Yesterday brought my children home and an Irish Cream Cheesecake from Sweet Pearlz in Manassas. It was my birthday. Sweet Pearlz has the smoothest, lightest cheesecakes belying the weight of calories under amazing rich flavor. We highly recommend giving her a visit. Her flavor combinations are surprising and spot on. My choice of cakes has changed over the years as has my choice of how to spend time celebrating. Yesterday, while not a perfect day, held all the goodness of what's important in life - family. Frankly I do not know the secret ingredients used to make those cheesecakes amazing, in fact I am more than happy to let Sweet Pearlz reign in the land of cheesecakes. I do have a go to recipe combining creamy pudding, a coating of chocolate, and puff. One of the cakes that my family loves is the Eclair cake. Whether enjoying a bite of amazing decadence or simply sitting sharing time, I wish you a weekend spent with family surrounded in a sense of being together. That is my final birthday wish for this year of 2020. Eclair Cake Ingredients Crust 1 cup water 1 stick of butter 1 cup flour 4 eggs room temperature Filling 1 - 8oz package cream cheese softened 1 large box vanilla instant pudding 3 cups of milk Topping 1 container coolwhip 1/2 chocolate chips 1 Tbls butter 1 Tbls confectioners sugar or to taste milk just a bit for desired consistency Instructions Preheat oven to 400 and lightly grease 9x13 pan In a saucepan, boil water and butter till butter is melted. Stir in flour all at once and remove from heat. Stir in one egg at a time being sure to stir completely and quickly. The egg should be completely mixed in before adding the next one. Spread in the prepared pan evenly. Bake for 30-40 minutes. It's important to check at this stage. Remove from oven when there is a nice golden puff. Let cool completely and don't poke the puff. In bowl mix together cream cheese, pudding packet and milk with a mixer. Spoon onto the cooled puff. Spread Coolwhip over the top of the pudding. Prepare the chocolate glaze and pour over the top. Refrigerate until ready to serve.

This little guy showed up this week crowing in our pear tree. The only thing that makes him bigger than our pigeons is the tail. His smallness is accentuated by a high pitch cry more pubescent sounding than our full-bodied roosters. He's the perfect snack for the migrating hawks and hungry foxes. We call him Rocky. He's got a lot of fight in him for a bantam. He needs it. He came alone. Due to his size and newness, we needed to separate Rocky from our other poultry. They would harm him before getting to know his great personality. I could hear Rocky crying, calling out early before the sun until late evening as the sun left. He felt alone and scared. Rocky was quarantined for his own good, but the effects of isolation are evident. Yesterday marked our fourth week of teaching virtually. Our classroom is defined by the black parameters of my laptop screen. Normal habits of greeting each student as they enter become estranged. Connections are unstable, videos are turned off, students sit in the silence hiding from the teacher and each other. To date the material covered is about 40% a regular semester and my effectiveness feels to be about 60%. My gauge for the former is derived from years of delivery; the later comes from my heart. How can my voice alone carry everything I need these students to hear? Each school day I feel like a human sponge. I can feel the anxiety, confusion, disappointment, and frustration from the other side of the screen. My students are hurting, alone in their isolation. We started to work with poetry and looking closely at student chosen quotes from their novels. Taking the power of a word into account, we began to see ourselves in the character's struggle. The repetition of "dominated by fear, the fear of failure" cried out when placed side by side with another random quote about the character. That fear beget more fear resulting in a family who lived in perpetual fear. As the words opened, silence came. Not an absent silence. This quiet spoke of connection. I knew they were with me. I knew they had heard. When we focused our attention on the characteristics of the individual words, we could begin to hear a message that included us. We could connect to another's struggles and know we are not alone. I went from speaking into the void, to feeling united with those I couldn't see. From early morning until I finish my day, I am surrounded by voices. Some are crying out in frustration, some share words of encouragement. From social media to the occasional friend I meet, we all just want to be heard. There's power in a well placed word. Precision and focus provide strength of thought. If I try to listen more to the character of who is speaking, who is crying to be heard by considering their chosen words, then maybe I'll be able to hear what they are trying to say and I'll find an unexpected point of view. "so is my word that goes out from my mouth: It will not return to me empty, but will accomplish what I desire and achieve the purpose for which I sent it. Is 55:11 (NIV)

