Try not to cry, I triple dog dare you...

Poor Sportsmanship: The Elizabeth Lambert Story

Until this week, no one in the media knew who Elizabeth Lambert was. Women's college soccer rarely makes the front page of the sports section in the United States. However, through a series of brutal fouls committed by Lambert in a televised match, she is now extraordinarily famous. Elizabeth Lambert is now a household name. Her conduct gives the term "sore loser" a whole new meaning. She was suspended for her conduct, which you can view below.

I grew up playing soccer and now coach my ten year old daughter's soccer team. Good sportsmanship is a HUGE priority for me. I try to lead by example and make my expectations of positive conduct known at the beginning of each season. And, my girls are great. I mean, really great. My parents are great, too.

A few weeks ago we played a team that did not demonstrate good sportsmanship. Playing this team was like playing a bunch of biker chicks with serious criminal records. They consistently fouled my girls and even drew blood from two of them. That day, we had a parent referee, so most of the dirty offenses went uncalled and unpunished. And, don't get me started on the cheating. Or the other coach's do-whatever-it-takes-to-win attitude. She was like the evil sensei from Karate Kid.

The worst part was, they won the game.

After all of it, the blood, the elbows, the high kicks, the uncalled offsides, my girls marched right up to them and shook their hands. They were frustrated and felt bullied, but they shook their hands. I was tempted to stay on the sidelines, hands firmly in my pockets. But, I too shook their hands and managed to get the words, "good game," out of my clenched teeth.

I was feeling pretty ticked off about the game. Apparently, I kept talking about it all night. As Mike and I were walking into a party later that evening, he said,

"Babe, promise me you are not going to tell every single person at the party about the game."
"OK, sorry. I promise."

I only told 3 people. OK, maybe 4 but, it helped me feel better.

The video below makes me wish our game had been televised.




It goes without saying that this behavior is inexcusable.
I have a few questions, though.

Why was she permitted to stay in the game? It appears she received one yellow card for kicking another player in the head. The other offenses went unpunished. Why did the referees allow her to keep playing? More importantly, WHY DID HER COACHES keep her in the game? Lambert is culpable here, but so are her coaches for allowing her to finish the game. If one of my players demonstrated behavior like that, they would be off the field immediately....

OK, rant over. I'll post something happier tomorrow. :)

Baby Steps

I love-hate the old 90's film, "What About Bob." Every time I watch it, I laugh out loud, mostly in a nervous, really uncomfortable, I'm-not-sure-what-else-to-do, kind of way. The character, "Bob," is horrifically neurotic. He has OCD to the nth degree. He won't touch anything without cleaning it and his fears and hang-ups outnumber even the most terrified cartoon character. His only salvation, his only pathway through the bog of his own psychosis, is a pop psychologist who has penned a trite self-help book called "Baby Steps." Bob, like a desperate leech, latches on to the concept and begins to see improvement. He can suddenly take elevators by taking one baby step at a time. He can walk out of his living room because all he has to do is take one step, and then another step. Bob's obsession with the book leads to more uncomfortable, neurotic humor and the audience can chuckle because the scenario is just too absurd to be real. WE are not that crazy. WE obviously have better boundaries. We don't need to take baby steps. Right? RIGHT????

This week, I am identifying with Bob on a whole new level. I'm not about to stalk anyone, don't worry. But, as of late, I have wondered if Bob-like neurosis was in my immediate future. We have made some huge, gargantuan life decisions that initially sent me into a spiral of pure bona fide nuttiness. In an economy that isn't any one's friend, we have decided to embark on two separate but, strangely connected adventures. First, we are pursuing an international adoption that we aren't at liberty to discuss in detail but, is likely going to cost a whole heck of a lot of money, and second, we are going to seriously increase our giving to our church, which is completely, literally committed to making a dent in global injustice in the next 3 years... I'm not writing about this to brag. I'm not writing about this so I can gain some kind of saintly favor from God.

I'm writing about this because deciding to commit to both was really HARD. We came to the commitment by taking teensy little baby steps and by crying and negotiating with God a lot.

And then, after safely jumping from lily pad to lily pad, we just dove in head first, right in to the pond. Faith is, after all, being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see. (Hebrews 11) I guess you could say we've done a big, joyful belly flop.

Committing to 2 very pricey endeavors on a pastor's salary is just plain scary. Scary but, exciting. Invigorating, actually. Beyond a shadow of a doubt, I know that we are risking to affect change on a global scale, that our sacrifice means something in the grand scheme of things.

