Motherhood Musings

Motherhood is exhausting.

I know I'm not the only mom who feels this way. It doesn't make us incompetent or ungrateful or lazy or anemic or sleep deprived or overworked or any of the other things to admit it.

Periodically, my husband and I will have an evening conversation (while snuggled in bed or on the couch) that goes like this:

Hubby: "How was your day?"
Me: (slurring from dozing off against his shoulder) "Fine."
Hubby: "What did you do?"
Me: "I can't remember. I'm too tired."
Hubby: "You say that every day."
Me: (long pause to contemplate) "Yeah, that sounds about right."

It's just a LOT, isn't it? And at least once every single day, I wonder how much longer I will be required to address a certain area of a certain child's life.

Examples? (As if you don't have twenty of your own rolling around in your head right now)

My 4 children are all potty trained. (Thank you, GOD, for the retirement of diapering) My youngest, who will be seven in 2 months, still has to be reminded to wash his hands, flush the toilet, put the seat down...nearly every time he uses the bathroom. He's been hearing that list from me for YEARS now. And if you add in all the years his three siblings had to be reminded of the same things (minus the toilet seat lowering for my daughter, obviously) I've recited that list about a million times. I'm tired of saying it, people...TIRED.

Last week I was having a conversation with my almost-10-year-old son, and I noticed his hair was looking particularly wilted and greasy.

"Nate," I asked, "when was the last time you took a shower?"
"I took one last night, like you told me to," he responded.
"Really? Because your hair looks like it needs to be washed again," I mused.
His reply? "I didn't wash my hair. We are out of shampoo."

How long had we been out of shampoo? Over a week, according to him. He had been cleansing  himself with WATER ONLY for at least 5 showers, without ever bothering to inform me that the kids bathroom needed shampoo.

I remind my children to put on deodorant, brush their teeth, load their dishes in the dishwasher, put their dirty clothes in the hamper, wear clothes when they go outside, wipe their hands on napkins instead of their clothes, wipe their NOSES on tissues instead of their clothes, put their shoes where they belong so they can find them again later, cover their mouths when they sneeze, don't eat food off the floor, chew with their mouths closed, don't slurp their drinks, don't talk to me disrespectfully, don't talk to each other unkindly...and all the rest...ALL DANG DAY LONG, EVERY DANG DAY.

Plus, we have all the other pressures on us.

Cooking.

Cleaning.

Laundry. (yes, I consider it a separate item from cleaning)

Bible study.

Working out. (which then adds a shower requirement to the day, and muscles that are screaming obscenities for the next three days, because, lets be honest, we don't ever have enough time to work out as much as we need to in order to avoid the day-after soreness)

Hobbies. (Not because we have time or energy for them, but because if we don't have them, we then hear the social lectures about the need for balance in our lives.)

Friend time.

Family time.

Intimate alone time with hubby. (which requires legs to be shaved and teeth to be brushed, which means something else in the day must be put off into tomorrow.)

And when kids are little its a different list, like whether to let them sleep on their stomach or not, and reminding them to not putting their fingers in outlets, and remembering to measure and weigh them for their baby book...

And as mine get older, the list continues to change to include things like how to drive, and reminders to tithe, and why it's not appropriate to wear certain lengths of clothing items, despite the cuteness of legs and booty, and also, apparently, that it is important to use shampoo on hair when showering.

My gosh, I'm exhausted just typing things, and I'm not even scratching the surface of all the things.

And it only adds insult to injury when you spend all day juggling all of it, and your kids seem to not recall that you told them ONLY YESTERDAY to put on deodorant every. single. day.

It makes us want to sit on the couch and watch HGTV and drink coffee and eat sour cream and onion potato chips as a meal. (not that I ever do that...I'm saying it about another mom I know...)

During my bi-weekly church Bible study meeting this week (which I prepared for by doing the ENTIRE previous week's lesson all at once that same morning because I had neglected it until that point)(and during which I received no less than 5 texts from my daughter (who was babysitting her brothers at home) telling me of the bad behavior the boys were displaying that would require my attention upon my return to the house) the teacher made a statement that SHOUTED into my heart with a megaphone, and continues to ping around inside me days later.

