How to Raise Genius Children the Patented Sanders Way

OK, it has been observed my many people that I have 4 of the smartest children on the planet. By many, I mean by my mother and by my children themselves. But I'm sure many of you out there who are blessed enough to know my kids would wholeheartedly agree (except, of course, for the fact that YOU probably think you have the smartest children in the world. Well, you are wrong.)

I know you must be wondering by now...Carla, what IS your secret? Just how did your offspring attain such dizzying heights of intellectual magnificence?

It's a secret for a reason. Do you think I want your litter of humans out there in the big world competing for jobs with mine??

I will, however, let you have just a GLIMPSE; a peripheral glance into the vast system that is--

THE SANDERS SYSTEM for RAISING
 INTELLECTUAL GENIUSES

1. Marry a smart guy

I had little hope of passing on much brain cell power unless I could reproduce with someone of superior fire-power, brain-wise. My husband passed a rigorous test before being chosen as my mate. SAT and ACT scores, GRE scores, all-night Scrabble tournaments and Dr. Who knowledge all factored in.

2. Read to them a lot--major on Dr. Seuss


I like to  read to them in a chair. I do not read them with a bear. Not with a rat, not with a mouse. I only read to them in a house. I like to read them here and there; I read out loud to them everywhere. Bear, rat, mouse, chair; books in our house are EVERYWHERE!!








3. Live in a neighborhood that sparks conversation

Ask any of my children about the benefits of low-cost housing in a major city, and they will respond by assailing you with stories of stolen wagons, house break-ins,  stolen cars, drunks in the driveway, drug dealers in the alley, bike jackings, citizens arrests of garage break-ins, zombie Satanist killers trying to come in the house on an early Sunday morning, gun shot holes in the window sill, muggings, and really interesting SWAT team activity in the neighboring homes.

"So...how was your day?"
"Ah, the usual. Had to call the cops again."
 "Cool. I got an A in math today."

See how that works?

3. Keep them isolated from "cool" people by dressing them in hand-me-downs and thrift store clothes

Who needs the pressure of cheerleader politics and jock culture put-downs? Stick with the proven gangs--chess club, math competitions, crossing guard duty, AV club--anywhere that Payless shoes are accepted attire. Sweatpants fit the bill. As well as haircuts done at 9 PM on a school night by mom in the kitchen.






4. Give them absolutely no privacy

All four of my children shared a bedroom until my youngest was 3 years old. One bunk bed for the boys, a roll-out mattress on the floor for the girls. Rolled up during the day and put in the closet so there was room for play. They spent nights chatting about math theory, theology and the merits of various Pokemon (Pikachu rules, am I right??).




5. Feed them the highest quality Guv'mnt food

The day my oldest son realized I'd been feeding him reconstituted dry milk with his meals all along was a sad and difficult day. I had to swear him to secrecy--"you must NOT reveal this to the other kids, or no more processed cheese for you!" I always hid the 'adult' milk (i.e. 'real') in the back of the refrigerator and didn't let them see me pour it for myself.

The dry egg mix was a real challenge--I usually tried to hide it in another form of food (not always successfully). The canned beef stew may have possibly ended up (I will not confirm this) in the cat's bowl on occasion. The peanut butter, on the other hand, was always consumed wholeheartedly, and contributed to everyone's brain development.

6. Send them to high-quality public schools

I did have a slight concern about a teacher showing "Jurassic Park" in science class, and really did wonder about why kids were feeling compelled to throw chairs at each other in another classroom. But for the most part I found that public education in the inner city held a unique advantage...if you actually got involved as a parent at the school, they would bend over backwards to try to accommodate you. It's especially important to get the crabby school secretary on your side. (I actually brought flowers to one of them. I know; suck-up. It was worth every penny that year.) The school also inadvertently taught my kids survival skills--first duck, then run. Only fight back if absolutely necessary, and PROTECT THOSE GLASSES! However, your place in the lunch-line is God-given. Don't back down on that.



Now, I have other theories about brain development, like how they ate the same homemade pizza every Friday night for years and years, and how they never got many vegetable variations because of my husband's irrational fear of green peppers. But I'll save them for my upcoming cookbook, "Cooking for Brain-Power on the US Government's Dime" (the sequel to my popular "Beans Comin' Out'cha Ears" cookbook published last year).

What I Wish. Do You Wish?

