News Trend Happy Thanksgiving|Actual

sasaran cost plus world market

christmas cactus

an attiude

a fierce determination

that I have to choose every day. Even the crummy days.

Setting aside one special day each year to reflect on our blessings is a genius idea. But really, a daily habit of thankfulness is what we need. That's one more reason I love the practice of sharing highs and lows each day - we can be thankful for our highs, and grateful to have survived our lows.

I'm often tempted to fall into the trap of feeling sorry for myself for things I want but don't have. To snap out of that selfishness, it helps me to think about things that I'm glad I don't have.

Like cancer.

Addictions.

A felony record.

Or cankles.

When my faith was young and I was trying to figure out how to pray, somewhere I read that if, in your prayers, you only said thank you, that would be enough.

Over the years, that advice has helped me a lot.

As in many families, I've tried to instill the ritual of going around the Thanksgiving table and asking each person to share what they are thankful for. But as my daughters have often reminded me, it's always people - family and friends - that we appreciate most and once the kids are older than ten, the exercise sometimes feels redundant.

Still, I need to remind myself to appreciate each and every person who makes a difference in my life, and on this Thanksgiving Day, I'm going to do my best to reach out to them and tell them what they mean to me.

That will be a good project to work on while I'm sprawled across the couch in a food coma.

Wishing all the best to you and yours on this pure and simple day of thanks.

* * * * *

impala trophy, string of lights, side table | target

rug | cost plus world market

christmas cactus | my grandma

banner, dining table | diy

red chair | IKEA

wood chair | been around forever

News Trend Hijab|Actual

Hijab. The covering of the female body from head to toe, with only the face and hands revealed.

Before I met my Malay Muslims, hijab was for me the most irreconcilable of all the differences in Islam.I could not accept that such a restrictive code of dress was reasonable, and honestly, the fact that Muslim women were pressured to dress this way made me angry.

Now, seven years later, I still find hijab to be a bit at odds with my world and my faith. But I'm no longer mad about it. I finally understand why Muslimas dress the way they do, and I can happily accept their way of life

My journey to understanding was not easy or fast, and I did a lot of kicking and screaming along the way. As it turned out, my mind, heart and soul each needed to stretch and grow so that I could accept what hijab truly means.

Headscarf styles vary widely, depending on age, event, and personal sense of style. This bride is rocking a glittery headband over a sheer veil atop a snug lacy headscarf, and the grandmas are totally old school. I personally love them all.

Intellectually, I struggled to understand why Muslim women should spend their lives in shrouds. My heart broke to see the young Muslim girls at our school, wild and free in their childhood, suddenly withdraw from playground games as they grew older and were expected to keep head scarves in place and ankles covered at all times. During our annual trips to the water park, while the Christian girls enjoyed the slides and swimming pools in reasonably modest one-piece swimsuits with board shorts, the Muslim girls either sat around and watched, or jumped into the water, hoodies, jeans, headscarves and all. Emotionally, my heart ached for their loss of freedom and I felt my first pangs of anger at a religion that demands a sacrifice of playfulness for what seemed to me like a never-ending campaign to stamp out their innocent sexuality. And my soul deeply desired that Muslim women could understand the joy and beauty of their own bodies, not hidden away as a secret but confidently shared with the world.

My journey toward understanding began in earnest when I met my Malay Muslims.

I began to ask questions about hijab.

A lot of questions.

And I tried to be tactful but sometimes I was just angry and pestering and persistent.

Why do you wear hijab?

Doesn't it make you angry?

Do you assume western women are all sluts because of how they dress?

Why is it fair that women have to cover from head to toe when men can wear almost anything?

I listened as my new friends patiently explained.

Wearing hijab cuts down on unwanted attention from strange men.

We don't waste as much time and money on our appearance as you Western women do.

Covering up is what we Muslim women do to help our brothers avoid temptation.

Modest dress ensures that rape is not a dilema in our world as it is in yours.

Hijab isn't just for women; men are required to dress modestly and cover their aurat as well.

But my overactive brain picked apart every rationalization offered to me, and my frustration grew.

Until one day, when I was ranting away on the topic to my first and best Malaysian friend, Jurie.

"How would you like it," I demanded, "if you had to wrap yourself from head to toe in cloth every day, never to feel the sun on your arms or the wind in your hair or the waves lapping at your bare legs?"

And he answered in a way I never expected: "If I was a woman, I would be glad to do it because that is what God asks of me."

All my angry push-backs melted away in an instant.

Of course. The Muslim dress code is not an intellectual requirement - it is an act of faith. Muslim women dress as they do for one simple reason - to please God.

And that is a choice that I can truly understand.