"You are not responsible for HOW your life turns out. You are responsible to be obedient to WHAT God has called you, and given you, to do. He is responsible for HOW those things play out in your life, for His glory."

Whoa.

All I have to do is WHAT I'm called to. Obedience.

HOW it works is up to the only One who is an eternally patient Parent to the most forgetful children.

Now THAT is some food for relieved thought.

Motherhood remains exhausting today. (Seriously, yesterday I arrived at the checkout line of a store, only to realize I didn't have my wallet because a child had been looking for change in it and forgotten to return it to my purse)( and this morning I asked a child to get started on their school work (at 9 am) and he replied "But I haven't even had coffee yet!" and I couldn't reprimand him because I say that EXACT sentence to them when they ask me to assist them with anything before I've finished my coffee)

But the voice of my Father whispers in my ear, patiently, reminding me to take a deep breath, and keep being obedient to the task He has given me, and He will continue to faithfully work it out for His glory.

And really, in the grand scheme of motherhood, that's WHAT we want. For our lives, and our children, to be used for the furthering of the Kingdom of Heaven, in eternity and here on earth.

HOW my stinky, dirty haired kids, and my potato-chip-eating, coffee-addicted self arrive at that...is up to Someone besides me.

THANK GOD.

Happy exhausted mothering today. I pray that you can find a moment of rest in the Presence and Promise of the One who is Patience.

And that your kids remember their deodorant without a reminder.

New Focus

It's New Year's Eve, and I find my thoughts are taking a different turn than they usually do.

Normally, I would grouch about the futility of resolutions or the exhaustion of having to stay up till (GOD FORBID) midnight, or the irritation of Christmas decorations that will become unacceptable to display once the calendar year changes.

And, if the news and Facebook and many people I know are to be believed, the year 2016 has packed quite the crap-filled punch, certainly worthy of some ranting and griping and good old fashioned mud-slinging.

We did have a nasty election season, followed by an even nastier post-election barrage.
Sickness continues to threaten, and overtake, people all around.
Finances are stable for some, and in upheaval for others, and that fact alone causes tension.
Marriages struggle. Marriages grow.
Children behave. Children act like...children.
Churches fail. Churches thrive. Churches barely survive. Churches go stagnate.
People we love hurt us. People we love enrich our lives.

Beloved ones join our families.

Beloved ones leave this earth, leaving us shattered and wishing and aching and wanting time to move us years into the future where we no longer hurt so much.

Opinions abound on all fronts about all subjects. People hurl insults or hold grudges or choose a side of a matter that places them at odds with those around them, and then choose to allow opposing views to be cause for an actual wedge between them.

And so much more. So many things. Too many things.

Let's pause and look at that list once again. Really look at it.

How is that different from any other year? From EVERY other year?

Nothing is new under the sun. (Ecclesiastes 1:9)

And so I've discarded all my own personal thoughts on all the above mentioned situations in which we may find ourselves this day-before-the-new-year-begins.

Instead...I'm leaning in. Into the only One truly worth focusing my time and energy and heart on.

Because He is still on His throne today, the same as He was yesterday, and at the start of this year, and the same as He will be at the end of next year.

Even though nothing is new under the sun...EVERYTHING is new under the Son.

Every day.

And that's worth celebrating. Even if 2016 sucked. Even if it was a banner year.

I don't care about any of it.

THIS is what I am focusing on...

"The grave could not hold You.
The veil tore before You.
You silenced the boast of sin and grave.
The heaven's are roaring the praise of Your glory,
For You are raised to life again.
You have no rival. You have no equal.
Now and forever, God, You reign.
Yours is the kingdom, Yours is the glory, Yours is the name above all names!"
(lyrics from 'What a Beautiful Name'-Hillsong)

Happy New Year's Eve to all of us. It's happy for only one reason.

Because He has already made ALL THINGS NEW.

