American Tradition (Guest Blogger)

Baseball. America's Pastime. The Boys of Summer. All three names represent the greatest game ever played. There is something nearly spiritual about the dew covered diamond early in the morning, the smell of a leather glove, the crack of a wooden bat, the roar of the crowd, and the taste of a ball park hot dog. Nothing comes close to the unbelievable thrill and excitement of the opposing batter swinging, his bat desperately seeking to connect with the red laced, cork centered, leather bound projectile, only to miss completely, giving tremendous elation to the home team fans rising to their feet as the ball strikes the catcher's mitt with a smack. Yet, even greater than this is the joy and delight I see on the faces of my children as I look down the row of seats and watch as their eyes light up in the reflection of the night-game lights, while they eat Cracker Jacks and observe history repeating itself and being made all at the same time.

Baseball has a long tradition in the U.S., dating back to the 1850s. The game survived The Great Depression, both World Wars, The Black Sox Scandal, the Steroid Age, and the big strike in 1994 that caused the cancellation of the World Series. Young ball players all over the country have looked to baseball’s greats for inspiration. Players like Gil Hodges, Mickey Mantle, Babe Ruth, Jackie Robinson, Hank Aaron, Wade Boggs, Reggie Jackson. Some of my personal favorites are Nolan Ryan, Rickie Henderson, Ken Griffey Jr., Frank Thomas, Travis Fryman, Cecil Fielder, and Randy Johnson.

I remember my first major league game at Tiger’s Stadium and I still have the miniature wooden bat my dad bought as a souvenir for my brother and me. I recall countless times of sitting in front of the TV on a Saturday afternoon watching the game, or being on the road headed to either grandparents' house listening to Ernie Harwell on the radio. It was through these mediums that I directly or indirectly became involved in Little League Baseball.

Twenty-five or so years later, I am standing next to my wife and daughters on a spring day that could rival paradise, leaning on the fence in center field watching my son take part in his first Little League Baseball Opening Day Celebration. My eyes well up with tears as I see him enter the field in his new uniform among the 3 to 400 other players pounding their gloves eagerly awaiting the highly anticipated first pitch of the year. But before one ball is tossed, one bat is swung, or one strike is called, three things must happen. First, local representatives from the Veterans of Foreign Wars march proudly out to just behind the pitcher’s mound displaying our nation’s colors. Second, the local flag is tipped in salute to Old Glory as the riflemen stand with their weapons paralleling their bodies while the first note of the National Anthem blasts from a trumpet. Every player and fan stands focused on our flag with their hat or hand over their hearts paying tribute to our country. The third, and most compelling to me, is the recitation of the Little League Pledge. I don’t recall ever saying this pledge when I was young but to hear it being said by an entire league of ballplayers was worth all the effort on its own. The pledge goes like this;

I trust in God
I love my country
and will respect its laws
I will play fair
and strive to win
But win or lose
I will always do my best

As the ceremony comes to a close you can feel the excitement building as every young ball player waits to hear those magic words. Their palms are sweaty, their hearts pound, and their legs are restless. And like a horse out of the gate as the bell clangs at the start, the league commissioner yells, “Play Ball!” With ball caps flying through the air, the season officially kicks off.

I am proud of the baseball tradition my family and I have maintained through the years. For my son I hope that he remembers the seven seasons I coached high school baseball and the time he spent helping as the bat boy or tossing a ball with the players. I know that he’ll remember being fans of two home teams, our beloved Detroit Tigers and our local Washington Nationals. I hope he remembers his first major league park experience at Camden Yards and his first trip to Comerica Park to watch the Tigers at home. But most of all I hope he remembers the pledge; to trust in God, love his country, and always do his best. If that is not the greatest American tradition I don’t know what could be.

Journey to a Gold Mine (Liberia)

I have invited my husband to guest blog. He recently returned from his second trip to Liberia so he will undergo his second 21-day observation period for potential Ebola. He was not exposed. We are not afraid, but the view from his lens is poignant, lovely, and worth sharing. Here is his submission.


It was hot. I was wearing jeans, boots, and two t-shirts (one to catch the sweat before soaking through the outer shirt) thinking I would be comfortable in the air conditioned land cruiser that would take my team and me into the countryside of Liberia to retrieve generator parts from a local gold mine. I sat in the front seat with my knees nearly pressed to the dash leaning into the stream of semi-cold air narrowly escaping the vents. Despite my efforts, my outer shirt was soaked.

