"Kiddie Lit"

Much of my childhood was spent reading. One of my favorite elementary teachers, Mrs. Drachenberg, used to walk us across the street from the school grounds to a public park. We were each supposed to find a quiet spot to read or write in our journals, yet most of the boys spent this time challenging one another to long jump contests (over a small pond), and most of the girls were sneaked off in pairs, sharing secrets and watching the boys. I, however, rushed off to claim my favorite spot, next to a small bush hidden from the view of both Mrs. D. and my friends.

I would lie down in the sunshine and crack open a book while the voices of my classmates, the reprimands of my teacher and the noise of the traffic passing by would fade away completely. As cliche as it may seem, those books transported me into history, into adventures and into neighborhoods and situations that I would never experience in my hometown.

I read all of Beverly Cleary and Judy Blume books, then made my way through the Nancy Drew series. Eventually (unfortunately?) a "Sweet Valley High" book made its way into my hands, and for a year or so, my babysitting money went to purchasing all of the books of that series. The trials and travails of Elizabeth and Jessica Wakefield, in all of their blonde, California beauty, formed the basis for my understanding of teenage life.

This is not to say that I did nothing other than read during my childhood. In fact, I rode bikes, played in the alley with the neighborhood kids, spent summer afternoons at the pool and climbed my fair share of trees. But usually, even in the midst of these activities, I was looking forward to finding a quiet spot where I could pull out my book and leave the world as I knew it.

Last week, after not-quite finishing "A Gate at the Stairs," I took the advice of a fellow reader, who shared that, in light of her commitment to finish all the books she begins, she spends more time investigating them before just jumping in. I had the good fortune to spend and hour in 1/2 Price Books last week, and found myself first meandering back to the "juvenile fiction" section.

Young adult literature is one of my favorite "genres," and in spite of a British Lit. professor who repeatedly referred to it as "kiddie lit," (I think he was deeply envious of the popularity of another prof. who taught "Young Adult Lit."), juvenile fiction encompasses some wonderfully-crafted books. I was almost giddy as I drove home, four young adult books in tow.

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"Olive's Ocean," written by Kevin Henkes, is the story of Martha Boyle, a 12 year old girl on the cusp of puberty. Her relationships with her siblings, parents, and even her beloved "Godbee"--her grandma--are all shifting as she navigates the perilous territory between childhood and adulthood.

Days before Martha leaves to spend the Summer at her grandma's house on the ocean, she is startled by a visit from the mother of Olive Barstow, a classmate who had died in the Spring after being struck by a car while riding her bike. Although Martha knew Olive, her memory of the girl was "fuzzy and had no edges" (33). It seems that Olive had lived like a shadow among her peers, not making much of an impression--negatively or positively.

But Martha had made an impression on Olive, whose mom found a journal entry of her daughter's which expressed, among other things, her desire to be more outgoing, and to befriend Martha--"the nicest girl in the school" (27). She also wanted to go to see the ocean.

What transpires during Martha's Summer at her grandma's ocean house runs the gamut of adolescent angst: from questioning the role she plays in the life of her family, to shifting allegiances amongst siblings and neighbors, to first "love," and ultimately, to an uneasy awareness of her own mortality.

Toward the end of the season, Martha realizes that "the world can change in a minute, and at the same time remain unchanged" (167). One minute Olive was alive--a quiet girl, a loner, and mysterious--but alive, riding her bike on a warm Spring afternoon--and the next minute, she wasn't. Yet Martha's life remained the same, her classmates lives were unchanged, and Olive's mother mourned alone.

Kevin Henkes' book was not unlike other coming-of-age stories found in the category of YA Lit., but his ability to tell a really sweet story about the love between family members without going sappy on his audience leaves the reader with a subtle reminder to appreciate the people you love while you have them.

As I finished this book, my daughters awoke from a nap and shuffled downstairs bleary-eyed. We snuggled in our comfy "reading chair," and Soli rubbed my earlobe while Maya nuzzled her head until she found the perfect position right under my chin. I breathed in their sweetness, felt the heft of their warm bodies, and thanked God for that moment together.

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**This post is a week late. Although I began writing it over a week ago, our trip to NY threw me off of my schedule. I'll be posting again this week on the book I read during down time in the airport.

I have to be honest, posting once a week is a bit daunting. I'm realizing that I can't spend too much time revising. . .which is a challenge for me, and I continually have to be cognizant of how I spend my "free time." It feels good to be writing, though, and that was/is the purpose of the whole 52/52 challenge. So, I'll keep on. . .and hopefully, I'll catch up!

**Do you remember a favorite children's book? Is there a book that you read as a teenager that stuck with you? I've listed some of my favorite YA books below. Read one when you have a free evening!