Coincidental Christmas

You know how you are reading a book and you think "Huh, that's an interesting coincidence," and then you find out, as the pages turn, that it wasn't coincidence at all, but a carefully executed story line, a plot woven strategically and painstakingly to keep you guessing but intrigued...and ALWAYS coming back for more Do you know what I mean?

Maybe that never happens to you. I am sad to say that, as an author, I have trouble just enjoying any plot line, and instead spend entire movie viewings and book readings attempting to figure out what is going to happen next.

And when it all comes together seamlessly and exactly as I predicted/hoped it would, I will sigh in relief and smile and nod, all the details having been perfectly worked out.

But sometimes we just don't GET the vision of the writers/plot creators. A book ends, movie credits roll, a television series airs it's final episode...and we sit, frowning, thinking "What. The. Heck?"

Sometimes I will read a book or watch a movie a second time, paying closer attention to the coincidences that really aren't, and trying to make sense of what I had considered a total plot FAILURE the first reading/viewing.

And sometimes, the second time around, I will see some new things that I had missed the first time, and I'll feel slightly less disenchanted with all of LIFE...but only slightly. Because, seriously, have you ever watched the TV series "LOST" ??? After viewing the final episode of that series, I was so confused that I vowed never to watch it again. Talk about a plot/story line gone WRONG.

I think sometimes that I read the Bible that way too, thinking "something else should happen here, not this...this doesn't make sense. I would feel so much more satisfied with different details and an alternate ending to this story."

I have been pondering the Christmas story lately (for obvious reasons) and this coincidence-within-a-story-line thing has been marinating in my heart.

Because if I have learned anything from growing up with Dan and Patty Bausum as my parents, it's that God crafted His book perfectly, and none of it was ever just coincidentally recorded. (I have learned lots more things than this, by the way, this is just one of my favorite things that being their child has taught me.)

EVERYTHING in Scripture has purpose. All the stories are meant to be so much more than stories. They are meant to speak to us, to our lives here today. My parents are masterful at explaining the way the Lord chose His plot to unfold before us. I am way less masterful, (WAY LESS) but I have been turning the Christmas story over in my mind for a few weeks now, and I have some coincidences to point out.

Maybe you've seen some too, in your reading of the story. Or maybe not. You might be a person (like my husband) who never asks themselves "WHY?" during a movie or book, but simply enjoys the story.

Not me. I am always, forever, trying to put myself in the author's shoes and understand what went through their minds when they made their artistic choices. And because He knows His story is perfect, God doesn't mind that I'm sometimes taken aback by the twists, and I question the plot choices made.

Examples, you ask?

Well, there are the obvious things to question in the story of Christmas.

A stable? Really?
A census taken right at the time for the baby to come?
A virgin? Why?
A little tiny town with not nearly enough hotels?
A new star?
A low income carpenter for an earthly father?
Smelly shepherds heralded by Heaven's Host?
Wise men from far away lands?
A manger? Yuck. how much animal saliva was mixed in with the new baby smell? WHY A MANGER?

If all the details of God's book matter (and they do, FYI, because my daddy told me so. ;)- ) then what is the significance of all the strange details in the recorded events of Christ's birth?

I certainly don't have all the answers...but I know a few things I have begun to see differently, since the pondering began. This is kind of how it's been going around in my head...

"A stable. Where the beasts of burden live...hmm...Jesus, the Son of God, born where the burden carriers dwell." Coincidence? "Cast your burdens on the Lord, for He cares for you." 1 Peter 5:7

"A census? Right then? Requiring Joseph and Mary to travel to Bethlehem...Bethlehem... the city of David...where the Messiah was predicted to be born..." That's an easy coincidence to see as anything BUT chance.

"A tiny town given the great honor of hosting Emmanuel? Tiny...small...barely significant...like me, and still He breathes in the middle of cold, dark, lonely nights, the ones in my heart..."

