Now It's Gettin' Political

I have no political expertise; my degree is in Accounting, not political science. But my dad, a Vietnam vet and high school political science teacher, was passionate about America and its greatness, and he passed that zeal onto his daughters.

That said, recently my daughters (ages 12 and 10) were trying to sort out all the rhetoric and asked me why their dad and I consider ourselves "conservatives". Here's my answer, condensed into a top 10 list.

10. I can't relate to the Hollywood elites, and they can't relate to me.
9. I think I am better qualified to manage my own life, and money, than the government is.
8. I believe that capitalism, not socialism, is the strongest economic system.
7. I am, and always have been, proud of my country and believe that, with all its faults, it is still the greatest country on earth.
6. I think the only effective anti-terror strategy is to fight terrorists where they are, not merely ask them to play nice.
5. I believe the responsibility of judges is to interpret the constitution, not re-write it.
4. I admire, not blame, the brave men and women who fight for our right to criticize and accuse them of "air-raiding villages and killing civilians".
3. I believe that 99% of the situations people find themselves in are caused, or greatly contributed to, by their own choices; therefore, taking personal responsibility is much more empowering than government intervention in most situations.
2. I believe that marriage was intended by God to be a union between one man and one woman.
1. I believe life is precious from the moment of conception until the moment of natural death, and that the circumstances surrounding the child's conception don't determine the value of its life.

I think Ronald Reagan said it best. "Freedom prospers when religion is vibrant and the rule of law under God is acknowledged."

Decorating 101

I read something once that completely changed the way I decorate my house: "Surround yourself only with those things which you find to be useful or beautiful." For ten years, I have followed that advice strictly, almost fanatically. Since I read that simple yet profound statement, it has been a source of freedom and inspiration in every decorating choice I have made, especially in the absence of the "money is no object" scenario. As a result, my house has taken on a look and feel that distinctly reflect our family's personality and priorities.

Comfy couches and chairs beckon from in front of the fireplaces. Family photos fill the walls. (After all, what would any mother consider more beautiful than pictures of her children?) Sweet-smelling candles scent the air, and miles of books line the built-in bookshelves. Brightly colored petunias peek out of the flower boxes while the porch swing and hammock practically beg to be put to work on lazy summer afternoons.

The house isn't fancy; in fact, it's old and the never-ending list of home improvement projects, including "gutting" the 1950's pink bathroom, is daunting. But we believe this house is a gift from God, a haven for our precious brood, and we nurture it with patience and persistence.

I like to shop for little "treasures" for the house, so on a recent outing to Target, I decided to peruse the summer clearance items. Unbeknownst to me, my six-year-old son Micah was browsing too, and halfway down the doormat aisle, he cried, "Mom, look at this one!" I obediently backed up the cart and glanced at the object of his affection: a school of blue fish on a tan background with the caption, "Thanks for swimming by." "That's cute," I half mumbled and ambled on. "Cute?!", he practically yelled. "Mom, I love it!" He is fascinated with nature, especially fish and birds, and his delighted, fixated gaze told me he really did adore it.

So, I tried my first "I don't want to buy that" excuse. "Let's see how much it is." Bummer. Only $7. Who knew clearance could be a bad thing? Luckily, I had another excuse poised and ready. "But, honey," I said as he clasped his hands together and pleaded with his eyes, "it doesn't match our house." Realizing he couldn't argue with that logic, he slowly unclasped his hands, stood up straight, turned toward his silly new friends and said, "But it matches me."

Needless to say, the fish found a new home, and my "useful or beautiful" logic took on new meaning. Every time I look at those blue, bloated cartoon faces under my feet, I think about what they represent: a little buzz-headed blonde, full of energy and life, who treasures God's creatures with a simple appreciation that rubs off on his sisters, dad and me. I think about the other imperfect aspects of my real-life decorating dilemmas like tiny, greasy fingerprints on the carefully painted walls, black permanent marker on the red ottoman and crayons, CD's and smelly socks strewn from one end of the house to the other. Messy? Yeah. Frustrating? At times. Beautiful? Absolutely. My house will never be featured on HGTV, that's for sure. But our zany, wonderful, noisy, unpredictable life happens here, and that will always be enough for me.

Party, Interrupted

My son turned six on June 18th and as usual the date, lying in wait behind Father's Day, snuck up on me. Micah's a nature lover and, after much discussion, he decided he would have a "water party" in our front yard. (His first idea was to hike the nature trails at a local conservation area while searching for deer, wild turkeys and snakes. He couldn't understand that some people consider that torture, not fun.) "What a great idea!", I thought. Practical, inexpensive, easy to plan and I won't even have to clean the house.

We invited his friends and their moms for a low-key afternoon get-together. Next we picked up some squirt guns, borrowed a sprinkler toy from a friend, blew up the inflatable kiddie pool, hosed off the lawn chairs, ordered a cookie cake and made a quick trip to the party store for matching fish plates and napkins.