My short list of"Young Adult" favorites
The Book Thief--Marcus Zusak
Walk Two Moons--Sharon Creech
Holes--Louis Sachar
Jacob Have I Loved--Katherine Patterson
The Giver--Lois Lowry
Ramona series--Beverly Cleary
Number the Stars--Lois Lowry
Athletic Shorts--Chris Crutcher
Stotan--Chris Crutcher
The Outsiders--S.E. Hinton
A Wrinkle in Time--Madeleine L'Engle
Chronicles of Narnia--C.S. Lewis
Tuck Everlasting--Natalie Babbitt
The True Confessions of Charlotte Doyle--Avi
Bud, Not Buddy--Christopher Paul Curtis
Because of Winn Dixie--Kate DiCamillo
A Year Down Yonder--Richard Peck
Joey Pigza Loses Control--Jack Gantos
A Long Way from Chicago--Richard Peck
Catherine, Called Birdy--Karen Cushman
Hatchet--Gary Paulsen
The Great Gilly Hopkins--Katherine Patterson
My Brother Sam is Dead--James Lincoln Collier
Bridge to Terabithia--Katherine Patterson
The Witch of Blackbird Pond--Elizabeth George Speare

And of course. . .The Twilight Series!

Dropping Danielle Steele

I made a decision at 4 o'clock this morning. I was lying in bed with a migraine, thinking of my crazy to do list for the week ahead, when "the book" popped into my head. In the past six weeks, when I've thought of this personal challenge--52 books/52 blogs--it has intimidated me a little, energized me a lot, and made me much more disciplined in the area of time management.

This morning, though, I was filled with dread--the "ugghhh. . .I have to finish that book" kind of dread. Honestly, I haven't felt that way since having to read "The Feminist Question: Feminist Theology in the Light of Christian Tradition" for one of my master's courses a few years back. (Loved the subject--not the book).

Yet there on the table lay the dreaded book, and at four in the morning with a migraine, it looked daunting.

"The Book," I should clarify, is Lorrie Moore's most recent release "A Gate at the Stairs." It is one of the books that I read about in the Kansas City Star a few weeks back, and I rushed to have it held for me at the library. I was thrilled when it came in weeks before expected, and last Wednesday I finally cozied down in my reading chair, hot cup of coffee at hand, both girls napping, expecting to be whisked away into protagonist Tassie Keltjin's life.

I knew I would love this book. After all, it is a coming-of-age story, set in the Midwest, told through the eyes of a farm girl who moves to a liberal university town. This book was right up my alley, so to speak.

But ten minutes and 18 pages in, I was thinking "Not exactly the page turner I expected." One hour and 87 pages into the novel, and I was antsy, thinking "Come on, come on, when's this story going to go anywhere?" One hundred and twenty seven pages in, and I quit.

The thing is, Moore's book was not going anywhere. Her characters were flat and boring--after 127 pages, I didn't feel anything for them. I didn't care if Tassie figured out who she was, what her life was about, and I didn't care whether the restaurateur for whom she worked as a nanny got into the groove of motherhood after adopting a toddler. Least of all, I didn't care if the restaurateur's older, academic husband decided to step into the role of husband and father. He was a creep, after all, and a boring creep at that.

When I was teaching, students would often come to me complaining about the book they had chosen to fulfill their free reading assignment. Sometimes they were shy, sometimes defensive, often nervous. After all, they were asking their English teacher's permission to NOT like a book--how dare they have opinions of their own about what constituted "good" literature.

I'd give a little shrug and a smile and tell them to put it down, give up on the book, choose another. My goal was not to get my students to love certain pieces of literature, but to love reading as a whole. After all, I knew that the girls who were reading, say, Danielle Steele books, eventually would move beyond that "genre," and move onto what I would consider better books. (No offense to any adult who reads Danielle Steele). So if they had to read 9 of Danielle's tawdry romances in a row to get to that point, it was all good. At least those girls were reading.

So at four in the morning, I gave myself permission to quit. Because after not liking four out of the last five books I've read, I really, really need to read something enjoyable. If I'm going to make it through 52 books this year, I need to not dread reading.

So does this post count toward my 52? I haven't decided yet. Maybe it will count as half, or maybe there will be a week when I will read two books and write two posts to make up for this week. Maybe not. We'll see how the year goes.

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So, dear readers (all 7 of you, according to my "followers" list), how do you feel about putting a book down? Do you feel like you have to finish, to mark it off your list (or to write it on your list)? What do you do when you're midway through a book, and you know you don't like it? I'd love your input (maybe it'll alleviate a bit of my guilt)!

Oh, and admit it--have you ever read any Danielle Steele?! I have!

