Oh how I love routines.

Winter is here in Chicago.  A strange winter, but here anyways.

We have had many many days of sunshine and freezing cold the last few weeks.  Before that was rain for days and then before that there was snow.  I think the city is not sure what season it is.  And I'm certain the birds are confused.

But, I have settled into a very comforting routine.

The day starts with a 6AM alarm.  This is rough.  I am not a morning person.  But, I know that the kids will be up at 7 and I desperately need to be awake before then.  So, I get up, nudge Matt and we head out to the family room to workout.  We are doing Chalean Extreme again this winter thanks to the recommendation last year from the amazing Joline Atkins (Beachbody Coach Extraordinaire).  We also are alternating in a couple days of GymBox which streams right through our TV.

After a 30 minute workout, Matt heads to the shower while I clean up the dishes from the night before and get the kid's lunches made.  Homemade breakfasts are a rarity at the moment and Anna thinks this is outrageous.  Every morning she comes to the kitchen with her hopes high that the noises of dishes are actually pancakes being made, but alas, they are generally not. I could digress into the long term consequences of choosing certain things for your firstborn but, I will just say - feed them sugary cereal and I think they won't want it when they are older.  I fed mine only healthy foods and now she only wants sugary junk food for breakfast.

In order for Claire to get from her 7AM wakeup to a 7:30 departure to school, she has been sleeping in her clothes.  Every night she picks out her outfit for the next day and puts it on.  I'm thankful for less laundry but not sure if this is an okay thing to do...  Our culture says - pajamas to bed and fresh clothes in the morning.  Of course it also says, baths every day and our kids certainly aren't following that "rule".

Ah yes - back to my routine.  The girls head out to walk to school with Dad, I head to the shower and Katherine snuggles up with her blankie on the couch.  Around 8:30, I head with Katherine to the bus stop and chit chat a bit with the neighbors (we live on the best block).  I'm back home by 8:45 and ready to tidy things up a bit, perhaps make some coffee and settle into work on Katherine's bed.  Yep, the bottom bunk is mine for the morning.  Wondering why?  The girls bunk beds are situated right next to their large double window and the sun streams in all morning long.  It is pure bliss to sit in the direct sunlight.  Plus, our older windows don't filter away the heat and it is just so warm - like a beach.  The kitty has also taken to snuggling up with me and my laptop.  Ah, peace, warmth and I can even hear the birds.  Cue the sappy music.

I'm making it through winter.  I'm not super happy or super sad. And I'll take that as a blessing.

P.S. - I couldn't make it one day, hour or minute without my husband, Matt.  And yes, his "friend" managed to fit in our car for the drive home.

Redefining White Elephant Gift Exchanges.

Welcome to America, Part 2

This is the second of 3 parts of this story that I will be sharing here on my blog. Please read the first part of the story for better understanding.

It has been a few months since we first met Suan and his wife. Our first visit, the day they arrived from Malaysia, was the day we delivered the welcome pack. With several other Zomi refugees in attendance, as well as a staff member from Exodus World Services (EWS), we opened boxes, made beds, stocked the kitchen, and furnished the small studio apartment. Suan struggled to understand what was happening. Our daughters, while anxious to help, also struggled to understand. At four, eight, and ten, our girls had never before spent a moment of their lives in an environment where English was not the dominant language. Their exposure to non-Americans was scant. And here we stood in a cramped apartment with a dozen other people, struggling to communicate what shaving cream was for or inquiring where they would like their toolset to be.

I would like to say that that first day was an amazing, spirit-filling experience. But I would be remiss if I did not state how difficult those first hours were. Had our EWS friend not taken the initiative to schedule our next visit, I sometimes wonder if I would have just let things go.

But our second trip went better. It was on that trip that we made pancakes. And the third was even better. As we met other Zomi refugees and they became part of our lives, we realized that we had become something like an extension to their urban village. We were, in many ways, the outsiders hoping to be accepted, hoping to understand what was happening.

