It's Friday - Time for a List

I feel like I pretty much wrote my heart out earlier this week, so today I just need a list. Here are a few things I've noticed, heard, read, or thought about this week.

1. Do you have any idea how hard it is to get your dog used to a time change? Especially a labrador retreiver that eats at specific times every day. The specific time her stomach says she should eat has now become an hour earlier. And as it used to be, she would start to bug me (i.e. follow me at my heels) about an hour before her usual feeding time which means that now she starts following me around at 3:00 in the afternoon, thinking she needs to be fed at 4:00 when she doesn't actually get fed until 5. Boy, I hope she gets used to this soon.

2. I heard the best marriage advice on, of all places, "Barefoot Contessa" this week. In fact, I thought it was so good that I rewound the DVR and listened to it again. Ina was doing a show about her 40th wedding anniversary to her beloved, Jeffrey. I've watched her show enough to know that they have a very sweet love story, so I took notice when she started talking about marriage.

Here's what she said: "People always ask me the secret to a good marriage. I won't say to work at it, even though that's what I'm supposed to say. We just have a good time together. He wants me to be happy; I want him to be happy. It's as simple as that."

After 24 years of marriage myself, I'd have to say she's on to something. Yes, there are some other things I might add, but I love Ina's idea of putting the other person's happiness ahead of your own. If we strip away everything else, that's pretty much what marriage is all about.

3. I get the Proverbs 31 Daily Devotionals in my email box every morning, and one day this week, Lysa TerKeurst wrote about rejection and how much it stinks. It was really good, so if you've been experiencing some rejection and need some encouragement, click here.

4. Speaking of Proverbs 31 Ministries . . . I'm just a little excited to tell you that their November issue of P31 Woman magazine arrived a few days ago and yours truly had an article published in it. Even though I've been writing for years and have had a few small things published, I consider this my first "real" article to be published in a "real" magazine.

Unfortunately, P31 Woman is not available online, so you can't even read my article unless you're a subscriber. If you want to subscribe or even buy a single issue (wink wink), you can click here.

Looks like it's going to be a nice weekend in Chicagoland this weekend which will be a HUGE change from the past, oh, five weeks or so. So I'll be outside enjoying the weekend.

What will you be doing?

I'm Thankful for Spanakopita!

It's Thankful Thursday over at Mary's place today, and I'm joining in the fun.

Today I'm thankful for my neighborhood. I live in a typical suburban neighborhood, but what makes it so special is the people in it. Over the years our kids have walked to school together, played in the leaves together, and trick-or-treated together. The adults have parties together. But we also attend holiday programs together and help each other take out the leaf bags.

It's a fun place. At any given moment, I can walk down my street and find someone to talk to. And in an emergency, I know that pretty much all of my neighbors would be here in a heartbeat.

I love my neighborhood and can't imagine living anywhere else. Unless anywhere else was someplace warmer. *sigh*

Anyway, today some friends from my neighborhood got together to make Spanakopita.The lovely Irene who lives down the street was teaching us. This sweetheart is "Yia Yia" to all the neighborhood kids. Everyone knows her, and everyone loves her. And occasionally Yia Yia gives cooking lessons to some of us non-Greeks. Bless her heart.

Today we met at Amy's house. This is Amy. This picture is blurry and doesn't do her justice because she's beautiful and sweet and smart and the closest thing to a sister I have living here.

This is Johanna. Johanna is a nut and tons of fun to be with. She also rolls a mean spinach pie.

And this is Yia Yia. Like I said, we all love her.

So, basically, spanakopita is spinach pie. You can make it in a pan or you can make individual triangles like we did today.

As every Greek recipe does, you start with butter. Lots of butter.

You also need filling. You can find out how to make this if you check out the recipe below.

And, of course, phyllo dough. This is the Greek country style phyllo which, apparently, is a bit thicker than regular phyllo.

So you cut the phyllo into thirds, like Irene's hands are showing us below.

Take the strips, one at a time, and brush them liberally with butter. Did you catch that? I said liberally.

Put a spoonful of filling at one end of the strip of phyllo and then start working it into triangles. I'd try to explain how to do that, but it would probably turn into a dissertation, so I'll just let you look at the picture and figure it out for yourself. Or make it in a pan, which is probably easier.

