Roots

I love trees. I always have. There's something about the way they represent life that I just can't get enough of. When I was in college, I looked up every reference to trees in the Bible. Amazingly enough, there are quite a few, and it's all pretty fascinating. I concluded, after my study of trees, that that's exactly what I wanted to become. The awesome thing about trees is this: no matter how grand or big or majestic they look above ground, their true strength lies in what's underneath. The part you can't see. The roots.

When I take an inventory of the last six months of my life, it gets pretty overwhelming.

June - we began packing our house to move from Turkey. Nathan is diagnosed with an eye condition that may or may not be corrected with glasses. We're surprised with an unplanned pregnancy. (Yikes!)

July - Final goodbyes to good friends in Turkey. We begin our journey through Europe, and I barf my way through Bavaria as morning sickness strikes with a vengeance.

August - we're home! But our house in Panama City isn't ready. I stay in Savannah with my family since morning sickness took the option of sitting, standing, moving, and breathing without dry heaving away while Tristan reports for duty and commutes back to Georgia for the weekends.

September - the house still isn't ready. They ran out of the tile we had originally selected. We pick out a new tile and move into a condo still living from the suitcases we packed back in July.

October - Our house is. . . . . . . .not ready. They laid the wrong tile. Extend the stay in the condo.

November - November 1st: 5 months after packing our boxes in Turkey, the skies part and the angels begin to sing as the big orange truck delivering our stuff pulls into the driveway of our new home. The night after our last box is unpacked, Zack falls from his top bunk. Broken femur. Full leg cast for six weeks.

December - Zack's six week cast turns into an eight week cast. We travel across Georgia and North Carolina visiting family over the holidays.

January - Zack's cast is removed, but he still can't walk without crutches. Another four weeks of Tiny Tim. The week after the removal of Zack's cast, Tristan sits me down to inform me he's been tasked with a deployment. He leaves March 5. Baby's due date? February 25. Deployment time? Seven months.

When I think about the craziness of the last six to eight months, it's easy for it all to seem unfair. Wasn't being pregnant enough, or dealing with Nate's eyes, or handling Zack's leg, or moving across the world? It's easy to hyper-focus on the realities of my own life and get caught in the abyss of self pity. But the reality is your list doesn't look much different than mine. It's different circumstances, different events, different struggles, but it's all life. The question for me becomes - where do I go to get the strength to go through it?

Roots travel to where they find nourishment. I have a lot of places for my roots to travel, lots of places from which to draw 'strength.' The reservoir of anger and bitterness is full of promise, so is self pity. I could draw from those wells forever. Their supply is endless, and although they provide fuel for the outside, they rot. They rot from the inside out and produce nothing more than a false outer shell. The oasis of chocolate thunder from down under is a delicious stop; I like this place. Hot brownie topped with ice cream covered with chocolate. MMMmmmmm. My husband warned me that I could possibly outweigh him by 500 pounds at the end of his deployment if I set up camp here. As much as I love brownies. . .and ice cream. . .and brownies and ice cream. . . together. . .covered in hot fudge. . .I don't like the idea of being compared to a large Japanese man wearing nothing more than a thong. Nope, my favorite place to send my roots is the very shallow reservoir of myself. I easily fool myself into thinking I can handle a lot. And the reality is. . .I can. I was born a Carnes. All us Carnes were born strong. . .at least we like to think so. I can do more push-ups than you (on my toes), I can throw a frisbee farther than you (no, really. . .I can), and don't even think about leg wrestling me because these legs were given to me by Zeus himself and could crush you. (I out leg wrestled every boy in my fourth grade class and the victory may have gone to my head.) The problem with myself is exactly what I stated in the first place. It's shallow, and the fruit it produces is pretty nasty. A Proverb states that 'pride comes before the fall,' and although I may look mighty and big and majestic, it would only take one storm to blow me over and reveal the shallow depths of the roots beneath me. Family, friends, church. . .those are all great places, too, but if I seek to find strength in them alone, I'll be sorely disappointed. My needs run deep; deeper than any other person, organization, or self help group can provide, and so do yours. If we're trying to draw strength from one another, we're gonna dry up fast. So, if all these places provide false nourishment (no matter how delicious), to what source can I go? To the only place that promises to supply strength in my weakness, hope in my sufferings, peace in my circumstances, joy in my trials. To The Source. If you don't know Him, please find someone who does. He's the only one I've ever known to turn sorrow into gladness, death into life. He uses what's weak in this world to shame the wise, and His power is made perfect in my weakness. When my roots are firmly planted here, I need not fear the storm that's coming. No matter what the circumstances have done to the 'visible me,' my true strength lies where you cannot see because it doesn't lie in me at all. Herein, however, lies the struggle. I can choose where to put my roots. It's a daily choice.

