Working Holiday by: K.R. Pinkston

"Are you coming this summer for vacation?” I could hear my mother sucking in the air and holding her breath on the other end of the line.

My head screamed: no, no, no! My mouth said: “Yes, of course.”

It will be fine, I kept telling myself on the way to my parents’ home. In truth, it is fun visiting my parents -- at least for my husband and son. They can roam the beautiful countryside, fish in the nearby river, take naps, and play games. I, on the other hand, go home.

Within ten minutes of arriving at my parents’ house, my mother had the first job for me. “We need to drive to Aunt Hetty and bring her the cherries,” she said.

“I haven’t even unpacked…”

"Yes. You can do that later. Aunt Hetty’s been waiting for the cherries for days. I’ve got a few grates down in the basement. They’re all starting to get mushy.”

My husband helped me load the trunk with cherries. Then I watched him and our son leave to take a long, relaxing stroll through the cool forest.

I, on the other hand, got back into the car with my mother to deliver the cherries. On the way to Aunt Hetty’s, my mom remembered that we needed to swing by Rudy’s to pick up some bread.

Rudy Larsen, the store owner, approached me with a smile and grabbed my hands. After reminiscing for half an hour, my mom and I left with a bunch of homegrown tomatoes for Aunt Hetty and a bag of potatoes for the next-door neighbor.

“Rudy usually brings her the potatoes and other heavy stuff,” my mom explained back in the car. “It’s really sweet of him. Well, of course, she has problems with walking. And then, she’s now all by herself. I don’t know if I told you, but the big house’s all gone to her nephew.” My mom shook her head and sighed. “Now she moved in next door to Aunt Hetty. But, I tell you, she still has her big mouth.”

“Who is she? Do I know her?”

“You’ll see,” my mom said. “You’ll see.”

After unloading the cherries and tomatoes into Aunt Hetty’s kitchen, I was eager to deliver the potatoes to meet this mysterious woman next door.

“I’d better go with you,” mom told me and led the way to the neighbor’s front door.

“Hope she doesn't bite, or something.” I grunted under the heavy sack of potatoes.

The neighbor’s front door opened and out came my worst enemy. I recognized her black eyes that always flashed like a shiny beetle in the sun. It was the old Burk woman, of all people. The lines around her eyes had deepened, and her mouth drooped more than it had thirty years ago. I hid my head behind the potatoes. Maybe she would not recognize me. After all, I was a girl back when she spanked me for riding my bike through her strawberry patch.

“Who’s that behind the potatoes?” Mrs. Burk’s shrill voice shouted toward me. She had not changed at all.

“Oh, that’s my daughter,” mom said, while I held my breath.

“Well then!” Her voice cut through the air. “Don’t just stand there. Take the sack to the hut over there. The door’s open. Just put it down around the corner.”
I carried the sack over to her hut and walked back toward the two old ladies.

“Well, Mrs. Burk, the potatoes are inside the hut,” I called out and turned to leave. “I’ll wait in the car, mom.”

"Thank you,” she replied. “Thank you so much. Wait a minute!”

Here it comes. I turned and took a few steps back toward the ladies.

“I’m glad to see that you’ve turned out a nice lady, who doesn’t mind carrying a sack of potatoes around for a grumpy old woman,” she said. “You know, I had my doubts about you.” Mrs. Burk raised her finger; then she smiled.

It turned out that Mrs. Burk had changed after all. She ordered me to get Aunt Hetty over to her house for coffee and cake. But, somehow, I did not mind. I saw the old, fragile woman she had become behind the authoritative voice. Old, fragile and lonely.

An hour later my mom and I drove back home.

“I think we’ll plant those dahlias, tomorrow,” my mom said, referring to the couple of plants in the trunk that Mrs. Burk had given us. “You can drive me to the cemetery.”

I nodded and smiled, as I parked the car. Another day of driving mom around. Another day of loading and unloading the car. Another day of reminiscing and meeting people from my past. How lucky I am to go back home and spend time with my parents, surrounded by people who have known me since I was born. I am one of the villagers, no matter where I live now.

“Oh, you know what?” My mom cried out as she put her seat belt back on. “We forgot to pick up the bread at Rudy’s. Oh, well. You’d better turn around and drive back to the shop.”

The Impact of the Perception of Failure

This week has been full of progress, both on the freelance writing and editing side and on the networking side for Meaningful Messages. I have started work on the website, have designed business cards, have planned a whole slew of encouraging gift ideas.

Then I read the above blog post, Rising Again, by one of my favorite devotional writers Renee Swope. I have always been one to deliberately remind myself and others to count their blessings, to see the positive side of things. But, yesterday morning, I had a hard time digging myself out of that negative hole that I sometimes find myself in.

I left a comment and subscribed to receive follow-up comments on her blog post. I was astonished at how prevalent the feeling of failure is among women. (I know it probably is in men, too, so these thoughts could apply to you--even if you won't say the words out loud.) There is so much going on in today's world, on top of this economic downturn. Not only are people losing jobs and homes, people are losing or being rejected by family members. People have completely lost hope.