Suan, it turns out, has a gift for music. He was known in the Malaysian refugee community for his singing, and he is now the worship leader in the small Zomi church that meets in Rogers Park. Our first visit to that church marks a moment in my life that I will never forget.


Follow along with Part 3.

This is a guest post from my husband, Matt.  Matt is a software developer with an amazing gift for writing. His passions include theology, philosophy, grilling and reading. He wrote this story as a way to share our recent experiences with refugees and the organization that connected us with them. This is the second of 3 parts I will be sharing here on my blog. (We have changed some names for privacy.)

Welcome to America, Part 1

"Do you have any questions for us?" Angie asked Suan and his wife through our interpreter, another Zomi refugee who has picked up a fair amount of English in his few years in the United States.

Angie's question set off a series of back-and-forth exchanges in Zolai, the language of the Zomi people. The Zomi are from the Chin territory in Burma. As a minority (strike one), largely Christian (strike two) nation in Myanmar's Eastern border, the Zomi have suffered under the military junta that still controls the Burmese government. Many have fled as refugees, and some of those refugees have been given a home in the Chicago area.

As the chatter died down, the interpreter, Pau, turned back to Angie and said with an embarrassed laugh, "Um, yes… my wife would like to know what the bag of white powder is for." Answering our uncomprehending stares, Sing, mother of two daughters, gesticulated toward the kitchen.

"White powder?" mumbled Angie. Then again addressing Pau, she asked, "Can Sing show us?"

Who would have thought a simple little exchange like this would lead to the fulfillment of one of Angie's childhood dreams?

Angie grew up a stone's throw from Phoenix, Arizona. Having only one sibling, a brother four years her senior, she tended to rely upon her active imagination to fill those scorching childhood summers in the desert. Envisioning herself as Julia Childs, little ten-year-old Angie would stand before her bedroom mirror and host a cooking show. In a matter-of-fact tone, she would walk through the process of beating an egg, mixing dough, or baking a pizza. She was always careful to explain the details to her imaginary studio audience.

As Angie grew up, the practical concerns of everyday life replaced her childhood fantasy. She had all but given up her aspiration to host a cooking show until that very moment when Sing pulled the paper back out from under her sink: All Purpose Flour.

The Zomi people are an agrarian society. In a climate conducive to farming, they grow corn, rice, fruit, and vegetables. Apparently, they do not grow wheat. They had never seen wheat flour, and hadn't any idea how it should be used. And as Angie realized this, a light rekindled in her eyes as she enthusiastically offered to show them how to cook with it.

When Pau translated this to Zolai, Suan and Sing nodded their assent. Someone, I'm not sure who, ducked out the front door of the small studio apartment provided to the refugee family, and called down the hall. The Rogers Park apartment building into which Suan and Sing were placed houses several other Zomi families, and in some ways they act like a tiny village inside of the large urban Chicago building. As Angie was busy finding the necessary kitchen utensils, other Zomi families streamed into the apartment, removing their shoes (as is the custom in Burma) and making a beeline for the tiny five-by-five kitchen nook.

Glowing with the enthusiasm of Rachel Ray, Angie began demonstrating how to make pancakes. Explaining the function of each utensil as she went, she scooped, leveled, mixed, poured, and cooked. Her audience stood rapt, interrupted only rarely by the exclamations of an inquisitive Zomi child.

Fifteen minutes later, the plate of pancakes passed from hand to hand. I'm not sure that our American cuisine immediately won over the hearts and stomachs of the Zomi refugees, but all of the pancakes were consumed. Everyone expressed their thanks to Angie, "lung dam mahmah." Thank you very much. Angie glowed.


Follow along with part 2 and part 3.


This is a guest post from my husband, Matt.  Matt is a software developer with an amazing gift for writing. His passions include theology, philosophy, grilling and reading. He wrote this story as a way to share our recent experiences with refugees and the organization that connected us with them. This is the first of 3 parts I will be sharing here on my blog. (We have changed some names for privacy.)