This is my last post to this blog. In one week and one day, I will have four sons rendering the title of this blog useless. Somehow I feel it completely inhumane to allow my fourth child to be lumped together with the words 'and more,' so my new blog is www.thejourneyofroots.blogspot.com. Due to my obvious obsession with the analogy between horticulture and life, I thought this title to be appropriate. Isn't everyone's life a story of where their strength comes from? Where we put our roots? It's my daily choice, and it is a journey. I don't always plant myself in the right place - I love brownies. . .and chocolate. . .and hot fudge. I rely on myself way too often, and please don't misunderstand me. . .friends and family can absolutely provide amazing support. I've got the best mom ever. She can do more push-ups than your mom. . .sorry, there I go again. I've got amazing friends. They are a huge source of comfort, love, and support, but I can't depend on them alone. My roots are about to take another deep dive. Yours probably are, too. Because I write to figure things out, and because my brother has a facebook page about his beard, I'll blog about the journey of those roots. Thanks for reading. I'll see ya on the flip side. . .ready or not. . .baby #4 is on his way. 'Til then, smile, God loves you.

Ticks, Beards, and Blogs

I started a blog this morning that was going to be incredibly insightful. It's still in my draft section, but I can't finish it today. Not today. . .today we found a tick in Micah's back. As if my life wasn't filled with enough at the moment, an engorged tick had to find its way onto my sweet son's little body. It had been lodged in there for over 24 hours. The boys played in the woods yesterday while I fixed their lunches, and due to their weekly Awana Wednesday's, baths weren't in the cards last night. By the time we found it, it was pretty big. Thankfully, Tristan had taken the day off, so his skills were put to work as he carefully tried to pull out the nasty blood sucker I have affectionately named. . .ugghh, I can't do it. . .you have no idea how much I'd like to name the tick after the man who assured Tristan he wouldn't deploy this bucket only to call him with a last minute tasking, but I won't. Alas, my conscience wins. There would, however, be no guarantees if I was locked in a room with him armed with a frying pan. I'm kidding, I'm kidding. . .sort of. Back to the tick: Tristan succeeded in removing the body, but the head popped off and remained under Micah's skin. It was awful. Poor Micah had to endure a minor surgery while Tristan probed around his back trying to dig out the rest of the bug.

Quotes from a sobbing Micah:

"Is it going to make my heart stop beating??"

"I NEED GOD RIGHT NOW!"

"Why *sob* did *sob* God *sob* make *sob* ticks?"

"I wish Adam and Eve had never sinned!"

. . .and last but not least. . .

"Mommy, ticks belong in hell!"

It was a terrible thing to endure. For him and for me. I can't imagine too many things exist that are worse than watching one of your children in pain. I would have happily swapped places with him a dozen times. Thirty grueling minutes later, the rest of the tick was removed. After pouring a bottle of alcohol and a bottle of peroxide on the wound then smothering it with a tube of Neosporin and covering it with a Lightening McQueen bandaid, Tristan mentions that ticks can cause temporary paralysis in kids and to keep an eye on him. If he begins to get a red rash around the wound, he has lyme disease and needs to go on antibiotics immediately. Seriously? I know the actuality of either of these things occurring is very small, but seriously? Good grief. . .at this point my life has almost become a complete comedic mess.