"A virgin? Obvious prophesy fulfillment again, so not coincidence...but WHY was that part of the prophesy? Why? A virgin...life growing in her body...life that wasn't of her own making. Growth that was from the Holy Spirit, that all her striving could never accomplish. Her surrender was all that God Almighty needed, and then the Holy Spirit did the rest...like me...like every day of my life...the only life that comes out of me is from the Holy Spirit..." Holy crap. That's one to ponder on for a while...

"Smelly shepherds? Dirty and poor and overlooked...the first to hear the announcement...honor given to the least...like me...He honors me with His presence, though I am filthy and worthless..."

"Wise men? Giving gifts that would sustain them financially...a practical coincidence...except...they saw a new star, a light that they simply had to follow, and they laid great riches at the feet of the One who is worthy of all our traveling, searching, looking for.."

"The star...the star that proclaimed the birth of the Savior...a new light. It could've been anything to announce His arrival. An oasis springing up. An animal talking. An earthquake. A mighty rushing wind. But instead...light...Light...the Light of the World...shining new. Bright, but silent and peaceful at the same time." Coincidence? "Jesus said to them, "I am the light of the world." John 8:12

"A carpenter for an adopted father? A trade learned by the boy King...to build...to take a rough piece of wood and turn it into something else, something useful for life...like me...rough and useless, but hammered and chiseled and cut into something that He chooses, something He can use."

"And while I'm pondering the carpenter thing...Emmanuel, adopted by a carpenter. Though they shared no DNA, He was raised as the son of Joseph. Joseph gave his name, and protection, and provision, to Jesus. The same way God, the Great Builder, gives His name and protection and provision to me...I'm adopted too...Jesus grew up understanding what it was like to be adopted..." Whoa. That's some food for thought. "This High Priest of ours understands...for He faced all the same testings we do..." Hebrews 4:15

"A manger. A feed trough. A place where the beasts carrying the burdens received nourishment...food...life...I'm burdened too, and hungry, and in need of sustenance...and the Bread of Life is there for me, ready to nourish my spirit...A baby, God wrapped in flesh, laid out as the food for all mankind." Oh, my heart. "I am the bread of life." John 6:48

I won't go on. I could, but I won't.

Instead, I'm going to sit here and read, once more, the greatest story ever told, with the most unexpected event choices, and I'm going to see each as a step made just for me, to teach me something new about the character and CARE of my Father.

Not only did He love me so much that He sent His Son to live and suffer and die for me...He also chose every detail of that story to draw me to His heart.

That is no coincidence.

Careful Chaos

It's chaos every day in my life, but the crazy is amped up during the holidays. I don't mind.

I am, unashamedly, a lover of all things Christmas related.

Movies, music, decorations, special flavors of coffee and cookies, seasonal scents of candles and lotion...even the crowded stores and biting cold are part of the charm of the season. (Although, in the interest of full disclosure, I mostly shop online from the comfort of my warm home, so I enjoy those last two sparingly.)

And every year I hear the reminders from commercials and radio hosts and books and blogs, to "slow down" and "don't forget, in the rush of the holidays, to enjoy the time with the ones you love."

I try to be conscious of those reminders all through the year, not just during the most wonderful time. I have four children and a very full life, after all, and the tendency is to do everything a mile a minute because a minute is ALL I've got. If I could eat standing up while washing dishes and brushing my teeth and catching up on my Bible study and picking up dirty laundry and exercising and assisting in math homework...I would.

I like to work hard and fast, in order to get to, and be able to enjoy, the slow moments.

One particularly slow moment that has become part of our lives is "snuggle time" at the end of the day. It happens in some form every night, and after a while we don't really think about why we started doing it. It's just a habit.

It all began a little over 7 years ago, when Faith was 7, Clay was 5, Nate was 2, and Gabe was a brand new bun in the oven. All the kids were excited about adding another baby, but Clay began to struggle, behaviorally, and for several weeks he wasn't his normal kind, loving, happy self. One day, while I was praying about what to do, the Lord dropped a thought into my heart.

What if he needed extra reminding that he was loved and valued and that his place in y heart was never going to be taken?

