Friend or foe?

I have a friend; her name is Helen.
She's very nice and not bad smellin'.
It's e'er so clear that she's no felon,
Or if she is, she's not tellin'.
But come to think, she mentioned sellin'
Her nice 'n humble family dwellin'.
So casual-like...was it oversellin'?
Perhaps it was really parallelin'
Her need to flee but be compellin' -
Convince me that she's not rebellin'
And hopin' I won't go a-yellin'
And let her leave just like Magellan
(Is that right?  I'm not good at spellin'.)
Now I'm thinkin' things in my melon.
My goodness how my head is swellin'
With news like this 'bout a ne'er-do-wellin'...
To think I'd almost gone a-fellin'
And let her ruse keep on propellin'.
Bet she's really terr'ble smellin'.
Wonder, should I go tattle-tellin'?
But these nerves of mine, there is no quellin'
About my so-called-friend named Helen
Who must truly be a nasty felon...
Pro'lly 'scaped prison by repellin'
Down its walls like a nutty hellion.
Oh my, this is awful compellin'.
Better lock my door 'fore she rings my bell 'n
I get caught by the fiendish Helen.

...and people say I'm paranoid...

James Bond, the Queen and My Mama

I love my mama.  She is one of the funniest people I know, not because she cracks jokes, but because she's spunky and what you see is definitely what you get.

In the great year of 2004, my parents went on one of their annual vacations to some exotic place abroad.  This particular trip included a stop in Edinburgh, Scotland.  When they got to their hotel on a chilly morning in October, the receptionist told them that there was going to be a parade of sorts and they needed to go and watch, as the Scottish Parliament was officially moving from one building to another.  They scurried off and found a place to wait amongst the others waiting to see the show.  While waiting, they had a nice conversation with a very friendly policeman whom they struggled to understand.  Finally, the moment arrived.  My parents watched this historic moment, as the Members of Scottish Parliament made their way from the old parliament building to the new one.  The MSPs were dressed in their finest kilts and then, there he was.  James Bond.  And my mother, being who she is, was overcome with excitement and yelled out "Sean!  Sean!" in her best giddy school girl voice.  Upon hearing his name, Sean Connery, all decked out in his Scottish best, turned to my mother and gave her a thumbs-up.

Minutes later, the queen rolled by in her car.  She did not look at my mother, presumably because she heard her call out for Sean, who, as we all know, is a Scottish nationalist that believes Scotland should be free of stuffy English royalty.

Ah, but our tale doesn't end there.  This now brings us to 2011.  About a month ago, my husband and I decided to go out for a drive.  We went to Braemar, a small and not terribly interesting town, on to a ski spot, just to see what a ski resort looks like in the Highlands of Scotland and then turned back toward home, with the intent of stopping at Balmoral Castle.  Balmoral Castle is the Queen of England's vacation home.  Purchased by Queen Victoria in the mid-nineteenth century, it has been used by the British Royal Family ever since.  While I did know that the Queen is currently residing there for her usual winter vacation, I thought I'd read that we could at least walk on the grounds.  Unfortunately, the gates remained firmly shut - at least for us, though I did see a car or two coming in and out.

After all is said and done, I can only assume that the Queen knows who I am and is holding a grudge because my sweet and spunky mama called after James Bond and not her and therefore refused to let me see her fancy house.  And I think that's rather petty of her.  Don't you?

Courage

I have spent much of my life being afraid.   I have always been different, and while I wasn't an outcast, I never knew how to belong to a group.  I remember as a  young teenager I would start journals time after time during school breaks with lists of all the things I was going to change about myself, from my laugh to my clothes.  I shake my head as I type this.  It seems so very long ago.  And yet I still distinctly remember the sting of believing that God made me wrong, that I had an inherent flaw that I could not escape.

For my first twenty-five years or so I had few people in my life who saw me as something special.  I was not one of them.  It wasn't until my late twenties, starting my life anew, that I came to appreciate those things about me that stood me apart from others.  I worked hard to overcome my insecurities and look at myself for who I really am.  What I saw was a woman who had no idea how to be an adult.  I was (am?) a bit neurotic and too sensitive and made plenty of mistakes.  I also saw that I was beautiful and those things that make me different are actually now my favorite things about myself.  And while I didn't know how to be an adult on my own, I knew I could get there - that I could one day become the amazing woman God created me to be.