This past week, I waited for life to get a little easier. Where there were ebbs and flows of optimism, a deep fear creeped in and deepened a mark across the calendar. My family and friends found themselves engulfed in a state on fire. Oregon's sky was as red as the scenes from Mount Doom in the land of Mordor. Words will come later once everyone is safe. But the fear has sobering results. Many factors of the fire were out of our control, some were not. How we, as a people, respond will mark us as a generation to be remembered. The time is here to reach across the Continental Divide. The time is now to find a way to speak hope into the charred landscape people call home. As we begin to get restless in our states of quarantine, our frustrations with schools, or our distaste of politics, remember we have family and friends who need us to show they are not forgotten. My friend shared with me how her community each February raise money for the Doernbecker Children's Hospital. It's a town effort near Tillamook, Oregon. Together their small community raised $197,151 in ten days by hosting a variety of events like jello wrestling, donkey basketball, head polishing, swallowing goldfish, delicious dinners, auctions, car/truck washes, cinnamon roles, and many more. This small community refuses a simple handout. It's quality events only in exchange for some coin. They've been hosting this tradition since its founding in 1954. The total funds raised equals $3.5 million. This community and others dotted across the states of Oregon and California need their American family. Be on the look out for ways to impact and make a difference. Find a way to insert yourself into the bigger picture and ease a tiny bit of the devastation beyond comprehension. This fire cannot be bigger than us. We are a people richly steeped in the traditions of what it means to rise up and stand. Before the chill of winter sets in and while there's still small businesses first hit by Covid 19 and now this fire, let's reach out a hand. When we do, when we begin to make a difference, our reality will burn with a passion of what it means to be alive. What it means to truly matter. We will find that deeper burn from within that reminds us we are not alone!

Since I have been going into work after six months of quarantine, my cat has been finding new ways to get my attention. She learned quickly that no one can resist her plush, fluffy belly. Her go to method has always been to throw herself on her back when I walk by. Lately life has been heavier than usual, or at least I feel the pull more intently upon my thoughts. Sensing the need for a new strategy, Bonnie has discovered the belly is not enough. She has resorted to quietly lying on her back, belly exposed, examining the room upside down. Her quiet perspective shift succeeds in capturing my attention. I can't help but wonder what she's thinking. Her meditative contemplation of life upside down intrigues me. Maybe it's because I walk through the halls of a loud scene of social media. Maybe the brash noise of the news becoming a platform for a few shouters makes me long for the voice of silence. Whatever the catalyst, Bonnie Rose beckons me to stop and sit with her by quietly looking at our surroundings from a different angle. There are those, tired and pushed, who fight back and lash out with angry words and loaded opinions carrying more hurt than truth. Their words attack and create chaos that bombards the air making it appear that strife is the new norm. But that is not the majority. That can't be the new voice of humanity. I look to the silent, goodness surrounding my footsteps. They are so hard to see through the smoke and mirrors. But I can find them when I stop, when I listen. Their voice speaks of gratitude. Their actions and choices of kindness create a force that pushes me to share their gift of kindness and generosity with another. It is the silent majority who makes this life move and thrive in a healing and guiding manner. Whether the act of a student standing in the rain to get reception for my class, or a student who takes time to ask how I am in an email before pursuing their request, a parent who says thank you, or a friend who knows me well telling me they admire and appreciate me, the silence is broken and I can hear and see grace all around. These small gentle attributes of goodness offer healing that lifts my chin from off my weighted chest with a true breath I find most refreshing. My morning readings of Bishop Barron brought me to these words of contemplation. "When grace invades us, we are enticed into far deeper waters." Grace gives courage. Grace is so attractive and provocative not because it is in short supply, but simply because we have to strive to find it. Grace is contagious spreading the goodness we recognize has been shared with us. Grace is powerful stemming from the heart of all that is good and just. Looking at my world upside down, I wonder if the silent majority understands the power they hold. I wonder if those who let their actions of love and kindness define them really comprehend how valuable they are to our society. If we are not to drown in the deep waters of strife, if we are to rise and find the courage to heal as a people, we will need to let our silence shout spreading grace's hope for a new day. Only then will our upside down world aright itself. Only when grace is given will more be generated. Only God's grace can set us free.