"Unwound"

So I was at the dollar store last week, searching for some non-candy goodies for my kids' Valentine's Day party treat bags, when I stumbled upon the book section. They had a surprisingly large inventory, and most of them were hardcover, so of course, I had to stop and browse. I've often wondered what happened (or didn't happen) to a book that was good enough to find a reputable publisher, but that eventually ends up selling for a dollar. What disappointment the author must feel, knowing that their creation literally is not worth the paper it's printed on.

So I bought a hardcover for a buck.

"Unraveled: The True Story of a Woman Who Dared to Become a Different Kind of Mother," by Maria Housden caught my eye. Seriously, who doesn't want to be a "different kind of mother?" I know I'd like to be more patient, more organized, more flexible in my role as a parent. Maybe Maria Housden could give me some pointers.

The book started off well enough. Housden and her husband married right out of college, began having children, she became a stay-at-home mom, doing the typical stay-at-home mom things. Her husband continued in his career path, and Housden found herself feeling envious at times that he got to leave home every morning. She began to feel she didn't measure up with her peers, thought she was losing herself in parenting, and often wondered if there was more to life than what she was experiencing.

At this point in the book, I'm totally understanding Housden. There are days when I watch my husband backing his car out of the driveway, knowing that he'll be having adult conversations all day long, that he might even have a nice lunch "meeting," and that the whole drive to and from work will be filled with quiet(or music of his own choosing), and I am downright jealous. So believe me when I say, I'm right there with Housden.

After several years of mommyhood, a marriage that takes the backseat to children, and a nagging sense of discontent, Maria Housden decides she needs a vacation: 10 days by herself in a retreat center that espouses silence and contemplation, even during communal mealtimes.

Her first few days are spent reading, taking long walks through field and forest, and resting in a rustic log cabin, aptly named "Walden." Her days are long, her needs are simple, and Housden is able to spend time thoroughly processing her fifteen year marriage. And I, the reader, am thinking "that's what I need. . .I need ten days at my very own 'Walden.'"

Then, on day three, a mysterious, handsome stranger shows up at the communal dining table. Their eyes meet and, though no words are spoken, Housden explains

My heart was a mirrored pool as we gazed into each other without words, filled with a sense of joy and delight. And although I had never seen his face or his form before, in that single, timeless moment, I felt as if I knew the heart of this man and recognized both my separateness and my connection to him. He and I were the reason we were here, and whatever needed to happen between us, it was already done (Housden, 56).

Blech, blech, blech.

I'm sure you know how the rest of the story goes. . .Housden and the mystery man, also a writer, fall head over heels in love, the connection something "spiritual," and they justify their infidelity in all the new-age, Oprah-esque, to-each-his-own-truth kind of reasoning they can. I could hardly keep reading.

Housden and her husband had been having problems for years, so the author feels no qualms in leaving him for the other man. . .it's her children that pose "the problem." Falling in love with a writer has aroused the repressed writer in Maria, and she does not see how she can be a full-time mom and a writer at the same time. Yet, in her reasoning, putting writing on hold for the sake of her kids, or just attempting to write around her mothering, would be denying her own self-expression, and doing her children a disservice by not giving them the best Maria Housden possible.

Again, blech, blech, blech.

Although it troubled her deeply, Housden gave full custody of the children to her husband, moved into her own apartment and began a new chapter in her parenting life: The part-time, two weekends a month, mom. Her ex-husband became the full-time parent to their 3, 5 and 9 year old.

Now I know this parenting arrangement is not an unusual one, although it is typically the fathers who have weekend visitation, and for some divorced families it seems to work, but Housden's justification of writing as her primary commitment rankled.

Because for Maria Housden, it was all or nothing--writer or mom, lover or wife--and she chose to be "a different kind of mom." "Unraveled" is written, of course from Maria, the two-weekend-a-month mom's perspective, and she believes that the arrangement has been beneficial to her children. They see the weekends with her as a "vacation" from their day-to-day life, and the children benefit from having a mom that is "more of herself" than she was as a full-time mom.

And the writer boyfriend? Well, he becomes Maria's husband, and they settle in for a lifetime of bliss. Unfortunately, their home together falls short of "Walden," and in the epilogue Maria confesses that they have since moved into separate apartments, but that they still love one another deeply and are very committed to their marriage. It seems full-time marriage may not provide one with the best environment in which to write, either.

Journalist Maria Shriver was interviewed shortly after her husband, Arnold Schwarzenegger, won the gubernatorial election in California. She was asked about the fact that she had stepped away from her career to be the primary caregiver for her children, and now her husband's career was center stage. She said something that I've never forgotten.

Maria's mom, Eunice Shriver, always said that a woman could have it all, just not all at once.