The number and variety of headscarves available for sale at Kuala Lumpur's largest pasar malam - night market - will blow your mind. Trust me, I think we looked at each and every one.

When I made my first trip to Malaysia, I couldn't wait to see how hijab habits play out in real life. Do the Muslimas don their headscarves in drudgery, suffering through their public day and yanking them off again in great relief when they return home? Will they be embarrassed and shy to show their hair to me? What will they think of me, with my head brazenly uncovered and my pale American legs bare in the tropical heat?

Now, all Muslim cultures are not the same and that is particularly true when it comes to customs of dress. Malaysian women do not wear the solid black burkas of the Middle East nor the somber tones and heavy fabrics of many American Muslim women.

Like the tropical birds that they are, Malaysian Muslimas cover themselves

in all manner of brilliant colors and bright prints,

intricately folded and ruffled headscarves held in place with bedazzled pins and clips;

high heels flashing under their skirts,

designer handbags on their arms.

Their headscarves are just one more element of their stylish ensembles and honestly, just one more fun reason to go shopping.

And while it's true that my Muslim women friends do usually pull off their headscarves as soon as they walk in the door at the end of the day, they are no more or less eager than I am to kick off my shoes and put on yoga pants. Shaking off their scarves and straightening their pony tails, my friends did not seem to wonder for one moment about what I thought of all this - headscarves are just a part of life, unworthy of comment or consideration.

Did the Malaysians judge or shame me for my code of dress? Well, that's a complicated answer. My friends didn't blink an eye at what I wore, but some members of the older generations did look a bit uncomfortable. Jurie came to my rescue once again, suggesting that I certainly was welcome to wear whatever I wanted, but I might avoid some stares by covering my legs.

That did not offend me. We all respond emotionally to how others dress, and if a woman from the Amazon showed up topless at my house, I would probably offer her a tank top to wear around town.

Sure enough, a pair of leggings worn under my skirt seemed to calm everyone down and that was an emotional response I can truly understand.

My favorite Malaysian playmate sporting her favorite fashion look.

One of the great joys of my visits to Malaysia has been getting to know Jurie's daughter. Aleesya was three when I first met her, sassy and playful and full of high spirits. I silently mourned to see her heading off the preschool dressed in her proper little Muslima uniform complete with a chin-choking headscarf, and I felt sad for what I assumed to be the burden of hijab that her little soul must bear.

One of my happy privileges during my visits has been giving Aleesya her baths. Just as with my own baby girls, this simple task grew into great rituals:

making gravity-defying shampoo hairdos,

playfully dumping buckets of water onto the waterproof floor,

wrapping her up in her towel like a little burrito and singing Rockabye Baby,

powdering every little wrinkle and fold of her sturdy brown body,

and brushing out her tangled hair.

But Aleesya added a special twist of her own. Each time, as I attempted to wrangle her into her fresh clothes, she would put her underwear on top of her head, adjusting it so her face was looking out one of the leg holes, and proudly exclaim, "Tudung!"

Tudung means headscarf.

Oh my gosh. Just as my little girls pulled white socks over their hands and up their arms, pretending they were wearing fancy long gloves, Aleesya was play-acting at being a beautiful woman by donning her underwear tudung.

She did not see the headscarf as an object of oppression. To this little girl, the tudung represents womanly beauty, and she was already itching for a piece of the action.

And that is a sweet dream that I can truly understand.

They don't look too oppressed to me.

Now make no mistake, I am still not quite completely on board with the concept of hijab.

As a westerner, I consider my arms and legs to be fit for public display and will always cringe at the idea of giving up the personal freedom to dress as I like.

And as a Christian, I struggle to wrap my head around the idea that my God is one and the same as the Muslim God, Allah, yet He asks such extraordinarily different things from us.

Those ideas are not likely to change any time soon.

But now, thanks to my Malay friends, I totally understand that Muslim men and women alike view hijab as an obedient response to God's will, and to them, that manner of dress seems acceptable and normal and downright fun.

I'm not mad about hijab any more.

I love and accept my friends' differences without fear or frustration.

And I might just be a fan of the underwear tudung.

News Trend Sacred Traditions|Actual

 Back in the day, we took normal photos of our just-decorated Christmas tree,

but now we're all about the blur-on-purpose.

Christmas at my house has changed a lot in the past couple decades.

Take for example, our traditions around decorating the tree.

This used to be an all-day extravaganza that began with a morning tree-hunt, featured an afternoon intermission in which I put everyone down for naps while my husband wrestled the tree into its stand and lights, then an evening finale in which all six of us chaotically decorated the tree, ate a ritual pizza dinner, and then drank cups of hot cocoa around our lovely finished masterpiece before bed.