When I was 29, I met a man unlike anyone I'd ever known before.  He became my best friend.  I married him.  I followed him far far away.  Our journey began in Oklahoma City, Oklahoma.  We then travelled to his home country of France.  After three years there, we moved to Scotland, where we have been for almost a year.

I have spent much of my life being afraid.  In France I was afraid of just about everything.  I spoke no French and was deeply intimidated.  The courage I fought so hard to find in Oklahoma seemed to leave me.  I was an alien in a foreign land.  I was afraid of roundabouts, which were everywhere.  I was afraid of going to the butcher.  Being a perfectionist, I had no interest in fumbling about in a language that sounded to me like nasal gibberish.  I was very very afraid of what people would think of me.  How silly.  Still, it was real to me and it hindered what I could do.

So.  I practiced roundabouts.  We lived in the small town Abbeville (prounced ab-ville or sometimes ab-uh-ville) in the north of France, where, with knuckles whitened from gripping the steering wheel too tightly, I would drive on and off one of the small roundabouts near our home.  It took a few months, but I went to the butcher.  He laughed at me once.  I was trying to ask what cut of lamb to use for a cous cous and the old man who I'd thought was nice went into the back and talked about me, which I could see.  The men he spoke to looked to find me.  I met their eyes directly and shook my head; they lowered theirs.  I was embarrassed, but I went back.  Eventually, we all became friends.  My French was never perfect, but to my relief, I realized that it didn't have to be.

While adjusting to my new surroundings my husband and I suffered great loss.  I thought the sadness might overtake me.  Quite frankly, it very nearly did.  But I didn't let it.  It was a careful and conscious choice.  One foot in front of the other, I overcame the sadness.  The loss has become a part of me, but I choose to focus on what I gained.  I experienced great love.  I gained insight.  Though for a time I struggled to see where God was during my greatest need, I slowly began to see He'd never left.

When I prayed, I heard no answer.  I started to wonder what the point of praying was.  Then a knock at my door came, literally.  Some of the neighborhood children brought me flowers for no reason.  We chatted.  They came back twice more with more flowers (that were really just weeds).  We had a picnic in the front lawn with chocolate cake and milk.  I gained a friend.  She was ten years old.  When I left France, she gave me a note and her favorite necklace.  God does not always answer our prayers with thunder and miracles.  Sometimes, He sends us little rosy-cheeked angels bearing flower-weeds.

Now, after all that, I'm not afraid anymore, at least not like I used to be.  I still have a lot of growing to do.  One thing God has reminded me of again and again is: "to whom much is given, much is required."  To this, I will respond with a great quote from Mother Teresa: "I know God won't give me more than I can handle; I just wish He didn't trust me so much!"  I say this with a smile.  Life abroad is wonderful and amazing and I have seen and experienced things I once thought I'd only ever read about in books.  It is also often difficult and sometimes lonely.  Still.  I am, among all women, most richly blessed.

I have found that courage doesn't necessarily mean forging ahead without fear.  Sometimes, true courage is carrying on in spite of it.

Sunny, Scotland and the Dreaded Drecht

It is the start of another year.  It's time to take a deep breath, exhale slowly and take a moment to appreciate our blessings of last year and the blank slate that this new year offers.  Ah yes, that's the stuff.

I was born and raised in Oklahoma City, Oklahoma located in the middle of the United States of America.  It really is a great state, for many reasons, one of which is the weather.  In Oklahoma, there are all four seasons.  In the summer it's hot.  In the winter, it's cold.  The foliage along the state's eastern border offers a picturesque drive during autumn.  And then there is the new life that bursts forth in the spring...along with the occasional tornado that comes sweeping, or tearing, down the plains.  (For those who are not used to the sky coming down after them, tornadoes can seem like a big deal - and there certainly are some that are.  However, for us seasoned tornado valley veterans, there are very few tornadoes that we think requires more than a shrug and a call to the insurance agent.)

Six years ago I met a Frenchman.  And from that moment on, my life has taken a very different path from that on which this girl from Oklahoma began.