I often remember that comment. When I'm knee deep in laundry, yet longing for the classroom, when I'm cooking yet another chicken dinner, but dreaming of a nice glass of wine and beef bourguignon (enjoyed, of course, in a quaint village in the French countryside), when I'm exchanging adventurous trips abroad for family trips to St. Louis, I remember that I can have it all. . . just not all at once. And I'm reminded to enjoy what I have right now.

I wish Maria Housden had seen that interview.

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**Some of you have asked how I choose my books, and I tell you truthfully, there is no rhyme or reason. Over the course of the year, I intend to read some new fiction, some old classics, some non-fiction, and some young adult literature. If you have suggestions, please feel free to let me know! I have a list right now, but it's a short list, so I'd love to add your suggestions to it.

**I can't wait to pick up Lorrie Moore's most recent novel, "A Gate at the Stairs," tomorrow morning. If you've read it, or want to read it along with me this week, I'd love to compare notes!

"Olive Kitteridge"

You know how it goes, we've all been there. The lights dim, the previews play, you have your popcorn with junior mints and rice crackers thrown in, and you munch away, waiting for the main attraction. You wait and munch, wait and munch, the anticipation heavy, as this show has been deemed the movie of the year, “two thumbs way up,” life-changing, even.

The lights dim, the movie begins, and you munch your way through half of it, but as you munch you start thinking: “Is this it? Am I missing something?” After all the anticipation, the trouble you went through to find a babysitter, the weeks of “you've got to see it” recommendations, you are, well. . . disappointed.

“Olive Kitteridge” was the novel equivalent of that movie to me. The Pulitzer Prize winner for 2009, the reviewers raved, friends ranted, and I got excited to read a book that I knew I would adore. After weeks of reading only non-fiction, the thought of delving in and losing myself amidst the page turning antics of Olive, a pleasantly plump, retired school teacher living in a small town in Maine sounded like just the mid-Winter respite I needed.

USA Today called this book “glorious,” and author Elizabeth Strout has carefully crafted a very thorough character study. We come to know Olive through her involvement in thirteen narratives which revolve around members of the small, changing community of Crosby, Maine. Innovative though it may be, as full of a character as Olive is, I just wasn't drawn in.

But I must admit, I really, really liked Olive. She is a central figure in several of the stories, and through her actions, her pithy observations, and her responses to other characters and the situations in which they find themselves, we find Olive to be a no-nonsense, take-me-or-leave-me kind of woman. At times she comes across as cold and unknowable, particularly in her interactions with her husband and her son, yet every time I formed a judgment, Olive surprised me.

For example, in the story “Starving,” Olive stumbles upon Nina, a dying anorexic teenager, and immediately bursts into tears.

“You're starving.” The girl didn't move, only said “uh-duh.”

“I'm starving, too,” Olive said. “Why do you think I eat every donut in sight?”

“You're not starving,” Nina said with disgust.

“Sure I am. We all are” (96).

This glimpse of compassion, even some semblance of empathy in Olive is surprising and disarming, and it was through small admissions like this that Olive became very authentic and unique.

In some ways I found myself pitying Olive. At her son's wedding, Olive takes note that most of the crowd is made up of the bride's friends and family. But "Olive can understand why Chris has never bothered having many friends. He is like her that way, can't stand the blah, blah, blah. And they'd just as soon blah-blah-blah about you when your back is turned" (68).

At one point well into the novel, she begins to deal with living alone after a stroke puts her husband into a near vegetative state, and he is moved to a nursing home. Olive is not handling this solitary life well, yet she has never had any real friends and doesn't wish to make any this late in the game. The narrator explains “She didn't like to be alone. Even more, she didn't like being with people” (148).

In spite of her seeming lack of desire to connect with others, in her old age Olive reminisces about life with her husband, and sends out a clarion call to the reader.

There were days—she could remember this—when Henry would hold her hand as they walked home, middle-aged people, in their prime. Had they known at these moments to be quietly joyful? Most likely not. People mostly did not know enough when they were living life that they were living it. But she had that memory now, of something healthy and pure (162).

Pay attention, she says, enjoy the humdrum, the quiet moments of tenderness, the comfort of the known. This is life! This is grace! Notice it, observe it, be grateful for it!

During the last few days, this book, these characters, this small town in Maine has drawn my thoughts to it over and over again. Several of the stories were deeply moving, raw and perfectly relayed--simple yet lyrical. At times while reading the book my heart literally ached for the characters, as they accepted, with an air of quiet resignation, what their lives would be about.

And in the end, this may be why “Olive Kitteridge” won the Pulitzer Prize. Elizabeth Stout's ability to create characters who stick with you, characters who infuriate you or whom you pity or with whom you'd like to sit down for a cup of coffee, this is the strength of the novel.