That was a lot. I find myself exhausted just thinking about it.

Nowadays, my twenty-something daughters are way chill about the process and we have been able to let go of some of those old, rigid traditions.

We're good with fetching the tree home from the farm and then letting it sit in the garage for a day or two before lugging it into the house to decorate. Gives the spiders more time to crawl away.

My husband has been relieved of his wrestling duties; our fourth-born has infinitely more time and patience for that tedious project and, other than a few times when an extra pair of hands from me when necessary, she likes to single-handedly take on everyone's least favorite part of the job.

Ceremonial pizza dinners are nice but no longer mandatory. Tonight, my homemade macaroni and cheese casserole got the job done very well.

The process of tree decorating involves far less squealing, running, and flinging of tissue paper. I'm not entirely sure that is a good thing. But we do have time to tell each other the old stories behind the ornaments and to breathe, so that's a nice trade-off.

When the next generation of babies rolls in, I'm sure our family tree-trimming traditions will change again, and a more regimented process will likely be reinstated. For now, I must say that I am enjoying the freedom to let our holiday moments drift in whatever direction feels right in the moment.

However, hot cocoa at the end of the evening is still mandatory. Some traditions, it seems, are sacred.

News Trend My Thanksgiving Dinner Plate|Actual

Apple stuffing

flaky biscuit

green bean casserole

turkey

macaroni and cheese

and a dollop of cranberry sauce in the middle

with a toasting flute of sparkling apple cider

served on my grandmother's hand-crocheted tablecloth.

Cheers! Thanksgiving dinner is finally here.

I don't know why I feel compelled to take a photo of my heavily laden Thanksgiving plate each year,

But I do.

Maybe that urge is driven by the many hours were spent preparing the food.

Or the many hands that helped to get it ready.

Or perhaps I'm trying to capture and preserve this food as the symbolic blessings of all the good stuff in my life.

Could be any or all of those things.

The fact remains that I cannot help but pause, after praying and filling my plate, to take that photograph. And I'm talking about a rearrange-the-setting, eliminate-the-weird-shadows, stand-up-on-my-chair kind of photograph.

Clearly, I am not messing around.

So let's raise a toast to my dinner plate and yours, and all the many blessings for which we give thanks.

* * * * *

More Thanksgiving stories!

Festive Garlands: Part One

Pumpkins, Acorns, And A Leaf

Teaching My Own: Talking Turkey

I Will Be Thankful When It's Done

Giving Thanks For Thanksgiving

Giving Thanks For Sly And Soul Train

It's Beginning To Look A Lot Like Thanksgiving

Thankful For The Forest

"T" Is For Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving Dinner

Looking Up: Thanksgiving Edition

News Trend Electrifyingly Impactful|Actual

Ninety-nine percent of the time, I hate when people put Christmas lights up before Thanksgiving.

Up until a few days ago, I would have griped about any and all folks who dared to rush past my favorite holiday. We will get to Christmas soon enough, people. No need to take things out of order.

But I have graciously granted an exception to my good neighbors at Electroimpact, who proudly plugged in their nativity display well before Thanksgiving weekend.

^ A hulking, cavernous industrial building is lurking in the shadows, its white rectangular sign barely visible at the base of the shimmering star. The nativity characters - more or less life-size - line up along a sidewalk that runs downhill, which is why they look all tilted.

It's all part of the Electroimpact-y charm, and this is just one scene on a street full of their decorations.

                                                                       * * * * *

Wait a minute, you're thinking. Electro-whatty-did-you-say?

Two miles from my house, on a street of light industrial businesses, stands the main campus of Electroimpact. Jam packed with delightfully geeky design engineers, this is a business that makes tools for building things. Big things. Like, say, airplanes. And considering that Boeing's final assembly plant, where wide-body 747s, 767s, 777s and 787s come together, is also in my back yard, this all makes plenty of sense.

Now why, you might ask, is a class of tech nerds so pumped up about getting their Christmas on?

I don't honestly know but therein lies my fascination. Finding myself drawn to their perplexingly eager holiday spirit - not to mention that impressively towering star - I can't help but love what the guys have done to the place.

[Side note: I'm sure Electroimpact is a equal-opportunity employer, offering jobs to both genders and all races. But my empirical observation (I drive through the campus at least two times a day) is the company employs a never-ending stream of tall, skinny white guys with bad beards and fleece jackets.]

So carry on, my brothers; I applaud your sincere if a tad early efforts to ring in the Christmas spirit.

Your impact on my holiday mood is, umm, electrifying.