After over three years in France, I have been living in Scotland for eight months.  Scotland is beautiful, unlike anything I've ever seen before.  We live near the Highlands and with the onset of winter, you can see the snow capped mountains in the distance as you drive over the rolling hills.  In the spring, the fields are covered in purple heather.  And the flocks of sheep, in which there is always one that is black, dot the hillsides.  On a bright clear day, the landscape with its stone fences and deep lush green, is so lovely that you simply cannot help but be in a good mood...  On a clear day.

In Oklahoma, it is sunny probably eighty percent of the time.  I've even seen rainy days where the sun still shone bright.  Now I live in Scotland where the sun shines possibly twenty percent of the time.  It is gray here.  A lot.  It also rains almost all the time.  So far, I do not think that I've seen one whole week without it.  

This is my first winter here.  So far, we have had two major snow fronts come through, leaving an accumulated total of over twenty inches and fifteen inches respectively and shoveled mountains of snow up to your waist.  I don't mind the snow.  My car handles the icy roads surprisingly well and I love looking out the dining room windows at my very own winter wonderland.

After about two weeks of weather in which the temperature soared to above freezing, the snow is all but gone now.  The white days have been replaced by gray skies and cold drizzle.  The Scottish have a word to describe this weather.  Drecht.  It is apparently pronounced something like "dreecht", with a germanesque throaty "cht" at the end, like when you are sick and have to cough something up.  Frankly, I think this word describes the weather perfectly.  It is depressing and cold and gray.  As I am so far north on the planet now, the daylight hours only last from about 8:45am until 3:30pm.  Drecht.  I, for one, feel that this word must be said with a bit of a sour facial expression, with one of the corners of your mouth turned up a bit in disgust.  Try it.  Drecht.  Yup.  That's about right.

And so, such are my days now.  Almost no sun, just a few hours of brightened gray skies, cold, drizzle and dirty streets.  Drecht.  But even as I sit here and type my long-winded complaint, the sky has turned blue and I can see the sun shining.  Gone away is the sulky attitude as I think of the snow capped mountains and the one black sheep and remember, once again, how really lucky I am to be here.

The Wee Path Past the Booshes

After too many weeks, I am back at my laptop.  Our guests are gone, my cold is gone, my voice is back and as our days as a bed and breakfast are over for at least a little while, my fingers are ready to type.

As you may already know, I live in Scotland.  I have been here for almost seven months.  I love it here.  It is more like the US than France was but the countryside and the culture is different indeed.

My first week here was filled with the usual unpacking and trying to find my bearings in what was to be my new home.  We live in a very small village in the Scottish countryside.  There is one grocery store, but it's so small it's more like a 7-11 with a bit of fruit and vegetables and without the wall of soda.  After several days of lifting and heaving and box cutting, I decided to go to the Cooperative, also referred to as the Copie (pronounced ko-pee), as told by my landlord.  She mentioned a wee path.  I knew it was close, but wasn't sure how to get there.  I got the stroller ready, baby sitting happily and marched off in search of treasure.

Have I mentioned that I have a tendency to get lost?  A lot?  This is a particularly frustrating trait as my husband seems to have a GPS in his brain.  At any rate, I set off.  I walked for about eight minutes and then got nervous.  I saw another mother on the other side of the road and asked for directions.  She was clearly in a hurry and had no interest in giving directions, but said something quickly about going back.  I thought she meant the turn in the opposite direction from the way I'd come.  I turned around. 

That didn't quite feel right though and while I hardly trust my instincts in such matters, after a few minutes, I decided to ask the elderly woman I saw having a chat with a neighbor.  She was more than happy to oblige.  The only problem was that her accent was so thick I couldn't make out more than ten percent of what she was saying.  As she was old and I didn't want to be rude, I didn't ask her to repeat what I knew I wouldn't understand.  I did, however, catch the words "wee path past the booshes".  What in the world is a "boosh"?  Oooohhhh, BUSH!  Yes, I did see the bushes, thank you.  Baby gibbering to herself, I turned back in the direction which I started out in the first place.