Yet as much as I adored the characters, I just did not “feel” the book as a whole. Who can explain why certain books impress themselves upon you, why sometimes a novel is literally an escape or a deep well of comfort, while others—even those which have been highly touted by friends and critics alike—are beautifully-written drudgery?

It is then that I am reminded of what the reader brings to the book, and that literary preferences are, in the end, subjective.

Last week as I was reading this book, my mind was inundated with the news of Haiti's devastation, and as I was reading I found my mind wandering, thinking of people buried under the rubble of their homes, of babies without mothers, of mothers who lost their babies. I considered adopting one of those babies. I wondered what my husband would think of adding a Haitian child to our family. I thought of the rainbow of cream and tan and brown and black that would make up our family, and how adopting a Haitian child just made sense.

And then I'd think of how difficult it would be to adopt from Haiti, how tangled and messy it could get, how unrealistic it might be for our family, and my mind turned again to the despair of hundreds of thousands of people as I sat in my warm home, on my comfortable chair, my stomach full, a hot cup of coffee in my hands and a novel before me.

And I found myself irritated at the frivolous, self-absorbed characters in "Olive Kitteridge," and even more irritated with my own frivolity and self-absorption.

In the end, my disappointment with "Olive Kitteridge," was tinged with possibility. Six months or a year down the road, if I read the book again, I may love it, I may declare to my friends that they just have to read it. I may even call it "life-changing." But this week, reading it seemed a frivolous waste of time.

Parenting 201

I haven't read that many parenting books in the five years that I have been a parent. For the most part, I felt that common sense, the advice and wisdom of other moms, and the occasional call to my own mom or sister, kept me well-versed in Parenting 101.

You know how it goes with babies. . . feed them, burp them, give them some "play time," feed them again, and put them to sleep. Pretty simple routine, for the most part. Much of what we do in those early days is simply to keep them alive, and we don't spend sleepless nights stressing out about shaping and molding them into wonderful little people.

My girls are 3 1/2 and 5 and are very definitely coming into their own, personality-wise. Maya is funny and feisty and stubborn, while Soli is creative and thoughtful and stubborn, too. Both of the girls have brought unbelievable joy to our family. . .as well as a few "challenges," of course. Still, for the most part, the "challenges" have been nothing that a call to my mom, picking the brain of my sister, or hashing it out with my fellow "Not-So-Desperate Housewives" girlfriends couldn't resolve.

But lately, I've been thinking about the bigger challenges of parenting: How to raise children who will be compassionate and respectful and brave and successful in life. This task goes beyond the realm of behavior modification, and on a sleepless night, it is one that could send my heart into palpitations.

"Am I encouraging their independence enough? Am I sheltering them too much? Am I propagating gender stereotypes with them? Am I being a good example to them? Am I exposing them to enough culturally? Am I living out my faith in front of them?"

The questions come hard and fast on those sleepless nights, yet in the day-to-day routines of meeting the needs of two preschoolers, I have little time to sit around and contemplate my strengths and weaknesses in parenting.

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Enter Dani Johnson. Her newly-released book, "Grooming the Next Generation for Success," suggests that the goal of parenting is not only to raise "good people," but to "groom" them in a way that would make it easier for them to be successful in life. Johnson, the product of a broken home, years of physical and sexual abuse, and drug-addicted parents, found success as a young woman, in spite of her upbringing.

By age 23, she owned 2 companies and was a millionaire. After selling one of the companies, she became a business coach and focused on teaching and empowering others to achieve as she had. Much of what Dani learned in business transferred into the realm of parenting, and she insists that parents expend as much effort in "grooming" their children as they would in building an empire.

According to Dani, 98% of people reach the end of their life without having achieved their original goals. She acknowledges that "success" is different for every person, yet the vast majority of people meander through life without ever finding their niche or their purpose. In any given population, only 2% will do what it takes to succeed in every area of life. Dani asserts that much of this is due to a lack of thoughtful, purposeful, intentional grooming as a child (but not in a "blame your parents for everything that's wrong with you" kind of way).

In "Grooming the Next Generation for Success," she provides 9 strategies that target everything from nutrition to self-image to financial responsibility. While some of these strategies seem very basic (i.e. "nutrition": don't feed your kids fast food), a few gave me reason to pause and consider how I was "grooming" my own girls.

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Strategy #1: Spiritual Equipping

Kids who grow up in church do not equivocate to successful adults. In fact, church-going kids are just as likely to experience failure in school, pregnancy before marriage, and lack of direction after high school as those who have never stepped foot in a church. Dani believes this is because parents have forfeited their role as the spiritual leader in their children's lives, and have left whatever spiritual training the kids receive to the random teachers, mentors, pastors, books, and the media to which they are exposed.

