Family Feast

                                  A Sunday picnic under the apple trees...

Share three things about your day. This is the line we've used at our dinner table since the children were old enough to speak. Last night's table talk was a cornucopia of stories about bizarre dreams, various uses for the avocado, a long inquiry about a "bahcheeto" (based on our 4-year-old son's vocabulary), a list of 101 reasons why our teenagers should be allowed to attend a party (followed by one reason why they won't). We make it a purposeful endeavor to share our lives at the dinner table because this is the common daily gathering place where we define who we are as individuals, as well as who we are as a family.

Dinnertime seems to permeate with many unexpected graces. Our children reveal important emotions that define their experiences of the day and help us as parents understand them better. Matthew, our youngest communicated his worry one evening when recalling how earlier in the day "Grammie's table broke and the glass went crash all over the place!". He recalled happiness when remembering he ate a "pocksicle." He shared his need for security when telling about nap time ("Bear slept wis me"). We each share, but listening is essential.

At the table we establish traditions (and boundaries). Monday is pasta night. Always. On Mondays we bond over spaghetti, or fettucine, or macaroni and cheese, or lasagna, because one should not consume pasta seven days a week as formerly requested by my daughter prior to the designated pasta day. This was discussed in great length many years ago at the family table as we ate a particular meal that was completely noodle-less (to young kids this tragedy needed fixing!). One Monday night we had an orange-themed dinner because we HAD to have noodles (and I hadn't been grocery shopping), so we ate a box of macaroni and cheese, a side of steamed carrots, washed down with orange juice, and served with some Halloween-orange napkins. The kids remember this with such pleasure you would think I was awarded chef of the year. Noodles define a part of who we are. They also help us make important memories.

We break old rules at the table, like the one that says "children ought to be seen and not heard." Ours not only talk, but they sing musicals. In fact, they think life is a musical. To Bye Bye Birdie's "Put on a Happy Face" they sing, "...let's spread ketchup all over the place...". Their forks often break into dance routines (while twirling pasta). They know that in their own musical life there will be singing and dancing and drama and many characters they encounter and climactic moments and happy endings. They use the dinner table as a place to try out different scripts, such as what to say to mean people so they are well rehearsed and Christ-centered. The table serves as their overture for life, and as parents, we couldn't applaud more.

Most importantly though, we pray. We thank God for many things: food, friends, opportunities, others in need, personal requests, and on a busy night there is the rare occasion when we thank God for chicken nuggets. With Christ at the center of our meal, we are abundantly full. And incredibly thankful.

Recently, the kids have dubbed our family as "Team Drendel" (followed by a woot-woot). I love the sound of "Let's go Team Drendel -- woot woot!!" as we exit the driveway for any outing, whether it be a fun adventure that lies ahead of us, or simply the gas station. The sound of Team Drendel fills my heart with a song that could never adequately be captured in a musical. I believe Team Drendel emerged over the course of many many years... and waaaaayyyyyyy more noodles.

Bone appetite!

The Pig’s Snout

I hope no one is offended by the term boob (mostly used in the plural sense here: boobs). Certainly not a topic for public conversation, but when a young girl walked into my classroom with cleavage like the Great Wall of China, her boobs made an incredibly loud statement (I’m pretty sure she was in violation of the dress code). Merriam-webster defines boob as first a noun, implying “one severely lacking in judgment.” The word also harbors verb tendencies, as in to boob or “goof” something. In this case, both definitions apply.

Although the school rules only state “undergarments should not be exposed,” it goes without saying that the body parts beneath such garments should not be dangling out. However, cleavage is a bit more mysterious. It’s the fine line between what is clearly defined and what is not. It’s an angle full of mere suggestion, which requires reading between the line. Finding the right way to address the situation is bursting with complication.

Throughout my years of teaching high schoolers, I’ve had plenty of opportunity to redirect students in the area of  dress code. Most girls respond when I give them the benefit of the doubt and say, “Oops! Your shirt front has fallen too low”  – the “oops” makes it ok to point out because it assumes they didn’t dress that way on purpose – and they always rearrange themselves and smile at me gratefully. Unfortunately, this one was way beyond oops.

This scene was the equivalent of a King-Kong plumber’s crack. A fathomless crease leading to an abysmal darkness.

I was speechless.

“Oops” sounded completely idiotic. “Your cuppeth overfloweth” was simply stating the obvious. “Honey, don’t move because your boobs are about to fall out” was too dramatic, even with my usual technique of adding the honey to soften the scold. This treasure chest needed to be buried, but no words seemed appropriate.

So, sadly I said nothing. I could have fallen right then and there into the largest Grand Canyon crevice, and I would have kept right on teaching as if nothing happened. Really though, some things just speak for themselves anyway.

