Feasting on Manna

I've been thinking a lot about Egypt lately.

No, not the pyramids, or even the Bangles' monster hit of the 80s.

I've been thinking about the way God delivered the Israelites from their bondage in Egypt, only to have them gripe about His methods every step of the way.

It used to be that when I'd read the pages of Exodus, I'd think, "You morons! Quit your complaining." I mean, God split the Red Sea, for crying out loud! You would think such an awesome experience would cause them to think twice before squawking about how hot it was in desert, or how bland the the manna tasted.

Now, I don't read it quite the same way ... because I think I would have done the exact same thing.

It's amazing, really, how petty I can be in light of all God's goodness. After all the things He's given me, and after all the amazing ways He's worked in my life, I'm still prone to freaking out whenever things look bleak. And then when He answers my prayers, I lament how it's not exactly the answer I was looking for.

Silly Israelites. Silly me. When will we ever learn?

And so I'm trying to do better about that. Trying to trust and trying to be grateful, on my way to the Promised Land.

Macaroni and cheese

This past weekend, I traveled with my parents and Emma from Bourbonnais to Omaha to witness the dedication of my nephew, Thane.

By all logical calculations, the trip out there should have taken somewhere between 7 and 9 hours. Possibly 10 with a couple, lengthy stops. For some reason, it took us 11 1/2. Yeah... I don't get it either. I'm pretty sure we hit a time warp somewhere near Des Moines.

Regardless, we pulled in to Ben and Steph's driveway somewhere around 5 a.m. We turned in for bed immediately, but the next 5 hours of sleep went by in a blink. Then we readied ourselves for the Henry Doorly Zoo, where we walked from exhibit to exhibit from noon until 5:30 p.m. The next day, Sunday, was only slightly less sleep-inducing between church, errands and late night viewings of The Office. Then on Monday, it was time to hit the road again.

Honestly, we had a fantastic time, but I was E-X-A-U-S-T-E-D! We've been home for 2 days and I still haven't completely recovered.

But as tiring as it was for me, I can only imagine what a trip like that does to a 2-year-old's body. Emma spent more hours in vehicle than she ever had before, she spent more time walking than she ever had before, she stayed up later and went more consecutive days without a nap than she ever had before.

Even so, pushed to her limit, Emma was refleshingly pleasant. She was thrilled for the opportunity to watch Monster's, Inc. and Cinderella repeatedly in the van, she basked in the attention of her aunt and uncle, and she even discovered a new hobby: tattling on her cousin, Caleb. She loved every minute of the adventure!

Proud of her beyond measure, I wanted to reward her with a simple pleasure. At every restaurant we visited to, from, and in Omaha, I told her she could have whatever she wanted. Her culinary drothers are really quite basic, and so her response was always the same. "I want macaroni and cheese."

You would think this wouldn't be a problem. It was. It seems like that would be a restaurant staple. It's not.

Meal after meal, I would scan the menu only to feel the weight of a broken promise. "I'm sorry, hon. They don't have that. But we'll get it next time."

Only they didn't have it the next time. Or the time after that. Or the time after that. It was heartbreaking. Every time she had to settle for chicken nuggets or grilled cheese, she looked at me like I had completely crushed her spirit. Out of guilt, I even let her have what is normally forbidden fruit: pop and french fries.

Finally, with just the right amount of planning ahead, and an outrageous number of bathroom stops, we arrived in Davenport, Iowa on Monday evening just in time for dinner -- our last meal of the trip. We ate at the Machine Shed, a restaurant that prides itself in down-home cooking.

Sure enough, there it was on the kid's menu: good ol' macaroni and cheese. Woohoo!

I was downright giddy to finally provide my little girl the desires of her heart. I ordered with a great sense of pride, and as the waitress returned to our table with a tray of food, I'm pretty sure I clapped my hands in excitement. "Emma, here it comes!"

The overall-clad woman set a bowl of delightfully orangish noodles down in front Emma, and I held my breath in anticipation.

Emma took one look at the bowl and pushed it away.

With absolute certainty in her voice she told me, "I don't like macaroni and cheese."

The two hardest words

I had an interesting glimpse into the human psyche the other night.

Robert and I were playing with Emma in her room, and I reached over to show her one of her toys. As I did, Emma quickly snatched it away from me and said, “No, mommy, that’s mine.” In the process of pulling the toy away, she inadvertently whacked me in the face.

Now, I really should clarify, I don’t believe for one moment that she meant to hit me. Clearly, she was being toddlerifically selfish, but the “injury” was purely accidental. And I should further clarify that this is not standard Emma behavior, lest the readers of this blog think I’ve raised a monster. She’s generally very sweet natured, much like her mother.