All kids, whether they are being raised in Christian households or not, benefit from knowing that they were created for a reason, that they are not random, and that vision and purpose has been planted in them. In Jeremiah 29:11 we find that God has unique plans for success for each person. Building this understanding into our children not only strengthens them, but guides us as parents as well.

How many times have I heard other parents talking about all of the leagues, classes and extra-curricular activities that their children are involved in and wondered if I was doing enough with my own? Parenting that helps our children grow into the purposes God has for them requires that we KNOW our children and that we encourage them in their areas of giftedness. It also requires that we don't fall prey to the "Superkid Myth": the belief that our children will not have a successful adulthood unless they are a gifted athlete/musician/poet/academic. The 98/2 equation is deeply embedded in my mind now. If I want my children to be in the 2%, I must do things differently than the vast majority of people.

Our oldest daughter, Soli, is five years old, and about a year ago I started hearing conversations about her friends and classmates beginning extracurricular activities. Soli has friends in T-Ball, soccer, karate, and dance (and some who are in all of these!), and I began to feel pressure. Soli hasn't been in any sports.

Should I enroll her in soccer? I mean, she likes playing with her dad and sister in the backyard. . .maybe she'd enjoy being on a team. And if I don't start her now, will she ever be able to make it on a team, or will her peers be so advanced that she'd have no chance?

Truth be told, Soli will probably never be a star athlete, yet I struggled between wanting to give her the opportunity (because what if she overcomes the Wienands gene and is athletic?), and trying to figure out how to fit it all in the schedule and finance it.

After reading Dani's book, I asked Soli what she thought her talents were. Soli thought for a minute and responded: "Well, I like to create things and do crafts." I pushed on. "You like to play soccer in the backyard. Do you think that might be one of your talents?" Again, Soli thought a minute and said "I really like playing with daddy and Maya and Luke." Ah, the reason for enjoying soccer was uncovered--backyard soccer bonded Soli, her siblings and her daddy together.

Finally, I asked Soli "If you could take an art class or join a soccer team, and you could do only one of them, which would you choose?" Without a second's hesitation she piped up "I want to take an art class!" Soli knows the talents that God has given to her, she knows what she enjoys, and here I almost spent a small fortune enrolling her in soccer so that she could be "well-rounded."

If you believe that God has given you your children, you must believe that he has also given you the ability to know your child. It might take some observing, a little hit or miss here and there, but we have the ability to propel our kids into the vision and purposes for which God created them. What an exciting (and yes, intimidating) responsibility as a parent!

Another aspect of "spiritual equipping" that struck home was Johnson's admonition that we need to teach our kids to serve others. The current state of our economy is a testimony to the fact that we live in a society that feels "entitled": we deserve big houses, big cars, and fast food done our way. It's our right, right?!

Serving others runs so contrary to common culture that people take note when you do it well. A teacher who plans lessons and units based on the needs of her students, who works hard to implement a well-thought out lesson plan, who assesses the effectiveness of her own methods of teaching, and one who does all this with joy? Well, that's a GOOD teacher!

Soon word gets around, and she's the most sought after kindergarten teacher in the school. Parents cross their fingers, hoping their child is in her class. Those parents whose children get someone else march into the principal's office, demanding their child be switched (entitlement, remember?).

Those who serve others with a spirit of excellence stand out. They are the 2%.

Jesus Christ, undeniably the most successful leader of all times, spent three years of his life meeting the needs of others before he was crucified. During Jesus' last supper, his disciples begin jockeying for position, attempting to determine who would sit next to him in Heaven. Jesus reprimanded them: "The greatest among you should be like the least and the one who rules like the one who serves" (Luke 22:26).

To illustrate his point, Jesus grabbed a bucket of water, wrapped a towel around his waist, and amidst many protestations, began to clean his disciples' feet. When he was finished, he stated simply: "I have set you an example that you should do as I have done for you" (John 13:15).

If we develop that servant spirit in our kids, their lives will impact our world. But it takes effort, and it requires that we be intentional about the messages we send our kids. It could be as simple as saying "You know, mommy really wanted a Starbucks grande soy, extra hot latte today, but then I remembered all of those families in Haiti who don't have enough food to eat or water to drink or houses to live in. I decided not to get that latte and to send that money to those kids in Haiti instead." When children see the adults in their lives sacrificing (I have a hard time calling this a sacrifice, but you understand the intent) something they want in order to help others, they will begin thinking about and doing the same.