So, I guess I'm writing to encourage you to do your own belly flop. You get extra points if it makes a loud smacking sound when you hit the water. :) It stings but, you know you're alive.

You know you're getting older when.....

Let me begin this post by saying that I’m not technically old. Early thirties is not old. I’m younger than my husband and younger than a lot of my friends. In fact, my very good friends/ neighbors were teasing me about being the young one on the block last Saturday night (You know who you are, Grandma). I can literally feel some of my readers rolling their eyes at the title of this post as they think, “Oh, just wait. You have no idea what old is. You’re practically a teenager.” Fair enough, fair enough. But, I still have some complaints.

Lately I’ve had these humbling moments that scream, “You are AGING.” Generally speaking, my knees hurt when I run, my metabolism is slowing down, loud restaurants irritate me and I have no clue what movies are out or what new band is worth listening to. I don’t know if these are the result of aging or motherhood but, I’ve been able to explain them away. A cold day explains the creaky knees, the metabolism just needs me to take more vitamins, intolerance of high volume at restaurants just means I’m tired from a day of raising kids…

I cannot, however, continue to explain away my fading eyesight. That sounds a bit dramatic. Rest assured, I’m not going blind or anything. But, let me tell you a little story.

I have been trying to find a job. Well, not a job-job. I was a high school English teacher in my pre-Washington life (and a damn good one, if I do say so myself!) But, now I'm a full time mom, pastor’s wife and Chief Community Volunteer. I volunteer at my kids’ school, I coach a soccer team, I’m leading a service trip to South Africa, I speak at conferences at our church…. A job-job would not permit me to keep those crazy commitments. So, I’m searching for the perfect job that would let me keep my current life the way it is. Stop laughing.

My dream is to write and get paid for it. That and change the world for free. I’m working on both crafts but, have been focusing on the former this fall. I’ve read books on marketing oneself and how to pitch your stuff to editors and how to tolerate massive amounts of rejection. Also have read the books on writing the most killer resume ever. Bear with me, this is all part of the back story of aging, I promise.

The easiest way to get paid for the penned word is copywriting. So, I decided to try my hand at it and found a few web sites that act as the middle man between writers and clients. They find the work, which is half the battle, and then hire you to write really boring copy for them. I took the bait and signed up. They were promising 20 cents a word, which is a REALLY good rate for writing boring copy. I wrote my little heart out about topics such as “Understanding Financial Responsibility Law” and “Including Pet Coverage in Auto Insurance Policies.” According to my calculations, I was about to receive an $800 check. And then, I enlarged the print on my screen. What I thought said 20 cents a word, ACTUALLY said $.02 a word. That's right, I COULDN'T SEE THE 0 in front of the 2. People, that is 2 pennies per word. My check shrunk before my eyes. Instead of $800 for 10 hours of work, I would be paid $80.

I have an appointment with the eye doctor next week.

No Risk, No Reward

Last week, my husband jumped out of an airplane.

For a sermon illustration.

He's done lots of things for sermon illustrations. He has used real fire and real chain saws to drive a point home. He uses the verbal illustration most often. He talks about me, his kids, and his friends in sermons all the time. He once tattled on me to the whole congregation, claiming that I was a cusser, a foul mouthed human being. The congregation laughed and I had to answer a thousand questions about the incident in the hallways after the service. In my defense, I uttered one small word (not even a really bad one) in front of my kids and they delighted in repeating it over and over. They told daddy and a sermon illustration was born. I must not here that sometimes the stories in his messages are stretched the ever most teensiest bit.

This time, though, the point he was trying to get across could not be done from the safety of a stage or from behind a pulpit. The message was too big, too risky, too important. He called me week before the stunt and I could tell something important was on his mind.

"Hey babe," he said.

"Hey."

"How's your day going? Are you having a good day?"

"Yes. I am...Why do you ask?"

"Well, um...I was wondering what you'd think if I jumped out of an airplane...."

"HUH? Wow. Well, someday I think that would be fine."

"Friday, I want to skydive on Friday."

I was dumbfounded but, excited for him. We're generally a risk taking family. We do roller coasters, we hike, we do marathons and triathlons. Skydiving was way riskier than any of these things but, I said it would be OK as long as I could be there.

After all, someone would have to collect his broken bones if the chute didn't open.....

So, Friday, the kids and I traveled to the airport with Mike to watch him fling himself willingly from a perfectly good airplane. Here's a quick snapshot of paragraph 2 of the waiver he had to sign.