Nevertheless, Robert wisely identified this as a situation that needed to be addressed. “Tell your mommy you’re sorry,” he said in a firm, fatherly tone.

Emma immediately stood straight up, arms by her side and clamped down her jaw in stubborn defiance.

After a few moments of silence, Robert repeated the order. “Emma, tell your mommy that you’re sorry.”

Straight face, no response, her eyes firmly locked on the wall.

Robert looked at me, and then turned back to Emma. “Alright then. I guess you’re going to have to go in time out until you can say you’re sorry.”

Now, just to underscore how uncharacteristic this is of Emma, we’ve rarely had to punish her to this point in her life. And coincidentally, it’s never happened while we’ve been home. He turned back to me and we had one of those magical conversations that take place without a single word being uttered. “Where is time out?” my shrug conveyed. “I’m not sure,” his eyes replied. I motioned toward the corner with my head, and he marched her over there.

She stood silently staring at the wall for a minute or so, when Robert went over and gently spun her around. “Are you ready to say you’re sorry?”

No response.

“Emma, all you have to say is ‘I’m sorry.’ It’s easy. Tell your mommy you’re sorry for hurting her.”

No response.

He sighed. “Alright, I guess it’s back to time out.”

Two minutes later. “Now, are you ready to say you’re sorry?”

No response.

“Back to time out.”

Folks, this went on four more times, each following about two minutes worth of time out. It was a rather impressive standoff, and I was genuinely worried we’d be there all night.

Then Robert asked the controversial question one last time, after the sixth and final time out session. I’m still not sure exactly what she said, but we heard the faintest of whispers from Emma’s lips. Actually, I’m not even sure that she said anything, but her lips did move. And then she came and hugged me.

We took it. It was way past bedtime, and we were feeling drained.

Such simple words: I’m sorry. And yet even at two years old, Emma already knows how difficult they are to say.

I was thinking about this encounter with Emma today, as one of my colleagues walked into my office.

Earlier in the day, we had quite the infuriating conversation, and I had been fuming ever sense. He had said the most outlandish, unfair things, and I let them get under my skin. I was angry and discouraged by the whole situation.

So when he walked into my office, he was absolutely the last person in the world I wanted to see. Then he said the two hardest words in the English language.

“I’m sorry.”

Those words are as powerful as they are difficult, and in that moment, my anger instantly vaporized.

“I was wrong,” he said. “I was unfair, out of line, and should have never said the things I did. I apologize.”

Wow.

Weeks from now, I’m sure I will not remember the subject of our dispute. I won’t remember what he said, and I won’t remember why it made me angry. What I will remember is his willingness to make it right. I saw his character more clearly in that moment of reconciliation than I have in all the days when he’s been nice to me.

That’s the kind of transparency I want to have, and the kind of attitude I want to bestow upon my children.

In this world, there will be days we screw up royally. All of us will be at fault at one time or another, and we’re bound to hurt the people around us. In those times, it’s the people of character who will stand out because of their willingness to say, “I’m sorry.”

The World’s Most Super-Interesting Olivetian

You may have heard, my sister Stephanie has been actively campaigning for my attention lately.

Not the regular, sisterly, “I love you; let’s spend some time together” kind of attention, mind you. After all, we converse via phone, e-mail, or Facebook just about every day. Sometimes multiple times a day. No, the attention she desires is much more specific.

You see, I’m the editor of Olivet’s alumni publication, The Olivetian. Stephanie sees this connection as her ticket to glory and fame. And so she uses every opportunity she can to try and convince me why she should be the subject matter for an upcoming alumni feature. She’s blogged about it; she’s talked to friends about it; she’s submitted photos to me for it. I think the next step is a billboard.

Rather than see Stephanie waste her precious time and resources on a mass advertising campaign, I decided to dedicate a blog entry to her. Perhaps it’s not quite as far reaching as ONU’s official publication, but the best I can figure, at least five people read my random ponderings.

And so, Stephanie, a tribute to you…

15 reasons why Stephanie Joan (Quimby) Kumor is my pick for the 2009 World’s Most Super-Interesting Olivetian: *

1. Stephanie has never had a cavity.

2. Stephanie’s left eye (or is it right? I’m sure she’ll correct me) moves back and forth involuntarily when she’s eating.

3. Stephanie is an incredibly loving and hard working mother. Where I would probably spend most of my day lounging around, she spends her days keeping things exciting for Caleb and Thane. On any given day, she’s at the zoo, library, or park with them, or at home playing educational games. No wonder Caleb is brilliant – his mommy is constantly teaching him new things!