I struck me how even when the circumstances that we find ourselves in are not related to anything we've done, we consider ourselves having failed when things don't go our way or the way we'd hoped. Often, these circumstances couldn't be helped. We have no control over the decision the boss makes. We have no control over the decisions of the banks. We have no control over the decisions our children make--we hope they will make their decisions based on what we've taught them, but there's no guarantee of that. But still we blame ourselves for all these things having fallen through.

There are many statistics that show the impact of the loss of a job. It is even more profound than the loss of a loved one. Having a job, a house, a car, 3.5 kids with a white picket fence around the property has been the epitome of success and when those idyllic things don't happen or crumble into pieces, we think we've failed.

In God's eyes, we are not failures. I realized this, yesterday. Our Tuesday morning Bible study involved a guest speaker from within our church who supports Gospel for Asia. We watched a couple of DVDs of people who had been transformed by the message of the Gospel. People who find their food in dumps and live in disease-infested sewers of Asia. The running theme was that they didn't know they were loved. They didn't know they mattered. Once they were told that someone did love them, and that they did matter to someone--didn't really matter who--their perspective in life turned around.

For many of us, our entire lives are spent in the pursuit of the perfect job, the perfect house...and when we don't attain them we don't believe we're worth anything. But, that is not true. The way to discover that truth is to turn our attention away from these strivings and focus on something else. God has a purpose for us and is always trying to teach us. One of these things is that money doesn't last forever. Spending ourselves into debt with no possible way of paying it off doesn't work. And, no matter what our circumstances there is someone who loves us unconditionally. That love is not based on our success, but is a love that can change hearts when they're at the very lowest they've possibly been. These times are not times of punishment, but are times where we can learn that what we've been doing doesn't work and things need to change so that we don't find ourselves in this situation again. It's painful, yes. It's certainly not pleasant. But, if we stop learning, we stop living and if we close our minds to the lessons around us we risk repeating the same mistakes. One day, hopefully, we will be able to look back on this time and the lessons we've learned and realize how far we've come. We will be better people, mothers, fathers, teachers, leaders, writers, editors because of it.

So long as we are learning from our circumstances, we have not failed!

Summer Friends By K.R. Pinkston

Summertime is the time to be with family and friends. In the long shadows of the fading sun, we play soccer in the backyard after dinner, and then cool our taste buds with second helpings of ice cream.

This will be our last carefree summer. Next year in June or July we will move to our unknown military duty station, get ready to rent or buy a home in an unknown town, find a church to attend and a school for our son.

I worry at times that our child will not remember the carefree summers, but only the hectic summers when we moved. Therefore, I want to make this summer special and memorable.

We all sat down on a Sunday night and discussed our options for spending the summer holidays. Perhaps we could drive somewhere for a few days. Paris is close to us, and the Alps are just 3 hours away.

“What do you want to do during the summer?” I asked our son, Stefan.

“I just want to stay here and play with my friends.”

My husband and I exchanged puzzled glances. “You don’t want to go anywhere?” I asked. “See some castles? Hike up a mountain?”

“Well, I like to go see things sometimes. But a lot of my friends are leaving this summer, and if we go somewhere I won’t be here to play with them before they go. And I won’t be here to say goodbye to them.”

Why was I surprised? Unlike his parents, Stefan does not know what it is like to live and grow up in the same place year after year. Each year during the summer we make new friends when new families move in next to us; however, we also say goodbye to friends every summer. As parents, we always try to emphasize the positive, but we cannot deny that leaving friends hurts. This experience repeats itself every summer and overshadows the joy of long and carefree summer days.

I had a very different experience growing up, complaining that our family had the most boring summers. I remember sleeping in every morning and going grocery shopping for my mother after breakfast in the little corner shop up the hill. My sister and I spent hours playing with Barbie dolls, sometimes fighting over the cobalt evening gown for the dolls. I recall endless summer days playing hopscotch with my friends and riding our bikes. On sunny days we climbed the old trees that my grandfather had planted in the back yard. By August the branches hung low under the heavy weight of ripe cherries and plums. One of us stood watch to make sure our mother did not catch us eating all of the fruit (of course she knew what we were doing). Finally, the days came when we harvested fruit and vegetables together and helped our mother to make preserves.

Every year at the beginning of school I dreaded writing an essay about my holiday experiences. As for travelling, we visited relatives in the next town. How boring. There was just nothing to write about!

Yet, my boring summer holidays were precious. I know that now. My parents did not have to think about packing and moving to another duty station. I did not have to worry about losing friends, or my dad deploying for a year. Every year at the start of the school holidays, my sisters and I knew that we would spend the summer much like the previous ones.

