Charley and the Easter Lily

One of our family's more memorable Easters happened in the wee hamlet of Sisters, OR. Greg pastored a small church in the community and I worked at the high school as an educational assistant.

I'm not sure how much educating or assisting I actually did, but I got to hang out with a lot of really interesting high school students.

Like Charley.

I met Charley when he was a sophomore. Even without his six-inch mohawk (he told me he used Elmers glue to get it to stay erect), Charley was probably a good 6' 5" in his scuffed-up Doc Martens. It hurt my neck to stand and talk to him for any length of time. Charley also had tattoos, piercings, wore lots of spikes and chains and had the biggest ear plugs (the kind that are embedded into and stretch out the ear lobe) I'd ever seen. He played bass for the up-and-coming punk band, Backwash.

Charley was my favorite student and I'm pretty sure he knew it.

Charley hated school because he struggled to read, so I spent several hours each week working on the basics with him. Our favorite books to read together were the Cooper Kids adventures by Frank Peretti. Even though the series targeted elementary school children, Charley's imagination was captured by the Cooper kid's exploits. Opportunities to talk about spiritual things surfaced in every chapter.

Charley had been raised in a non-religious home and his parents divorced the year I met him. Despite his spiky outward appearance, I knew from the start that Charley had a tender heart. We had great discussions about God and one day I felt the Lord's nudging to invite Charley to church the following Sunday--which just happened to be Easter.

Charley was non-committal and I tried not to get my hopes up as I looked around for him on Easter morning. But ten minutes after the service began, Charley swaggered into the sanctuary. He had to duck to keep his mohawk from brushing against the door jam and the metallic clank of his chains caused a few worshippers to turn around and stare.

But Charley slid into the place we'd saved for him on the back pew like he'd been going to church all his life and the girls and I all hugged the stuffings out of him. Which isn't easy to do when the person you're hugging is covered with metal spikes.

The quaint country church was decorated with the usual white lilies and other Easterish flowers. At the front of the sanctuary, however, was an odd sight--a large wooden cross, wrapped with chicken-wire. Church goers had been prompted ahead of time to bring fresh flowers to the Easter service so that we could "flower the cross." After we finished singing all of our favorite Easter hymns, Greg announced that people could come to the front, place their flowers on the cross and take communion together.

So a couple here, a family there, proceeded to the altar and planted their flowers in the wire mesh surround the wooden cross. It was really cool to watch the transformation of the symbol of our faith--from rough, splintery dead wood to a fragrant, colorful cross-shaped bouquet.

Since our gang was sitting in the back, we waited until the crowds had thinned out to make our way forward.

"Want to go up with us Charley?" I asked my young friend, wanting to include him with our family, but not expecting him to respond.

"Sure," he said gamely and followed us grinning to the front of the packed room. The fact that he hadn't brought flowers didn't daunt Charley a bit. He just reached down and plucked an Easter lily from its pot on the stage. Using his height to its full advantage, Charley placed his bloom--potting soil, roots and all--at the very topmost spot on the cross.

The transformation was complete!

There were a few gasps and giggles from the Sunday crowd, and I saw a head or two shake in disbelief. But I have to admit I was proud of Charley and I'm pretty sure Jesus was too. And after that day, Charley felt like a son to me.

Unfortunately, our paths parted after Charley graduated and I haven't seen him in a while. But every time I see some punk with a six-inch mohawk and plugs the size of quarters, I think of my friend. And I pray that the Easter we flowered the cross together planted a seed that will bear much fruit in the end.

rest

So, I've been on my adrenal building regimen for about a month now. And I'm pleased to report that I'm sleeping again--usually between 7 and 9 hours every night! After I started taking Seriphos (a supplement that reduces cortisol levels), I noticed immediate results.

My body didn't want to sleep when I started taking the supplements--I felt like I was in a wrestling match most nights trying to fall--and then stay--asleep. But as the supplements did their job and I diligently removed stressors from my waking life, sleep returned to me like a long-lost friend.

Now, I feel like I can't get enough. And waking up from a good night's sleep still seems like a miracle to me!

I'm still tired, however, which is frustrating. I just assumed my strength and energy would return as soon as I started sleeping. That has not been the case. I get bursts of energy here and there--and I'm learning to be very productive during those times. But then I'll run out of gas and turn to pudding until I can recharge overnight once again.