In case you can't read it, it says "Jumping out of an airplane is a very dangerous thing to do. Please do not ever say that we told you skydiving is safe. It is not." It goes on to list the different injuries one can sustain from skydiving, "broken legs, angles, wrists or fingers," "death from hitting the ground too hard."

So he signed it and boarded the airplane after we read this quote on the wall,

The kids and I watched his plane take off, watched it disappear in the clouds, and watched a tiny white speck plummet toward the earth. I was mostly calm. At least that's what my kids would tell you. Inside I was desperately trying to quiet the raving lunatic telling me that I would never see my husband in one piece again.

When the parachute deployed we could see and hear him clearly. He made it down safely and I was able to breathe normally again. You can watch the video below.

RISK! from Overlake Christian Church on Vimeo.

So, why did he jump? What was the point he was trying to prove? Overlake is heading into a huge, mind blowing vision campaign. The campaign itself is not mind blowing but, it's goals are. Goals like 1,000 slaves set free, 2,000 orphans adopted into loving families, 1,000 churches planted, 50 Community Health Centers to combat HIV/AIDS......

We're asking our congregation to give of themselves in a way that many of them never have. We're asking them to take this risk with us and give of their time and resources in sacrificial, radical ways. We're asking them to trust God.

These things, my friends, are why I let my husband jump out of an airplane.

SHARE THIS POST

Holding Hands in Public

Today I dropped my 9 –year-old daughter off at the Jr. high bus stop.

Our school district offers violin lessons for 4^th graders at the local Jr. high before school. 4^th graders are to ride the bus with the Jr. High kids, take their lesson, and re-board the bus, which drops them off at their proper elementary school. Because I’m really very afraid of Junior High kids (I spent a year teaching 7^th grade Spanish), I debated whether or not to just drive her to the school myself, sparing her the bus experience. She’s so tiny and sweet, I rationalized. Those kids will eat her alive. Plus, how will she be able to find the music room when she gets there? I mentioned this plan to Alex and, horrified, she replied, “Mom. There. Is. No. Way. You can’t drop me off.” She wanted to do this herself. She assured me that she’d sit near the bus driver and that if she couldn’t find the music room, she’d find a teacher and ask for help.

Plus, she didn’t want to be seen with her mother holding her hand at the Jr. High. I can be overbearing that way. You know, trying to hold her hand in public.

I reluctantly agreed to let her ride the bus.

Alex has been looking forward to the start of violin lessons for weeks. She’s been “practicing” with her half size violin and bow and trying to figure out how to properly tune it. Mike and I have politely listened to the squawks and squeaks of the tiny instrument, playing the part of the rapturous audience because of the delighted face Alex wears when she plays it. Well, I played the part. I think Mike really was rapturous. His love of our kids is big and unabashed. He loves them like crazy and is their chief cheerleader. He’s permanently proud of them.

I have learned to take ibuprofen before the concert of scratchy strings and loud whistling begins.

I woke Alex up early this morning and she stumbled out of bed with unusual compliance. She usually loathes the morning time. Today, however, she was excited. She carefully chose her outfit, took a shower, and asked me to blow dry her hair. She fussed over which shoes to wear and insisted her glasses were crooked. I fixed the apparently crooked glasses and watched Alex continue to bustle around the house as if she’d had one too many cups of coffee.

“She’s nervous,” I pointed out the obvious to my husband.

“Yeah, “ he replied, “Don’t worry. I’ll walk her to the bus.”

Alex must have overheard this exchange because when I went upstairs to check on her progress, she whispered,

“Mom, I don’t want Daddy to walk me to the bus.”

“Why not, honey?” I asked, surprised.

“I don’t know,” she fumbled and then looked at the floor.

Remembering her desire to not be seen holding my hand at the Jr. High, I could see her imagining Mike bestowing his big, unabashed love on her at the bus stop in front of the older kids.

“Oh, I said. “OK. How about if I drive you down and you can get out of the car when the bus comes?”

“OK, thanks Mom,” she answered with a sigh of relief.

I broke the news to Mike that his little baby girl didn’t want him to walk her down. It hurt his feelings. When I gently told him that she wanted me to take her, his shoulders fell and his face took on a pained expression.

Alex and I rushed out the door and drove to the bus stop. When the bus came, she flew out of the car and called out “Hi!” to the Jr. High kids in the most innocent voice I’ve ever heard. She threw me a grin and waved wildly as she boldly boarded the yellow school bus.