In a way, our son leads the adventurous lifestyle that I craved as a child. Summers are not predictable and boring for Stefan, but they are also not carefree. By the end of this summer he will have said goodbye to his friends and, I hope, have made new ones. At the end of next summer he will have moved to another country and will try to make new friends again.

Still, I am determined to make this summer special for us. Stefan will go camping with his dad, and we will take some day trips together. The long days will go by fast with swimming, playing and doing crafts. I promised him that I would try to roller skate outside with him instead of practicing in our basement. He promised me to help me make some preserves.

We will hug our friends one last time. We will welcome new neighbors, who will wave goodbye to us next year. This summer will be special and memorable.

The Wants of Stress By K.R. Pinkston

Oh, what a stress-free life I had before I became a military wife and mother. Little did I know that it is less stressful to finish a term paper at 3 a.m. than to care for a sick child when my husband is in some distant land.

Major events like deployments, marriage, birth of a child, or moving are stressful. Even worse are the unplanned events that shake my faith. Yet, over the years I have learned that I must focus my energy (and sanity) on the stress factors that I can control. It is the day-to-day living, the raising of our child, my attitude, my work schedule that I can control - at least in theory.

Granted, as a stay-at-home mom, I do not have to cram for exams, attend staff meetings or appease the supervisor. Nobody comes into my house to give me a rating on the cleanliness of my carpets or counsel me on the pile of laundry left in the basement.

The daily dose of stress I experience is often self-inflicted. It is the “wants” in our family that create the bulk of a hectic lifestyle. In my ideal world, I want to open the front door anytime of the day to welcome unexpected guests to my immaculate home. One of these days this will happen, but not before the military stops moving us every couple of years, I volunteer less, get up earlier, write fewer stories and read fewer books, watch no BBC comedy shows, unplug the phone, get more organized, and learn to say “no.”

“Mom?” Our son, Stefan, pulled on my sleeve the other day. “I want to play soccer again. Can you sign me up?”

I had been dreading this question for days. He loves to play soccer, but soccer also means a rework in our schedule. “Are you really sure? On top of guitar and tennis lessons? Plus homework every day? You won’t have much time to play outside anymore.”

“Please, Mom. Please. I can do it. I promise.”

“I don’t know.”

“But Ian and David are also playing. And they take more lessons than I do.” Stefan knows how to push the right buttons.

“Ian’s playing soccer. I see.” How in the world does Ian’s mother do it? They have four kids and her husband is deployed. My conscience badgers me. Of course I know I should not try to keep up with the neighbors, but do what is best for my family.

I sigh and nod my head. I know he can do it. But can I?

By the end of soccer season I will be able to identify any brand of frozen pizza sold in Europe blindfolded. In my mind I already see the dust bunnies on top of the unpacked boxes in the basement swelling to the size of elephants. Outside, the moles will flock to our lawn once they realize I am no longer spoiling their underground parties and recreate the Alps.

Should I curtail his after-school activities, so I would have less stress? Or should I reduce my activities? But what can I cut? I cannot ignore household chores until my home has a self-cleaning button like my oven. Perhaps I should cut my volunteer hours or my writing time? But what about my own wants?

Needs and wants are not the same. We all need love, nourishment and a home. We need to earn money to live. Satisfying our needs is not an option, but satisfying our wants is. Our son does not need to play an instrument or play sports. I do not need to volunteer and write. Yet, living without satisfying some of our wants is not fulfilling. It is the wants that show us our talents, individuality and how we can serve others.

After some thinking we sat down with a schedule and prioritized. He will play soccer but cut down on tennis lessons. I will rearrange my volunteer schedule so I can get chores done. On Sundays we will plan meals together and cook some for the week ahead. In doing this I hope our child learned that we cannot have everything we want and that fulfilling wants comes at a price.

This new schedule is a temporary solution. In a few weeks, soccer season will be over. In a few months we will move again. In a few more years, our child will be grown. Even as I write this story I am reminded that life does not stand still or follow my schedule. A few days ago, I was on my knees cleaning up the pound of flour that I had dropped, when the phone rang. My sister said that our mother fell and suffered an open fracture in her arm.

“I may never be able to use my arm properly,” my mother said, when I visited her, “but it could’ve been worse. I was lucky.”

“Yes.” I swallowed and looked away from the tubes and wires coming out of her arm. “You could’ve broken a hip.”

On my way out of the hospital wing I noticed a couple of chairs in the hallway. Two boys around Stefan’s age sat at the table in the corner playing cards. They had pushed the chairs away to make room for their wheelchairs. One of the boys had only one leg.

All this time I had been worried about stress and how we could fit our activities into our daily schedule. Seeing my mother and then the boys reminded me that I must be grateful for being able to be busy even though my days are hectic. Yes, this means being grateful that I can chase the dust bunnies and rake the lawn after a mole attack; being grateful that I can fulfill some of my wants in life to volunteer and write stories. Above all, it means being grateful that we have a healthy child who wants to play soccer.