I'm currently very cranky. So here's my cranky thought.

I wish I could just have a meeting once a month at my house.

Just for friends that wanted to do what I'd like to do, but don't like doing by myself.

Let's see.

A reading group. I used to have a really great one back in Minneapolis with friends who knew how to get into a book and talk it through with intelligence and wit.

A singing group. For people who really miss reading music off a PAGE rather than the overhead screen at church. For people who love harmony, printed notes, and some good early music polyphony.

A group of friends who could sit around and watch a really bad movie and make fun of it. Or just watch an installment of Mystery Science Theater 3000 together and laugh at it. I used to watch the Miss America pageant every year with some friends back in high school, and rag on all the talent and swimsuit competitions. Great times.

A hiking group. Gather at my place, drive to a not-too-far away place, and hike for a couple hours. Then sit around and drink coffee and soak sore feet at my house afterwards.

A lawn-care group. Everyone can come to my house and mow, trim, weed-whack, and edge while I sit and watch them. (I guess I could hire this out...)

A word-game group. Only word games allowed--no card games, adventure games, games involving any bidding, role-playing, etc. Just word games like Scrabble, Catch Phrase, Guesstures, Charades, etc. And I get to make up words.

A gripe-group. We could sit around and gripe for an hour about life in general, then break out cheesecake, because that makes everything better.

What's your wish?

The Theology of Poop Scooping

Meditation is hot right now. "Mindfulness" is the buzzword of the era, with books and videos encouraging us to "live in the moment--appreciate the NOW." You can be of almost any religious persuasion and practice meditation--it only takes silence and some solitude (except in yoga classes!).

Classic Christianity has long encouraged meditation as a spiritual discipline.

I, unfortunately, have been the kind of Christian who tends to have long stretches of non-discipline interspersed with spasms of self-righteousness (that are very annoying to anyone within arm's reach). I have tried all sorts of Bible reading plans, prayer charts and lists, and "quiet time" strategies. To be honest, the majority of my life has been spent THINKING about doing these sorts of things, and then feeling guilty that I wasn't having much success.

I've realized lately that one reason I'm glad I'm getting old is that I can look back and see how pathetic most of my attempts at "spirituality" have been. Hindsight is a liberating thing. It has taken me this long to grasp that I will never be a spiritual giant; I will never lead an amazing ministry or create a social movement--I'm beyond that point already. As my husband and I joke--it's too late to be famous, and the only other alternative is to be infamous. Which we really don't want.

Which brings me to poop-scooping.

My part-time job as a "farmer" at an educational farm here nearby Washington, D.C. is really the culmination of all my dreams, believe it or not. After years of trying to decide what I want to be, this is where I ended up. Visitors to the farm often will say, "You must really love your job!" and "This must the be best job ever!" I think they are referring to the cuddling bunnies part of the position.

However, if I had to tell you which part of this career is the most valuable to me, it would be...

yes--the poop-scooping.


Every day...day in, day out....season after season...animals continue to defecate all over the place instead of using the porta-johns and bathrooms we would gladly provide them. No matter how many times we lecture them on the benefits of personal hygiene, they insist on urinating in the middle of their living quarters and plopping in the center of their bedrooms.

So--we scoop. Daily, weekly, monthly, yearly, we scoop that poop into wheelbarrows and small dump trucks and remove tons of excrement to be turned back into soil. The never-ending march of "s**t" (pardon my French, but that's what it is!) probably is the single-biggest consumer of our valuable time.

So how, you ask, does poop-scooping enrich not only the soil, but your spiritual condition?

Not to change the subject--

But I just finished reading a book called "Transforming Our Days: Finding God Amid the Noise of Modern Life." The author (Richard Gaillardetz) tries to encourage the reader to evaluate how modern technology effects how we experience the grace of God in our lives:

By devaluing the more mundane spheres of human life, transforming human goods into mere commodities, relieving us of all 'burdens,' and assisting us in the mastery of time itself, technology makes it increasingly difficult to be open to the grace and blessings that come to us in our basic human activities.