The big day finally arrived, and everything was in order. The weather forecast called for a "slight chance for rain" in the evening, but the party was scheduled from 2:00-4:00. Perfect. A little before 2:00, the guests started arriving. Micah proudly greeted his friends, handing them colorful plastic leis and inviting them to "grab a (water) gun and start shooting". The moms lounged in lawn chairs, rocking babies and sipping cold water, while the kids splashed, squirted and screamed.

A good time was had by all until, at precisely 3:03 pm, a high-pitched whine echoed all around us. The sky was clear, but there was no mistaking the sound: tornado sirens. Time to implement Plan B. Everyone inside - NOW! In a matter of three minutes, 15 soaking wet, grass-covered boys and girls tramped through the house, as I frantically made my way toward the TV. Mass chaos ensued, as the kids stripped off their wet swimming suits, confused by the sudden end to the water fun; the weatherman screamed instructions at us and the moms called their husbands to assure them they were safe.

Meanwhile, Micah kept pulling on my shirt, begging me to "save his presents from the patio table before they blow away". I tried to calmly explain this was a crisis, the presents would be fine and I'd get them as soon as I was sure everyone was safe. That explanation didn't cut it for him so, in the midst of the mayhem, he slipped on his sandals and embarked on a rescue mission. I didn't even notice he was gone until he reappeared in the family room, laden with bags and boxes, looking terrified but triumphant.

The wind blew, the rain poured and the sky turned black as night. Through it all, Micah gleefully opened his gifts while he and his friends devoured the giant chocolate chip cookie, a half gallon of ice cream and two dozen juice boxes. They didn't seem to notice the dangerous weather or the completely disastrous (in my mind) change of plans. As soon as Micah's party ended, I had a party of my own--a pity party. "Why does something always have to go wrong when I plan a party? Why aren't my kids' parties as cool as other kids' parties? I didn't even clean my house, for Pete's sake." I sulked and pouted and wondered why God hadn't answered my prayer for calm weather.

The next day, Micah crept into my bed early, like he does every morning after his dad leaves for work. I rolled over and peered groggily through a half-opened eyelid to see him gazing at the ceiling and grinning ear to ear. When I asked him why he was so happy, he said, "I'm just thinking about my party. It was the best day of my life." But I wasn't convinced, still feeling like a party-planning failure, until we went to the church picnic on Sunday. Micah was getting settled on the picnic blanket, trying not to spill his fried chicken or lemonade, when his friend Garrett bounded up to him and joyfully exclaimed, "Hey Micah, I loved your party! We got to squirt all the girls.", and they promptly exchanged high fives. Amused and more than a little surprised, I looked over at Steve. He just smiled, winked and said, "See? I told you. It was perfect." And I had to admit, based on the evidence, that he was right.

A Tribute To My Dad

Today's my dad's birthday. He would have been 56, but he died 11 years ago of melanoma. With Father's Day a few days away, it seemed only fitting to dedicate this post to him.

A Tribute to Dad, Michael Robert Coyne (6/9/52-5/4/97):

I spent last week at a writers' conference on a quaint college campus near Chicago. Being there, surrounded by stately buildings and lovers of words, brought you to my mind even more than usual. Your passion for learning and ability with language, both written and spoken, were a shining example to me.

Since you were so young when I was born, I remember attending your college graduation ceremony. You beamed with pride, and I thought that I'd never seen you so happy as you were wearing that square hat with string hanging off the side. I wasn't sure what it all meant, but your smile told me that piece of paper was important and somehow represented hope and progress. I remember, years later, when you took Amy and me to the campus on lazy summer days. We'd stroll along the sidewalks and admire the distinguished buildings and majestic oak trees, eventually meandering to the history museum where you gave us our own guided tour. You saw beauty in learning just for the sake of learning, and you taught us to love it too.

And what a way with words you had! I remember how you studied for hours and seemingly never forgot anything you read. Your razor-sharp wit allowed you to discuss virtually any subject, from politics to basketball, and your engaging style held us all captive as you recounted events from your own life or the world at large.

You worked hard to achieve your dreams, and becoming a teacher and coach was the pinnacle for you. History came alive when you taught. "Mr. Coyne" sounded so formal, so I just called you "Dad", to the delight of the other gum-popping, note-passing high school girls. Your incredible command of history and animated narratives made us laugh but, more importantly, they made us think. I learned to love America--in your classroom and in your home. You taught me that voting is a privilege, that having a voice is just as important as holding an office. (I also remember your disappointment when I was the only student in the senior Civics class who couldn't register to vote because I was still 17.) You taught and modeled that it's worth it to work toward an ideal, no matter the strength of the opposition. That's the beauty of democracy, you said.

You craved variety and were always searching for a new adventure. You loaded boxes for UPS, hiked the Grand Canyon and cheered the KU basketball team to their first National Championship. You lived to travel the world, ride horses and coach football. Literary classics captured your heart and Saturday Night Live made you laugh so hard you hiccuped. You could never pass up Mom's fried chicken or root beer floats. You hated peas and injustice and, as hard as you tried, you never understood math or your teenage daughters.