I'm pretty tuckered out spiritually, too. Shouldn't be surprised, I guess, since I know how connected the body, soul and spirit are. I'm trying to build up my spirit much in the same way I'm trying to help my body heal: providing good food (the Word), removing stress (casting all my cares on Him--and not watching scary or intense movies), and cultivating rest (trying not to jump into ministry at our new fellowship before the Lord gives me the green light).

I was hoping to feel a bit more restored by now, but truth be told, I don't. In fact, I feel weak as a kitten, wanting nothing more than just to stay curled up in the safety of my own home. And the cool thing is that I don't feel the Father trying to boot me out the door--I feel Him carrying me close to His heart. He's giving me permission to be still and rest . . .

"In repentence and rest is your salvation . . . in quietness and trust is your strength, says the Lord." Isaiah 30:15

nose neti

I love visiting my friend Beck, who lives in Northern California. We served at the same church for about five years and became close friends.

Beck and I had a lot in common back in those days. We homeschooled our children. We stored up for Y2K (OK, I've publicly admitted it. If you need any dried beans or rice, let me know). We worshiped together and followed hard after Jesus.

And we became enamored with natural healing.

We actually took a class together. We met a Sally's house every week--there were usually about 10 ladies there--and we started each session by listening to a teaching by Dr. Schultz. His stuff was interesting, but after the tape ended the fun began: we got to go into Sally's kitchen and create herbal concoctions!

Sally's favorite--and most time-intensive recipe--was "superfood." The finished product(which included ingredients such as alfalfa, yeast, rose hips and garlic, to name a few) resembled the scrapings from the underside of a lawnmower, but Sally spoke about superfood in reverent tones. It could boost the immune system, improve the sex drive, supply boundless energy--and possibly even protect against biological warfare.

How could we not provide barrels of the green stuff to our families? Sally's favorite way to ingest superfood was to add a few tablespoons to her orange juice or throw it in the blender with some fruit to make a smoothie.

Knowing full well the health benefits of this super supplement, I never could quite bring myself--or my family, for that matter--to actually drink the stuff. It turned my juice green, tasted like dirt and smelled like a field of fresh mown hay.

I really enjoyed making tinctures, however. In our class, we learned that the best way to extract medicinal properties from plants was to soak them in vodka for a month, and then strain out the solid materials, leaving only a very potent liquid. We had to use vodka, Sally told us, because the higher the volume of alcohol, the stronger our tincture would be. A few drops of the finished product, added to juice or tea, could quickly be swallowed and then utilized by the body.

So I, who had previously never purchased so much as a can of beer in my life, found myself ever on the lookout for cheap vodka. In California, they sell hard liquor right in the grocery store, so I'd load up my cart with whatever brand was on sale.

One day I was standing in the check-out line at Luckys and remebered my vodka supply was running low.

"Danielle," I called to my middle child, who was reading People Magazine one check-out stand over, "can you go grab me a couple of bottles of vodka, please? They are on aisle 7. The cheap ones are on the lowest shelf."

I don't actually remember if Danielle obeyed my request. I clearly remember smart-aleck Lindsay's little dramatization, however.

"Mom, you've got to stop drinking," my oldest daughter rebuked me, shaking her head in mock disgust. Then, making sure everyone within earshot could hear, she continued her crusade: "Vodka is destroying our family!"

Yep, it was a long time before I shopped at Luckys again!

Much to my family's delight, the tincture and superfood phase eventually passed. Who wants to keep making concoctions when nobody actually takes them? But I've continued to be keenly interested in alternative health and natural healing. And so has my friend, Beck. We always have a grand time sharing our latest, greatest natural health discoveries.

When Greg and I stayed with Beck and her family a few weeks ago, I told her what I'd been learning about adrenal fatigue and its treatment. Beck told me her latest discovery was the "nose neti".

"I've never heard of it!" I told her, as she handed me a small ceramic tea-pottish thing with a long spout. "What does it do?"

"It clears and heals your sinuses," she told me, illustrating how you fill the pot with warm salt water, stick the spout in one nostril and let the water flow from the other! "We think it really helps with congestion and sinus infections."

