large families

Large family movies are sort of a theme, recently. The Cheaper by the Dozen Series. Mine, Yours and Ours. I found the first one amusing. Cummon, who wouldn’t find—“Good job, FedEx!”—who wouldn’t find that funny? But the second one, became a bit routine. And the third was downright ridiculous. I mean seriously. I’m sure everyone knows that big families don’t really have that much drama happening 24/7. Actually, no...you might not know that, because large families are a rarity and you’ve perhaps not seen a large family not operate that way. And even though you are intelligent, gentle reader, the big screen certainly has vivid emotional appeal—one’s brain plays tricks on you—if you see it, you believe it myoticly. So allow me to disagree with the god of this world.

First, allow me to agree with the big screen. Yes, if a parent or parents would raise their 5+ children as though they were all an only child around which the world revolves—yes, one would have a cheaper by the dozen scenario. But, thank God, most parents (and children) of large families figure it out, it’s much more productive and efficient and beautiful, actually—to work in a team, instead of each for the self as is demonstrated quite well in the mentioned films. A large brood of children, having experienced mutuality and daily life as a common goal toward a common purpose, is a distinctly powerful force in society—unless one enjoys extreme individualism. And we all do by virtue of the fact that we’re willingly and unwillingly subjected to the propaganda.

May I just say that I am grateful for the skills and experience that have been bestowed upon me by virtue of being a part of a family of 10. Do you have any idea how quickly a family of 10 can prepare food, set the table, eat, clear the table and wash the dishes. It’s beautiful and works like a well oiled machine. Over the past two holidays, I sat back and enjoyed the production, while at my post making the mashed potatoes. Sister 5 is setting the table while brother 4 is following her drippling silverware in their general spot around a large table, while playfighting with her incessantly. Mom heaps the food into bowls that magically appear on the counter, as I notice she is ready for them and find them in the cupboard above me. Sister 4 reaches for a spoon and sister 5 magically understands what she is reaching for and places it in her hand.

I wish my district meetings would work as smoothly. I wish I could organize work projects where at least half the people that showed up would have a sense of personal identity and their unique role toward the end goal. Cheaper by the Dozen, very humorously and very erroneously portrays every child is a rescue mission, an accident waiting to happen, a power out for him/herself and an unquenchable force working against the peace and harmony of the whole. Catastrophes do happen in large families. However, it is my distinct belief that just as many catastrophes happen in smaller families because in the large families each individual subconsciously monitors the health of the family system (the health of the individual depends upon it) and calculates the effect their contribution to an upheaval might bring to the family system. Smaller families have a larger allotted catastrophe contribution quota per capita.

at home

I went home to my parents this past weekend. Friday night we’re sitting around chatting (remember, no TV). The following are some snippets of the conversation.

The topic of my parents’ 34th anniversary having been yesterday came up. Most of us had forgotten and were giving each other the oops face, while the smoothest talker was covering for the rest of us. “So, Mom and Dad what special thing did you do for your anniversary?” My mom’s quick response was, “nix. Mia, hen haut schafed (Nothing. We worked hard).” Well, did you forget?” we asked. “No!”my dad said gruffly, “After 34 years, how could you forget?”

…Well then, I suppose German peasant culture would be the extreme opposite of the celebratory Hispanic culture I’ve come to be a part of. (Friends: Please note, we children were shocked at our parents’ response…shocked but not without understanding. Rarely, did my parent have the luxury of engaging in so called "celebratory activities").

One thing I have to explain before telling the next anicdote is how sometimes especially the women’s traditional attire becomes cumbersome on the farm. Occasionally, the white head coverings are pinned to our hair didn’t stay on. Once, my father was hauling manure out of the calf barn when he happened upon a covering, in the manure. Wonder what happened there? ...We’ve left our skirts behind in barbed wire fences, burned our butts on the hot tin roof we were sliding down and gotten cockaburrs in unthinkable places. Despite the occasional inconveniences of our way of life, we were better for the wear and we did wear our “bonnets” religiously, all the time. After all, obedience to God was more important than any inconvenience encountered. And since wearing the covering is a constant sign of God’s authority and protection over us, to go without was practically unchristian. So, there were often debates about whether the worldly people who didn’t wear a covering were not Christian or if only those who rejected this teaching were in essence taking off their salvation.