We put the individual triangles into foil pans like this with waxed paper between the layers. Be sure to brush them with butter before you refrigerate or freeze them. Because we haven't used enough butter just yet.


I guess all you have to do after that is bake them and eat them. Which we did. This morning. And, boy, were they good. Mmmmmm.

You can try these too because Yia Yia shared her recipe with me. She even said I could share it with you. I've typed it out exactly as it was given to me (except that the comments in parentheses are mine) so go ahead and give Yia Yia a call if you can't figure it out. How could you not enjoy all this buttery goodness?

Thea Irene's Spinach Pie

Makes one pan (approx. 15x11)

Step #1: Melt butter - 2 sticks (Well, already there's a problem because today we used 4 sticks.)

Step #2: Trim 2 bags of spinach. Take off most of the stems. Wash spinach and place in a large bowl (tear it into small pieces). Make sure it is very dry. (This is a critical piece of information.)

Filling:
Step #3: Crumble 1 lb. of feta cheese (make sure it's good feta--Yia Yia does not like the flavorless domestic feta) and 12 oz. of cottage cheese (drained through a seive) into spinach. Add a pinch of mint and a pinch of parsley (we used about 1/2 bunch of fresh parsley) and 1 bunch of green onions sliced.

Step #4: Beat 6 eggs in small bowl and add this to spinach. Mix with hands until all spinach is coated. Add 1/4 cup Wesson oil and mix well. Add a handful of rice (yes, that's right--rice) and mix some more. (Yia Yia mixes with her hands.)

Step #5: Butter bottom and sides of pan

Step #6: Layer filo in pan. Butter each layer. Blanket it over sides so as all 4 sides are hanging over edges. First 4 sheets you do this and then 5th-10th sheets don't overhang, they get placed on the bottom of the pan only. Continue to layer filo, butter, filo, butter, filo, butter.

Step #7: Put filling over filo and spred out so it's all even. Make sure you get it in the corners. Sprinkle another handful of rice over the filling.

Step #8: Fold edges of filo over filling. Butter edges and layer remaining filo over spinach. Filo, butter, filo, butter and so on.

Step #9: Cut excess filo away from edges and tuck sides down to seal.

Step #10: Cut it into squares. Brush a little butter on the top.

Step #11: Bake at 350 for about 1 hour. The top should be golden brown. Start on the bottom rack and check in 1/2 hour. Rotate pan if necessary.

Step #12: Call an ambulance if you start having chest pains. (Just kidding--I threw that one in there for fun.)

Enjoy all that filo, butter, filo, butter, filo . . .

Bloggy Business

There's a lot of chatter out there. Blog chatter. About a certain blog conference that will be held in Nashville in February.

Seems like everywhere I turn in the blog world people are talking about whether or not they'll attend. And I'm getting the feeling that it's like junior high again--all the popular girls will be attending and all of us not-so-popular girls will be sitting on the sidelines watching.

Truth be told, I probably couldn't go anyway. My winter and spring are already getting filled up with various travel-related activities.

But here's what I'd like to talk about today: growing the blog.

If you're a blogger, I'd really like to hear from you about whether you've ever attended a blogging conference. If so, was it worth it? Why? If you've never attended a blogging conference, why not? What are your thoughts about blogging conferences?

If you're not a blogger, you can still help me out. Tell me what you think would help me grow my blog. And if you'd even go one step further by emailing one person who you think would enjoy reading my ramblings and sending them the link to my blog that would be completely amazing.

And finally, if you haven't noticed that little button off to the left that says "Follow" go find it and click on it. Followers make me very, very happy.

O.K., so now head on down to the place that says "comments" and talk to me.

An Anniversary - Part 3

This is it. I promise. The end.

Because, really, who wants to hear someone else’s sick stories? I don’t.

But thank you for indulging me.

Today I wanted to share probably the biggest lesson I learned through my hospitalization and recovery at home. Those of you who know me well probably already know what it is.

It’s no big news flash that I’m a pretty independent person. I’ve always been able to take care of myself and my family without too much trouble. I’ve been known to go to great lengths to NOT ask for help at times.