On a very different note, my brother has started a Facebook page for his beard. Yes, you read that correctly, and you, too, can become a fan at www.facebook.com/JimmysBeard. I find it to be incredibly hilarious and clever, but don't tell him I said that. I have to retain some sort of older sister dignity. . .it's an unwritten law in the book of older sisters. It's his "glorious achievement in record time on display for all to see." It is pretty impressive. . .and disgusting. I would love to get into the psyche behind a man and his beard. . .it's a very strange and dynamic relationship, and I almost feel that a man would stand in the way of a moving car to protect his beard as if it were his own child. . .but I'm not going to get into that now. The relevance of my brother's beard is this: If he can maintain a facebook page about a beard, I can maintain a blog about matters that are much more sophisticated and important. . .like ticks. Knowing that my life is going to be pretty insane for the next nine months, and being keenly aware of my dependability on processing life through words, I shall blog. I shall blog as long as my brother's beard maintains a place on the world wide web. And that is all. 'Til next time, smile, God loves you (and Jimmy's beard, too).

Bring Back that Bloggin' Feelin' - (woah-oh, that bloggin' feelin')

I'd rather be sleeping right now. Sleeping. . .not blogging. It's 4 o'clock in the morning, and thanks to this pregnancy and an incredibly overactive imagination, sleep is nowhere in sight. Anyway, I thought I had 'lost that bloggin' feelin' - (woah-oh, that bloggin' feelin' (sorry, I couldn't help myself)). Blogging has allowed anyone to become a published author. I mean anyone. It's a great thing, but the reality presents itself that who, if anyone, would actually read another blog. I've gotta be honest. . .I don't read other people's blogs. . .often. There, I said it; now excuse me while I bury my head under the covers. Isn't that awful?! After having spent the time to blog myself, after feeling the satisfaction of having others read my published content, I still don't faithfully read blogs. It's not that I'm not interested. It seems that juggling the overseas move, raising three boys, homeschooling, cooking, cleaning, laundry-ing, and oh - being pregnant - have left me with very little free time. I also read somewhere that blogging is like raising a plant. Uh, oh. . .that's not good news, folks. Not good news at all. I've never kept a plant alive for any amount of time. Maybe it's because all my life giving qualities are being spent. Who knows?

I wrote that paragraph well over two weeks ago. The blogging feeling certainly left as soon as it came. . .again with the raising of a plant. I'm just not good at it, but I'm hoping to be better. Life for me has taken a change in the past two weeks, and although it's a pretty stinky change, I'm kind of excited for what it will produce in my life. For that reason, and the fact that my three sons is about to become four, it's about time to retire this blog and begin (maybe) another one (possibly). (Isn't commitment the first step? I'm in trouble.) Blog - it's been fun. . .I will forever cherish the memories you will never allow me to forget. The Flying Rat, the Sheep Poo, and the cleaning lady who stole my sunglasses. Wait - I never blogged about that. . .I guess some things are better left unsaid. I have vowed to myself, and to this beautiful plant my husband brought home for me, that I will write one last blog - and water the plant. 'Til then; smile; God loves you. :)

. . .and so it goes.

5 am, the alarm clock goes off this morning. 5am is really too early of a time for anyone to be awake, and it's especially too early for someone who is a crazy procrastinator and never finishes her packing until midnight the night before. (Except this time it really wasn't my fault because the driers in the TLF's took 8 years to dry a load of laundry.) Anyway, one hour and fifteen minutes later, we were on the airport shuttle leaving the gates of Incirlik for the very last time. (Hallelujah chorus begins). I felt no remorse, I felt no sadness. . .just the feeling of freedom! (you could also start singing the George Michael Freedom song here if you'd like.) Our shuttle man dropped us, our 4 checked bags, 5 carry ons, 2 strollers, and 3 car seats off at the curb, and we were on our way! Except we weren't.

