -Caitlin

Favorite Joke Thursday

We're all much too mature to tell them any more, but it has been so long, maybe we can start telling them again.

Okay, so I don't remember telling this one earlier than 14, but it tickled me for quite a few years.

The richest man in the world is getting old. He has no heirs. He decides to throw a party.  When the guests all get there, packed in tight he takes the microphone and he announces to his guests that down in the garden of his mansion he has a swimming pool with two great white sharks in it. 'I will give anything they desire of mine, to the person who swims across that pool.'
So the party continues.  Everyone is just standing around staring at the pool, until suddenly, there is a huge splash.
In the pool is a man and he is swimming as hard as he can, and the fins come out of the water and the jaws are snapping and this guy just keeps on going and the sharks are gaining on him and this guy reaches the end and he gets out of the pool, tired and soaked.
The millionaire grabs the microphone and says, 'I am a man of my word, anything of mine I will give, my Ferraris, my house, absolutely anything, for you are the bravest man I have ever seen. So sir what will it be?' the millionaire asks.
The guy grabs the microphone and says, 'Why don't we start with the name of the jerk that pushed me in!'


I hope it tickled your funny bone. Got a better one? E-mail it to me.

An aptly spoken word...

I work really hard to make sure I am not repeating negative things to myself when I look in the mirror. This is a habit I have been working on for many years.  There was a point in my life that God made it clear to me that he didn't appreciate me insulting his creations, and that I am one of his creations.  Sometimes, however, it is a hard habit to enforce.  Sometimes, I get up in the morning and I have only negative and whiny things to mutter at the mirror. Sometimes, I look in the mirror and see that awkward teenager again, with ears that stick out, an overbite, freckles, an overly long neck, and a dash of orange hair to call attention to it all. On those days, I content myself with either silence, rehearsed words, or sometimes a song that was on a cassette we listened to often throughout childhood, "God made me like I am, a special God design. Everything God made is good, I'm really very fine..."

Yesterday was one of those mornings.  I especially struggle with thinking nice thoughts about myself on days where I'm suffering from an onslaught of acne.  Ten years ago, I thought this battle would be over, and it is really quite disheartening at times to realized it's almost as bad as it was then.  To add to this, i wasn't feeling well. This morning, I contented myself with silence(a common occurrence the earlier in the morning it is), put on mascara and sunscreen, got ready for church, and left.  I am new at church, so I still cringe a little when the leader says, "Go ahead and stand and greet those around you."  Usually, I march in and find an empty spot, and ask if they mind my sitting there, because I hate to sit alone. Feeling lurkish, I had chosen a seat on an empty aisle, in the last row of the section, on the far side of the church. So, upon the order to greet people, I did the necessary standing up, intending to wait a few seconds and sit down to simmer in the funk again.  It didn't work.

One of the older women who first welcomed me into the church saw me, and crossed the room to give me a hug. That felt good.  Then, the woman who really was the first person to welcome me, hurried over shortly afterwards to give me a hug.  That felt good too. I started thinking maybe, in spite of my bad attitude, I might just surface for some of this cheerful air.  Then, she placed her hand on my face, and leaned in as if to tell me a secret, and whispered, "You're so pretty!" She smiled and looked me directly in the eyes, and then it was time to sit down.

It was a good thing it was time to sit down, because the compliment caught me so off guard, a slight breeze might have knocked me over.  Were I the crying sort, I might have done so.  Instead, I just marveled.  All of a sudden, I felt pretty again.  It was as if she had reached into the mud pit, and pulled me out by my scruff, sprayed me down, and left me in the warm summer sun to drip dry. It felt blissfully good.  And realizing the fact that God loved me enough to put that on her agenda, felt equally good.