So what happens when an independent girl suddenly finds herself not able to do even the simplest things for herself? What happens when she suddenly needs the help of other people just to get through the day?

She learns to ask for help.

Well, sort of. I had to come to grips, first, with why I have a hard time asking for help, and what I realized is that it’s mostly my pride. Pretty simple. Pride.

Pride keeps me from opening up. Pride keeps me from accepting offers of help. And pride certainly keeps me from asking others for help.

But I found myself in the most humbling state of my life, and I quickly realized, while lying in that bed, that I was going to have to start asking for help. It’s not like people weren’t offering—they were. Like crazy. But I honestly couldn’t think of anything to ask people to do.

So like me.

So I started small. One day prior to the surgery I happened to take a good look in the mirror and realized that my eyebrows had gotten out of control. Girls, we all know how embarrassing it is to be headed toward unibrow status, so I asked my friend, Margery, if she would please get me a pair of tweezers. Can’t go into surgery with eyebrows you can braid now, can you?

Margery hopped to it and brought me a pair of tweezers. The most beautiful tweezers I’ve ever seen. It might as well have been a gold brick; I don’t think I’ve ever loved a gift so much before. I’m happy to report that I’m still using those tweezers, and I think of my sweet friend every time I use them.

Next came meals. It became clear pretty quickly that B wouldn’t be able to keep up with the three girls, his job, and visiting me in the hospital every night. Life was quickly getting out of control on the home front, so receiving help with meals took so much stress off of him. Friends from church rallied and brought meals for week which turned out to be a huge blessing, even after I got home from the hospital because I couldn’t do much of anything.

Once I finally got home I had to ask for more help. For the first few days I knew I couldn’t be alone, but B really had to go to work (he had missed quite a bit of work at this point), so I asked a few friends if they would just come sit with me while my girls were in school.

When I think of it, this was such a huge sacrifice on the part of my friends. I mean really, who wants to sit around doing nothing with their friend who can’t do anything? But God provided in such perfect ways exactly what I needed.

On my first day home, my friend Micah came to be with me. She’s a pretty high-energy girl, so she took a look around and started digging in. She noticed a huge (and I do mean huge) pile of ironing, so she set up shop in the kitchen and ironed all my clothes. Happily. With a smile on her face. While I lay on the couch and watched. I still remember the sweet time of talking with Micah and feeling blessed beyond belief.

My second day home was a little harder. I started having some memories of the surgery, and I did a lot of processing and crying that day. But once again God knew what I needed because he sent my dear friend, Cheryl, who is a counselor. She brought me a box of Kleenex and listened patiently while I processed. She made me feel like everything was going to be just fine.

Not only that, but Cheryl folded my laundry. Since I know how much my friend just loves doing laundry, this was going above and beyond the boundaries of friendship.

She also did this.

God must have known that I needed to laugh that day.

As if taking meals, asking for tweezers, and allowing my friends to touch my laundry weren’t humiliating enough, there was one more thing God used to humble me and to teach me that asking for help every now and then isn’t so terrible.

On my third day at home, two friends, Kim and Jymette, came by to spend the day. Such good friends they are, I actually let them do the unthinkable. . . . they cleaned out my refrigerator! We still laugh about the fuzzy carrots and the green sweet potatoes. Talk about embarrassing.

I guess my pride problem was pretty big because God used all of these experiences to humble me and to teach me that sometimes I just need to ask for help. It’s still not easy for me, but when absolutely necessary I will and do rely on the help of others.

But Cheryl is never getting near my laundry again.

An Anniversary - Part 2

Her name was Marge.

I never saw her face.

But I knew that she had blacked out behind the wheel and hit a tree which prompted the visit to the hospital which revealed that she was full of cancer. She didn’t have long to live.

Marge had never married, as far as I could tell, but she lived a rich life filled with loved ones. She had two sisters who rushed to her bedside and doted on her night and day. And a male friend named Jim who was a priest. One particular niece loved her very much and visited her often.

Others came to visit her too, parading past my bed. Staring at me. Wondering what kind I had. Wondering how long I had.

At first, their sympathetic stares confused me until I figured out that I was not just lying in a bed on any old floor of the hospital. This was Medical/Oncology, and the sounds emanating from down the hall proved it. Especially the middle-of-the-night sounds.

