On using the word SANS

I had big plans for this year's Christmas card.

Something along the lines of Photoshop and Santa hats and family frolicking on the beach.

Alas, my version of Photoshop is hopelessly outdated.

There were no Santa hats on the Picmonkey, the free online photo editor I use now that I'm hopelessly out-dated.

My whole family frolicked on the beach, indeed, but nobody took a picture of us.

(Somebody else's family frolicked - danced up a storm! And I got loads of pictures of them. 

But it didn't suit for the Christmas card. 

I was blown away by this fun little dance team, but I doubt you would be.

So anyway, I placed my order for the cards at Shutterfly, and then I went back to play on PicMonkey. And, do you wanna know what I discovered? Lo and behold, I can draw my own Santa hats!!!

I can make the card I have been dreaming of since August!

So, if I'd only been an hour ahead of myself (perhaps if I'd lived somewhere in the Atlantic ocean), I'd have discovered this before I saved 40% and scored free shipping on cards sans Santa hats. As it stands, I'm gonna have to draw dingdang hats on each and every card. Or you're just gonna get the boring one shown at the top of this blog. DRAT!

-- One of my last shots of Roanoke as we left home at 5:58 a.m. Sunday morn. I was awake for only three more minutes.

This was the parting shot I was after. Note the price of gas. It's a bit more than the all-time low of $2.97 spotted on this trip. It's still far less than what we Connecticutonians pay on any ding dang day of the week (near $4.00).

I was sound asleep 45 seconds after snapping this. 

(What's with lighted holiday pigs???)

The good news is that I took Monday off. I figured, hey - I am due a break after that drive from Ct. to Va. (Even if Curt drove it and I napped and read and napped the whole drive home.)  

      Thank you, Johns Sanford and Irving, for something to read. 

And so I took the day off to play. Actually, I went to Costco with Curt and to Chili's for enchilada soup and Home Depot for clear storage boxes and Michael's for lighted outdoor trees, and back home to set up Christmas decorations, so I'm not positive that is considered "play", but nonetheless, I didn't work that day for any sort of compensation short of my own happiness. And I'm happy now. I sweep in the door and flick on my lights and - voila, I'm in Christmas land!

Back in Costco:

I wonder if I should invest in this for Christmas dinner. It's complete! It serves 8-10! It's fully cooked! (Then I remember the Pioneer Woman brisket....)

Curt wondered if I would take a picture of his pride and joy - the first decoration to go up on our day off. (It's a major award!!!)  It's not that I wasn't game to tread outdoors in the freezing 30s. It's more like I needed a reason to. Yesterday, clad in my pajamas, there was no reason. Today, on the way home from school, I found reason.  This is real love, friends. I light this leg every night of the Christmas season for my one. true. love. And plus also I sort of think it's cool.

Winning!

Winning in pictures

trophies don't even count.

Benjy's sparring event

He took 3rd place!

So thankful it's over!

Camden's 2nd place for forms - after two tie-breakers!!!

And now for sparring...

It wasn't pretty by just a tad, but the dude held his own. 

So proud of my guys!

It's gonna get a bit WENDI around here!

I'm all about having cable TV right now.   24-hour TWC, a constant stream of images and sound and weather to fuel my heightening excitement over this impending hurricane. Why, Jim Cantore himself comes to my living room every time I summon channel 19. (Back when we lived in the Big House, we didn't splurge for cable. When we moved to the Teeny Tiny House, they made us such a deal that it's cheaper to GET cable here than it was to NOT have it there. Note to self: move often to keep up with the deals.)

As I was saying, this hurricane is zooming up the coast. I had written it off as a non-event just a few hours ago. Then I tuned in. Nothing like Live Reports and Breaking News to pique my interest. Not to mention I have an aunt with the very same name. Now I'm a little concerned. Not a lot. But enough.

Here's a little perspective for you.

It's a whopper of a storm. We're expecting high winds here and storm surge near the coast. We're too far north for that, but the winds will likely bring down power poles which means I'll be playing Little House on the Prairie again. 

And truth be told, I'm OK with that. Little House is apt for us about now. We're cozy here. Squeezed together in a comfortable way, with enough space to be in time-out if we need it. 