Mom is telling the stories of her summer lawnmowing adventures. They have a big farm site that they keep mowed and groomed to picture perfection. So Mom had been mowing under some low hanging trees, when she discovered…

“That you had lost her head in the branches a few trees back,” I said.

“No, I lost my covering.” Mom said.

“So, when I doubled back, I picked my covering out of the tree and put it on again.”

“Well, did the tree become a Christian?” my sister asked.

“Yeah, Mom, it became a Christian and then you came back around and took its salvation away again.”

the drama that shapes us

Having managed a household for the past number of years and rented rooms out to numerous people, mostly single women, I’ve had my share of “household disasters.” Sometimes, the issues that have cropped up with the stove, the refrigerator and even the air quality have been dramatized to hilariously spectacular levels and their solutions were just as dramatic. I don’t think this is just a female thing because my brother was also involved in some of the more grandiose solutions usually. Like the time when he was going to build a frame of 2x4s to pin the washer to the floor so it wouldn’t sound like a helicopter all the time. The solution was a matter of simple balance.

Then there was the time when our old fridge was leaking water. I went shopping for a new one. I spent a weekend installing it, because the hole in the wall had to be cut larger for the new one to fit. We swapped everything from the old fridge to the new one and there was still water everywhere. We began to look more closely, and the conversation went sort of like this, “Hey, what’s this plastic water jug doing in the fridge inside a plastic bag?” “Oh, that’s mine. I put it in a plastic bag because the jug had a leak in it.” I laughed my head off and then I wanted to cry. Needless to say, I learned very quickly that one should not assume the problem and its solution are ever identified properly.

Then one time a new roommate was moving in who was allergic to absolutely everything, especially cats. There hadn’t been any cats at the house for 4 years, however, she was reacting to something. “It’s got to be the carpet!” everyone decided. We’ve got to tear out the carpet, hire someone to clean the air ducts and then shut all the windows and run the air conditioner/purifier. I was about to despair at the magnificent costs and work which all of this required and the vacation I would have to give up for it. However, I determined that we should wait a few days, purify the air with portable air purifiers and see if that does the trick. In a few days, it was determined that the allergic girl had the flu.

I look back on all the good times and the crazy times and realize they have formed me. I’ve always had a sense of group interpersonal expression and the need for balance within it. So, when there is “crisis”—when everyone is freaking out and being emotional, I feel internally compelled to keep my cool and be the voice of reason in those moments. And as I say that, I get flashbacks of injuries my siblings have incurred upon themselves. One Saturday morning my younger brother was using the skill saw outside. Suddenly he came screaming, crying and limping into the house. He was trying to hold shut a gaping wound he had just cut deeply into his upper thigh. The look of it sent a chill of terror through my whole body. I allowed myself one grimace before I had to kick into overdrive because I took one look at my mother who was wringing her hands and decided that wasn’t helpful. On the other hand, I do have my drama queen moments but I usually choose those to not overlap with other crises that others are involved in.

I have lived in settings where there was constant crisis all the time. So, I’ve become quite immune to needing to react. When others have crisis demonstrations, where the justifiability of it yet needs to be determined, I decide whether I can spare the energy for an emotional reaction or if calm collectedness or ignoring the perceived crisis is the better option.

For those who don’t know what I’m talking about because you are always giving dramatic performances. Get off my blog! You make me tired….you…you energy vampire!