Traumatizing doesn’t even begin to describe my experience in that bed in that room on that wing of the hospital back in 2007.

For the first three days I shared a room with Marge, the faceless woman who was dearly loved and oh-so-scared. The only thing between us was a curtain and three feet of space.

I never saw her face.

I mentioned yesterday that my friend who worked at the hospital encouraged me to ask for a private room. And believe me, after three days of smelling the closeness of death in that room, I needed to get out. I needed a place where I could focus on getting well. A place where I wouldn’t have to explain that, no, I didn’t have cancer. I just needed to get well enough to have surgery.

It’s funny, though, that I felt guilty about leaving Marge. A woman I never really met. A woman I never really knew. A woman I never saw face-to-face.

I felt guilty. Because I knew I would get better. And I knew she would not.

I also knew that I had peace. I wasn’t sure she did. So for those three days I prayed for Marge. I prayed that she would know peace. That her last few days on earth would be joyful. That she would know Jesus in a very real way.

I woke up early on the morning I was to be moved—probably the anticipation, but more probably the nurses. We ate our breakfasts silently, Marge and I, and then I started reading my Bible, looking for any words that would bring me some comfort, some relief.

“Read to her, Shelly.” That nudge from God.

Oh no. Not me. First of all, I was not the kind of person who usually “heard” God’s voice and second, if I did sense God telling me to do something, I usually ran the other way.

“Read to her.”

I think I sat there with my Bible in my hand, dumbfounded. Dry mouthed. Incredulous because, really, God? I’m trying to focus on getting better here and you want me to minister to this woman?

“She’s dying.”

Well, yeah, there’s that. And I’m getting out of here, so she’ll never see me again. (You see how much I had to learn?)

“Just read to her.”

And so I said, through the curtain, “Marge? Are you O.K.?”

“I’m really scared.” I could tell she was crying.

“Do you mind if I read something to you, Marge?”

“No, I don’t mind. That would be nice,” she responded.

And so I read to her the words that I had opened to that morning. Psalm 34.

I will bless the LORD at all times;
his praise shall continually be in my mouth.
My soul makes its boast in the LORD;
let the humble hear and be glad.
Oh, magnify the LORD with me,
and let us exalt his name together!
I sought the LORD, and he answered me
and delivered me from all my fears.
Those who look to him are radiant,
and their faces shall never be ashamed.
This poor man cried, and the LORD heard him
and saved him out of all his troubles.
The angel of the LORD encamps
around those who fear him, and delivers them.

Oh, taste and see that the LORD is good!
Blessed is the man who takes refuge in him!
Oh, fear the LORD, you his saints,
for those who fear him have no lack!
The young lions suffer want and hunger;
but those who seek the LORD lack no good thing.

Come, O children, listen to me;
I will teach you the fear of the LORD.
What man is there who desires life
and loves many days, that he may see good?
Keep your tongue from evil
and your lips from speaking deceit.
Turn away from evil and do good;
seek peace and pursue it.

The eyes of the LORD are toward the righteous
and his ears toward their cry.
The face of the LORD is against those who do evil,
to cut off the memory of them from the earth.
When the righteous cry for help, the LORD hears
and delivers them out of all their troubles.
The LORD is near to the brokenhearted
and saves the crushed in spirit.

Many are the afflictions of the righteous,
but the LORD delivers him out of them all.
He keeps all his bones;
not one of them is broken.
Affliction will slay the wicked,
and those who hate the righteous will be condemned.
The LORD redeems the life of his servants;
none of those who take refuge in him will be condemned.

----

I went back and re-read the portions I have highlighted here, hoping that Marge would find some comfort in these words. She thanked me and told me that hearing that had helped.

I told her I would be praying for her.

That was it. No big revelation from God. No thunderbolts from Heaven. Just listening and obeying. And going way out of my comfort zone to bring comfort to someone else.

And right there, in that hospital room, as I ministered to a dying woman, God ministered to me.

An Anniversary - Part 1

This week is an anniversary of sorts. For me. And for my family.

Two years ago we all went through something that was hard. Really hard. And I’ve never written about it on my blog yet, so I thought this week might be a good time to do that.

Both to reflect and to celebrate.