So when I woke up this morning, nauseous from post-nasal drip and sick of my persistent sinus headache, I decided to give neti a try. I purchased a cute little pot and bag of sea salt at New Seasons and came home and did the deed.

Apart from the strange flashback of being a small child at the public pool accidently snorting water up my nose, it was kind of cool. Very soothing (although I think it scared Scout), and I think I've breathed a bit better today.

So there you go. Now you know. Don't just pop a pill or run to the doctor when your allergies flare up this season. Try the nose neti.

It's a great conversation starter, if nothing else!

supporting our habit . . .

My daughter, Lindsay, and I love all things vintage. We love to spend hours poking around thrift stores or garage sales, looking for hidden treasures. My house is filled with fruits of my thrifty labor.

Overflowing might be the adjective Greg would use to describe the status of the cool stuff I've drug home over the years.

"So, just how many more pictures of Jesus do you actually need?" he asked one afternoon as I hung an Egyptian rendition(painted on papyrus) of the Last Supper on the wall.

"I don't need them, I collect them," I informed him, considering the case closed.

But I have to admit, my tastes have changed over time. I collect white porcelain madonnas (the mother of Jesus, not the singer) instead of McCoy pottery now. Old religious books and antique pictures of Jesus catch my eye instead of the old quilts that once obsessed me. Rustic iron crosses have displaced amish collectibles.

It's been a good change, I think. But what to do with my surplus treasures?

I've put them up for sale on my new online shop--Strantiques! Lindsay turned me on to ETSY (an online market which primarily features handmade products) when she first moved up from LA and we've started a shop together.

If you haven't already checked it out, click on the Strantiques link and visit our site. If you buy something from us, I might just have room to buy the St. Francis statue I saw on Ebay . . .

The return of the renegade robin

If you've followed my blog for a while, you will remember my evil nemesis: the wascally wobbin. (http://shawnalyne.blogspot.com/2007/03/bird-brained.html and http://shawnalyne.blogspot.com/2007/04/robin-wars-round-two.html)

Just a few weeks ago, my little bird-brained friend returned with a vengeance!

"Dearie, I think that stupid bird is back," Greg told me one frosty morning.

"No way! Don't robins go somewhere else during the winter months?" I asked, not believing his ridiculous report.

"Not this one, apparently. I could hardly read the paper with all the ruckus it was making . . . oh, and wait 'til you see the mess!"

Aargh! I'd battled that bird for months last spring. I taped up Sponge Bob napkins over the front porch windows so it wouldn't be able to see its reflection. By sundown, however, the looney bird had shredded the napkins in its ballistic attempts to peck out Sponge Bob's wee beady eyes!

Then I hung a life-sized owl figurine above the porch railing. You know, the kind gardeners put in their plots to scare raiding birds away. The robin took no notice of its mortal enemy, forcing me to drastic measures. When I was certain none of the neighbors were watching, I positioned a motion-sensitive, singing lobster in a strategic spot on the rail. Once the robin got over the shock of a red rubber crustacean crooning "Don't Rock the Boat Baby!", the bird used the lobster for a launch pad for its attacks.

I had to admit defeat. Thankfully, by the time summer rolled around, the bird disappeared. I figured it had either knocked its little brains completely loose or had found another family to torment. I was just happy for the war to be over--even though the massive clean-up effort took some time.

Yeah, so I wasn't too thrilled to hear the pesky pooper had returned.

But I'm delighted to report that I beat the bird this year! After a week of enduring its kamikaze attacks on our house, a strange and simple plan formed in my mind: I would cover our porch with bird netting!

I did it--and it worked! All four windows that look out onto our front porch are now shrouded with black bird netting. I tacked the netting above the windows and then draped it over stools, chairs and a porch swing so that the bird can't get anywhere close to its reflection. When Cock Robin swooped in for his afternoon assault, he quickly figured out that the war was over and left in sullen defeat.

Sheer brilliance, if you ask me.

You probably shouldn't ask our neighbors. I've seen the raised eyebrows. I've noticed how joggers cross the street. I've heard the hushed whispers of the walkers who pass by . . .

But I don't really give a hoot because I've said "bye bye birdie" to that rascally robin.