All God’s gifts must be given great care. The respect with which we manage these gifts, is in turn the respect we show Him. In this case, Proverbs says it best: “A beautiful woman lacking discretion and modesty is like a fine gold ring on a pig’s snout” (11:12).

“Hey” for Sale

When some Farmer Joe with bad spelling posted on Craigslist that he was selling a “pile of hey,” as an English teacher, I found this endlessly hilarious. The printed advertisement now hangs on my bulletin board as a source of humorous inspiration. Consider the implications.

By definition, “hey” expresses appreciation, wonder, or pleasure. An exclamation of “hey!” is often associated with blissful, warm-fuzzy feelings, such as in Jingle Bells’ “…one-horse open sleigh, HEY!” From songs, to cheers, or greetings, “hey” is a merriment that is abundantly used.

Now imagine that you have opportunity to purchase a pile of “hey.” Envision the ability to scoop up happiness in heavy heaps on a pitchfork. Wouldn’t that be heavenly? Wouldn’t everyone want to savor a little pile of appreciation, wonder, and pleasure in their back pocket to access as needed?

Picture the marketing slogans:

“Hey now, pay later.”

“Fresh hey everyday!”

“A diamond is forever, but hey is for today.”

Don’t we all know someone who could use some hey in their life? According to the National Institute of Health, 20 million people in America suffer from depression each year. That’s a lot of needed hey piles, to say the very least.

Each time I finally quit giggling from the absurdity in the ad, I’m thankful to know that my personal source of appreciation, wonder, and pleasure begins with prayer. It is the “hey” that centers me, and I can’t think of a bigger pile of joy than what God gives.

“How precious is your constant love, O God! All humanity takes refuge in the shadow of your wings. You feed them with blessings from your own table and let them drink from your rivers of delight” Psalms 36:7-8.

Truly, He provides enough appreciation, wonder, and pleasure that I don’t need to purchase any from Craigslist.

Blessings From Above

I awoke with no particular expectations on my birthday, after all, there were chores to be done and a family to run, so I proceeded with my day as usual. Unbeknownst to me however, my children worried about how to make my day special. They asked God to provide. And He did.

When I returned home, I was greeted by a most regal path of carefully arranged twigs...

...filled in with the most bejeweled fall leaves of the season - crimson, caramel, honey, rust, magenta, and ruby. They called it my "red carpet," which lead me straight to my "castle."

 Inside, I discovered the finest glass of nature's champagne. My children scouted the fields in search of wild flowers for me. This dandelion gleams the last remnants of summer, because they say, this beauty is the very last one.

From the cupboard they unveiled both of the their great grandmother's silver candelabras. In place of wax, they rolled up precisely measured parchment with hand-scribed thoughts for me: caring, laughter, love, and MOM/WOW (because mom spelled upside down is wow). These papers illuminate much more light than any candle ever could.

And they baked! From scratch. See the chocolate pan of brownies? It was scrumptious. They labored for an hour on the cake because they read through recipe books to find just the right one.

And at the end of their card, they composed these adorable words of sentiment:

The perfect surprise indeed! Magical doesn't even begin to express my overwhelming love.

  While God's blessings assisted them in their task, it is they who are my precious blessings from God.

The Greatest Word on Earth

The fresh school year funneled in new students, and we barely submerged ourselves with studies when one sagacious little sprout asked me a question that put me in front of the barrel of a gun. Well, at least it seemed that way from an English teacher’s perspective. His inquiry was the simplest of questions, but one that consumes me since. “What is your favorite word?” My FAVORITE word? You can’t have a favorite word, you need them all! That’s like asking an artist to paint monochromatically, or the builder to suffice with only one tool. Utter nonsense. Complete poppycock. Good naturedly I stalled, sought clarification to his inquiry (after all, there is no such thing as a dumb question in class), but at that point his interrogation was like revelry and the rest of the army was awake and waiting for my move. Luckily, our negotiations left me with 24 hours to report back.

Perplexed at where to begin, I conducted copious surveys of everyone I encountered. “What is your favorite word?” Bamboozle, kerfuffle, shenanigans, brouhaha, pumpernickel, claustrophobic, cacophony, zany, whimsical, and candy. The latter from my three-year old son – even he has a favorite word! While all of these are a mouthful to mumble (or consume in my son’s case), the yakkety-yak negates rich meaning for a life-long fav.

So, I continued shuffling through a litany of possibilities. Did you know that several websites are devoted to this endeavor? Scholars exist with credentials that far outweigh mine in the word department. For example, Dr. Robert Beard of alphadictionary.com has studied terminology long enough to purport himself an expert in the matter. His list of the 100 Most BeautifulWords in the English Language intrigues me enough to dawdle and dance in its lexemes and morphemes awhile. And yet though fancy and fun, settling on one still leaves an acetic taste.