Many people choose to protect their children from the harshness of life, but my husband and I have chosen to show them the reality, and to frame that reality in a way that would shape them into compassionate, giving girls. Our daughters have been to the Philippines twice, the last time a year a half ago. Maya was too young to remember much, but Soli will often say "Remember Lola (grandma) doesn't have hot water in her shower?" or "Lola doesn't sleep on a comfy bed like mine," to which I always encourage gratitude: "Aren't you so thankful for hot water and a comfy bed?"

The girls know that they have a lot of things that their cousins in the Philippines do not, and that knowledge makes them eager to share with the less fortunate (although not often so eager to share with one another, but that might be fodder for another blog).

Most Americans don't have the opportunity to take their kids to a 3rd world country to see dire poverty firsthand, but there are a lot of ways to encourage your kids to share what they have with others.

Two years ago, I showed the girls the promotional dvd that Operation Christmas Child puts out to promote their shoebox donations. After seeing how excited the kids in the video were for small things like new toothbrushes, a yo yo, some socks and underwear even, the girls decided they each needed to pack and send a shoebox.

If you are (or have ever been) a mother of preschoolers, you know the "I want! I want! Syndrome" that usually occurs during a Target expedition. This shopping trip was equal in enthusiasm, but with a different slant: "Let's get this! They'd love that! Can we send this?" There's not much more joy to be found than in seeing your children excited about helping other kids. Even in this shopping trip, in filling two small shoe boxes for children who have far less than my own, my girls were learning to serve and love others through action.

* * * * *

Though "Strategy #1: Spiritual Equipping" gave me the most to consider, each of Dani Johnson's strategies challenged my thinking and caused me to assess how I was parenting. Throughout the book, Johnson insists that all kids are being groomed for something.

Most kids are being groomed to fit in, to stick with the crowd, to live like everyone else. By way of t.v., the majority of our kids are being groomed into spenders, not savers, and victims rather than survivors. They are being grooomed to believe that they are entitled to certain things, whether or not they work for them.

But a few are being groomed into respectful, innovative, generous, compassionate people who will see God do far greater than they could ever imagine in their lives.

The 2%. . .that's what my girls are being groomed for.


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"Grooming the Next Generation for Success" can be purchased at Amazon.com and in most Barnes and Noble bookstores.

***In the spirit of full disclosure, I skimmed through Johnson's book over the holidays, then went back and read it thoroughly this week, both because I want to be more intentional about how I parent in 2010 and because I had two sick kids and a sick husband at home last week and didn't have the time to sit down and read something completely new.

****Please feel free to comment, disagree, bring up concerns, etc. I love dialogue!

The Glass Castle

Resilience: (n.) ability to recover quickly from illness, change, or misfortune; buoyancy

A few months ago I was browsing through a bookstore looking for a gift for a friend. If you're a reader, and you must be since you're reading this blog, you know how that goes. . . intentionally look for one book for the friend, unintentionally find three for yourself. I made eye contact with a friendly, eager B&N employee, and during the course of a two minute chat, found out that she is a high school English teacher, working part-time at said bookstore to supplement her income. I shared that I, too, had spent ten years teaching jr. high and high school English, and that I had also worked part-time at B&N at one point in my career decade. With a sigh of "I get you/you get me" understanding that comes when fellow English teachers meet, she glanced at the book in my hands: "Animal, Vegetable, Miracle," by Barbara Kingsolver.

"Oh, if you enjoy her writing and you like to read memoirs, you will adore Jeannette Walls! I must introduce you to Jeannette Walls!" Having found her mission for the moment, the bookseller/English teacher promptly jetted off down the aisle, beckoning me to follow. When we arrived at the display table which held two of Jeannette Walls' books, she picked one up, gazed reverently down at the cover, and offered it to me.

"You'll love this book, I just know you will." Her words tumbled out, breathlessly. "It's a memoir of a childhood--an awful, horrible childhood. I mean, just terrible. You can't imagine what this girl went through." The bookseller/English teacher teared up, then continued: "I mean the neglect, the poverty, just horrible!"

Coming out of her reverie, she glanced up and noticed the concern on my face. I mean, do I want to read the story of an awful, horrible, terrible childhood? She patted my arm reassuringly and said "I know you'll love it--it's awful, but hopeful!" With that, the bookseller/English teacher skedaddled off to bond with another customer.

So I bought the book, brought it home, and (guiltily) placed it in my bookshelf with other books I had bought but hadn't read.

"The Glass Castle" gathered dust.

* * *

Lately I've been thinking about the whole concept of "resilience"--how some people face awful, horrendous, difficult childhoods, yet turn out to be wonderful human beings, while others, even other members of the same family, spend their lives miserable and bitter. What is it in the people who achieve in life, who succeed in spite of the direst circumstances, that allows them to move beyond their experiences? It was this wondering that caused me to reach for the "awful, but hopeful" story in "The Glass Castle."