Clarifier: This entry was written a while ago, when I was weighed down by too much drama in my life. An extrovert would have done okay but I am an INFP and need my quiet time in order to function well. INFPs don’t like conflict either. Yet they will walk through conflict in order to defend principles and causes they believe in. My message here is not that I hate dramatic people. I find them very lovable. One of my closest girlfriends is a drama queen. We’ve been friends and also roommates 3 times. Her Mom is an alcoholic and a drug addict. The drama never quits with her mom. And she is her mother’s daughter and the drama never quits with her either. Yet she calls me her sister. I love her. We’ve had to work it out. It wasn’t always easy but we were honest with each other.

florida moments

while waiting at the terminal…

I was drinking a fruit smoothy I brought along: brand name, Naked. I set it down on the coffee table, while we were waiting at our gate. My mom looks at it, turns it around, so the label was facing the wall, not the lobby, saying in Deutsch, we don’t want people to see that.” “Es sagt nackich.” (It says naked). Somehow it is much more schantlich (embarrassing and shocking) to say the word in English than to say its direct translation in German.

while waiting at the terminal…

Mom: What are you doing on your computer?

me: I’m writing.

Mom: For your blob?

me: (…after rolling on the floor, sides heaving with laughter, tears streaming from my eyes, everyone looking at us strangely.) ..., “Mom, it’s not a blob, it’s a blog.

my aunt: So what degree will you have now that you are done with, whatever it is that you have? What letters will you be able to put behind your name?

me: I’ll have a Masters of Arts in Theology. And I don’t know what letters that puts behind my name. I just know that I need to go to school for 4 more years to get my doctorate and then I can put Ph. D. behind my name.

my aunt: Oh, really! Then you should go to school for it, if that’s all it takes to become a doctor. We need a doctor to take care of us once we get old!

me: Well, I wouldn't be able to be that sort of doctor. It would be called something more like a Doctorate in Theology.

my aunt: That's not a real doctor!

The moral of the last two stories: No matter how “educated” or “advanced” one becomes, there will always be people who don’t recognize the “particular specialness” of the categories. And that is a good thing.

the best mom I ever had

Today is my mom’s birthday. I’m going home with a dozen of roses. And I can’t wait. I’m really excited because I love my mom and I wanna put that happy look on her face. I like seeing the happy look. I know that look. I love that look. It’s the look that only a humble, practical, conservative, always giving housewife displays when you do something outlandish and lavish for her. Pleased. Elated at some level too deep inside to uncover. Embarrassed. Maybe I should sing her a song too. Once, for valentine’s day my sister bought my mom a singing valentine. Roses along with a serenade by an exuberant, expressive African American friend, singing some love song. My mom did only what any other Amish-Mennonite housewife would have done. She blushed 7 different shades of pink.

I love the way my mom is so practical. Everything has a simple solution. And it usually involves hard work and dedication. After all, that’s how she raised 10 kids. I love how she listens to and accepts anyone. Literally, anyone. She even sat on the phone talking to the mentally altered lady who had just swindled her daughter out of $200, until the lady was done talking. She loves her husband even though his “disorganization” gives her nightmares. Her organization puts anyone to shame. Each item in the entire house has its place. My mom is talented. She knows how to be inventive and frugal. She’s busy from dawn till dusk, always doing something, making something, talking about something. She enjoys the simple things in life. She’ll go to bat for her children any day. And she isn’t afraid to take a bat to any one of them either…er, well, maybe not a bat. That would have broken bones. In fact, we had her over the barrel sometimes too. Once my brother was getting punished for something he did and was howling much louder than was necessary, leaving her with the impression that the lesson was learned. She put the stick back into its place and my brother ran off out of sight to laugh his head off about the little trick he had played. She’s sincere. She’s true. She’s so trusting. She trusts me. She believes in me. And I want to protect her from the world that would take her for a ride in a heartbeat. Don’t mess with my momma!

forgetting her

You carry her inside
she beckons to me there
I reach out to touch Her
but you are there

I must ask before I touch
words fly through my mind
I pick at them carefully
they form in my throat

the picture I see in your eyes
makes me swallow
the words fall into my stomach
they torment me there

My own picture passes before me
it becomes my nightmare
I chose you for this pain
I should have chosen myself

I want to tell you I’m sorry
I want to take your guilt
I want to take your picture
I want to show you mine