The weekend of the big reveal, which cover will lay hold of Iceman Awakens? The voting was incredibly close and so a discussion had to be held. The blue cover depicts cold like the icy glacier from which Ötzi's mummy emerged. A mystery was cloaked within the fog. It fleshed out a character waiting to be introduced. The cover that won, told a different story, a story firmly anchored in the mystery around the man. Taking into consideration the iconic image of Ötzi's mummy, along with the red markings designed by his actual tattoos, the winning cover breaks through the ice to reveal the story of the actual man, known to the world as Iceman. The design, seeped with primitive emblems, delves into the original reasoning behind the big why. My desire and purpose in telling Iceman Awakens is to restore dignity to a people long thought to be ignorant, beneath the achievements of our modern understandings, to explore a culture extinct and yet coursing through the veins of every human to walk this earth, and to wonder what led him to his murderous demise on that mountain pass 5000 years ago. This story is not based on a character. The story is based on a man, who lived, loved, fought, and died. He was real. While the events in the story are fictional, the culture established in the pages was created from five years of research. Iceman Awakens journeys into a distant land in the hopes that as a reader, we will see traces of ourselves. No matter the time period, humanity has struggled with the daily task of being human. Our greatest conflicts are within and the greatest rock that chisels our character is carved from our own personal reckoning with our purpose in this life. This is what the chosen cover connects to. This primitive call to challenge ourselves to be so much more than what we have allowed society or others to deem us. Go ahead and judge this book by its cover, but then take a moment to see what it is really trying to say.

Back to school after six months of leaving the brick and mortar of what I think of as school comes with a whole new learning curve. All the prepositions: at school, in school, to school have changed in proximity and distance, yet as teachers we must find a way to bridge that gap and bring learning into diverse homes across our county. This week I plunged into online platforms to help make learning more interactive. The options are completely overwhelming. My choices are so vast, which can undermine confidence and allow for self-doubt. So, I have to stop and ask myself what does having a cartoon hand doodling my messages really tell my students and parents? This online tool is designed to make me have a more polished product, but there’s nothing that can be finished and flawless going live for the first time Monday morning. Instead of having my act together, I hope the message of being “extra” communicates the fact that I care. This year more than ever, teachers are being challenged to demonstrate what we do best - care for our students that many of us affectionately call our kids. The disadvantages we all face are the disability of students not having proper technology or us not completely understanding what we are doing with the technology we have. It comes down to the realities that once again to properly teach, we need to embrace humility, humble ourselves, and offer ourselves as the conduit of learning through failure. Everything in life tells us that failure is the best teacher. We learn better when we fall or make mistakes. As a professional, this is in direct conflict with the desire to present a good, strong product for delivery. But our students, my students, are going to see me and on some levels that vulnerability can be very scary. As the camera zooms in, pride is going to have to be shelved. A humble heart is the fastest way to connect with another human and that is what this school year is going to require. I bought the little grey man in the picture, to keep me company in my physical classroom. I am naming him Wilbur in honor of one of my favorite professors at IWU, Wilbur Williams. He made the Old Testament very real. His knowledge wasn’t just a textbook, it was lived. Learning with him was more of a conversation than a lecture. Each year he took students on an archaeological dig in Israel. I always wanted to go on a dig with him. It wouldn’t have mattered if I didn’t find a single thing. That trip for me didn't happen, but the inspiration he gave in one semester has lasted a lifetime. Wilbur Williams was a great teacher, not because he espoused failure, but because he was humble. An iconic example of how we learn through failure is if we touch a hot stove once, we won’t repeat it. Honestly as an adult, I still do that thinking I can clean that messy burner and beat the heat; if I can go fast enough I won’t get burned. For me, personally, that lesson is cliche and trite. I do fully support and believe that failure is an amazing learning curve, but I wouldn’t say it is the best teacher. It’s the transformation that happens inside when we fail that makes us learn and grow. It’s the knocking down of our pride that gives us the grace to forgive ourselves and once again stand. It is a humble heart that allows us to learn and hear the true lessons around us in our mistakes. Monday is Day 1 of a new type of virtual school year. I have to connect, earn trust, and inspire 95 unique individuals that are all at different places in their learning journeys. God, give me grace! Wilbur, are you ready? Show me the way! Let's do this!