Jeannette Walls' childhood was, indeed, horrific, yet she paints the tales of her youth with a sympathetic brush. Her dad, a brilliant man given to alcohol, chases fortune wherever he thinks it can be found, always at the detriment of his wife and four children. Jeannette spends much of her childhood sleeping in a refrigerator box, subsisting on margarine sandwiches and whatever she can dig out of the garbage at school. The family lives for years without heat, electricity or indoor plumbing, as her father's alcoholism cost him numerous jobs.

At age 4, Jeannette spends six weeks in a hospital burn unit as the result of overturning a pot of boiling water while she was cooking her own hot dogs. At age 5, she falls out the backdoor of the family car as they are leaving town in a hurry. She rolls to the side of the highway, bruised and bloodied, where she waits for her parents to return when they realize they've lost her. Rather than taking Jeannette to a hospital or a doctor, her dad uses pliers to dig out the pieces of gravel embedded in her face, throws her back in the car, and continues on.

In spite of failures in every town they call "home", Jeannette's dad insists that someday he will strike it rich. When he does, he will build the family a "glass castle"--an intricately designed, solar-fueled, glass mansion in the desert. Until she was about 8, Jeannette believed him.

Jeannette's mother, a well-educated teacher and artist, is a free spirit--a self-described "adventure addict"--who implores her children to understand that it is more necessary to feed her artistic hunger than it is to feed the hunger in their bellies. She believes she is instilling "survival skills" in her children by letting them fend off vicious bullies, forage for their own food, and defend themselves from the sexual abuse of their uncle and grandma.

Jeannette, her brother and her two sisters, do, in fact, survive their childhood. Three out of four become productive adults who excel in their chosen fields, have families, and function well in adulthood. Jeannette, far from bitter, feels sorry for her parents, and long after she has finished school and moved out, attempts to help them when they wind up homeless. They choose homelessness over the constraints of "normalcy," though, and reject any offer of charity.

* * *

"While we were in Midland, Mom painted dozens of variation and studies of the Joshua Tree. One time I saw a tiny Joshua tree sapling growing not too far from the old tree. I wanted to dig it up and replant it near our house. I told mom I would protect it from the wind and water it every day so that it could grow nice and tall and straight.

Mom frowned at me. 'You'd be destroying what makes it special,' she said. 'It's the Joshua tree's struggle that gives it its beauty'" (Walls, 38).

* * *

Resilience.

Why do some kids make it out, seemingly unscathed, possibly better for the hardships, while others flounder and never find their way? Why does one person's struggle create in them a depth of beauty, while another person's struggle leaves them hardened and lifeless? Why does pain make some more cognizant of joy and blessing and beauty? Why does it blind and maim and scar another?

"The Glass Castle" did not answer these questions, but made me wonder all the more-- and it was awful.

But it left me hopeful.

I read between 35 and 40 books in any given year. There have been stages in my life, namely when I was single and didn't have children, when I would read two or three books a week. Some of my best memories are of times when I could read freely and guiltlessly: Saturday mornings as a pre-teen and teenager, lying in bed, eating day-old popcorn from the football stadium, devouring Nancy Drew and Sweet Valley High books, in UNI's library fulfilling the three books a week "requirement" for my Young Adult Lit. class (Thank you, thank you, thank you to Dr. Copeland, whose syllabus saved my sanity that semester!), and the year in my little yellow house in the jungle, where cable didn't reach, and I spent every evening absorbed in the adventures, mishaps and life experiences I found between the worn covers of books.

Yes, give me a little quiet spot, a cup of coffee, a book in my hands, and I am in my element.

An artist friend of mine decided last year to produce one painting each week, and he posted them on his blog with a small description of the process or the subject matter. Though I am not an artist, I thoroughly enjoyed seeing what had made an impression on him that week, and how he portrayed that impression on canvas. I imagine the commitment of it--52 pieces in 52 weeks--must have been overwhelming at times, but the discipline of it was enviable.

Thus, my decision to blog.

I don't like the idea of a New Year's resolution, per se, but I find it valuable to evaluate and define what "success" will look like in the next year of my life. Last year, this involved focusing on my physical well-being, which had been neglected since moving back to the States, so I began running. Though it wasn't a pretty sight, especially the first few weeks of my "Couch Potato to 5K" training program (google it), last year I finished two 5ks and a 10k in November. The discipline of getting up, getting dressed and getting out there was difficult, and I never once experienced the "runners high" that people rave about. Still, I laced up and ran.

So, in 2010, I will read and I will write. 52 weeks. 52 books. 52 blog posts. I am committed.