God's given us just what we need for this season of our lives. We could consider ourselves between seasons, I suppose, as we wait for our chance to go home. But we don't. This is the season of growing closer to each other, closer to Him. It's a time to be deliberate with our time, our money, our choices. It's a season with purpose, and we don't want to waste it.

With or without power, we'll make it. But you can bet we'll be plugging in the power converter to the truck so we can keep up with the weather during the black-out. Good thing we sat in line to fill up some gas cans today. 

A Slice of Thursday

From
DRAs
lesson plans
writing conferences
November projects
homework
broken jump drives
...

to the best part
of Thursday,
lunch with Benjy.

Why I'm not watching the presidential debate:

Why in the world did I major in political science when I hate politics so much that I refuse - steadfastly refuse - to watch the presidential debates?

I won't try to make myself sound political or science-y or even remotely smart (cause I was just a good student, you see; I knew how to work wonders with an essay test.)  Political science was definitely not my calling, even though I'm the one who picked it.

So, why did I do that? Easy: Compared with English, I had the most credits in it. I figured at the time that I was destined to major in poli-sci because (a) my daddy was a town manager and (b) I must have liked it since I'd taken so many classes. 

And then I finished college and spent a few years pretending to be a reporter at the Roanoke Times, which was fun and satisfying and made me feel like the Big Time, even though I was most definitely not. The most invigorating times to be in that newsroom were during breaking news - the budding war in Iraq, Waco, the 1992 presidential election. CNN was coming out and the world opened up to 24-7 news. I loved it. I lived and breathed NEWS, even as I worked in the fluffy features department slaving over the weekly calendar and Fridaysomething and the occasional newsFun article as the phones rang and rang and I had to answer those, too. 

I loved it. 

All that news, the talking heads, the quick flashes of action and sound bites and sometimes dramatic music.  News became my idol.

I just loved it.

(Then I felt called to teach; and that's a whole other story.)

So, what's happened that I can't even watch a debate now?  It could be blood pressure related, but I've always had excellent blood pressure (not to brag or anything). Of course they've never slapped on the cuff during a fit of madness. And that's what I feel during these debates - madness. Where's the truth? Who's to tell you where the truth is? And are they worthy of reporting the truth? News is certainly not my idol anymore. 

Right-wingers will swear their side is the only way. Left-wingers will swear the same. I cannot stand the very idea that either is that black and white, one way or the other. That much solidarity errs on the side of ignorance, it seems to me. Nobody is perfect. Nobody on earth, that is. You simply cannot believe 100% of either side. Seriously. Can you? 

I think it's the racket that comes out of these debates - the spin room speakers, the negativity, the 100%-positivity, the lack of fact-checking, the inane Facebook status updates and comments that follow, and all that money that follows along like a scrappy little pup on a leash. People line up on their own sides and scream across the field at the other. It's all just so ugly.

I'm not regretful that I was a poli-sci major. I'm certainly not ashamed of my daddy's stint as the longest-serving manager of a single town in Virginia (at least he held that record a few years ago). I'm just being honest here. I'm sick and tired of the distrust I feel in the whole entire political process. 

And so, in the end, you'll be relieved to know that I do calm down. I do carry on knowing the secret to happy, joyful living - no matter what is going on here on earth ~ 

  

Character Traits

A FB friend recently asked how we(her Facebook friends) felt about the presidential candidates and their personalities/character. I commented that character is very important to me. It's how you act when nobody is looking. It is who you are fundamentally. Under your skin. Deep down in your soul. That stuff matters to me.

* I am NOT going to write about either candidate. My political views are my own. And nothing I say will sway anybody whose mind is already made up.  I rest in knowing that Jesus is my King and He reigns over whomever we elect.

My friend's post reminded me of a recent minilesson I taught to my second graders. These kids believe in character, too. And they can spot one's true character in a nanosecond. They can read a book, identify the main character, and analyze him/her. They can read both the out-loud right-there traits as well as the more subtle nuances that define the character. They know how to read between the lines and how to judge - yes, judge - what you say side-by-side with what what you do. 

They know. They KNOW. 

7-year-olds can figure out your character.

They can analyze your words. 

They can analyze your actions.

They can analyze your character.

If ever there was a calling to act like the person you want to be, then this is it. Our children are watching. 

Lord, please help me to be the person you've called me to be. Help me to think like a child of God, to talk like a child of God, to act like a child of God. Help me to be the child you created. 