Throughout the journey my Liberian colleagues would explain the historical significance of each intersection, bridge, and village we passed. Many of the explanations revolved around the horrific events of a twenty year civil war. We approached an intersection and one of the Liberians said that this spot was very dangerous. There were people being shot in the intersection as they were trying to get to and from their homes. Other times he would describe the check points that were prior to bridges, roads, and the self-proclaimed border regions surrounding the city of Monrovia. You were lucky to get across a bridge or out of the city he explained. He spoke of the worst human atrocities one can imagine.

As we ventured further from the Monrovian border our progress would be slowed by large pot holes in the streets, goats crossing, pedestrians dangerously close to moving vehicles, and motor bikes darting from here and there with little respect for caution.

We came to the first of many police check points and moved through without issue. We were traveling in an American plated vehicle and Liberians love Americans. Some officers would salute while others would wave and smile. At the second checkpoint the guard lowered the tow strap to allow us to cross. Just as we began to pick up speed on the other side, another officer came running alongside the vehicle telling us to stop. I rolled down the window, said hello, and questioned the misunderstanding. The officer said even though we have American plates and are free to proceed, no one is allowed to continue without washing their hands! We all quickly complied by getting out of the car, walking to the bucket of bleach water, rinsing our hands, and having our temperatures taken. This is just one of the many ways Liberians are being proactive in the fight against Ebola.

At the last of the checkpoints I was returning to the vehicle and heard a group of children calling out what sounded like “wave at me!” I ignored the commotion at first thinking that it was a ruse to try and sell something from their roadside stand. When I asked for clarification from my Liberian colleagues they explained that the children were yelling White Man, White Man. I turned back around, gave a big wave and said “Hello Kids!” Beaming smiles of joy and excitement stretched across their faces.

To say that I was humbled by this experience would be severely understated. We passed village after village and hut after hut that appeared to be abandoned or unfinished, only to discover that people were inhabiting these types of places. There were children rolling tires and playing with soccer balls that looked like balls of yarn, clothes hanging from wire or string or laying on the ground to dry in the sun, men sleeping in hammocks made of old ratchet straps, and women cooking in open pits. Some houses were made of brick while others were made of mud, cinder block, thatch, or even plain palm branches. Most places had a central well pump for water and were without electricity. Although, there were a few villages with generators powering wires that were strung in the air on hand made poles or trees which couldn’t have provided power to more than one or two lights in a few of the homes.

In the distance ahead I could see a group of people gathered near the roadside. This was not anything unusual but I did notice a collection of buckets and tubs lining each side of the street. As we came closer I could see women leaning over the buckets washing their laundry using the water from a roadside stream. Many of the women were topless because of the need to wash the shirts they were wearing. To protect their dignity and maintain some sort of decency, when the vehicles were close enough some women would cross one arm in front of their breasts to keep from exposing them to the passersby. Others, however, stood with no shame as they continued with the task at hand. We continued on passing palm trees with coconuts, pineapple bushes, and rubber trees all while being tossed side to side traversing the local dirt road.

The ride home was different. I saw the huts and villages with new eyes. I tried to put myself in their homes, among their people, wearing their clothes, drinking the water from the well, and having virtually nothing. It was difficult to imagine. Then to add the torture of a twenty year civil war, being forced from my homeland, and now struggling with the overwhelming devastation of Ebola, it seems beyond any one man or woman’s capability. Yet the people of Liberia live on.

Breathing out

When we used to ride the metro in Moscow, it was crowded. I mean where your face is in someone's coat and your arms are glued to your sides except for the occasional jolt which requires that you stabilize yourself and inadvertently touch someone's backside. Sometimes it smells...so you hold your breath. That's what it feels like to live in a three bedroom apartment with a homeschooling family of six.

We've finally made the transition into our temporary housing. It's like a fairy-tale. There are six bedrooms, foosball in the library, a parlor with a baby grand piano, a theater room with surround sound, a basement, a schoolroom, two dishwashers, two sinks, a double oven,and a ping-pong table in the dining room. All of our earthly belongings (in boxes) fit inside one room downstairs. Humbling. And freeing.

I am convinced we can go through the boxes over the next four months and get rid of even more stuff. I mean, seriously, who ever looks back at old Bible Studies? And even though we scanned several thousand photographs (from the old days of film and negatives) why am I saving the pics? Am I seriously going to put them in albums? No. Nope.

In the past few years, we have had professional movers. I sat in a chair with a cup of coffee and pointed. That was the extent of my involvement. Granted I sorted and organized before they arrived, but mostly, they did the work. I did the feeling, like taking pictures and crying out goodbyes.