You see, the morning that we were breaking free from Incirlik was also the morning that every single computer was down in the Adana airport. For those of you who haven't been to Turkey, airports are always crazy places. 'Waiting your turn' does not exist here - whoever can push the hardest or manipulate their body the best gets to go first. So, imagine this already crazy place 10,000 times crazier because everything had to be handwritten, and of course, out of the 8 counters available, only 2 were open. The line wrapped around the airport. I know I've mentioned before that one of my favorite things to do is sit around a Turkish airport with my 3 children while they get chubbed incessantly, and ohhhhhh, it was a blast. We finally boarded our plane and wondered if we'd ever see our luggage again, but I didn't care! I was on a plane headed west! Life was good! Except it wasn't.

Because everything was handwritten in Adana and there were no working computers (which how does an airport even run without computers?), we had no boarding pass for our next flight from Istanbul to Munich. We also weren't sure if our luggage was going to make it all the way to Munich. Would we need to claim it, then recheck it? And, as life would have it, it seemed that every single person on our flight also had a connection in Istanbul thus putting them in the same predicament as us. Again with the lines and the pushing and the twisting and the turning at the 'Help Me' counter. Again with Shannon being in charge of the 3 boys in a Turkish airport for a ridiculously long period of time. Fun, fun, fun. After Tristan succeeded in securing our boarding passes for the next flight, he looks at me and says, 'run.' Run? Three kids, five carry-ons, one guitar (I forgot to mention that earlier), two strollers, and I have to run? That was fun, too. Until we got to passport control where the man checking our passports was literally reincarnated from a sloth. I'm sure he started moving even slower when I started muttering harsh slurs under my breath, but I just couldn't help it. He was half sloth-half man, and I'm still bitter. We made our flight, and sloth man better be glad we did because I'm not sure of what I would have been capable of if we had missed our flight. I may have been a little ornery.

The flight to Germany was flawless. The boys did great; I was able to rest. But the bubble was burst again when we went to pick up our bags. Really, I have to give the Adana people some credit because all our bags made it, but Zack's car seat did not. Let the fun begin again. We, of course, had to sit and wait for every piece of luggage from every plane that had landed in the last 30 minutes to be brought out, and then, once we were sure that our seat was really not in any luggage we had seen , we had to stand in another line to report our missing baggage. Did I mention we all had woken up at 5am this morning? The kids were tired; I was tired. It was such a bad combination, and after 2 hours of sitting in the Munich airport, we were finally on our way.

Tristan drove straight from the airport to the Haufbrauhaus where he consumed a liter of beer; I'm pretty sure he deserved that one. I drank nasty water because the Germans don't believe in water without bubbles. We also received a plate that had every color and size of hot dog you can imagine sitting on top of a bed of sauerkraut. mmmmmm. Multi-colored sausages, sauerkraut, and carbonated water: dinner of champions. We left Munich in time to drive to Salzburg, Austria, before our hotel closed down for the night. They would not accept check-ins after 9pm, so we hit the road, except we didn't.

When we put our destination into the GPS given us by our rental car company, we discovered that Austria was not in their system. No map, no GPS, no cell phone; really, no clue how to get from point A to point B. That was a whole other adventure that I could write an entirely different blog post about, but I won't. Suffice it to say, that we pulled into the hotel's driveway at 8:59pm. What a way to start our 'relaxing' vacation, huh? But there's always tomorrow, and tomorrow is looking good! Til next time, smile' God loves you!

Midnight Rides

The night before last was the last night in our house. As a matter of fact, it was a whole evening of lasts. It was our last service at the chapel, it was the last time Tristan led worship in Turkey, it was the last time I did all the crazy hand motions for the kids' song, and it was the last night we had to sleep on the u-shaped bed we received as temporary furniture. Praise be to the one who remodeled the Hodja rooms because the beds here are amazing. (The Hodja is the on-base hotel where they put you up after you've turned in the keys to your house.) And as life would have it, our last night was anything but ordinary.