He makes many fascinating points about the nature of a Trinitarian God and the human need for communion, etc. But the one thing that struck me as a 'poop-scooper' was his encounter with his newborn twin sons in the middle of the night:

In the first few months we were up repeatedly in the night to feed the babies and change their diapers. I recall awakening in the middle of one particular night and being grasped by a profound awareness that has been always something difficult to describe. I realized that right then, changing my son's diaper, I was doing exactly what I was supposed to be doing; I was engaged in an action as vital and fundamental as any I would have in my life. It was a mundane action (a tad unpleasant), part of the daily routine that generally went without significant discussion in our lives. But that basic action of care for our child engaged me in one of life's most vital relationships, a parent nurturing a child. That encounter with my son was a moment of communion and surely a graced moment. 

I had wondered why my poop-scooping mornings had seemed so serene and calming. It finally washed over me...I was performing a task that at its heart was a loving service and a conduit of God's grace to me. I am quietly, rhythmically,  methodically moving the piles from one place to another while thinking...

• I am so thankful for these creatures that God has created to bless our lives...
• I am so grateful for the fact their digestive systems appear to be working well, and they aren't sick...
• I am grateful I can make this area more pleasing to look at (and smell!) for our visitors... 
• I am grateful for a body that works well enough to handle a manure fork and rake; I can walk, I can lift, I can see...
• I am thankful for the song of the birds, the caress of the wind, the murmur of the trees, the rhythm of the raindrops on my hat...
• I'm so blessed to have a husband and family who let me take this low-paying but highly emotionally rewarding job...
• I'm really glad that no one is standing over my shoulder and telling me "you missed a spot..."
• I'm grateful for the fact no one is listening to me talk to myself (except for the animals, who promise never to pass on secrets...)
• I am thankful for my co-workers who are always willing to take over when my old body parts refuse to go on.

And I serve.

I clean up after the horses (whose noble predecessors have given their lives in thousands of wars they had no part in starting)...

I clean up after the cattle (whose relatives die by the thousands every day to give us Big Macs and Sunday roast dinners)...

I clean up after the donkey (whose meek ancestor carried my Lord into Jerusalem)...



So, yes...I do meditate.

Ozzie and Harriet in the 'Hood: Some of my best friends are...

I've never been any good at discomfort. Suffering for Jesus always sounds good in a sermon, but being a good red-blood-celled American, I believe somehow that being part of the Christian World  makes me a special commodity that should warrant a good job (because I work hard!), security (because I'm careful!) and lots of friends (because I'm so doggone nice!).

Not my church.

And I certainly don't take to social discomfort. That's why I avoid any event that entails more than 2 forks at the dinner table. I have no idea how to correctly critique a piece of modern art while holding a martini.


And please don't ask me to go clubbing...my idea of dancing is limited to "Put your right foot in..." while in roller skates.

Even going to a different church can be a pressure cooker for me--I know, we are all "the body of Christ," and "we are one in the Spirit" and "blessed be the tie that binds," etc. But face it...a church is also a social institution, and holds a microcosm of a world that doesn't always welcome outsiders. It mostly is inadvertent, I know (coming from a proud line of Baptists who knew how to "welcome our visitors today with a handshake!"). But we just can't help it--when we become a group, we see our little circle as the way things should be done; and we do an awful lot of talking to ourselves, if you know what I mean.

North Minneapolis is a host to a number of churches; many of which are historically African American. The Black church has a proud history of involvement in not only spiritual matters, but in political and neighborhood activism. We, as Euro-Americans, could appreciate that history, and enjoyed talking with our black friends about their church experiences.

So, after coming back to Minneapolis from our Dallas Seminary time (and after being members of a black church for a couple years), we wanted to visit a few of the larger churches in our area to get a sense of what was happening in our neighborhood. On Father's Day Sunday, we dressed ourselves up and headed for one of the largest and most historical congregations in the city to sample a service. My husband, ever the calm and unruffled person, didn't mind being the only "white dad" among probably 600 people. A few stares, but the ushers seated us politely toward the back (we were late, of course...something about having little kids?).

The preacher was a highly-known personage in not only church circles, but local political ones, as well. His oratory style was classic and bombastic...he launched right into his Father's Day exhortation.

"Black man...why are you SO STRONG??"

"The Man?"

The sermon was an hour-long admonishment to black men and fathers about their importance to their community and children despite challenges...especially from The Man. The code word. I looked over at my "Man," and he seemed ok with this. Rolling with the punches. It was rousing, to be sure, but I wasn't quite sure of how I should feel or respond. I glanced nervously around me...no one seemed to notice that I was fidgety.



At the end of the preaching, it was time for the altar call. And this call was..."All you fathers out there...I want you to come forward for a prayer of dedication and challenge."