And that's one less stress in my life!

adrenal fatigue

You may never have heard of this condition, but according to a book I just read (Adrenal Fatigue--the 21st Century Stress Syndrome by Dr. James Wilson), up to 80% of American adults experience it to some degree.

I just found out I'm one of them.

I've suspected that my adrenal glands weren't happy campers for some time. I think I suffered from a mild form of post-traumatic stress syndrome after our accident. Bouts of insomnia have afflicted me over the past 15 years which I've described to Greg as "my adrenal glands are stuck on full throttle."

The condition would usually resolve in a week or so, however, so I continued staggering onward through my stress-filled life, fueled by caffeine and chocolate.

And I was able to stay afloat. Until the night of Danielle's wedding.

I have no doubt that the Lord gave me a double portion of His supernatural peace during the weeks and days preceding the wedding. Even the day of the big event, I felt myself walking on air, completely free of stress. I can still feel the extreme joy and peace that surrounded me the day of the wedding.

That night was a different story! My adrenal glands apparently went on strike. As soon as my head hit the pillow (we'd had a mini-family reunion at our house after the wedding, so it was probably around midnight when we finally got to bed), my heart began beating wildly--and then the panic attacks rolled in. I tossed and turned all that night, adrenaline surging and waves of panic and anxiety crashing down on me. I finally fell into an exhausted sleep sometime after 6 a.m.

I haven't had a good night's sleep since. (It probably didn't help matters that four days after the wedding Scout got really sick and almost died . . .) After battling insomia for 3 weeks, I asked my doctor and asked to have my adrenal function checked. The results confirmed what I'd long suspected: my adrenals are shot!

The adrenal test measures the amount of cortisol your body produces throughout the day. In the beginning stages of adrenal fatigue, the adrenal glands are working overtime, over-producing the stress-relieving cortisol to counteract the pressures of life. In more advanced stages, like mine, the worn-out adrenal glands don't make enough cortisol to keep up with the body's demands.

(Except in my case, where I seem to produce too much cortisol at night--which leads to the insomnia and night-time panic attacks. So I take day-time supplements to build up my adrenals and boost cortisol levels, and then cortisol-diminishing capsules at night).

The underlying cause of adrenal fatigue is stress--usually prolonged periods of intense stress that just gradually burn out those plucky little glands over the years. (In case your wondering, you have two, small pyramid-shaped adrenal glands. Each one sits atop your kidneys). The first step toward healing and restoring your adrenals is to remove stressors from your life. And get 9 hours of sleep a night!

Which is kind of a Catch-22 for me, since the biggest stress in my life right now is lack of sleep! But I am working on eliminating unnecessary stresses from my life--and I've slept the past two nights without having to take a sleeping pill. So, I'm hopeful that my adrenals are on the mend and my energy and exuberance for life will soon return.

If you suspect your adrenal glands might need a little TLC, read the book I mentioned. There's also a lot of good info on the InterNet. Check out: http://thyroid.about.com/cs/endocrinology/a/adrenalfatigue.htm

"He gives His beloved sleep . . ." Psalm 127:2

the happiest place on earth . . .

. . . is home, as far as I'm concerned! I was never so thrilled to pull into our driveway, stagger through the back door (having just spent 10 hours in the car) and be enthusiastically greeted by my spazzy little dog. (Thanks, Yellie and Krispin, for keeping her alive and well). Disneyland (which I'll write about in a moment) just can't compete.

The VERY best thing about coming home yesterday was: Lindsay and Penelope came with us! Yep, Linds finally heard the Lord's voice saying, "Come up here (to Oregon)" and she heeded the call. So our empty nest is once again filled with our oldest daughter and her yellow tabby cat.

So back to Disneyland . . . it was our one day of vacation out of the last six. The road trip was basically a rescue mission to snatch our daughter from the clutches of seedy LA (actually, she lives in a really nice part of Long Beach and has amazing friends. It was just time to move on). Linds was too busy to accompany us, so Greg and I headed off to Disneyland without her on Wednesday--our very first visit to the Magic Kingdom sans children.

My husband loves Disneyland. No offense to Micky, but it's not my favorite place. Let me explain . . .