That night, I sat down on the couch and asked him to come and sit with me. We cuddled together and watched TV, under a blanket, him twirling the ends of my hair around his finger.

The next night, he asked me if we could do "snuggle time" again...and the rest is history. We usually snuggle in our king size bed now, rather than the living room, and now that the kids are way bigger and there are 4 of them, its a two shift process. Snuggles with Nate and Gabe first, and then Faith and Clay come in after the younger two go to bed.

Last night...last night I called for the big kids when the little boys headed to their beds. Clay came first, and he had a funny look on his face.

"Mom, I don't want to do snuggle time tonight."

"Why not?" I asked, sure that he was in the middle of something and just needed a few minutes to shut it down.

"I'm not a little kid anymore, Mom. I don't have to do snuggle time every night."

My. Heart. Broke.

In a flash that seemed to last forever, I saw his sweet little face, asking to snuggle, and I saw all the years before and since, moments I've cherished, and moments I've glossed over, and many, many more that are just a part of our daily lives, that  I can't ever recount. I saw them all on his face, and it was almost more than I could bear.

You can never be reminded to savor moments enough. Ever. Because even in all my attempting to slow down and be present...somehow I missed that my firstborn son had outgrown something that was started for the sake of HIS heart.

I've been sad all day today, and trying so hard to move through moments more carefully.

I want to see all my lovely decorations, and sing "Peace on earth" and actually FEEL the peace that reminders of Christ's birth should bring.

I want to sing "Silent Night" and not think snarky thoughts about how I've never had a silent night since I had kids.

I want to cherish the moments with my children, because Lord knows I can never cherish them too much.

If you're a mom, you can understand my heartache.

Certainly, the mother of Emmanuel knew even more pain.

I wonder if she held Him on the night of His birth, and promised His Father that she would keep Him safe and let Him know He was loved by her. Did she ever despair of how to handle a certain behavior or action or personality trait? Did she WISH a day would just be over so there would be some quiet? Did she hold her breath so she didn't gag when she caught a whiff of teenage boy stench? Did she give up on toenail clipping reminders? Did she think "some day, please God, I won't have to remind him to shower" or "we will go bankrupt before He gets full."

And did she, when she watched Him suffer and die...did she grieve that she ever took a moment for granted? Did she LONG for the teenage boy stench again?

Of course she did.

And so it's no wonder that God reminds us to "be still" and to "wait on the Lord" and to let Him be "peace" for us.

Because how much more would we grieve if we hadn't ever once slowed down to enjoy the moments?

It would be more than we could bear. And The Lord knows it, and so He reminds us.

London, baby!

Confession: this particular leg of our journey is the one I, personally, was most excited about.

London, United Kingdom.

A city filled with history. Exactly my speed.

Speaking of speed, let me back up and share a few details about the Formula One Grand Prix in Abu Dhabi (Not to be confused with Abu the monkey.)(I HAD to get that in here somewhere.)

It was much more exhilarating than I thought it would be. The guys were, of course, totally stoked, and I was excited that they were excited...but I've never followed racing much, and only care about it in a "yeah, my husband and boys watch that on the weekends sometimes while I'm cleaning the kitchen and getting groceries" kind of way.

But it was a spectacular experience. Every time the cars, going over 200 miles an hour, raced toward us down the straightaway, then braked sharply to turn the 90 degree corner, jockeying for position and screeching their tires, I gasped and clenched my hands together, thoroughly enjoying the rush of adrenaline.

All in all, I'm glad I went. It was very cool.

After the race, we walked to the adjoining mall for supper, where we realized, for the second time during our visit to the United Arab Emirates, that their malls are the size of our cities. (I'm exaggerating, but only a little bit. I've never seen anything so gigantic. And we walked the entire dang length of the building, I swear.) In the food court, because we are clearly Americans, we ordered Burger King and Pizza Hut. (insert self deprecating, bemused eye-roll here.)