Compliments are strange things in our culture.  Usually, we brush them off, because we are pretty sure it was just the polite thing to say, or something a person had to say to fulfill their duty as friend, mother, or some other relative.  When good manners do not call for a compliment and we truly feel that it is genuine, it is amazing the impact a compliment can make.  It can make a day.  Often we think good things about each other, but don't say them, because it would feel awkward.  The compliment that pulled me out of my pit was a good wholesome reminder that I should also be on the look out for opportunities to encourage others.  After all, I'll never know just how much a person might need it at that moment.

"A word aptly spoken is like apples of gold in settings of silver."  Proverbs 25:11

I don't know if this situation is what Solomon meant this verse for, but I feel like maybe I needed an apple yesterday, and someone was kind enough to provide it.

Why make bread?

For many complex and logical reasons... but mainly,

because I wanted some toast with my hashbrowns and eggs! 

If you want some of this complete breakfast, bummer for you. You'll have to be quicker on the draw next time! (Did you really think I was going to make hashbrowns and eggs, and then sit down an blog about it before I ate them?)

Whole grain, gluten-free happiness, with sunflower seeds!

I've been raised on whole grain bread. That's right, the brown stuff. My mom was just hippie enough to insist on me developing a taste for the breads with grain-crunch in them.  Last time I made gluten-free bread, it was definitely much closer to wonderbread than quality grown-up bread.  This time, out of lack of preparation, I mixed together 2 recipes from the gluten-free section of King Arthurs Flour website, added a little extra, and crossed my fingers.  The whole grain gluten free recipe called for a flour mix not available in stores (online order only), so I mixed up the flour blend I used last loaf, and added flaxseed meal and chopped sunflower seeds.  Then followed the directions from the new recipe.  There are a lot of variables this time, so there were high possibilities of this try ending in a disappointing brick.  I took a lot of pictures of the process, so brace yourself for several "thousand words."


The dry ingredients



Can I just say that the earthy look of this flour mix delights me?

The dry mix is then added to the wet mix one cup at a time...strange, but it worked.

Before the first rise

First rise is finished, now to scrape it and beat it(Again, it sounded strange to me!)

This is my self-appoint sous chef. She realized that occasionally, I drop things that should be devoured quickly.  Any time I stood still, she laid on my feet.  This complimentary foot warming was between risings, as I was copying down the recipe and the alterations I made, for the sake not having to make repeat mistakes in the future.

I didn't realize until reaching the point of needing a pan that my bread pan was actually larger than the recipe called for(10"x4.5" instead of 8.5"x4")...so, the dough didn't reach the rim like it was supposed to. No big deal, I hope. It will likely just be a bit wider than it is deep.

Into the oven it goes!

I am convinced heaven will smell like baking bread.

Okay, so even if this stuff winds up tasting like a brick, you have to admit, it sure looks pretty!

It is quite sliceable. It is a little squat because I used a larger pan, but I'm thinking I might like to try increasing the recipe and using the larger pan. I might just get a real sized sandwich.

Because, I'm thinking that bread this size might require multiple sandwiches to be made to equal one meal...

But hey, check out my pores!

And just look at that spreadability!  That butter, ladies and gents, was pulled straight from the fridge for this spreading.

So, all in all, I'm going to chalk this one up as a mostly success.  At the moment, it tastes great! Is that because it's still warm and wonderful, and the baker may have held off lunch so she could have bread with(...or for...) her lunch?  That is quite possible, but I have to say, I love the happy, gentle crunch of sunflower seeds, and the rough texture of the bread in general, thanks to the flax seed, and oh, it is moist!  The bread, I will admit, scared me before I cut into it, because the loaf is a bit on the heavy side...which means later, it will probably feel a little dense, but, as with all gluten free food, that can be fixed by toasting it, smothering it in cheese, or dipping it in something.  I was thrilled when I sliced it to find normal sized pores!  My last bread had huge pores that made the bread a little too spongy, and often gluten free bread has too small or no pores at all.

Changes for next time? Either more bread, or less pan!  And I might also increase the quantity of sunflower seed a little, or experiment with tossing other seeds/grains in.  For those of you who eat nasty things like raisins, this might be a very good recipe to defile with those things.  I haven't typed the recipe up yet, so let me know if you would like a copy of this recipe, and I will pass it along, when I get a copy ready.