I reach for you
but you step aside
you look at me
but I avert my eyes

you have chosen your pain
I have chosen mine
we forget about Her
and simply remember our pain

I wrote this poem soon after my sister died. I just found it again today. I wrote it about the weird triangulation that happens between the deceased's remaining family and the deceased's friends who are specifically her's.

bygone years

I went home last night to hang out with the family. Somehow I got my mom to get out the old German hymn book, which was printed in the old German lettering. We sang some of the songs we used to sing at my grandpa’s church. I was surprised my dad knew some of them and sang along too. But I guess when my parents were young; the Beachy church was still conducting their services in High German and Penn. Dutch. Typically, only the ministers and the oldest people in church would understand the High German, everyone would learn to read the High German. Yet Penn. Dutch was the language of everyday, which everyone used. I don’t know its history, just that its dialect of German.

Somehow the experience evoked memories of days gone by. The schisms were always passionate and relocated people quickly into new fellowships. Ezra was the head bishop of the German preaching church in Indiana at the time. My dad’s family left for another church when my dad was 10. They got their first family car. No seatbelts, I guess because my uncle’s spot was standing up under the rear view mirror, with his head just reaching above the dash, hanging onto the radio knobs for balance. My mom found an old Sunday School agenda dated back to just before the time she married my father. To have or not to have Sunday school was the schismic issue between the Beachy and the Amish church or so tradition has it.

we don’t play that game

I recently over-heard a conversation between my younger brother and our sister-in-law. A few weekends ago, my younger brother who goes to college out east stayed with me for a day. My newly married brother, Tim, and his wife came to visit too, since they live close by. Now, sometimes the interactions between my sister-in-law and my family can be quite interesting because she wasn’t raised Mennonite like the rest of us were.

Here goes the story.
Recently my sister-in-law has been contemplating career path changes due to being laid-off, since November. We were talking jobs and plans, when my sister-in-law mentioned thinking about returning to school to finish up her degree. “So, Tim’s paying the bills!” my younger brother exclaimed. “We both are paying the bills,” my sister-in-law countered. My brother chuckles and says, “And you don’t even have a job.” Then they both laughed sheepishly.

I also recently ran into an article on Mennonites and their approach to relief work in an old copy of Christianity today. It is entitled, "Mennonites Won’t Play the Game." It compares the way Mennonites do relief work and the way other evangelicals do it. The author seemed to suggest that Mennonites have more experience in relief work and sites one leader who challenged the helpfulness of making a distinction between relief work and development work, wording other evangelicals have gotten hung up on. i.e. “We just do what we thunk would help du mostest.” Concerning social conscience, “the leaders (Mennonite) seem less taken with endless talk,”…and have come upon their charity work through helping people, relatives and friends, who live in other countries, separated by emigration situations.

article by J. Alan Youngren

Where I learned critical thinking, argument, and lecturesome commentary.

When I was growing up on the farm, I noticed my dad had a lot to say, while he worked. And work hard, he did. He had bought and old farm with run-down buildings and in the process of about 25 plus years, he had slowly replaced every rotting, falling down structure on the place. Times were always hard and money was short. We lived hand to mouth. Our well-being depended on our work. And my dad was always working on something, whether it was spring planting, fall harvesting, fixing his own farm machinery, building the barn or the shop or welding his own scaffolding so that he could build the silo. He was always working and additionally he was either giving a lecture or whistling a tune. He would talk about foreign policy. He would give critical commentaries on what he had been reading recently. He would also talk about people and give interesting sermons. Sometimes my brothers and sisters would listen in on some of the more fierce lectures. Usually, we already knew or had heard the advice he was dolling out freely to the empty field or to the docile cows. Yet if we didn’t, we soon found out, for my father didn’t seem to care if we heard him or not. Sometimes I feel like my father must have. So much to say and nobody who will hear it—except a child or two pressing an ear to a thin wall...and docile cows. Sometimes I wonder if this is the place that blogging fills in my life. So you my gentle reader...Are you my docile cow? Or my empty field? Or do your knees knock behind a thin wall as I give my fearsome lectures.