Pavlov and Turkey in the Straw

The ice cream truck just went by, singing Turkey in the Straw at the top of its electronic lungs. Kids from miles around hear the song and, instantly, their mouths start to water. Nothing could taste better on a barely warm spring day than a Sponge Bob Push-up, drastically overpriced at $2 a pop.

"It's the ice cream man," they shout, scrambling for their own money or begging their mothers for some. They flock to the street, waiting to satisfy the craving they didn't even know they had.

I keep a constant supply of fudge bars and twin pops in the freezer for just such an occasion. For the same price as indulging a momentary craving for a minute, I can fill the same craving in all my kids for a week or more.

I don't respond to Pavlov's call. Not when it sings "Turkey in the Straw" (which I find immensely annoying). I must admit, though, that the theme song for the NPR news quiz makes me want to take a walk. And I suspect they put the milk at Safeway right by the donut case for a reason.

How 'bout you? Do you have any pre-conditioned responses?

Mug Shots

I'm off to the Post Office this morning to mail off our passport applications. Don't you know we'd plan our Africa trip to coincide not only with the month our passports expire, but with the expiration of our yellow fever shots, too.

Ten years since our last passport photos. It's scary how much we've changed in the last ten years. The hubby, of course, looks better than ever. He's more chiseled, less awkward. He's lost the mustache and the monstrous glasses and has trimmed his hair back to a manageable length.

I, on the other hand, am not improving. I've got the baggy eye thing going on, I've added glasses, and I've got the worse hairstyle of my life. And let's not even talk about the weight difference.

I hate getting my picture taken. Hate. It. But I've reached a point where I realize I'm not going to look any better in next year's picture or the year's after that. This is probably the best I'm ever going to look. Might as well record it now.

Mother Birds

I took the kids on a field trip to the Water Resource Center yesterday for a class on where we get our drinking water. About a dozen other homeschool families attended, none of whom we'd ever met before.

The kids gathered in a semi circle in front of a row of tables. The mothers gathered behind. As the class started, I was able to witness an interesting dynamic at work.

The teacher would ask a question. The kids would stare at her. The teacher would rephrase the question. The kids would stare at her. Behind the kids, the mothers grew fidgety. At first, they swayed from foot to foot or crossed their arms. Pretty soon, though, the bolder moms were reaching out and poking their kids. Or if they couldn't reach them, they were waving to get their attention and mouthing the answers to them. The mom next to me wanted her son to answer every question.

My kids weren't answering questions either, which was a little discouraging since we recently finished a science chapter on the water cycle and they should have known all the answers. Nevertheless, I tried to restrain myself from prodding them during the class.

As I watched the other moms I wondered... were they so visibly flustered because they wanted their kids to participate, or to be the smartest, or to succeed? I can't say for sure, since I don't know them, but I got the feeling it was more about Mom wanting to feel like she had succeeded in producing brilliant, articulate, confident children.

Like a mother bird pushing her young out of the nest, not to let them fly, but to show the world... Look what I made!

Descent

Coming down off the mountain into the valley, both literally and figuratively, I found that the ideals of the tea ceremony don't always translate to life outside the garden.

Along the banks of the Willamette River is a memorial to the Japanese Americans who were kept in internment camps during World War II, a sort of too late apology for the injustices placed upon them.

There was a palpable irony in the park, though, as it was inhabited by twenty or so street people eating the meal provided by the Portland Rescue Mission. From the tall, thin man who muttered constantly through his remaining 3 teeth, to the couple entangled beneath a blanket, to the man who had managed to cram more stuff in his shopping cart than I have in my house, each one has a story. Each one has suffered and offered injustice.

I heard someone say recently that history is being treated as an open courtroom where we can constantly go back and apologize for past wrongs, as if that makes a difference. As if it's our responsiblity to atone for the sins of our forefathers.

Might I suggest that a better way to atone for the past is to make a better future?

Perceived Value

What determines the worth of an object? Is it the price tag? Or the illusion of a bargain? Is it the status that is gained by owning the object?

Isn't value determined by how much a person is willing to pay? Take the housing market, for instance. A house that might have sold in a few days for $300,000 a year ago sits on the market for months, not because it has decreased in quality or size, but because a buyer is unwilling to shell out the money for the house. Thus, its value has decreased though no physical factors have changed.

Or take the iPhone. In June, people were sitting in line for the privilege of shelling out $600 for the new phone. Were they paying for the technology, the status or bragging rights as the first users of this newest trend? If the latter, they got their money's worth. If the former, then I understand their gripe when Apple upped the gigs and cut the price by $200, offering a superior product for less cash.

What is the worth of a person?

There's a corny Polynesian movie about a man named Johnny Lingo who offered an outlandishly large bride price for a woman no one else wanted. "Six cows! Why would you pay six cows for her?" his friends asked. "She's shy and ugly. You could have got her for 1 cow, or maybe a goat." But Johnny insisted on paying 6 cows, though even the girl's father tried to talk down the price. Johnny went away and returned later for his new bride. She met him, beaming and beautiful, transformed by the fact that she had worth to him beyond the value anyone else had ever placed on her.

"Johnny made a good bargain," the people decided. "He was right to offer so much for such a beauty." But her beauty grew out of her perceived value, not the other way around.

I want to look at people like they're worth more than the world may think. I want to learn to look beyond a person's quirks or size or tone of voice and see them as God sees them.

Peripheral Vision

There are a lot of people in my life who exist in my peripheral vision. I see them, but I don't really look at them. I greet them, but I don't really know them. I shake hands with them, but their lives don't actually touch my own.

One of the kids was sick yesterday, so I sat with her in the church lobby until services ended. There was quite a crowd back there... a couple of teenagers hanging out, the church secretary overseeing everything, an elder praying with a couple, and a woman crying, a pillow hugged against her. Over the intercom, I heard the call to prayer and the instructions, repeated every week.

"If you have a prayer need, feel free to ask someone to pray with you. Or if you know of someone in need, get up and move to be by that person."

I didn't know the lady. I've seen her, but just in that peripheral vision. I couldn't ignore her, not now that I faced her with nothing to distract me. So I sat by her and prayed for her. I don't know if she heard me through her pain. I wish I could have done more.

I'm so thankful that the God of the Universe heard, that the God of all comfort does not see us out the corner of his eye. He sees us clearly.