So--up front "The Man" marched.

After the prayer, the pastor went down the line, shaking each father's hand and greeting them...my husband stood obediently waiting for his turn.  The dignified minister walked up to him, took his hand, pulled him in close enough to say quietly and apologetically in his ear...

"I didn't mean you."

We have laughed over this story for years--it has passed into our Family Mythos, as it were. Shades of "some of my best friends are black!" and "I had a black nanny as a child--she was like part of the family!"  The role reversal was priceless. And we have mused--how did the pastor KNOW it wasn't him? Maybe he was "The Man?" Maybe he was a slum landlord! How did he know?

It brought home the insidious ease with which we can judge individuals by the behavior or appearance of a group they supposedly belong to. When we make broad statements about the "other" at work or online, could it be that standing there near us (or online with us) we have a friend that we have hurt? Do we need to be telling them all the time "I wasn't talking about YOU...you understand, right?"

And I'm not talking about just being "politically correct." I'm talking about being Christian in our attitudes about people we really don't know. Political correctness is just a smoke screen for covering our real feelings about "the Other." Loving the stranger and "the Other" cuts both ways--or all ways (racial, social, educational, man, woman, Jews, Greeks, slaves, free, etc., etc.).  If we, as Christians, can't honestly challenge each other in this area, I don't know where else to go. We've got to get past the "handshake in the vestibule" and get downright open about connecting with each other.

This entails a lot of discomfort. Oh, bother. I hate discomfort.

But--I profess to loving God. Admittedly, not always enough to go out of my way to try to understand "the Other." I sure like myself and my ways a whole lot. I do find that I at times deeply believe that I am the pinnacle of Creation, and that everything and everyone would be OK if they just did what I told them they should do.

And then the Good Lord throws stuff in my path (wrenches, people, rejection), and suddenly I am reminded that I am one of 7 billion (or so)  humans running around this world, and I have no higher standing than any of them in the eyes of my Creator. Humbling. Did I mention I hate being humbled? Almost as much as I hate discomfort.

Be not angry that you cannot make others as you wish them to be, since you cannot make yourself as you wish to be. (Thomas a Kempis)

Ozzie and Harriet in the 'Hood: The continued adventures...

Phew. I certainly did manage to time my blog posts on race relations well, didn't I. Whenever a big story like the Trayvon Martin case comes along, I find myself in a very awkward position between two very important parts of my life...my self-professed and very evident Caucasion-ness, and my long-nurtured and treasured friendships with people of other melanin persuasions. I cannot, in good conscience, come out on the public pages of Facebook and some such like and offer my wisdom  and opinions about the details of the case and the outcome of the trial. It's not that I don't have opinions...I do have some that change every day, depending on how mad I am at somebody else's post.

I can see right now is a great time to tell a racially insensitive joke.
How many washcloths does it take for a white person to take a shower?
NONE--white people don't use washcloths. (OK, most of my white friends won't get that one. I didn't used to. Plus, I made it up, which means it's pretty lame You know me and jokes.)

 Better yet, here's a picture of a cute kitten.

OK, y'all chill now?

Human beings seem to divide over every and all  aspects of life. Our tribal loyalties extend all the way from race and national pride down to whether we like Captain Picard or Captain Kirk best (pfftt...it's Picard all the way, you morons...now, you see? You're mad at me! See how easy that was?). The dislike of the "Other" is so basic to humanity that we can't even see ourselves and our biases clearly. Yes, we are ALL Racists. We are also all Nationalists,  Sexists, Ageists, food-snobs and insensitive to people who like to wear socks with sandals. Maybe it's because we're human. And maybe it doesn't help that all we ever do is hang around people who agree with us on everything from politics to religion to Redskins loyalties.  How much do we ever get to experience being "The Other?" And how does that change our outlook on life?

As I continue (after this long introduction) telling the story of the "Sanders in the 'Hood," I want to stress this understanding of "Other-ness." It is very uncomfortable. And very necessary to the development of our humanity and seeing the Imago Dei in us all. .