News Trend Tree Hunting|Actual

A Vegan Murder

2012

Weather can be a wild card. Several of our annual outings have been blessed with falling flakes of snow, others with rare warm days of golden sunshine; the vast majority have involved raindrops and mud puddles.

Pets play a role too. On and off, our two dogs - Ranger and his predecessor, Casey - have often tagged along on our tree hunts. As their lifespans have run the gamut from puppy to oldster, their companionship has stirred in an element of surprise, from tangling their long leashes like a cat's cradle among the trees, to attempting to drag me off into the tempting forest, to greeting other dogs and small children with a feisty friendliness that requires a human filter.

Safe to say, our Christmas tree adventures are full of ups and downs and, like a kaleidoscope, an ever-changing mash-up of surprises.

This year, however, was a notable exception to that rule.

Today's outing to Bowen Tree Farm was nothing short of chill.

We quickly and smoothly came to consensus on the tree we wanted.

No one cried.

No one pouted.

No one swore.

Well. I wasn't standing close to the tree while my husband sawed it off, so you never know what might have been muttered at ground level. But I heard nary a peep.

Our morning weather started out brisk and sunny; clouds slowly rolled in while we were bundling out tree up top of the car, but the raindrops waited to fall until we were halfway home.

And Ranger? Well, Ranger was an absolute gentleman.

He wagged politely at the dozen or so toddlers who pointed at him and squealed, "Doggie!"

He waited until I invited him to walk to the edges of the clearing, and then he happily went to work, head down in the underbrush, breathing in the scents of the forest.

And while we were deep in tree-choosing negotiations, he simply lay down in the grass and waited patiently for us to finish.

Now don't get me wrong. I don't for one minute assume that our hectic years are behind us.

Heaven knows next year could bring in tornadoes and temper tantrums as never seen before.

But for once, it was a pleasant surprise - maybe even a shock - to hunt for our Christmas tree in heavenly peace, and a very good boding for the season ahead.

* * * * *

More Christmas tree farm adventures:

2018 | Christmas Absurdities

2017 | Red-Headed Soul Mates

2016 | Christmas Tree-Hunting Blues

2015 - Tree Hunting

2014 | Hunting the Perfect Christmas Tree

2013 | A Vegan Murder

2012 | The Christmas Tree Farm Revisited

News Trend Our Children|Actual

Jumping over puddles and running between the raindrops, I dashed into Whole Foods on my usual brunch break during a busy morning of teaching. But unlike most days, I did not have trinomials on my mind.

Instead my thoughts were circling round a pair of binary ideas.

First, a Christmas card from a dear work colleague from back in the day had arrived in my mailbox the day before, and Barb's annual update brought me fascinating news.

I have been working a lot at Pregnancy Life Line - it is a wonderful ministry that helps women and men facing unplanned pregnancies. Our area is very poor and many of our clients have not had good role models - we work with them on an ongoing basis to help them become good parents

I found myself deeply touched and incredibly impressed by my friend's willingness to put herself out there and make a difference in her neighbors' lives. In a nation consumed with rhetoric on both sides of the abortion debate, it's a rare breed who goes beyond posturing to actually help unintentional parents make the best of a situation that they're not equipped to handle.

Second, I was on my way to meet with a pair of students whose family is fostering two young boys, ages nine and seven. Like many kids in the foster system, the boys have a troubled family history and a turbulent family tree, and over the past weekend, these foster parents - Jenn and Tom - were put in the uncomfortable position of delivering some sad and complicated truths to the boys about their lineage. I was anxious to get an update on that delicate situation

As I finished my shopping and stepped back outside into the wet, windy weather, smoked turkey wrap in hand, my eyes fell on a curbside display of flowers.

Tulips.

Delicate spring blossoms in sweet pastels, these flowers were no match for the storm that raged around them. How fragile they seemed, how impossibly incapable of surviving the cruel world into which they had been thrown. Certainly no one had considered the tulips' well-being when plopping them down out-of-doors on a Pacific Northwest December day, but here they were, just the same, vulnerable and alone.

And I wondered who was taking care of these tulips, who would make sure they were safe.

* * * * *

I was halfway across the parking lot when something inside of me insisted on going back for photos.

The metaphor hit me as I sat in my car, flipping through the just-captured images on my camera roll.

These are our children.

The ones whose parents did not plan for them.

The ones whose birth families don't know how to care for them.

The once who have been taken from dangerous homes.

The ones, vulnerable and alone, who are still hoping to survive in this wild, storm-tossed world.

I'm so thankful for people like Barb and Jenn and Tom who step boldly into that void and care for those fragile, beautiful, deserving children. And I pray that I might be wise and strong enough to join them.