Your life read like a good novel. The scenes were always changing, from the Kansas plains to the jungles of Vietnam to an Eskimo village in Alaska. You were down-to-earth yet complicated, strong yet vulnerable, gentle yet distant. And there was plenty of conflict--with yourself and others. No one knows the hurts of another human heart, but I know yours were deep. Maybe that's where the novel takes an interesting turn. Your wrestling with God told a twisted, beautiful tale about a loving Father's willingness to pursue His beloved children and woo them with grace and truth toward sweet redemption.

That's your story, Dad. When I think about the ending, it seems tragic. The lessons you learned in war and family and life seem wasted because you died so young, before two of your own children were grown. Your grandchildren don't know you, except from looking at pictures of you on horseback or kissing the Blarney stone. But then I remember the elements of a good story I learned last week. Take the reader on a ride, then leave them with something to take away, something to think about. To the casual reader, the ending is senseless and heartbreaking. But look closer, it's the most amazing ending of all.

No more conflict or cancer and just one final change of scenery. The hero in the story returns to his true home, a safe place where he's welcomed with open arms. That's not tragic. After all, physical death isn't the end of the story. It's merely a new chapter in a never-ending tale of peace and oneness with God, the author and perfecter of all things good. That's "happily ever after" if I've ever heard it.

You packed a lot into 44 years, and I thank God for your life and the influence it had on me and many others. I still miss you every single day, but I know I'll see you soon.

Love,
Lisa

A Lesson in the Garden

As I rounded the corner of the house to fill my watering can, I stopped dead in my tracks - shocked by what I saw. A rose bush in bloom isn't unusual in May. But this wasn't just any bush. This was the most stubborn, resistant, obnoxious plant I'd ever encountered. I'd wanted, even begged my husband, to cut it down and pull the roots out any number of times during the past nine years.

At our first house we had roses, planted by the previous owners, and were always amazed at how little work they required. We did nothing; yet they bloomed radiantly in a rainbow of colors each Spring. So, when we moved into our current house, we knew we wanted to include those "beautiful, low-maintenance roses" we remembered so fondly. We promptly planted the aforementioned climbing bush right outside our bedroom window.

The first year it did nothing. No growth, no buds. Nothing. We watered it faithfully and "fed" it rose food. Year two - still nothing. Year three - nada. Year four - zip. "Be patient," Steve said. "It will bloom when it's ready." (He knows me better than anyone on the planet, except you- Mom, and he still used the "p" word. Patience is not a virtue of mine, to say the least.) Year five. Eureka! A couple of buds formed. We got excited, but they never opened into full flowers. That's when I got mad - and serious. This thing was not going to beat me. I Google'd "roses" and read everything that popped up. The recurring theme in each article was pruning - a fancy term for "Cut the heck out of the plant every year."

I've been gardening for a while now, but apparently I still had a lot to learn, and the concept of chopping something up to make it grow bigger and stronger didn't make sense to me. It seemed unnecessary, even harsh. But, my husband's grandparents had a fruit orchard, and he was all too familiar with the pruning process. He explained to me the benefits that fruit trees and flowering plants derive from pruning, including ridding it of the unproductive parts and helping it to conserve resources to maximize its new, healthy growth the following season.

So, after carefully studying the recommended rose-pruning procedures, he sharpened the clippers and went to work. He cut and chopped and clipped until the poor thing looked pathetic. "Trust me," he said. "Next year will be better." And, sure enough, he was right! The next Spring, one or two of those buds did open up into a gorgeous pink bloom. Progress! We have pruned it every year since with varying degrees of success, but I hadn't paid much attention to it so far this season. Hence my shock when I rounded the corner. It was stunning! There were six flowers in full bloom and at least as many buds ready to open any day. The foliage was vibrant and green, and it had climbed almost to the roof line.

Right then and there, I learned a life lesson that I'm sure I'll never forget--the value of pruning. Not just in gardening, but in life. Jesus said, "I am the true vine, and my Father is the gardener. He cuts off every branch in me that bears no fruit; and He cleanses and repeatedly prunes every branch that continues to bear fruit, to make it bear more and richer and more excellent fruit" (John 15:1-2, Amp). I thought back over my own life and all the cleansing and pruning God has had to do. He has chopped away at self-destructive habits like overeating and overspending. Every day, He clips off unruly thoughts filled with selfishness and pride. He digs up the weeds of worry, criticism and unforgiveness, bringing me to a beautiful place of repentance and restoration, like a spring rain washing over my wilted leaves.

I wish I could say my pruning days are over, that my life continually bears rich, excellent fruit. Alas, that's not the case. BUT, when I think back over all the mistakes, poor choices, and trials, I realize that those pruning incidents have caused fruit to grow. Owing only to God's grace, my marriage is still strong and loving after 15 years. I don't overeat or overspend anymore (okay, okay, rarely). I love being my kids' mom, and God has blessed me with several close friends. Most amazing to me are the many times He has turned pipe dreams into reality. Just like that rose bush, I'm still stubborn and obnoxious at times. But God sees the beautiful flowers trying to bloom through adversity and thanks to the faithful pruning of a loving gardener, I believe I'll see them too.