After getting my husband's first master's degree done in Minneapolis, we made the big trek to the Big D--Dallas, Texas, so he could work on a PhD in Theology.(That's a 10-dollar word for the "study of God," which is kind of a large subject.) We moved into a 2-room apartment across the street from the school, which was just outside the downtown area. While taking a class in Urban Ministries from an African-American professor, we were encouraged by him to attend his church in South Dallas. Bibleway Bible Church was a mid-sized older church that was predominantly (and by that I mean, until we got there, entirely) Black. I think these folk were used to the stray seminary student wandering in and out now and then, since they never expressed any surprise about us showing up.

It was my first experience in being entirely "the Other" in church. The music had some vague similarities to my Baptist upbringing--they had a hymn book, too.

 But the likenesses stopped there. Never had I heard an organ played like that! No little old lady quietly wheezing away on a pipe organ in the corner...it was ROCK OUT, man! Truly amazing and extremely addicting. I still get all choked up when I hear certain "walking bass" lines in gospel music recordings. The choir sang every Sunday, and we got to sing along...from the audience! Never did that before. And my goodness...interrupting the sermon? With "Amens" and "preach it's" and "That's right!"s. Unheard of. (Well, maybe an occasional "amen" would have been acceptable back home. But there are limits..."Amen" is a Bible word. I'm not totally sure about "Preach it.")

My seminary student husband was included with the other young men-in-training up on the platform behind the pulpit. They were all seated behind the pastor, ready to leap up at a timely moment to offer a pat on the back, an encouraging "You got that right!" or whatever else they could come up with. My hubby looked so cute up there...glowing blond and Nordic in that sea of brown-ness.

One Sunday, the pastor was waxing eloquent on some Bible passage or other. He shouted, "You can talk and talk and talk about this to some people...you can talk until you're white in the face!"

A momentary silence. Then, turning slowly toward my husband, sitting behind him and to his right, he said, pointedly,   "Or...until you're red!"

And oh, my, was he ever.

We all had a good laugh at his expense. That "Other-ness" just liked to stick its nose out like that every so often when we least expected it.  Most of the time it was amusing. Sometimes not so much. But every time it happened, I was reminded of how much we as humans prefer our comfort to our discomfort, and to what lengths we will go to avoid being different from those around us. I even considered getting myself one of those really huge, colorful "church lady hats" just to fit in. But I never did.

We joined the church and became involved in the children's ministry. My husband was offered the chance to preach one of his first real church sermons (that one took a lot of "uh, huh...take your time...that's right!"s  from the audience). It turned out to be a sweet, sweet time for us; we found out we were expecting our first child, and the church folk threw me a surprise baby shower. I'll never forget the first time I felt my baby move...during one of the organ's more raucous offertories, baby kicked up a storm! (He didn't manage to keep this sense of rhythm, by the way...just ask him...he's been blessed with my Swedish immovability). We walked through some deep waters in our congregational life, too...hard times came with the territory, when sin tripped us all up here and there. Through those struggles we saw Biblical leadership displayed, and learned from it.

Our Dallas stay only lasted about 3 1/2 years, but it changed us fundamentally. Never again could we hear "Lift Every Voice and Sing" without getting chills; never again would we wear shorts in cold weather without laughing at our whiteness. And never would we see news articles about racial tragedies without feeling bone-deep sadness. We will never truly understand, and we are aware of that weakness. We are "the Other."

But thank the Lord, the "Other-ness" is transended by the "Together-ness" of the Kingdom of God. And someday that togetherness will be a blessed reality. I long for the day I can sing in the Gospel Choir of Heaven with my black brothers and sisters, and really figure out how to sway in time with everyone else.  (Let's get us some "Total Praise" up in here...we're having church now!)

Oh...and in Heaven, I wanna rock the organ.

Ozzie and Harriet in the 'Hood: Adventures in Racial Reconciliation (Part One)

Lately I've been thinking that I'd like to get a little more serious in my blog--perhaps in preparation for my memoirs. Because we all know there aren't enough life stories out there...or enough books lining your shelves (ok, maybe not YOUR shelves...ours are already jam-packed, and you are welcome to come a take a few away! Just don't tell my husband.)

Living near Washington D.C. for the past 10 years has been a fun experience (even though we have yet EVEN ONCE to meet any really famous people! They never come to our side of town. Except for the one time I met a local official...who is now in prison for fraud...oh, well...). Prince George's County is one of the most affluent majority African-American majority counties in the country. It's been a great opportunity for my pasty-white family to be in the minority in our everyday lives.