Maybe simplicity speaks volumes. Words like faith, hope, and love are concise enough, and also pack enough significance worthy of celebrating for a lifetime. Perhaps words of virtue matter most, as in self-sacrifice, humility, and kindness. Or better yet: epiphany and miracle. Yes, miracle might be my most treasured word of all, as it transcends us from this world into the next. What could be greater than that?

Perhaps John the Apostle guides us with the best answer of all: In the Beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God (John 1:1). Edifying, don’t you think?

Jews, Lepers, and Crazies

My summer reading consisted of shunned Jews, contaminated lepers, and a mentally unstable man who loses his sense of reality. Not exactly rip-roaring reads, but my intrigue in submerging into such travesties stems from a deeper curiosity of man’s attitude and how one’s faith in God affects one’s outlook. Each book tangles its protagonist in a web of ugliness while the reader must contemplate the age-old question: how will the human spirit handle it?

 Kurt Vonnegut’s Slaughterhouse Five frames a semi-autobiography around the fictitious character Billy. We can’t help but feel sorry for his outlook on life. He enters WWII, ill prepared for war and its weaponry, and serves as a chaplain’s assistant. His observations of death, particularly the thousands of corpses he wades through after resurfacing from an air-tight meat locker after the bombing of Dresden as a POW, forever affects his faith in God and humanity. Instead, he comes to believe in aliens named the Tralfamadorians, who provide him the peace to face death because by adopting their philosophy about time, he becomes “unstuck” in time where nothing at hand seems too worrisome – not even death – because he believes he can travel in any direction timewise, thus opposing the chronological nature and finality of life. “So it goes,” his motto which means death doesn’t really matter because one can always travel back in time to visit the dead, is a striking contrast to the Christian’s view of eternal life. Seems to me that Billy is stuck in an eternal broken record of his life.

In All But My Life, Jewish Holocaust survivor Gerda Weissmann Klein shares her journey through the war period and the brutalities suffered to her people. Gerda believes in God’s perfect plan despite her immense suffering and feels her survival is imperative if she is to seek the rewards planned “beyond the sphere of human vision.” Her attitude, fueled by hope in the future is paramount to her survival. Gerda’s memoir concludes with a litany of rewards – her husband, her children, her life in America -- where she explains none of these gifts would have been possible without her Holocaust experiences and the attitude with which she embraced them.



Moloka’i by Alan Brennert introduces us to Rachel, a young girl who contracts leprosy, and by government rule is forced into quarantine on the island of Moloka’i where she feels lost and alone. While growing up she merges the Christian religion she remembers her mother holding so dear, with native Hawaiian healing and culture that her newly adopted auntie on Moloka’I exposes her. Rachel develops an attitude that is beyond the human flesh, and despite her failing body, is determined to be guided by her inner spirit. Her friend, a Fransiscan nun named Catherine, experiences her own tragedies in life, but is eventually comforted with a greater understanding of God’s plan.

“…how we choose to live with pain, or injustice, or death…is the true measure of the Divine within us….God doesn’t give anyone leprosy. He gives us, if we choose to use it, the spirit to live with leprosy, and with the imminence of death. Because it is in our own mortality that we are most Divine” (307).

Wading in the muck of such climactic tragedy this summer turned out to be a good thing for me. It kept my own attitude in check. Although I was weeks without running water due to a kitchen remodel (try feeding a family of five all summer with no running water or kitchen luxuries), pinched into John-Deere-field-mowing duty to free my husband’s time in the remodel, and patiently potty trained my youngest boy (a duty requiring the patience of Job), I suffered nothing compared to my protagonists. And should I be required to suffer at any point in the future, I will seek the Divine within me. What about you?

Finger Pointing

Finger pointing surrounds the summer season, and it’s not among people, but rather nature. The environment is crowded with species far and wide -- all who seem to fingerpoint to the almighty heavens, as if reminding us constantly of "Who did it" and with whom our gratitude should lie. The personalitites in the landscape are as vast as humans, yet still each of them directs us.

Take a look:

A blade of grass, diminutive in size but grown in its own forest thicket where each points up.

And the lovely little wild flowers dancing in the breeze with arms upstretched.

The regal Douglas Fir who isn't satisfied to point only once, but must do so with every branch.

The thorny blackberry vine, even with his contemptuous attitude, aligns to the heavens.

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The unwanted clover weed, growing where it's able, sunning itself in God's presence.

The burned and damaged tree with no complaints still holds its core upwards.

Old craggy peaks, wise with years, guide us to higher ground. 

The fancy palms, poofle heavy, yet ever ascending its new growth.

Even majestic mountains imply something more eminent than themselves.

I tend to think this is no mistake. And it causes me to reflect. Do I follow nature's lead and point up? Do others know by looking at me, that my arms are outstretched, I'm aligned to the heavens, sun myself in God's presence, and follow higher ground? I sure hope so. The landscape has long inspired many, and its finger-pointing design withstands all seasons as a constant reminder.