This time, my moving crew consisted of four people; my husband, Number 1, Number 2, and myself. For twelve hours we loaded two-wheeled dollies into the elevator on the fourth floor and loaded up the rented U-haul. It hurt a little more, in places like my wallet and my back. Did I mention it rained all day and that three other movers were monopolizing the elevator at the same time? True story.




We parked the U-haul at the new place and headed to a hotel for the weekend. The family who actually lives in the house wasn't leaving until Monday, but we had to be out of our apartment so there was space in-between. I imagined that once at the hotel we would swim, play games, and frolic about. It was more like beers on the couch and falling asleep in-between sentences. We were exhausted.



Now we are in the house. My kids haven't asked to play electronics all week. They've been up and down the stairs, enjoying the freedom of all the open space, and outside playing with new friends. My immediate place of comfort, the kitchen, was quickly organized and scented with warm chocolate chip cookies. It's the moment of breathing out. I know we will be somewhere smaller when this is over, but for now, our winter resort is looking pretty good.

Arriving in Suburbia

It's nearly Christmas. We've been back in the US for a year. We've passed another round of birthdays and made new friends. But big things are still happening.

Number 1 got braces. After years of recommendations and months of consults, we paid the fees, got the x-rays, and took the jump. For my almost 13 year-old it means monthly visits, no more popcorn, and a common bond among middle-schoolers.

Number 2 is turning 12 on Christmas. Our small-ish apartment is in boxes so having several of his robust buddies over to celebrate isn't really appealing. Which leads me to another first; Laser Tag birthday party. I don't throw my kids parties. It's just a thing. That's something "other" moms do. With one kid born near Thanksgiving, one on Christmas, and one after the New Year, the timing never seemed appropriate. But, for goodness sake, he's 12...in America. Laser Tag it is. Pizza, soda, games, the works. I just show up and pay.

Number 3 is the first kid in our family to be involved with the Christmas Eve Service at church. The whole month of December has been filled with rehearsals, costume preparation, and reminder emails. She is an innkeeper. She sweeps, shakes her head at the Holy Family, then points and directs them to another inn. My total commitment; 10 hours. Total payout; 2 minutes on stage and the knowledge that for just a moment, she was doing something really special all by herself.

Number 4 has been frolicking in tutus her whole life. In a flurry of events, she is finally in a proper ballet class. Each week she tip-toes away to class while I sit in the waiting room with other moms. It's all new for me.

When we move in a couple of weeks, we will live in a neighborhood, a distance away from the fourth floor of an apartment complex with a parking garage. We will utilize the backyard, the sidewalks, and the super-close commute to church and activities. For years when I was overseas, my state-side friends would groan about their duties as chauffeurs. I'm not doing too much of that, but I'm starting to realize why life in America is good. We can do anything.

Or equally...not do anything, which is sometimes good for me as well.

Moving in the Right Direction

We are on the move again. In April we will celebrate our 14th wedding anniversary. We will also move for the 8th time. As Granny puts it, "At least you won't become hoarders!" I know some of you may be asking, "Why do they do this to themselves?" Allow me to explain.

As parents, we are constantly analyzing whether we are the reason for future therapy for our kids. We wonder if we're wrecking them or if we are ever doing enough to help them succeed. Every time I sell a bed, discard an old toy, or repaint a wall back to builder beige, I wonder if I am causing my kids irreparable damage. I think not. Through our nomad lifestyle, our kids are always allowed to save their own special belongings, but they truly aren't that attached to their stuff.

We've tried to impress upon our family that household goods are just things. Memories with loved ones, vacations to exotic places, and enriching experiences can't be wrapped in paper and saved in a box anyway. The truth is, nothing REALLY belongs to us anyway --- except underwear. Underwear is definitely yours.

I've asked myself many times what lies in the future for our gypsy family. I've asked my kids about their future goals. Their top answers; mission work, the Marines, a flight attendant, a teacher, and any number of other professions that aren't limited by a specific location. Was this all part of the plan? Are these moves about my ambitions, career goals, or desires...or is it something bigger?

So why do we keep moving?

The honest answer? The truest thing I can tell you...God only knows. No, really, I'm sure he does. When I'm looking back at my life, I'm confident I'll have a better answer, but for now, I just wait patiently for the itinerary. When he lets me in on the next location, I'll be sure to let you know.