Although to the surprise of many of our black friends, this is NOT a new scene for us. For the majority of our 32 years of marriage, my husband and I have been kinda floundering around in urban neighborhoods, partly out of financial pressures, and partly out of Christian ministry interests. I'm never sure how pure our motives have always been...sometimes I think we just wanted cheap rent and nobody bothering us about how long our front yard grass has grown. Other times I'm overwhelmed with how much God has taught us through our cross-cultural contacts. Getting black and white Christians to relate on a deeper and more Biblical level has become really crucial to us.

Easier said than done, especially when you are as as white as we are. We are really white. I mean never-tan-only burn-white. Blonde and blue-eyed-white. Wearing shorts in December-white. Grew up on Barry Manilow-white.

I've been cogitating over using these next few posts to share a few of these experiences. Perhaps they will be enlightening; or, more likely, you will just go "huh..." and wonder where it is all leading. I will leave that up to you. Sometimes they are humorous, sometimes sad, sometimes just sheer lunacy. It's all good.

My husband and I were pretty young and guileless when we got married. I hailed from a small mid-western town in Wisconsin, and he was from a middle-class suburb of Detroit. We knew next to nothing about urban living and racial strife--growing up in the '60s and '70s with "I'd Like to Teach the World To Sing" Coke commercials did not prepare us for the realities of big-city turmoil and civil rights protests. Caucasian life was the standard; the biggest cross-cultural experiences usually entailed going to Taco Bell and watching "Good Times." ("dy-no-mite!!")

I actually did have an African-American friend once in grade school. Our town had a small branch of the University of Wisconsin (it was nicknamed "Moo U" for its agricultural programs), and I think this family probably had moved there as a result...I wish I knew more, because they disappeared after that one year (I'm sure there's a back story!).

All I remember is that this new girl showed up during my fourth or fifth grade year--and we instantly bonded because...we were both persecuted minorities. Yes, that's right--we were both overly tall for our ages.

 I don't remember much else about her, or whether her race was a factor in anything at all. But she became, for me, the symbol of what my future held.

My husband started his first year of post-college life going to a seminary in North Minneapolis. Now, for those of you who believe that the whole state of Minnesota is populated by cows and Norwegians, I have some surprising news for you.

 Pssst....there are people of COLOR living there! Quite a few, in fact! The "Northside" has a reputation as being a rough place--crime, bad schools, poor housing stock. Unfortunately, poverty is a big issue. The church that housed the seminary had been on the verge of deciding to move out to the suburbs for many years (they finally accomplished this goal after we were done with school). They had never quite figured out how to relate to the citizens that had moved in next door over the lifetime of the church.

Going to school and working part-time necessitated cheap living, so my husband-to-be shared an old home with several other students near the church. His introduction to city life included finding drunks passed out on his front lawn on Sunday mornings.

Newlywed in her new crib

 When we got married that next year, we found a small apartment in an old home nearby. I began helping my new mate pick up local children on a school bus every Sunday morning for Sunday School. Gosh, they were cute. And a little wild. We taught a bunch of them in Junior Church every week. My heart went out to these little ones, so many from broken homes and poverty. Our weekly visits to their houses opened me up to the hardships, but also a certain level of richness and "different-ness" that I had never been exposed to before. I found I had a lot to learn.

Our neighbors next door were our real introduction to "race relations" in the end. Erlene and her kids were living with Roy, her boyfriend and thorn in the flesh. We started reaching out to her, invited her to church with us, and saw a little growth in her life and our relationship. This lovely black woman put up with our bumbling white ways, and things seemed to be strolling right along...until...

Thumpity...thumpity...thumpity...BAM! BAM! One day our whole apartment rattled with footsteps racing up the stairs and the pounding of a frantic fist on our door. I opened it to find Erlene, blood streaming down her face, screaming "He cut me! He CUT ME! Call the police!" Great God almighty...my heart pounding, I dialed 911 while trying to mop up the blood with towels. She had been sliced pretty good on top of her head--those head wounds can really bleed. I rode with her in the ambulance to the emergency room to get stitches. Fuming at Roy the whole way, Erlene promised to "get that %*$(# back!" And she did, in her own way. With Roy sitting in jail for a few days, she ripped up all his clothes, broke his stuff, and moved with her kids back to Chicago.

Ah, but that was not the end. Her older son, William, could not be found when Erlene was packing up to move. So she asked us to please give him the money she left for him "for a bus to Chicago. Just tell him to meet us there at his auntie's." William showed up at our door shortly thereafter, wondering where everyone had gone?? We handed him the money with the instructions for the bus, and he was on his way.