These shrimp chips are really good, a true find at Costco. I was hesitant to try them at first because I never really thought of adding shrimp to my chips, but on a moment of feeling adventurous decided why not. The serving size is equivalent to 40 chips, which is more than enough. The taste is delicate with hints of garlic and just a bit of the seafood flavor of the namesake. My family loves them. This is not a paid endorsement for the product. The real moral comes in that I only bought one bag. Upon returning to the store, I found the bin empty and the sign removed as if they never existed for sale there before. The search was on. Two months, four Costco stores in two states later, I found them once again back on the shelf in my very own store. After the hoarding frenzy of March, I resisted the urge to stock up and only purchased two bags instead of one. I had learned my lesson by just buying one. The lesson, however, was not in self preservation by stocking shrimp chips. I found the challenge of the wait to be intriguing. The more I scouted and came up empty handed, the more the desire to succeed grew. A sense of conquering the elusive goal provided the stimulation I needed to persevere. That’s the nature of failure. Each time I failed in finding my goal, I had a choice. I could give up and call the shrimp chips unworthy of my pursuit, or I could dig a little deeper, grow my resolve a little stronger, and begin to develop a plan of action. Shopping can be viewed as a burdensome necessity or a strategy game of wits in pursuit of the best bargain. No one, however, should ever consider life as burdensome, but to see life as a strategy game that requires a perspective shift. Choices, based on beliefs that what we value is worth pursuing and that we are worth being the ones to pursue, determine our actions. Actions lead to failures and more choices with the ultimate goal of success kept in sight. Maybe the hardest part of that equation to success is keeping the end goal in sight as distractions present themselves along the way. Maybe the hardest part is the perseverance necessary to keep going when life knocks us down. No matter the hardest part, believing we have enough value to own our dream, was for me the most difficult lesson of all to learn. While I do highly recommend trying these shrimp chips, I also have learned to keep checking back to home base, remember what I set out to achieve, and taking on the challenges to go and do just that – find the value in who I am.

I love birds! I spend a lot of time feeding and coaxing a variety to stop by my yard. They repay me in song, beautiful colors, and reseeding sunflowers throughout the yard. Typically I will find morning glories in quite random places. Our pond is now filled with water lilies from the neighbor’s pond all brought by birds. Yet the all-time best job the birds have done with seeds is found in the ditch at the edge of our property. There I found a little mimosa. One bird carried this seed from the mimosa tree Kathleen grew from a seed. She was an amazing woman. Nothing ever stopped her until her body gave out two years ago. Kathleen was my domestic goddess with a green thumb and power tools. She found me two months after my mother passed away. She took me under her wing. No matter where in the world I went, she remembered me with care packages and magazine articles. When I had children, she sent them each a card with $10 every birthday and Christmas. She earned the title Grandma Kathleen. Every summer I loaded the car, drove six hours across state lines, and introduced my children to the creative bustle always happening in her yard. She would send me home with a seedling, or craft and a head buzzing with ideas. When she died, the world lost someone larger than life. At 5'2" she was fearless in renovation and an sculptor with pruning shears. She balanced her innovation with an enormous heart and compassion. Many strays found a second chance at her door. There was always room for one more. She respected people as individuals, artists as professionals, nature as a gift. People like her are rare. They walk the earth, quietly leaving behind a much better place. It is important to hear what her life had to say. I am only glad that I had been close enough to listen. One of the seedlings she gave me was a mimosa sapling from the giant mimosa in her driveway. I brought it home, planted it and for years enjoyed the pink fragrant feathers each summer. Last year, we lost many trees from heavy rains. Virginia clay isn’t ideal for protecting roots from saturation. I watched my mimosa struggle to hang on. Last year was the first anniversary of Kathleen’s passing. Only a few blossoms bloomed. This year the branches never managed a leaf. Instead of cutting down the mimosa, our family chose to knitbomb instead. We knit or crochet rectangles and put them on the branches. While we stitch we think of those we love in our lives. The tree has become our Mimosa Memory Tree. On Facebook I made the offer for anyone to contribute. People make their own tribute in memory of or honoring someone very special in their lives. This legacy of Kathleen is beautiful like her. The mimosa memory tree reminds me to give comfort to the strays, who show up in my life, bring courage to the weary and confused, take time to show thoughtfulness, and always remember to encourage ideas and possibilities in myself and others. When we live a life committed to passion, then we will inspire and transform our little piece of the world. These are the lessons found from her life lived powerfully, simply, honestly.

Recently I took a ride with my daughter to the farm I grew up on. Not the big 250 acre farm in Missouri, but the 40 acre one in Michigan. None of my children existed, the last time I drove by this old homestead. All that remained the same were a few out buildings, the property tree line and the big red barn. We parked in the state game area just down the road, where herds of 70+ deer used to graze. I told her this pond was where I would call my goose, Sam, home. Sam followed me down the road with six ducks in line behind her. I was the goose girl of Gibbons Road. I showed her the split hung door that I tried to close in effort to keep the horse from running me back to the stall. I wanted to learn to ride. The horse didn’t. Only the top half of the barn door could close, so the old nag had gone underneath dropping me to the ground. I showed her the two big sliding doors. Behind them were places I would wait for the newest batch of kittens to peak out. Hours spent taming them, hours well spent for a child. In this barn, I shoveled too much manure, swung from a rope swing into a huge pile of hay, played hide and seek, and climbed the forbidden silo looking far to the edge of the horizon. This barn was a great place to be a kid. We drove by the property one last time. I noticed the orchard was overgrown the fields of hay were wildflowers. The land seemed quiet. My father had never escaped his farming instinct. He had planted ten acres with corn, beans, peas, and potatoes. He had worked the land keeping it clean. Not spotless clean because he didn’t have time, but usable and strong. It occurred to me that farmers have an important role in our world, beyond growing the food we eat. They groom the land letting us see the strength of the soil. They will the seeds they sow to grow against the odds of no rain, too much sun, or too much cold. A farmer’s life is never easy, the work is never done. A farmer’s understanding of life, however, is very different based in the observations of toil. A farmer keeps things simple in a life that’s often hard. A farmer represents the best in us, the sheer determination to stand up another day when life feels hard. A farmer is the quiet voice that is often missed and not heard. A farmer represents the strength of people to make something special of this great land once again.