Sometime in the middle of the night, I was woken up by a power outage. Most power outages are scheduled; this one was not. I decided I needed to get up and investigate, so I made my way to the bathroom threw open the window to have a look at the rest of the neighborhood. Every light in the neighborhood was out; every light on base was out. I'm not sure whether to attribute my over active imagination to being pregnant or the lack of sleep provided me by my U-shaped bed, but either way, I was sure that something was amiss. Two cop cars rode by with their red & blue lights on. Another one drove by with a spot light (at least I think it was a spotlight). That could only mean one thing. This outage was a huge conspiracy, and with tensions high between US, Israel, and Turkey, 'they' were coming. I kept a close eye on the fence, waiting to see hundreds jump over and imagined myself channeling Paul Revere running through the streets with a flashlight warning all the neighbors. Except then I remembered we had already packed up all our flashlights. I never did see anything out of the ordinary and soon all there was, was the barking of the one millions dogs that live in the alley and the mooing of a cow. Actually, this cow wasn't just mooing, it was in labor. I've never heard anything like that in my life, and I'm certain this farmer woke up to an extra cow the next morning. So, after being convinced that there would be no need for a Midnight Ride and after listening to the birthing cow, I decided it would be okay to go back to bed.

Just as I was about to fall asleep. . .mommMMMMYYYYY!!! It was Micah. He couldn't see, and he was scared. I decided sleeping with him in his bed would be a better option than the U, so after we had a long conversation about how - no, another night light from a different room would not work right now, and no, i couldn't go to the store and buy a new night light, and no, the moon was not turned off, we tried to go back to sleep. Except Micah's pillow is about as thick as a sheet of paper. Being the good wife that I am, I woke Tristan up and asked him to sleep with Micah while I snuggled smack-dab in the middle of the U. Except that didn't last very long. Ten minutes later, Tristan was back in our room with Micah, so the three of us attempted to sleep in the U the rest of the night. Needless to say, none of us (except Micah) slept very well.

So, that was the memorable last night in our Turkey house. We have 2 days left here! Can ya tell I'm excited!

'Til next time, smile God loves you!

The Car is Gone, and There's a Bun in the Oven

The following post is one I wrote a few weeks ago but forgot to publish. I guess that's what happens when your house is full over movers, packers, boxes, you're trying to keep some form of sanity in your home, and you're pregnant. What?! Did I just say that? Holy cow, I did, and Holy cow, I am. Never in a millions years did I think that the 'more' in My Three Sons & More would include another child. Being that our youngest has seemed to channel five Tasmanian devils (the cartoon kind) into his being, I have felt pretty content with the size of our family, but God obviously has different plans. Many people think we have a girl on the way, but ya know, I'd be happy with another boy. After being a mom of all boys, there is just something special about it, but we'll be happy either way it goes. . .once it all sinks in. Right now, the only dose of reality I'm getting is the nausea that is taking over my life every moment of every day. I'm thinking Chick-fil-a sandwiches on wheat buns will cure all it all though. We're outta here in 8 days!

Smile; He loves you.

Ode to Turkey

The car is gone,

our house is packed,

we have no food,

we're headed back

to the land of the free

where Chick-fil-a's

awaiting me.

Thank you, Turkey,

it's been fun,

We've had a blast

in your hot sun.

We've seen your sheep,

we've smelled your poo,

we've walked through ruins

a time or two.

So much history

in these places,

many friends,

we'll miss their faces.

We'll miss the tava,

it's the best.

We'll miss the market,

Fresh produce? Yes.

We'll miss the mosque calls,

wait - that's not true,

5 am wailing?

No thank you.

We'll miss the travels

that we've taken:

Antalya, Izmir,

Hell & Heaven,

Karatas, Alanya,

Yumurtalik, too,

these are the places,

to name a few.

We've learned some Turkish,

ate strange food,

seen sheep heads

and their livers, too.

We've hiked up castles,

we've swam the seas,

Chartered a boat,

and drank lots of tea.

So, thank you, Turkey,

It's been a blast,

Our time here,

has gone by fast.

You will be missed,

but I must say,

Thank the Lord

I'm goin' home today!

(well, I'm not really going home today, but that's the only thing I could come up with that rhymes.) Peace out, and smile, God loves you!