That weekend, my mother had decided to stop in for an overnight visit. We had a very small place, but she was fine sleeping on our old couch, she said. We were all tucked in for the night...

"Knock...knock..." I struggled awake and realized someone was at the door. My husband opened it to find a very bedraggled William standing there. "Man, Roy got hold of me, and stole my money! I've been layin' in the gutter, cryin' to God that someone would help me...could you give me a place to sleep and a bus ticket home?" OK, we knew that Roy was still in jail. So this was a blatant lie. But, what can you do?

My mom was of course wide awake and wondering who this crazy person was. I asked her to come in our bedroom and just sleep in there "because William needs a couch to crash on." What's my husband going to do? He decided to just bed down on the floor in the living room. Which worked for a little while...

"Honey...honey..." there's a whisper in my ear a couple hours later. "I'm really having trouble sleeping out there...could you just move over?" I groggily pushed my mom closer to the wall, and let my better half slide in next to me. "Did you ever think you'd be sharing a bed with your wife and mother-in-law?" I think he was too tired to even laugh. (wow...I think we only had a double bed at the time...young and skinny...)

In the morning, hubby explained to William that no, we don't have more bus fare for him. There's a day-job place down the street--if he takes some work there for a day or two, he'll earn enough to get a ticket. He's welcome to stay at our house in the meantime.

Yeah...that worked well. We were both at work a few days later (we hadn't seen William, and assumed he'd made it to Chicago) when we got a call from the local police. A neighbor had called them to say he saw our apartment getting broken into. And he had ID'd one of the guys. Sure enough--Roy was out of jail, and when he saw William and a friend getting into our place, he'd been more than happy to call the cops on them.  (Sweet revenge!) Being that we were poor newlyweds, all they got was our stereo, a winter jacket, our jewelry box (with all my exclusive Avon jewelry!), my husband's wedding ring (he always left it off to work at his blue-collar part-time job) and a couple bottles of soda (pop, for you Midwesterners).

This is "pop."

William was arrested wearing the wedding ring with our wedding date handily inscribed inside. He ended up having to pay us restitution in the end while doing time. He should have just gone to Chicago. It would have been cheaper.

The police, of course, when they heard that we had allowed this young man to stay in our house overnight, thought we were nuts. It truly was a great way to case a joint...he probably had nosed around in he middle of the night in the fridge for those soda bottles! But what could we say? We were trying to do the Christian thing and care for our neighbor. Which we began to realize sometimes meant being suckered.

So began our long journey of learning how to be wise suckers for God. We still are learning every day what it means to give up our comfort in order to see the Kingdom go forward. It has meant some really hard times, not just for us, but for our kids on occasion. But I truly believe having this shared sense of meaning to our joint lives has enriched our family immeasurably, and will continue to do so.

To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything, and your heart will certainly be wrung and possibly be broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact, you must give your heart to no one, not even to an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements; lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket - safe, dark, motionless, airless – it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. The alternative to tragedy, or at least to the risk of tragedy, is damnation. The only place outside Heaven where you can be perfectly safe from all the dangers and perturbations of love is Hell. (C.S. Lewis, The Four Loves)

The Sanders Patented System for Driving Your Adult Children Crazy

I've been privileged to talk with several young friends lately who are dealing with the extraordinary challenges of  bringing up small children. I sense the panic in their voices and faces, and wish I could magically fast-forward their lives for them...kind of a "Ghost of Parenthood Future" vision where they could see themselves sitting at a dinner table, laughing and talking with their gawky yet amazing teenage kids and enjoying the fruits of their long-suffering discipline and instruction.

I have to say, teenagers are really fun to have around if you don't take them too seriously; and one of my favorite ways of keeping them humble and grounded was to embarrass them as often as possible. I don't mean in a horrible, demeaning bully way. I mean--"oh, man, look what my mom is doing (or saying) right now. I think I'm gonna die if anyone sees me with her!"

Things only get better as they enter young-adulthood, with semi-important job titles and friends they would really like to impress for business reasons. Suddenly your power of eye-roll induction triples or quadruples...who would have guessed it could be so intoxicating? A few examples to help you along...