The Rebound

Last year at this time, my husband and I were planning the biggest Thanksgiving we would ever host. It wasn't for extended family. It was for 50 Russian orphans and their caretakers. They are not babies, like you would think, or even toddlers. They are funny, excitable, sometimes brooding teenagers. We had built a relationship with them during our time in Moscow and they had hosted us many times at their home and school. They had served us Borscht and Shashlik and proudly showed off their artwork and handcrafts. It was our turn to show them some American fun. We played games, laughed, and ate pumpkin pie. We joined with so many dear friends who donated food, energy, and time to create a memorable day.





During that time, my house was in boxes as we prepared to leave Moscow.

Now here I am, nearly a year later, in Washington DC. It doesn't always feel like home. Some days I walk outside my door and face all the exercise-clothes clad twenty-somethings or ride the bus with the military somebodies headed to the Pentagon. It doesn't feel like mine. It doesn't feel like I fit in.

But the real tell, that time when I know I'm exactly where I should be, is when I am able to serve others. Last weekend I went with my 12 year old daughter to feed the homeless. This wasn't like a soup kitchen where I stand across the counter with a ladle and they shuffle through the line. We drove my mini-van downtown at 5 AM to bring sack lunches and coffee to the needy. Our guide knew most of them by name. We stopped under bridges, near park benches, all along the National Mall, and near bus-stops. We found lots of people sleeping on the grates. Sometimes we found them under construction tarps or wrapped in garbage bags to keep out the biting wind. They almost always had a warm word of thanks after reaching out their humble hands.

Of course my heart was filled with pride as my daughter served. This has always been her scene. The picture below is on her 8th birthday when she served from a food truck in 20-degree weather. She didn't want a cake or a party, just to serve others.




My kids are always inspiring me to serve others. Sometimes I don't know where to look. This time, it was behind the steering wheel of my van where I saw my town, up close and personal. The nitty-gritty. The unlovely.

In different seasons of my life, I've been the needy. I haven't had much to offer anybody during times of challenge or pain. I'm thankful for these chances to reach out. I'm thankful there is a little bit extra to go around. I'm thankful for the rebound.

My Major League Summer

I love baseball. I loved it when my grandma would send us Detroit Tiger's t-shirts from Michigan when I was growing up in California. I loved it when my brother had posters of Californian teams on his walls and my dad would tell us stories about playing as a kid and being called Little Willie Mays. I started loving it more when I would stroll past my teenage boyfriend's practice just to sit and watch him a bit. Seventeen years later and hundreds of games later, I will watch baseball with that guy anywhere.

When we were in Russia, baseball was pretty hard to come by. Every March we would all feel a lonesome sadness for what should be the beginning of the greatest American pastime. In 2012 when our beloved Tigers were in the World Series we couldn't seem to get the games to stream right. We missed most of it.

But we're back. We aggressively set out to make up for lost time. In April, my sweetheart whisked me off to Seattle for a long weekend and surprised me with tickets to the season opener at Safeco Field to watch the Mariners. It was raining. I loved every minute.



In May, we took our whole family to Camden Yards in Baltimore for an Orioles game. Actually, the Tigers were playing so we went to watch them. It was amazing. Our kids have sun-bathed in the Mediterranean and seen the Eiffel Tower, but the awe on their sweet faces when they entered the park was ten times more exciting.



For the June, July, and August, we supported our hometown team, the Washington Nationals. We went with friends, the kids, and sometimes alone. My husband would call me from work and say, "Hey, $5 tickets tomorrow. Wanna go?" I answered the affirmative every time. We learned pretty quickly that if you sit on the first baseline, MUST WEAR SUNSCREEN. No matter the weather or the score, the kids never wanted to leave.





We had planned a vacation up to Michigan in September, but we wanted to add a couple of days on the front end for some extra fun. Fun equals baseball. We stopped in Cleveland for an Indians game. Our seats were only nine rows behind the dug-out and we could hear the crack of the bats and the leather smack in the gloves.



And then a long awaited stop at Comerica to see our wonderful Tigers. It rained so there was a delay, but it was just as perfect as ever. I even sprung for Cracker Jack so the kids would have the real, American baseball experience.



But there was on last stop to be made in September. To end the season, we hopped on a plane for a well-timed business trip and caught a San Francisco Giants game. With boats in the bay and palm trees in the courtyard, AT&T is a pretty beautiful park. My favorite part was finding a little gated area behind center field where anyone can watch three innings for free.



I don't know if I'll ever have a summer like this again and it was good. It was good because it was spent with family and because it truly is the greatest game ever. Sure the Tigers didn't make it to the World Series, but there's always next year...