Soft Spots

1 Thessalonians 5:16-18, "Rejoice always, pray continually, give thanks in all circumstances, for this is God's will for you in Christ Jesus." (NIV)

I suppose I could think of our little situation here in Casa de Tiny as a holding pattern, a circumstance to get through if you will. Something to endure till a bigger house, a better tax rate, a finer view comes our way. But I don't. 

That's not to say that a couple of years ago, if I'd heard the Lord ask me to sell my beautiful house and hole up in a rental half the size for an indefinite amount of time, I'da not up and acted like I didn't hear a thing. "What's that? Oh, must've been the wind. Or Camden." 

But last spring when Curt and I both heard His calling, we knew. At first it seemed like God was saying, (in a voice remarkably like Dave Ramsey) "DOWNSIZE". And so we were fully prepared to buy a smaller (not teeny tiny) house and DOWNSIZE. But then as we got closer to the reality of selling, we heard Him again. 

"No need to buy, my children. Hang on. 
I've got ya. Wait till you see what I've got planned for you." 


So we rent knowing that when God says, "Go home" we will be ready to pack up and head south to our families. We're still praying that Sun Stand Still prayer that our journey will take us to Virginia. And we feel that God's preparing us to do just that.

But until that day comes, we will live out loud right here in the center of our town. We will go about our business with God's blessing. Believing that every single person we meet, work with, and bump up against was put in our path by Him. Doing what we can while we can right here in the mission fields of Connecticut. It's not lost on us that God brought us here to one of the most spiritually deprived places in the world (yes, the world) to draw us closer to Him through our church, our work, our very living here. And for that, we'll always have a soft spot for Windsor, Connecticut. 

Here, Kitchy Kitchy Kitchy

This house, this teeny tiny rental house we call home till Moses rescues us from captivity and delivers us to the Promised Land, has an abundance of features.

Not the ones typically extolled in a real estate listing. 

These are features you'd more likely spy in a vintage Sears & Roebuck catalog.

Let's take a tour of our 1950s cape, shall we?

Here we have the stair rail with spindles roughly a foot apart.

Charming, even if a modern-day code violation.

And this is the wallpaper inside the downstairs bath closet. 

I could practically brush my teeth in that reflection! 

A friend told me this stuff goes for the big bucks on Property Brothers. 

Here's the downstairs bath vanity, minus the top drawer which is being repaired. 

Thankfully, we didn't break it, and we don't own it.

For the first time in years we don't have a microwave/hood over the stove. 

In fact, so far, we've managed to live without a microwave at all.

Which is why Jiffy Pop and we are buds now.

So, what's this? A pull-out exhaust van. 

Simply pull it out and the fan automatically turns on!

And here's the dishwasher which is designed to match the cabinets.

That's something cool, actually, I think.

And inside, this is a vintage dishwasher that actually washes better than all our other dishwashers together.

Pistachio loves her new home. 

She fits in perfectly on the speckled formica, no?

Keurig (thanks, Mom and Richard!) loves his digs, too.

And he makes an easy cup of coffee.

And while we're in the kitchen, check out our kitchy kitchy flooring. 

There is no rug that will mask this.

Wallpaper...

Wallpaper...

Notice the curtain rod which extends well beyond the window. 

The curtains serve to give your eye a place to rest from all

that

wallpaper...

which stretches around the room.

Wallpaper....

Front door...

Yeah, retro, right?

It's solid wood, though, I can tell you that!

Fireplace 

This isn't a bad feature. Not even an odd feature in any way.

Except that Ein the Cat thought it was his litter box for the first few days here.

Ewwwwwwww. 

Camden heard aluminum foil was a good deterrent. Must work.

So there's the quirks that make us love this crazy old house more than it warrants. And then there's the fact that it's not a house that makes a home. It's the family you squeeze in it. 

Old Timey Popcorn

I suwannee, I know I hold this blog address. And I know I am expected to maintain it. But life has happened, so, this is what you get. 

And you get what you get and you don't throw a fit. 

(Except up here near Greenland which is really white on a globe, where they say, "you get what you get and you don't get upset."  I don't get that at all. 

So you won't seem me throwing a hissy fit over my new kitchen floor. 

Check out the pattern. 

It's so, patternly!