4. Stephanie is the utmost authority on shaving devices and products. She has tried everything from wax and sandpaper to bleach and electronic zappers in her quest to find the most painless and effective way to rid her body of unwanted hair.

5. After graduating from ONU, Stephanie worked for a sleep clinic, where she measured the brain activity of patients while they were sleeping. This data was used to confirm or rule out sleeping disorders such as Sleep Apnea. One April Fool’s Day, Stephanie told a patient that if he produced a drop of sweat while sleeping, he would be instantly electrocuted by all the wires.

6. Stephanie is a pickle fiend. She has loved them for as long I can remember and can wipe out a jar in no time. She also adores those pickled peppers you see at salad buffets.

7. Stephanie’s middle name, which is the same as our mom’s, defines phonetic reasoning. Heaven help her the day she gives birth to a girl. She intends on passing the name to a third generation, and Ben insists on making it rhyme with “phone” instead of treating it as two syllables (Jo-an.)

8. Stephanie is a Craig’s List connaisseur. She’s the queen of getting incredible deals on toys and furniture.

9. When she was a child, Stephanie developed a weird, large, purple blob-type growth on the top of her foot. The doctors were fascinated by it, claiming they had never seen anything like it before. It went away as mysteriously as it appeared.

10. Stephanie has always been athletically gifted. She was a fantastic basketball player back in the day, and on our town’s swim team, she could do the breast stroke like nobody’s business. I always enjoyed watching her from the bench.

11. Related, when we lived in Hoopeston, Stephanie once woke up and discovered that the Sweetcorn Festival’s 5K run was beginning directly in front of our house. She threw on a pair of shorts, and decided to give it a try, without any training whatsoever. She was one of the top finishers in her category.

12. In a moment of beautiful creativity today, Stephanie figured out how to turn Leviticus 18:19-20 into a special, Valentine’s acrostic greeting. (Look it up. You won’t regret it.)

13. Stephanie and I are contemplating starting a side business providing baby/toddler attitude tees. Proposed onesie sayings include “Follow me to a hot mama,” “I drool cuz I’m cool” and “Booby: the other white meat.”

14. As a child, Stephanie had her mouth washed out with soap so often that she developed a taste for Dawn.

15. Finally, Stephanie has an extraordinarily gifted sister who just so happens to be the editor of The Olivetian. She is thereby interesting by association.

So, there you have it. Stephanie, I think you’re pretty cool, and I will do my darndest to work you into an upcoming issue.

Just submit a short note, no longer than 50 words, beginning with the announcement of Thane’s birth, and I’m pretty sure I can squeeze it somewhere into Class Notes.

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* The World’s Most Super-Interesting Olivetian contest has no affiliation or impact on the World’s Most Interesting Olivetian annual contest sponsored by Olivet Nazarene University. The similarity in title is purely coincidental and shall not be construed as an endorsement, or prediction of outcome, for the 2009 WMIO contest to be held later this year.

Gynecology patients say the darndest things

As I write this, I am sitting in a doctor's waiting room, desperately trying to tune out the conversations around me.

For all inquiring minds, I'm not sick, and I’m not pregnant. I’m just anxiously awaiting the mother of all annual appointments.

So far, I've been waiting for nearly an hour, and I've given up hope of escaping any time soon.

I tried passing the time with one of the complementary magazines, but I could only stomach about half of the article on Randy Jackson's gastric bypass surgery. Pun intended.

And so now I’m blogging to you, whoever you might be.

How are my fellow waiting room attendees passing the time while I pretend to be at work on my Blackberry?

Woman # 1 is loudly speaking in exaggerated baby talk to her four-month old son, occasionally glancing around the room to see if anyone will, once again, comment how cute he is. She had an epidural with him, but not with his older sister. The epidural put her to sleep. How do I know? She told us.

Woman # 2, clear across the room I should add, is talking boisterously on her cell phone. She "doesn’t want to go into details because [she's] in a room of people,” but she was in the emergency room all day yesterday because she was bleeding again. The intern who did her pelvic exam admitted out loud he couldn't find her cervix. No, the doctors aren't overly concerned, they just have her on "pelvic rest" until the baby is born. Yes, her husband has been very understanding. Besides, there's plenty of other things they can do to keep things exciting.

Woman # 3 is raving about what an incredibly cute belly woman # 4 has. Seriously, she's been talking about it for at least the last 10 minutes.