Two years ago I went into the hospital and didn’t leave until 12 days later. Twelve days. Nobody stays in the hospital that long these days, so you have to know I wasn’t making it up, how sick I was. I mean, just this weekend I heard about a college football player who had his appendix removed ten days prior to the game he was playing in. Appendix out, now get back in the game! That’s the attitude these days. So to be in the hospital that long was significant. A significant illness and a significant disruption of all of our lives.

Now, let me just say that if you’re squeamish or easily bored by sick-talk, just leave me alone for a couple of days. Check back around Thursday. I won’t be offended.

Here’s what I thought I’d do: give you some background, tell you what I learned back then, and tell you how this has all impacted me still today. Three days. Can you handle it?

Some background.
About four years ago I got sick with flu-like symptoms (aren’t they always flu-like symptoms?). But I had pain in my abdomen that moved back and forth, back and forth. I ignored it for a few days until a friend said, “Shelly, that doesn’t sound like the flu. I think you should go to the doctor.”

Which I finally did and found out I had diverticulitis. Pretty common illness of the colon, but pretty uncomfortable if it becomes aggravated or infected, which it did in late October of 2007.

That fall, I knew things were bad so I finally went to the doctor in early November. From my doctor’s office I was ordered to the hospital for an MRI. “Head straight to the hospital. Do not stop at home. Do not pass Go!”

To make a long waiting room story short, my infection was so bad that I needed i.v. antibiotics. I figured they would give me antibiotics for a day and then send me home. All better. No big deal.

No such luck. I was admitted to the medical/oncology wing of the hospital where I shared a room with a desperately ill cancer patient (more on her tomorrow). I spent much of the first couple of days wavering between fear and despair, crying a lot, and praying like crazy. I wasn’t sure what was going to happen to me, but I knew that my roommate situation was not going to help me get better.

On my second day, I noticed a friend from church working at the nurse’s station just outside of my room. I caught her attention, and she came in to visit with me. My friend is a physical therapist at the hospital and was assigned to care for the woman in my room. She knew how bad the situation was there and encouraged me to seek a private room. This dear friend was such a breath of fresh air to me, she truly was an angel sent from God because, quite honestly, I was very naïve about the ways of the hospital. I had no idea I could ask to get moved into a private room. I had no idea that I would have to be so proactive about my own care.

Thankfully, on the third day, a room opened up for me, and that’s where I spent the rest of my time. Except for that one day, around day five, when they took me to surgery, made five pretty significant incisions (well, two were significant, three were small), and removed 18 inches of my colon. Other than that, I spent nine days in that bed, slipping in and out of consciousness and in intense pain. I don’t remember much about the days after the surgery, to be honest.

So that’s pretty much the background. Yes, this was hard on me, of course, but it was also very hard on my family. Imagine if the Mom in your house gets sick with the flu for a day or two. Things are disrupted. Meals don’t get cooked. The house kind of turns sour. People might miss appointments or music lessons.

This was the flu on steroids. Our entire family scrambled to keep things running at home. To get little girls to school. To get homework done.

And all the while, B had to keep going to work. Sometimes. And to make dinner. And to make sure the girls were doing O.K. I still don’t know all the details of what happened during those days while I was gone, but I know it was hard. On all of them.

Every morning, on his way to work, B would come visit me. And every evening, after dinner, all four of them would wander into my room, brightening up my otherwise dreary day. I could see the fear in their eyes, but I couldn’t do anything to alleviate that fear. All I could do was to hug them and tell them that I loved them and that I would be home as soon as I could.

Twelve days. A long time to be without a mom. A long time to be gone from my family. A long time to think and to learn big lessons.

Tomorrow I’ll share just a couple of the many lessons I learned through my experience, but for today I just want to rejoice in my healing and in the many ways God provided for our family during that time.

“Give thanks to the Lord, for He is good. His love endures forever.” Psalm 118:1

Sugar, Sugar. Aw, Honey, Honey!

Seems like all of a sudden everyone's thoughts have turned to Thanksgiving. Forget that Halloween isn't even here yet; I've already had people asking me what we're doing for Thanksgiving.