As of yet, we are living without a microwave for the first time since round about Jimmy Carter. Now we do popcorn the Jiffy Pop way. We break rules, too, popping over a glass-top stove, in a kitchen with a patterned floor. This takes nearly a quarter of an hour. 

The highlight of living in a tiny house (to which you will be granted an insider's pass in an upcoming blog, as if I have time to post these inane updates to my life) is the all new and improved FRIDAY NIGHT MOVIE NIGHTS! We've hosted exactly one (1) (uno) (I) such event and it was a roaring success. After popping popcorn that took way longer than 2.5 minutes, we returned to The Shakiest Gun in the West starring the inimitable Don Knotts. Oh my goodness, we all hooted, it was such a riot. Benjy was impressed that it was in color. Camden was all about the gestures and slapstick. I was all blessed and verklempt that we'd pulled off this crazy move and that it worked. God's plan so worked! (More on that in the future, possibly this weekend, but I'm promising nothin'.) (Also, the smeared pea green on the walls in the living room are now a soft sage. You can rest now.)

That's my theme song right now. The school comes along just to end it part. 

My 104 days are nearly up. 
No more reading till midnight and sleeping till 9. 
No more pinning pretty pictures on Pinterest as I sip coffee on the deck. 
No more reading in the sunshine.
No more jumping into the redneck pool to cool off when the sunshine becomes too much. 
No more.
No more. 
No more.

Wednesday is my first official day back to school, teacher days packed with meetings and workshops and CPR and decorating bulletin boards. They're a nice segue into the school year, a tiny wake-up-call before I really have to drag myself up at the crack of dawn and be ON for the next 15 hours. 

My body is fighting the early hours, but my brain can't let it go. I showed up at school three days last week to set up Room 3. I heaved and hauled and hanged and stapled. I chatted and mingled and helped and stared. It's practically done. All I need are some kids and maybe a new pair of sensible shoes. Well, some lesson plans would be nice.

Truth is, I can't wait for school. I need the routine for my slothy self. I need it for my family. I need something to count on in this time of upheaval. (Upheaval: the time when you're selling your home, moving into a rental, and pretending like everything's the same.) I need some things to just be the same every single day. Even if that means I have to schedule going to the bathroom. 

My 104 days are most assuredly running out. But my brain is already on fire for the next 360.

Streaky Formica and Leg Lamps

Sometimes God wants you to act weird. He asks you to do some things that might seem, well, beneath you. He expects you to sacrifice a few pieces of furniture and such for the greater good. He even has the audacity to ask you to - gasp - go without a front porch!

A couple of years ago? Ida been, "What? Who, me? I'm OK, God. I'm OK. Me and my furniture pieces and porch with the swing and that view of your creation? We're good.")

But now? Hey, we here at Casa de Richert are pinched wide awake on this journey with God. He's asking us to downsize. He wants us to do more with less. He thinks being close, as in crammed together in half the square footage, will bring us closer to each other, closer to Him. He wants us to do it in a 1950s rental house near the center of town. No suburbs for us. Nu-uh. We're goin' downtown.

So, maybe I'll see you there
We can forget all our troubles
Forget all our cares so go

Downtown, things'll be great when you're
Downtown, don't wait a minute more
Downtown, everything's waiting for you
Downtown

Read more at http://www.songlyrics.com/petula-clark/downtown-lyrics/#t4IW2OgmlrDgshx0.99
Anywho. The boys and I went to look at this rental that Curt and I first saw last Sunday. They liked it. They apparently are unaffected by streaky formica. It's a good thing we never spoiled them with granite, no?

Each saw their future room. Boy 1 and Boy 2 loved them. Oh, to see life through their eyes. We truly would be living "downtown".

So, just what separates my boys' perspectives from my own? Hmmmmm. I'm too embarrassed to even fathom it. What, with me living in absolute security and comfort in a world where many go without food. I don't want to guilt a single one of you, but I'm sure this tiny house is a mansion by a stretch. To think that I'm delighted to have a closet for my clothes! I should be thankful to have pint-sized dry stretch to lay my head. 

Still, it's an adjustment for us, but one I'm sure we'll fit into. God is good that way. We have faith that He will provide. There will be money to make our tithe. There will be extra for the missionary we want to support. There will be room for a Christmas tree and the toaster and Pistachio the Mixer that is alone a luxury. (She can whip up a mean chocolate pound cake, let me tell you.)