Woman # 4 is due on the 25th, but she's so skinny all her friends think she's only 4 months along. Gag me! When I was at 4 months, a woman at church asked me if I was having twins.

This must not be woman #5’s first go around, because she thought to bring a friend. The two of them are planning out an intervention for their other friend who shouldn’t put up with her boyfriend’s crap any more.

Woman # 6 is trying to corral her toddler. He’s wearing those little shoes that squeak whenever he takes a step.

Woman # 7 is politely smiling at the toddler whenever he runs up to her. She's putting up a pretty good front, but you can so tell she wants to rip the squeakers right out of those shoes.

Women # 8 through 12 are either reading their magazines or digging through their purses. I suspect that, like me, they are just trying to appear busy.

Wait? What’s that?

The nurse just called my name! Wahoo!

I’ve never been more thrilled to strip down to a paper robe in my life.

Should old aquaintance be forgot?

I had this horrible dream the other night.

In a chance encounter with an old friend, I asked her where our relationship had fell apart. Why had we not kept in contact over the years?

Her answer: my hair. She was afraid my haircut would look bad in her pictures.

Yes, it was a little strange. Yet for whatever reason, I couldn't go back to sleep once my angry response to her woke me from my slumber.

It got me to thinking about all the close friendships I've had over the years. Those kind of friends you label as "forever." And yet, very few of them are.

Things happen. Moves happen. College happens. Marriage happens. Babies happen. And somewhere in the process, those relationships I thought I could never live without, have fizzled by the wayside.

At first it seems a little sad. Then I remember all the wonderful things I've gained along the way. New places to call home. Love. Motherhood. Wisdom. And even new friends.

Should old aquaintance be forgot? Absolutely not. They are part of who I am, and I will forever relish my memories with them. I will smile when I look over old pictures with them, and I will celebrate when I learn of the new exciting things happening in their life.

But neither should they be mourned. They've changed, and I've changed. There's nothing wrong with that.

Life is to be lived looking forward, not backward.

Dwelling in the past will cause you to miss out on all the beauty of today.

Garage door adventures

Saturday morning, Robert and I took the last official step into adulthood: we purchased our first minivan, a 2004 silver Oldsmobile Silhouette.

Our truck was on its last leg, and we were concerned about Emma’s safety with her car seat being right there up front in the cab. Plus, the truck is not easy to drive in the winter since it tends to fishtail with the slightest bit of ice on the road. And so we took the plunge. As if God was reassuring us that we made the right decision, we had our first major snow of the winter this morning. Talk about good timing.

The van is used, but we’re geeked about its many “modern” features that our 2001 Ford Ranger lacked. Things like automatic windows, a display telling me the song/artist for the radio and CDs, rear defrost and wipers, cup holders by every seat. It’s glorious.

Robert’s stoked about the fact that it can play CDs AND cassettes. So Saturday night, he was out in the van jamming to Led Zeppelin tapes he had long ago banished to the bottom of our audio cabinet.

While out there, he also messed with another one of his favorite features: the built-in garage door opener. With the greatest of ease, I can now reach over my head and open the garage door with a button built into the console. Never mind the fact that it was just as easy to open with the factory door opener. And never mind the fact that I would never ever open the garage from the van, because our mutts Midnight and Shadow would surely take the opportunity to escape into the great outdoors since they run around in the garage all day. Still, it’s pretty cool.

So this morning I was making final preparations to walk out the door, putting Emma’s shoes on.

Suddenly I heard the garage door opening. I didn't know if Robert came back home or if I had an intruder. But I threw caution to the wind and ran out there, panicked that the dogs would escape into the snow. I couldn’t think of a worse way to start my week than chasing two 60-pound dogs through the mush.

Just as I got out into the garage, the door stopped and started going back down. Luckily, the dogs were just standing there confused.

I turned to go back in the door, and the garage door started going back up again. I hastily corralled the dogs, desperately shouting "stay" while hitting the button in the garage so it would go back down again.

Then I went back in to finish getting Emma ready and heard it going up again. So I ran back out. This kept happening like three or four more times.

I was trying to figure out what to do, thinking there must be some of short with the gadget in the van as a result of the cold weather. I figured I better call in to work and let them know I wouldn't be in for a while because I needed to figure out how to get it fixed.

While trying to formulate a plan, I went back to getting Emma's shoes on.

That’s when I saw what she had her hand: the garage door opener Robert had taken out of the truck and set on the table. She'd been playing with it the whole time.

What a riot! But even more so, what a relief!

I don’t know if Robert or I could have handled the disappointment if our van’s nifty control panel wasn’t properly functioning.