And may I just now say that I don't know yet what we're doing for Thanksgiving. No plans. Yet. We don't have family nearby, so we often end up just doing something with the five of us. It always feels a little pathetic to not do something with family, but that's just the way it is.

We'll see family at Christmas.

Anyway, all this talk about Thanksgiving got me to thinking about a Thanksgiving many years ago when we did still have family in the area. B and I had been married a few years and were expecting our first baby. I still remember the mystery of being newly-pregnant and going through the holidays. We'd sit and dream of the next Christmas when we'd actually have a baby with us. Would it be a boy or a girl? (We didn't find out . . . the first time anyway.) What would our lives look like with a baby? (Good thing they don't tell you ahead of time.)

All that dreaming. And eating. Oh to be able to eat like I was pregnant again!

Who am I kidding? I put on 50 pounds with each kid. I ate like a horse and looked like one too.

But I digress. . . . That year we spent Thanksgiving with B's family. His mom would make the turkey dinner, and I was to bring the pies. I spent the day before Thanksgiving baking, what else? . . . pumpkin pies. And one pecan pie, too, because that's my personal favorite.

B's brothers were there, and I think my sister-in-law, Julie, was a part of the family by then too. We had a great day together, eating the feast that my mother-in-law had prepared and sleeping in front of the football games.

Sometime in the late afternoon we decided our turkey had finally moved over and made room for dessert, so I went to the kitchen, cut my pies, and proudly served the pieces with real whipped cream. B and I were the only ones to take the pecan pie--I guess his family is big on the pumpkin.

We all moved back into the living room to watch more football. I don't think the cushions even cooled before we plopped back down in front of the T.V. Don't you just love Thanksgiving?!

Shortly after we started eating our dessert, I noticed B's dad slowly get up and wander into the kitchen. A couple of minutes later he came back with a piece of pecan pie.

"Hungry, Dad?" we asked him.

"Oh, you know. It's Thanksgiving. You have to try a little of everything."

A couple of minutes later, B's brother got up and wandered to the kitchen too, coming back with a piece of pecan pie. Then his mom did the same.

To tell you the truth, I didn't think much about it. There was definitely something going on in the kitchen, but I figured they just loved my pie so much that they wanted more.

At the end of the day we started packing up to go home. As any good guest would do, I offered to leave some of my pie with my in-laws.

"Here," I offered, "why don't you keep a couple of pieces for your lunch tomorrow?"

"Oh no, you keep it." My mother-in-law practically pushed the half-full pie plate out the door with me.

Later, when we were alone in the car, I asked B if he had noticed all the going in and out of the kitchen during dessert. And didn't he think it was weird that his mom didn't want to keep any of the pie? There was no way we could eat all that was left over, and she was certainly not the type of person to waste anything. It just seemed odd that she would let all that delicious pumpkin pie go to waste.

Whatever. We just shrugged our shoulders and forgot about it.

Until the next day. B had to work, but I had the day off, so when it was time for lunch I thought I'd feed my baby a nutritious lunch of pumpkin pie. I've always been interested in nutrition that way.

I sliced myself a piece of pie and added whipped cream to the top because, you know, the baby needs her dairy. And I took my first bite of that perfect looking pie.

And quickly spat it into the sink.

That beautiful looking pumpkin pie was the absolutely worst thing I had ever tasted! In my pregnant state I may have been just a tad forgetful because I had left the sugar out of the pie. It was like eating pumpkin straight out of the can. Absolutely awful.

My mind quickly went back to the day before as each member of B's family had quietly gotten up from eating their pie and taken it to the kitchen, returning with a piece of pecan pie. And how they didn't want to keep any of the leftovers. It all made sense now. They had been too polite to tell my that my pie tasted like hooey. They simply tossed it out and exchanged it for something a little better.

I immediately picked up the phone and called B at work to tell him what I had done. And then I called my in-laws to apologize and to ask them why they didn't tell me about it at Thanksgiving dinner. They just laughed and said they didn't want me to feel bad, but also added that there was no way they were going to keep any of that pie!

The sugarless pumpkin pie has gone down in family lore. We still, to this day, laugh about that awful pie. And I can't look at a piece of pumpkin pie without chuckling at my big mistake.

So, spill it. Have you ever had a holiday disaster? Or a pregnancy-induced disaster? I want to know.