1.  Joke-telling.

I really get a kick out of storytelling I love to tell jokes that I've heard or read. They tickle me to no end, but my memory isn't what it used to be. So I can normally either get the set-up, then trash the punch line...or I get the set-up all wrong so the punch line make absolutely no sense at all. "A priest, a rabbi, and a minister walk into a bar...oh, wait a minute...a priest, a RABBIT and a minister hop into a bar--yeah, that's it--" and about that time my kids are already groaning and begging me to stop while there is yet time.

2. Social Media

. I make sure to keep up with them on Facebook. And I mean REALLY keep up with them. I know...some of you parents out there are saying "Facebook? No way...it's just the government's way of tracking civilians so President Obama can take away our guns." C'mon, that's just silly. That's what Google is for. Facebook is for stalking your grown children and commenting on every status they post. When you get better at loading photos (rigghhhttt...photo-loading....you'll need to track down your grandchildren to help you with that), you can post pictures of your kids back in the day when they were cute, and would pose in lederhosen for you. It's important then to tell everyone how darling your child used to be, and how much you love him now that he's 27 and so MUCH cuter and sweeter and more available and why can't he get a date when he is so marvelous and there is something really wrong with young women today who just don't know a good man when they meet one.

3. Relationship Guessing

When meeting your grown children's friends, be sure to ask awkward questions about their personal lives. "So...are you two dating?" Or even better, "Are you two engaged?" To be honest, the last time I tried this (and I was wrong, as my son so firmly noted in a fiercely whispered aside), the couple in question actually ended up in a betrothed state not long after.So you see? I apparently have the power of Matchmaking. They should all be grateful instead of resentful.

4. Slang Usage

 I like to think of myself as young and "with-it." Although saying "with-it" apparently is not exactly "cool" right now (I'm not even so sure about "cool"). I try hard to stay abreast of current slang and use it in random ways around my kids; it helps them feel that their mom is "down with that, bruh." 'Cause that's how I roll. It's especially good when paired with my Facebook stati, since I'm killing two birds with one stone (being cool by being on FB and ALSO "keepin' it real" with my language skills. Excuse me. 'Skilz.') Oh, and don't forget to comment on their status, as well, with lots of "LOLs" and  an occasional "Fascinating story, homie."

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5. Technology

 I really like to believe that my computer skills (ok, 'skilz') aren't too bad. But why, oh why, do I have such trouble understanding the concept of "folders" and "documents" and "files" and "jpegs" etc. etc.? I spend half my life searching around in my computer for things that I distinctly remember typing in and storing in some manner, but that now appear to have vanished into unknown regions of my machine. The simple act of calling out to my children in the next room--"kids, I don't get it--did I put my file in a folder, or is the other way around? and why is this document look all weird when I cut and paste it from this one to this other place? How do upload this thing? What do you mean, 'download, not upload?' What difference does that make?"--this honest set of questions seem to elicit knuckle-clenching fury in my dearly beloved progeny. "How many TIMES do we have to explain this stuff to you!!!???" See? The power of ignorance wins again.

6. Foreign Language Experimentation 

I have only a rudimentary grasp of perhaps 2 languages (ok, 3 if you include English),  My high school German courses prepared me for important moments in my life, like asking whether the Post Office is open ("Ist die Post offen?" "Nein, sie ist am Sonntag geschlossen!") And I remember one really fun song about "Drei Chinesen Mit Dem Kontrabass" (3 Chinese with bass violins who sit on a the curb until a policeman comes and asks them what they are doing. "We are 3 Chinese playing the bass violins." I think it had some double meaning about National Socialism).

Anyway...we are privileged in our life to meet a number of folks from around the world. And for some reason I always feel compelled to try out a few words of their language on them, whether I am vaguely close to knowing it or not. It's so much more effective when my children are around, because the nervous coughing and foot shuffling spurs me on..."Hola! Meine Name ist Carla...joie de Vivre!" Maybe I'll throw in a little finger-spelling just to be on the safe side. And then...it's time for me to sing the "Drei Chinesen" song! I know everyone appreciates an American slaughtering their language a bit from time to time. I know my kids really do.

Well, my faithful followers of all things Sanders, I only mention the few things that I am vaguely aware of in my arsenal of humiliation. I have not asked my children for any contributions, because that would embarrass them. Wait...what am I doing...excuse me as I go track them down one by one and ask them to become my Blog Followers...I'll let you know later how that goes....