I turned at the bushes and saw what I would consider a wee path.  I walked along and ended up in a neighborhood.  I asked the postman how to get to the Copie and he described a "wee path" too.  My problem was that my definition of a wee path was apparently wrong.  After a few more minutes of retracing my steps, I did, in fact, see another path.  I took said path and saw, almost to my amazement, the Cooperative.  I went inside and got a jug of milk, carrots for carrot soup and bread. 

With bounty in hand and a better sense of the village, I went home.  It took less than ten minutes to walk back what had taken me thirty-five minutes to find.  But hey, I did find it!  And now I know where the wee path is.  It's just past the booshes!

Part 3: The British are coming! The British are coming!

It happened late one night about two weeks ago.  It started with a wisp of frosty air.  The freezer door cracked opened and a drawling voice with a haughty English accent came lolling out, "Oh Raaaaalph..."  Nothing.  The voice called out again, louder, "Oh Raaaaalph!..."  After a few seconds with no response, another voice hollered in a thick Liverpudlian accent, "Oi!  Ralph!  We know you're in there!  Don't make me come up and get you out!

A moment later, the refrigerator door opened and a surprised Scot answered, "Yeah?  Whaddya wan'?"

The haughty one cleared his throat.  "Hello Ralph."  At the mention of Ralph's name, the companion snickered.  Who'd ever heard of a tart named Ralph?  The leader, after an amused glance at his colleague, continued, "My name is Tinsley and this is my companion Seeley."  At this, Seeley issued a self-satisfied, "'Allo!" 

Ralph shuddered.  He'd heard of these two.  Tinsley was a trifle - arrogant, ambitious and very well connected.  His buddy Seeley was a sausage - stupid, surley and always with Tinsley.  The two made a bizarre couple, one not to be "trifled" with lightly.  Ralph tittered to himself at his little joke. Tinsley went on.

"We've come to you on urgent business.  Do you have a moment?"

"Uh, I s'pose..."

"You've been called on an important mission Ralph."

Ralph started, "Wha-?"

Tinsley continued, "We haven't got much time.  Things are warming up down here.  I'll give it to you in a nutshell.  We've got to stop the Americans.  We need to immobilize them - even if it means one thigh at a time."

Ralph's mind was racing.  "What does that have to do with me?"

"You are to tempt the American woman and get her to eat as much as you can....  Do it for your country.  Do it for your queen."  That was it.  The freezer door creaked shut.

All of the contents of the fridge had been listening intently.  The spinach, Emile les Epinards, started talking first in his very thick French accent, "You know, Ralph, you do not 'ave to do zis."  He straightened in his bag.  "I 'ave been working wees 'er and I am certain zat she is too strong for zat."

"Be qviet over zehr," Gustav the German chocolate shouted.  He then asked Ralph what he was going to do.  With a scowl at Emile, he suggested that Ralph speak in a French accent, as everyone knew that the French hate the Americans.

"I don' understand.  Why would the queen want to hurt the Americans?," Ralph thought out loud.

Emile glowered at Gustav and responded, "I 'ave 'eard aboot zis.  I know zis because I 'ave worked against zem, like zee great LaFayette...," he said proudly.  He went on to explain that there was a group out there who hated the Americans for stealing the recipe for cheddar cheese.  He said this with a bit of a smirk, as everyone knows that the French make the best food in the world, including cheese, and he couldn't understand why anyone would care about disgusting ol' cheddar.

Well, that started it.  The Swiss cheese started shouting that the Swiss made the best cheese.  The German chocolate got so mad that he grabbed Emile and shoved him into a drawer.  The raspberries, that were imported from the Brazil, tried to protest, but as raspberries are rather fragile little berries, couldn't do much about it.  They'd seen what Gustav did to the spinach, so they felt it was safer to stay unsquished.  The ketchup was from the US and was understandably upset.  The soy sauce was busy telling everyone that the Chinese had been making wonderful food for a thousand years, far longer than anyone else.  Takeo the warrior tofu listened but said nothing.  He was Japanese - his label said so - but he was made in the USA and was very bitter about it.  Though no one was addressing the mission, he kept thinking about the cause.  However, he was a samurai and would help in his own way; his would find a way to change his label to read "low-fat".  Bowie the butter was a bit on the slow side and got worked up with all the shouting; so to participate in his own way, he started singing out the woman's name in a menacing voice, interjecting the occasional idiotic laugh. The conversation continued in this manner for a while, with all the food getting more and more upset with one another, some of the condiments in squirt bottles were even threatening to squirt everybody.