I remember taking our kids to Disneyland after we'd spent a week at a rustic camp in the San Gabriel mountains. At Camp Featherstone, we'd hiked, thrown rocks into the creek, spotted wildlife and roasted marshmallows over the firepit. Jonah and Lindsay ran about like wild Indians the whole time and loved every minute of it.

The following week, we took them to Disneyland. True to his autistic nature, Jonah hated every minute of it. By mid-morning, he was so over-stimulated by the noise and the crowds and the cotton candy (big mistake!), that he dissolved into a sticky, sobbing mess. Jonah hated the rides. The Disney characters frightened him. His only source of comfort was the occasional drinking fountain. Only he didn't drink from the fountains--he'd crouch next to them, pressing his grubby, tear-streaked face up against the cool metal sides. Jonah could hear some kind of faint fan-like sound emanating from the fountain's innards and it soothed his anxious heart.

Maybe experiencing the Magic Kingdom with Jonah ruined it for me--I've never enjoyed it since. My first panic attack paralyzed me during the Pirates of the Caribbean ride. The Haunted Mansion creeped me out with its light-hearted treatment of death and the demonic. The cost made me fussy and the crowds caused clausterphobia.

Over the years, my disposition toward Disney has not improved. As a youngster, I loved roller-coasters. About 15 years ago, however, my adrenal glands decided they could do without the sensation of free-fall. You know that feeling you get when your "car" clickety-clacks to the highest pinnacle of the ride and them plummets straight down at break-neck speed? Well, my body defaults to panic mode about half-way up the torturously slow climb to the top and sheer terror sets in as my stomach defies gravity during the inevitable plunge. It really wrecks me and I avoid this sensation at all costs.

But because I really love my husband, I agreed to go on Splash Mountain with him last week. And I may have finally conquered this silly fear.

My sense of dread began to build before we even entered the park itself. It took us a good 20 minutes to negotiate the parking structure--then we were funnelled through a security check before we could purchase our tickets. Next to the entry gate, I spotted a large yellow sign that warning park-goers about the toxic effects of certain chemicals scattered throughout the Magic Kingdom. Before I ever stepped foot in Disneyland, I was feeling a bit stressed about visiting the "happiest place on earth."

It turned out to be a lovely day, though. Perfect weather, short lines and manageable crowds lifted my spirits. I loved the Matterhorn and Space Mountain (they don't have the steep drop, just fast action and lots of curves. I can handle that). I cruised through Pirates and the Haunted Mansion without a hint of anxiety. In fact, I was doing so well that I glibly agreed to go on Splash Mountain. But panic set in while I was still standing in line.

Greg was oblivious. Excited as a little kid, he climbed into our floating log, unaware of my sense of impending doom. He raised his arms in defiance to gravity as our boat began it's ascent while I latched onto my husband.

If you've ever ridden Splash Mountain, you know that the log ride climbs for a bit, then levels out and lulls the riders into complacency as it meanders through passageways lined with crooning critters. The log boat is then hoisted higher still and the cycle repeats itself while the furry decoys try to take your mind off what's coming. But I knew--and even the sweetest little bunny seemed ominous to me as we zippidee-doodahed around another bend.

And then we started the final ascent. As our log left the water and began the slow climb to the top of the ride, I seriously fought the urge to climb out of the boat! As I took deep breaths and begged God to deliver me from this unreasonable terror, I noticed a six-year old child sitting in front of Greg. She was laughing and completely unconcerned about the death-plunge we were about to take. She was actually waving at the demonic woodland creatures who beckoned us to our doom.

"Lord, if a little kid can do this without being petrified, then so can I," I prayed. As we chugged to the top, I decided I'd go for it and even raise my arms during the drop. (It was a valiant thought, but the photo taken by park photographers tells the real story. You can see Greg, hands raised and mouth opened in a delighted scream. But all you see of me is my two white-knuckled hands, clutching his chest. My head is not visible, presumably tucked between my knees!)

But, I survived--and to tell the truth, it wasn't that bad. Because I was so tightly scrunched behind my husband, I didn't even get wet. Greg had no idea what a miracle had just transpired when I said to him, "Hey, we should do that again!"

We didn't. But when we left that evening I realized that I'd actually had a lot of fun and no longer hated the happiest place on earth.

In fact, I'm looking forward to taking my grandchildren there . . .