This blue spruce stands as a reminder of the most magical Christmas the Krasny family ever knew: the Christmas of 2007. September of ’07, our family faced the fears of the downward market. Over 1200 employees at my husband’s work found themselves unemployed overnight. He among them. At the time, I worked as an instructional assistant in an elementary school making $11.40/hour while finishing my masters in education. Christmas was coming, the budget was tight. A week before the big celebration, we went to Lowe’s to get a tree. Christmas was all on sale including evergreens with root balls in pots. For $30, it was quite the steal, but the tree was short. Roots and all, the tree barely came waist high. Even with decorations, my seven year old stood as tall as this tree. Our children were troopers, but sugar plums certainly didn’t dance in their heads. “Mom, a Christmas tree should be taller than us,” my oldest said. In her voice, the worries and dreams of Christmas magic expressed doubt. Back in the days on the farm, our trees always seemed taller and bigger than they probably were. That’s the beauty of a child’s memory. My children’s impressions of the joyous noel were threatened and under attack. I went back to Lowe’s buying one of the last $10 cut trees, snuck it home, and stuffed it in a barn stall. The children asleep in bed allowed my husband and me to decorate the second tree upstairs in the barn. It was a secret, our secret. Christmas Eve came, we gathered around our tiny spruced up tree in the pot. The children looked at the sparse presents beneath the diminutive decorated branches. They didn’t complain, but their smiles were missing. We opened one present: pjs for all, then headed out to the barn to watch a movie. As the children climbed the stairs, one by one we heard them exclaim. The real celebration waited up top in the beauty of the tree’s lights. We planted that short little tree in the pot later in the new year. The small, short spruce has now grown three times taller than we have. Standing there in the back pasture, the tree represents the magic of Christmas. Each time I pass it by, I remember the change from heavy disappointment to gasps of pure joy. Christmas that year came from a very dark night. The miracle of love filled our little barn just like it did many years ago. This year, summer doesn’t feel like a child’s playground. This July 25 of the summer 2020, no gifts are needed, decorations can stay packed, but the perfect opportunity to surprise our families deserves to be experienced with the gifts of each other. Embrace this time upon us. Go beyond the new norm. Reach outside of the questions and heaviness to find a reason to give. Let 2020 grow in a positive way in our hearts and memories by choosing to make a miracle happen.

On my morning walks, scattered along the path, encouraging rocks lay waiting to cheer neighbors on their way. They are obviously made by children, but the paths are mainly populated by adults. Some child some where believed people were sad and in need of a boost. They played with colors and came up with many different expressions of good cheer. They went out of their way to make a difference. Like the inhabitants of Whoville, they put out their rocks for Horton to hear. As the weeks go by, I notice lawns cut with the rocks still there. Adults are removing the rocks, caring for their daily chores, and replacing the rocks. These rocks matter. Some of the rocks disappear, but more show up to replace and restore the messages we all need to hear. One rock said, "You've got this!" another "It's going to be alright!" each one painted with the creative hearts of a child. With all of the shouting and noise in the air today, remember to watch where you're walking and be kind to the children. They understand this mess a whole lot better than we adults do.

Each morning I take a cup of tea, possibly a muffin and head to my chair on the back porch. The world's far away as I listen to the muse invoked by a cacophony of bird calls and gentle breezes spin the wheels of memory. Nature's incantation allows my thoughts to ponder and then to wander through the many conversations that I have had. It's the cool of the morning before the heat of the day my mind finds soothing. I can follow paths of yesterdays watching the changing landscape of my gardens. The gardens speak of hard work, hopes, failures, and the simple beauty that life offers. In this scene I find the strength to share my point of view from where I sit. Please join me as a back porch friend. While we won't solve the world's problems, we may find comfort and encouragement for the challenges of each new day.