I came home and sat down on the couch next to Mike, remembering the days when I didn’t want my own parents to hold my hand in public. I tried to comfort him. I tried to explain that, in a way, Alex’s desire to go it alone on the bus is proof that we’re raising her well. The love we provide, the boisterous, full, crazy love Mike provides on a regular basis has helped create a strong foundation of self-confidence. She wasn’t rejecting us or being rude, she was testing out her independence. She wanted to see if she could get on that bus without her cheerleaders and their boisterous hugs.

He understood but, I think he still felt sad.

Tonight, when there are no Jr. Highers looking, I’m going to hold her hand tight. And Mike’s going to make a big fuss over her violin playing. Then, we’re going to hug her repeatedly.

She might be a little embarrassed but, that’s just the kind of parents we are.

Supersonic

(Another re-write of an old post... :) )

Last night, my 5 –year old son Caleb and I found our selves alone. My oldest, Alexandra, was at a sleepover and my husband was at a class reunion in California. We had scads of uncalendared time before us, which is a rare occurrence in our house. We are usually overscheduled: piano, Taekwondo, soccer, school, doctor appointments. Free time is like a clear diamond, precious and rare.

As I pulled away from dropping Alex at her friend’s house, I had an idea.

“Hey, buddy,” I pitched excitedly to the back seat, “Wanna go on a date with me?”

“Sure, mama!” Caleb accepted with a small shy smile.

“OK, Buddy, pick anywhere you want! Wait…but just not Chuck E. Cheese, Ok?"
 I loved supporting the idea of kids being kids but didn’t love the migraine I knew I’d take home with me.

He thought for a minute, knitting his eyebrows together and concentrating very hard. I began trying to silently guess what his choice would be. I was banking on ice cream, fast food, or the Lego store. His face suddenly lit up and he said confidently,

"Mama, I want to eat at your restaurant. I want to stay home with you and play."



Shocked, I replied, “Are you sure buddy? No Cold Stone, no McDonald’s? No Lego store?”

“Nope. I want to go home with you.”

“OK,” I fumbled, “It’s a date!”

How could I say no? Even with the tantalizing promise of mint chip ice cream and chicken nuggets, he opted for solo time with me. He wanted to eat food that I made. Not excited about the prospect of dragging out ingredients and deciding how to assemble them into something edible, I said,

“Bud, I think mommy’s restaurant is kind of, well… closed. What if we go through a drive through and eat the food at home on the front lawn? How about a picnic?”

“Yeah!” he shouted enthusiastically! I was grateful for the compromise. Now he had the best of both worlds. Fast food and hang time with mom.

When we got home, I laid out a thick blanket on the green grass and we had our picnic underneath a bright blue cloudless sky. We played "superheroes" while we ate. This game consisted of my son inventing 2 Superhero good guys and one Superhero bad guy. He and I played the good guys and we pretended there was an evil villain lurking in the shadows, ready to take over the world. And, of course, between bites of greasy French fries and chicken nuggets, we just had to stop him.

My superhero’s name was Supersonic. Ironically, the name Caleb chose for me had nothing to with anything “sonic” or remotely related to sound. It just sounded cool. My powers consisted of Laser Vision, Super Strength and Nostril Power. Oh, and I could fly. 
Caleb had his own host of powers I can't fully recall, mostly because he kept adding new ones every fifteen seconds. But I do remember the bad guy had Super Ultra Vomit Power. 


We sat in the sunshine, Caleb talking and imagining at a dizzying rate. Not a surprise if you know my son. He has never been short on words or creativity. He narrated a complex story line as I patiently nodded and listened, throwing in a "Wow!" or "Cool!" or "No way!" at appropriate moments. I also threw in "One more bite," and "Watch your drink!" a few times. 



At first I thought I was giving Caleb the gift of my time, that he was the one benefiting from our game. Then, I realized, sometime after Vomit Power Man tried to douse us in puke and I warded him off by blowing with my Nostril Power, that I was the one who needed the playtime. The reality that he's growing up hit me like a ton of bricks. I greedily soaked up the time with my son, trying hard to memorize every detail, every nuance of the experience. His small white teeth, his thick dark hair, his little dimple, his wide smile, his pudgy fingers, the sparkle of adventure in his eyes.

I know there will be a day when he doesn't want to play superheroes with me on our front lawn, when eating at “my restaurant” will not be his first choice. The value of these moments, these stolen seconds of unscheduled time with my son, is incalculable. Someday, when he drives off to college, waits for his bride at the end of the aisle, or becomes a daddy himself, I will pull out this memory, dust it off, and remember the little boy who wanted to eat at my restaurant and play superheroes.

Tricking the Tooth Fairy

My baby...