We rose before the sun and boarded a plane in Abu Dhabi. A fancy plane. A double decker, with a bar in first class and apartments available if you were willing to pay 60 THOUSAND dollars for it. We were NOT willing, (duh) but even economy class was swanky. (by the way, why do they have to call it economy, like that dresses it up? Just say cheap seats, people. That's what they are, and we all know it. No reason to try and make it better with flowery words.)(Tangent ended.)

And that brings us up to London. Where I turned into a total history geek, as expected. I read all the things I could find to read, and when there was no information available, I made Heath turn on his WiFi hotspot so I could use it to google information.

Our first cab driver of the day called our accents funny. And he regaled us with jokes, historical information, and boasts about his city. When he told us that London was the best city on earth because no one was allowed to carry a gun, I wanted to remind him: "Um, sir, we are Americans. You know, the home of the wild, wild west? We are a bunch of cowboys, according to the rest of the world. We have the 2nd amendment...we aren't really impressed by that last little tidbit. Move back to the jokes." Ah, the diversity of world culture.

I wish that we could've spent several more days in London. I am pretty sure I will always want more time in historically rich cities.

But what we saw...was magical. We hopped on a double decker tour bus outside our hotel, and away we went. Buckingham Palace, Big Ben, Parliament, Westminster Abbey...and much more. We ate fish and chips and drank mulled cider at a local London Pub. We ordered lattes from a tiny, owner operated cafe. We rode the London Eye after dark. We walked around shivering because it was so flipping cold. We had the time of our lives.

It was a perfect way to celebrate Heath's 40th birthday, which, if I haven't said so already, was the main reason for the entire eight day adventure. We finished off the celebration of my favorite man in the world with supper at a nice restaurant, and another harrowing cab ride.

And now we are bound for home.

Customs in the London Heathrow airport was just shy of being strip searched, and all four of us find ourselves as excited to be on our way back to the land of the free and the home of the brave as we were to depart on our whirlwind, globe-trotting, birthday bash.

The United States of America is calling to our hearts, as everyone's homeland calls to them, I imagine. But mostly, we long for our sweet kids; for their kisses and hugs, and the way they smell, and how loud and rowdy they are. We cannot wait to hear their voices calling us "Mom and Dad."

We are ready to be home.

Where everyone is free to choose how to worship. And everyone can drink the water straight from the tap. And our phone chargers work in every outlet. And we have a WiFi package. And guns. And we drive on the correct side of the street.

London was fantastic, but there really is no place like home.

Abu Dhabi

I wanted to add, after the title "not to be confused with Abu the monkey" but I knew only my kids and a few others would understand the Aladdin reference...and so I didn't.

My second title idea was "more of the cultural phenomenon," except it doesn't have quite the same ring to it as my first idea. So I settled for terribly boring. Sigh. I feel like a titling failure.

Abu Dhabi is surprisingly different from Dubai. We had to drive through a legitimate desert to arrive here, and the haze of sand is present in the air...and in my eyes every time the wind blows.

The call to prayer rings out much louder, which either means they have better speakers at the mosques, or that there is a mosque much closer to our hotel here than in Dubai.

The breakfast buffet is another difference. In Dubai it was an international spread, featuring pizza and egg rolls and baked beans (yes, on the breakfast buffet...) but here, in the more traditional Abu Dhabi, I was interested and excited to see an entirely authentic assortment of foods. There was an olive bar, several bowls of dates, hummus (YUM), fruit, and platters of sandwiches and pastries and cheeses. Bacon and sausage are clearly labeled either "chicken" or "turkey" as there is no pork to be found or consumed in the UAE. I loved the breakfast experience here. I wished I could've discussed it with my kids, and shared the cultural differences with them.

The Grand Mosque we visited last night was one of the most beautiful architectural buildings I've ever seen. Breathtaking. Intricate. No expense spared. Magnificent and awe-inspiring. We took hundreds of pictures which won't do justice to any of it.