When I think of where we stand in the great scheme of things, I know we're beyond blessed. And this little formica kitchen with streaky stripes and '60s decor provides for us in spite of what we deserve. 

We are blessed beyond our deserving. 

We are blessed. 

And can't you just see the leg lamp here???

the leg lamp worthy award window

Pantaloons and Kudzu

Ever since we got home from Hatteras Island, I'm conflicted, is what I am.

It happens whenever we go south. 

We hit the Mason Dixon Line, and then the Stuckey's pop up, and before you know it my accent is thick and drawling and I'm practically pulling on my pantaloons in anticipation of being home again. When I am finally home I actually breathe better. I sleep better. I feel better. It's just a better existence for me down south.

And so I'm conflicted on account of I'm not there now. I'm back in Connecticut where I have a total of zero family outside of my own personal husband and two sons and cat and hamster and two African dwarf frogs. Yes, I count my blessings that my family belongs to an amazing church and I teach at an amazing Christian school. We are supported and loved by God's people wherever we go, even here in Connecticut, but we do choose carefully. Still, Curt and I feel a tugging, a pull to head south. I'm like a goose feeling the winter approaching. I'm ready to take wing.

I simply miss home. And I've tried to get back there without leaving.

I have been reading southern writers all summer long. Even the Ron Clark book on teaching is decidedly southern with his awesome North Carolinian voice booming off the pages. Anne Rivers Siddons has been my author of choice, having exhausted Pat Conroy and Dorothea Benton Frank and Lee Smith. Southern Living is on my living room table. But it's just not enough.

I miss those hugging mountains and friendly people and cheap-o gas and neighborhood streets where people I know still live and call me by name. I miss Chick Fil A nuggets (oh yes, I just went there) and my momma and the crazy kudzu covered shacks on the side of the four-lane. 
I miss voices like mine. 
I miss wanting to talk to people in the check-out line. 
I miss home.

a kudzu covered shack on the side of the four lane

Curt and I decided way back in the spring that we were over-burdened with our mortgage, paying far more than the Dave Ramsey recommended percentage of our whole budget. We put the house up for sale ready to downsize. I don't know if you know, but Connecticut is pricey. That's why we drive to Mass. for gas. It's worth it. So the house went on the market and we kept it spic and span which is not easy with two boys and a cat and hamster and two African dwarf frogs. But we did it. 

And tonight we signed a contract with a buyer who wants to live in our house. They even want the redneck pool! We haven't come close to the price we paid, but we are thanking God that we'll be able to pay off the mortgage and pocket a little extra in savings. All this seems like a blessing and a sign.

We have no idea where God is leading us next. We have a list of rental houses to look at this weekend. Curt has his job. I have school starting in a couple of weeks. We're prepared to stick out the fall, the winter, the spring here in New England. 

But it is our Sun Stand Still prayer that we can go home after all is said and done. We are ready to go home. We are praying it. We are walking in faith -
     Goodbye beautiful house! 
     Goodbye big rooms and huge back yard! 
     Goodbye home ownership!

We're willing to turn our backs on you to get where God is taking us.

Home. We pray it's home.

Goodbye 52

Saying goodbye sucks, frankly. 

Goodbye, lovely beach.

Goodbye sea oats.

Goodbye sand.

The sand I'll miss 

when it's between my toes.

Not so much 

when it's elsewhere.

Goodbye water boy.

Except when you're in the redneck pool.

Goodbye pensive boy.

Except when you're thinking about other stuff.

Goodbye boogie boards.

Goodbye dancing boys and girls.

We'll miss you perhaps most of all.

What with your completely unself-conscious ways...

... of dancing on the beach...

... and doing calisthenics...

... and putting it all out there...

... for us timid island people

too ashamed to shake it

on the sands.

Goodbye Elizabeth and Bob and twins. 

Until next year. 

Same time.

Same place.

Goodbye week 52.

Thank you, Lord, for the blessings of being here.

And for the opportunity 

to make choices to bless others.

I don't think we did anything huge 

on a grand miracle-working scale. 

But we felt your love pour through us 

as we went about our business.

And we gladly let it shine.

Thank you, dear Lord, 

for this amazing week.

Please keep us and help us 

to feel this love 

in the next 51 weeks

till we are back here again.