I'm proud to announce the arrival of the newest member of our family....

Tooth Tragedy

(This is an old post I'm in the middle of re-writing for a shot at publication....Enjoy!)

After 2 months of wiggling and jiggling her tiny bean of a tooth, my eight year old daughter finally, officially, lost her 7^th tooth. She diligently twisted and turned it until every last thread of tissue was disconnected.

The whole process of tooth loss is a bit nauseating for me to witness. First your child announces that the tooth is loose. Then they begin to play with said tooth incessantly, desperately trying to speed up the Tooth Fairy’s visit. They push it around with their tongues, wiggle it with their fingers, and eat apples with stunning regularity. Gradually, the tooth begins to dangle, sliding around the pink gum in acrobatic 360 degree turns. The "pop" sound a tooth makes when it is finally pulled is very distinct and turns my stomach, just a little, every time I hear it. Weirder than watching your child lose a tooth, is watching the new gargantuan permanent tooth fill up half your child's tiny face. We all have those photos of ourselves in elementary school with gaping holes in our smiles. We also have photos of ourselves with large beaver teeth occupying a startling amount of space in the 4x6 image. The arrival of Beaver Teeth marks the beginning of the infamous Awkward Phase that no childhood has been able to successfully avoid.

I digress. Alex wanted to pull the tooth all by herself . In the small bathroom, my husband Michael, my son Caleb, and I all crazily cheered her on like she was just moments away from a gold medal.

“You can do it, Al!”

“Twist it to the left! Ok, now to the right!”

“Almost there! Just do it! Just do it!”

In one swift, epic moment, she bravely pulled the dangling tooth with her right hand. The sheer force of the determined gesture sent the tiny tooth flying from her tiny hand into the great abyss of the upstairs bathroom. It felt like we were watching the scene unfold in slow motion, complete with the slowly drawled scream of “Noooooooo!!!!” as the tooth flew through the air. The upstairs bathroom has white hexagon tile. I immediately knew we were in trouble. Tiny white tooth on tiny white tiles.

Alex started crying hysterically. Deeply worried that the tooth fairy would not come if there wasn’t any tooth, she mouthed over and over “I just gotta find it. I just gotta find it…”

Mike, Caleb, Alex and I frantically, painstakingly scoured the bathroom on our hands and knees. We went over every square inch of tile, sink, tub, and rug.

No luck. Alex’s tears started coming faster and I knew full blown hysterical sobs were near.


In a hopeful attempt to assuage her fears, my husband quipped, "Honey, the tooth fairy knows you lost a tooth, don't worry. She always comes, no matter what." She didn't buy it. She looked at him incredulously and cried harder. 
Strike One.

It was my turn to take a crack at calming her down. I said with my very best mommy-means-business-face, "Alex, really that's enough. Come on, honey. Stop it right now." I stepped back, hoping my attempt at discipline had done the trick. In response, 
the tempo of the sobbing sped up and tone of the crying morphed into a loud shrieking sound. Strike Two.

I knew we were on the threshold of total and complete devastation. Bedtime was approaching and unless a miracle happened, our 20 minute tuck in would turn into a 90 minute one. The 90 minute tuck would result in a grumpy morning the next day. The grumpy morning would turn into a grumpy day. Basically, total family misery was at stake.

I was out of ideas. Desperate, I began praying, “God, please, please, PLEASE, let me find the STINKING TOOTH.” On the cusp of a third strike, I suddenly remembered that I still had some of her old teeth from the last time the tooth fairy visited. Not quite sure what to do with old baby teeth, I had thrown them into a junk drawer that contained other stuff I didn’t know what to do with. With lightning speed, I ran into my bedroom, grabbed the old tooth and hid it in my palm.

I did what any self-respecting, desperate mother who wants to put her kids to bed on time would do.

I lied.

I pretended to find the tooth on the bathroom floor.

I said with a little too much enthusiasm, “Honey, let’s look one more time on the floor. I didn’t really look very well behind the toilet……Oh my goodness! Look! I found it!” I triumphantly held the old tooth up, sucked in my breath, and waited.

She bought it.

The tears dried up and the post-sob hiccups eventually subsided. I took a picture of her new, toothless smile, wondering just when the permanent Beaver tooth would break through. Alex and Caleb were in bed on time and the tooth fairy left a buck under her pillow.

I fell asleep that night to my husband’s words, “You’re a genius, you know that?”

“Desperate times call for desperate measures.” I replied.

“Yeah,” he agreed. “Especially when the tooth fairy’s involved.”