There were very strict dress code rules. We knew about them beforehand, but forgot to take a couple of things into account. Women had to be completely covered. Long pants, long sleeves, a scarf covering neck and hair. We knew that. But we didn't know that they had to be loose fitting (baggy) clothes...and so we had to adjust what we were wearing, or risk being asked to don a traditional robe and head covering. Many, many other women visiting the mosque either didn't take the time to research proper attire, or they didn't care, or they WANTED to wear the garb, because for every two women we saw in long sleeves and pants and scarves of their own, there were at least 5 women in abayas that they were instructed to put on over their clothes before entry was permitted. Also, we read that men could wear short-sleeved shirts, but didn't account for the fact that visible tattoos would not be allowed...and so our friend, Patrick, was able to experience the long white robe kindly forced on him by the guard.

The long, droning wail of the call to prayer rang out while we toured. We watched in awe as men began to run, desperate to arrive at the "Male prayer hall" in time for the evening prayers. The "Female prayer hall" was located on the opposite end of the mammoth building, and women headed that way with equal haste. I can't begin to describe the sadness that overtook me as I witnessed the haste. The people were devout and excited and committed to go into a room and pray...but, they had to go into a certain room, dressed a certain way, and be separated from their spouse in order to do so.

A lump rose in my throat, thinking of all the times my husband and I have grasped hands together, wherever we happened to be, and prayed to God, the Almighty, the ever-present Lord of Hosts...and He heard us where we were, however we were dressed. I won't spend time on this particular tangent, although I could. I did turn to Ashley and whisper, "I hear the call to prayer too. Aren't you glad we can stand right here and pray if we want to?" And she agreed. And then I said "I think the guys should go into the men's prayer hall and pray. They don't have to go in there to talk to God. But they can take the Holy Spirit and a few angels with them." And she smiled, indulging my Patty Bausum moment in the way all my true friends do.

Not being able to touch my husband while in the mosque was another thing I knew to expect, but found much more difficult than I had expected. I didn't realize how often I touched him out of habit. Interlocking fingers, occasional hand placed on shoulder or arm to make sure he was still close by and aware of me...I do that a lot, apparently. Finally, after barely catching myself several times, I crossed my arms tightly, and spent the remainder of our tour that way. I watched Patrick reach back, probably not even realizing he was doing it, holding his hand out for Ashley to take. And when she didn't, he turned, looking for her...and then remembered.

I left the mosque feeling amazed by the beauty of the structure and skill of the craftsmen, somber thinking of the inability to pray anywhere and with anyone I wanted, and supremely relieved to be able to uncover my head and wrap my arms around Heath.

We visited an old market, called a souk, this morning, and that was one of my favorite cultural experiences. Shops devoted to selling fresh spices, shops that sold every variety of dates, shops with silk scarves in every color combination you can imagine. I could've walked the corridors between shops all day long, and never grown tired of it.

Alas, though, there was a little thing called Formula One racing...the main reason we made this trip in the first place. And so we changed from our conservative, souk appropriate garb, into our racetrack attire, and headed there for the qualifying round.

At the gate, we were separated into male and female entrance lines. At first we thought it was because we had purses that needed to be scanned, until we noticed several men carrying backpacks in other lines. Ashley looked at me and spoke in hushed, vehement tones. "I do NOT like the way they treat us here." Indeed, there were 4 lines devoted to taking the tickets and credentials of the men, and only one for women.

There are too many things to document them all, too many wonderful experiences, too many moments of emotional upheaval, and even if I could somehow find all the words and had all the screen space to fill with them...I am just too exhausted.

And so I am posting this at midnight in Abu Dhabi, which is early afternoon in the USA, and bidding you all goodnight!

Tomorrow is race day. Stay tuned.

Dubai

I wonder if the shock of another culture ever becomes less dramatic.

Being that I am not what most would consider "well traveled," I find myself acutely aware of the differences between my own little "world" and the multi-cultural world outside the American South.

And, certainly, this particular trip boasts the most glaring differences of any place I have ever visited.

The United Arab Emirates is literally on the other side of the world from North Carolina.