The cul-de-sac...

When I was younger, I lived on a cul-de-sac. In my opinion, a cul-de-sac is one of the best places for a child to grow up, especially if it has many children on the street, and multiple sturdy climbing trees.  A cul-de-sac has very little traffic, and the traffic it does have has to slow down.  The bulb is a wide open space, perfect for baseball, basket ball, hockey, and tag.  Children only have to glance down the road, and if they see a car turn onto the street while a game is going on, there is a resounding a chorus of young voices calling out, "Car!" and the game pauses as everyone clears off the street for a moment.  We used to spend hours every day outside, running, climbing, and riding our bikes. 

One of the best feelings of childhood is to play so hard you can feel your lungs, your face, your throat, and your legs burning. Your whole body tells you to quit, but your spirit, in the name of laughter, fun and competition, won't let you, because "IT" is right on your heels, and the last thing you want is to be "IT" next. You race for the designated tree, wrap your arms around it and cry, "Safe!"  And at that age, you are both naive enough and faithful enough to truly feel safe.  Finally, collapsing onto the grass, and rolling onto your back,  you gasp for air as you listen to your heart beat out the dance of endorphins, and watch the sky spin in response.  Air has never felt so crisp before. Cold water becomes sweeter than soda, and this time, the breeze really could pick you up and fly you away, and you would be delighted.  Everything throbs, your diaphragm aches like it might just quit this time, and there is sweat streaking down your face like a broken sprinkler, and yet you are having a blast. And being young, tomorrow you won't feel the consquences at all. 

We used to play until the sky darkened.  The smells of each household's dinner would creep out and mingle and, wrap itself around us. We would eek out those last streams of light. Some times we couldn't even see the puck during the last stretch of the game, but we had to get a few more goals in before the street light came on.  Then, sadly, the street light would switch on just as the residual glow of the sun began to fade, and we would tumble into our respective houses, and wonder why Mom insisted we needed baths. We felt great, why wash it off?  Later, we would drop into bed, and sleep a sleep so restful our adult selves should be jealous about it now.

Maybe adults should play tag more often. We might end up less stressed, sleep better, and be happier to see our neighbors.

I miss my cul-de-sac: the squealing, chasing, laughing, gasping, running, climbing, flying. I miss the unshakable belief in safety.  I miss the unconquerable confidence that allowed me to climb far too high on branches far too thin.  I miss the lack of long-term consequences. I miss gazing up at the sky and the security of truly feeling that when I talked to God, he heard me, every time.  The sky felt so close and immense, and so did God.  I miss the faith that if anything should ever go wrong, all I had to do was send Mom and Dad in, and they would talk it over with the offender and fix it, and then the problem would then dissolve into nothingness. I keep those times close at hand, because the memories are so good, and the feelings so comforting.

I'm glad I was one of the kids who got to grow up on a cul-de-sac. I am also glad that I grew up, even if growing up means having to eventually leave the cul-de-sac, face the traffic, lose the "safe" tree, learn that there is no "pausing the game" to let the traffic fly by, understand there are some things parents can't fix, stop climbing nearly as precariously, and occasionally feel like my prayers are going no where. 

There are growth spurts that you can't have in a cul-de-sac world, joys that you can't get from running, depths that cannot be gained before the street light comes on, stains that cannot be scrubbed away in baths, and heights that you can't reach by way of trees. There are adventures in the grown-up world that are much too big to fit in my cul-de-sac, and I'll take the lumps in exchange for those adventures.  Every once in a while, however, it's still nice to run until you can't breathe, and then keep running until all you can do is collapse, to pretend for a moment, that the cul-de-sac is back, and there really is a "safe" tree, and you really can fly, and to remember that God really is that immense and close, and he really is listening, no matter how grown-up you think you are.