Suddenly the refrigerator opened.  All conversation stopped.  Ralph felt Gustav looking at him and knew he had to act.  He spoke to her in a French accent.  She responded.  They spoke for a few moments.  He faltered.  She shut the door only to open it again a few seconds later.  She took Emile out of the drawer and refused to speak to Ralph further.  Gustav tried to intervene, to no avail.  She shut the door again and all was dark.  The refrigerator was full of angry mutterings and cheers.

As for Ralph, though he had tried, in his creamy heart, he was glad the mission had failed.  He liked the Americans.  Besides, she wasn't his queen.  He thought to himself, "I am Sean Connery, the James Bond of the food world - smooth, desired and dangerous.  I am secret agent, fighting for the pant-size of all."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Notes:  

First and foremost, I want to make it clear that my intention was not to mock any other country in the writing of this.  Yes, I played off of some stereotypes, but after living abroad, I have learned that people are pretty much the same wherever you go.  (There was no stereotype that I referred to when describing the butter; I simply thought that if butter had a personality, it probably wouldn't be the brightest bulb.)  Communication methods may be different, cultures may vary, but people are people and all deserve respect.  I also meant no insult in relation to the Queen.  While I do believe that any country that wants to be free and has the ability to rule itself should indeed be free, I rather like her.

Emile means rival; Bowie means yellow or fair-haired; Takeo means warrior.  

The Sean Connery reference was put in because he is a Scottish nationalist who believes that Scotland should be free.  

Jesus loves me, this I know...

I adore my daughter.  I love her so much that when I think about it for very  long, I cry and my heart almost hurts from being so full.  When she screams because her mouth hurts from teeth coming in, I pick up her small form and hold her close.  She then wraps her little arms around my neck, puts her tiny fingers into my hair and her face into my neck.  I hold her and her body relaxes.  Her comfort brings me a peace such as I have never known.  I praise God with my whole being for bringing her into my life. 

I think about God.  It says in the Bible that a mother would sooner forget the baby at her breast than He would ever forget about us.  This is so profound that I cannot understand it.  I love my daughter with everything I am, so the idea that God loves me infinitely more is too great for me.

During times of grief, I felt lost.  I did not abandon God.  I would sooner believe that two plus two does not equal four than I would ever consider that God is not the great Creator, but I did not, could  not, understand how I fit into that scenario.  If we are to "cast all our cares upon Him", what do we do when there is no reply?

I think about my daughter.  Sometimes she struggles and becomes deeply frustrated if she can't accomplish her goal.  She gives me the pen to get the lid off for her.  I don't take it off.  She will make a mess and it is better that the lid stay on.  She obviously does not understand this and gets upset with me.  I usually pick her up and console her, but not always.  Other times, she falls down.  I try not to rush over to her to pick her up as she has to learn to get back up on her own.  Every time, however, I cannot help but go to her and watch over her.  I always want to pick her up and rock her and tell her it's alright, but sometimes, for her own good, I don't...  However, I am always there.

I think about God.  If it pains me as much as it does when my sweet girl cries because she's cutting teeth, and God loves me still more, how much does it hurt Him when I despair?  In my darkest moment, that is what I came to understand.  Jesus wept.  He wept because his beloved were in pain.  And through that, I knew that even if He does not save me from injury, He is watching over all the time, waiting and hoping for me to lift up my arms to Him and let Him comfort me.  He always there.  Always loving.  When I don't deserve it.  When it's just a little bump.  When it's a big bump.  Even when I don't "need" Him there...  Such knowledge is too wonderful for me, too lofty to attain.*

Thank You Lord for loving me enough to let me struggle.  Thank you for sunsets and chocolate cake.  Thank you for my husband.  Thank you for letting me be a mama.  Thank you for letting me See.  Thank you for choosing me.

God is good all the time.  All the time, God is good.

*Taken from my favorite Psalm, Psalm 139.