While there will occasionally be a displaced Yankee gracing the streets and restaurants and grocery stores south of the Mason-Dixon line, saying "you guys" and forgetting to say "yes ma'am" and driving aggressively and staring blankly when someone offers grits as a meal...that cultural gap pales in comparison to the hotels and streets and beaches and airports of Dubai, UAE. (I giggle now at my own metaphorical turn of phrase, because it is ironically true in the most literal sense here. In the USA, I am a relatively olive-skinned person. In the United Arab Emirates...people probably want to blink and squint when they see me walking by. I am, quite accurately, pale in comparison.)

Because I am nothing if not a person who wants to be over-prepared and completely informed about a destination I will be visiting, I read as much as I could, and asked as many people as I knew, what to expect, and how to dress, and all the rest of the truly important things.

And still, the shock remains.

From the first moments of boarding the gigantic airplane, where the people pressed in on every side with no claustrophobia or thought of personal space, to the arrival in the airport and the stringent security enforced by Arabian garbed border patrol...I am feeling very much like a little bitty country girl with two left feet and an accent no one, not even the English speaking, can understand.

SO many languages present themselves to my ears. French, and Spanish, and several I can't recognize...and differently accented English from my own.

It's a sun-soaked melting pot, Dubai, much more so than anywhere I have been before.

After 13 hours on a plane, which included the most miserable night of sleep of my life,(and by sleep I mean dozing off long enough for my neck to get a crick or my arm to fall asleep or my forehead to smack onto someone else's shoulder or the people walking back and forth to the bathroom to smack into me on their way by) I was nearly too exhausted to mentally catalog all I was seeing for the first time...nearly.

But I made the effort, because I knew I would have a moment to reflect, and record, what it was like to visit a Muslim country.

We brought appropriate clothing, even if many of the other visitors to our hotel did not. (see above mentioned statement about being properly prepared) but I still feel under-dressed when walking by women with their heads covered, and entire families in religious garb, and men who stare at us strangely.

I wonder if they are as unused to my appearance as I m to theirs. Surely not. There are people from every part of the world here, and everyone looks and talks and dresses differently.

It's more than appearances I wonder about, though. I wonder, as I make eye-contact with, and smile at, every person I can, if they ponder the type of person I am the way I ponder them.

Are they angry that I made eye contact in the first place? I didn't read about that being taboo here...but I didn't read EVERYTHING.

Are they praying for my eternal soul when they see my in a knee length skirt and my hair uncovered? (And because I am nothing if not my mother's daughter, you can rest assured that I AM praying for the souls of everyone I see.)

Are they glad for the tourist business that I represent, or do they feel put out by the way their city has become so modern, losing some of its culture to the concrete and lights and peoples of the world?

It's Thanksgiving Day in America, at least it will be when the sun comes up there. Here, there is no turkey cooking, or football on television, or family arriving.

There is a crowded beach, and a cool Indian Ocean breeze, and every color and shape and language and bathing suit type you can imagine.

I love it all. I wish I could soak it into my pores the way I am soaking in the Arabian rays. I wish that some of who I am would seep out of me and onto others, so that a little of my culture becomes theirs, and a little of theirs becomes mine.

That is what a melting pot is all about, after all.

The days are jammed full ahead of us, and its exciting and overwhelming and EXPENSIVE, but for a few hours today, I am able to stop and think, and enjoy, and ponder, and pray.

I pray blessings on this country, and it's people...and I pray that the love of Jesus would seep out of me, and somehow, because He is powerful enough to do it, the Holy Spirit would begin to move here. It's a rather large prayer, and certainly more than I could ever begin to hope to see accomplished...but maybe my smile to the sweet lady who exchanged our money this morning will shine Jesus on her, the same way that I felt the kindness in the words of our waiter at breakfast. THAT isn't too much to pray for.

And even though I am an uncultured, little American southern girl, I know that my Lord sees me here the same as He sees me at home, and that He hears me...because I am His princess...even here.

Happy Thanksgiving to all our people back home. The world is wonderful, and filled with adventure and beauty and shock and all the rest...but YOU are home. And we love you.