Two Ruschmeiers and a Renovation

Marriage itself is a daily adventure, but you throw a home renovation in the mix, and you will find out quickly just how compatible you really are.  I’m not going to say that my husband is lucky to have me, but I really am pretty awesome, if you can look past the raging ADD and occasional (read frequent) selfishness. The selfishness really isn’t my fault, though.  I was an only child, and I did get my way A LOT. Thanks for that, Mom and Dad.  Nonetheless, despite my self-proclaimed “awesome wife” status, it turns out that I am not, in fact, an awesome construction helper, and through this experience, I have discovered that my husband, despite his inability to put a garbage bag back in an empty can, really is a saint. 

This man singlehandedly put new flooring in our entire house.  Note:  He actually has two fully-functioning hands, so I have no idea why anyone uses that expression, but I digress.  He would work all day at his regular job, then come straight home to work for hours on our new flooring, and while I am proud that I am not married to one of those men who drags his feet while doing projects, I have to admit he was wearing me out. Mama needs her sleep.  The sad part was that I wasn’t even working during the day, so I really had no excuse for any of my complaining, but I’ve never let that stop me before, so why start now?

 Yes, I tried to be as helpful as possible, but anyone who knows me knows that my attention span is virtually non-existent, and we were working at a time of day when my ADD meds had long since worn off.  And it was not my proudest moment, but there was at least one occasion when I gave him the wrong measurement and then blamed it on his penmanship, knowing good and well I’ve been teaching high school for fifteen years and can read anything short of hieroglyphs or Mandarin Chinese.  You see, another problem with only children is that we hate to be wrong.     

There was one thing I was not wrong about, though, and that was marrying David Ruschmeier.  I have yet to find too many things that the man can’t do.  Not many men would stay up until 3:00 in the morning to put a bedroom back together if they had to work at 7:00 the next day. I don’t tell him as often as I should how much he impresses me (mainly because I always want him to think he married up, so I can wear the pants), but every time he pulls off something like this, I am in awe—in awe not only of his ability to do things that a lot of people would never even try, but also in awe of his patience with his well-intentioned, but spastic wife, who tends to be more of a hindrance than a helpmate.  I love you, babe.  Thanks for simultaneously putting down flooring while putting up with me.  I know it was no easy task.  

Musings from the Brink of Insanity

I look forward to summer break just as much as my students do. In April, I start my countdown to the days of no alarms or work clothes, and I make a to-do list that is a balance of deep cleaning and outings with the kids. During this time off, the house stays neat and tidy, Pinterest-inspired dinners are cooked, and everyone has clean underwear all the time.  Summer makes me feel like a modern-day June Cleaver, fueling in me the desire to be a stay-at-home mom (a desire usually snuffed out by mid-July.)  This year was no exception as I eagerly awaited the end of May, marking the close of a great school year and the beginning of an even better summer.

However, June is now almost over, and nothing from my summer to-do list has been checked off. In fact, summer break has been the complete opposite of what I had envisioned.  The rain has been incessant all month, so beach trips and other outdoor excursions have been replaced with inside activities. Trips to the grocery store have been few and far between, so lavish meals have been replaced with sandwiches and chips, fish sticks and tater tots, or anything else I can find in the pantry that will keep the family alive another day.  

When he gets bored, he climbs walls.

For some moms, rainy days at home inspire productivity, but rain acts as a sedative to me.  When it is rainy, I don’t fancy changing out of my pj’s or brushing my hair- much less scrubbing toilets and organizing closets. In fact, I wrote on my to-do list “binge watch a show on Netflix” just so I could mark something off. In the last two weeks, I have become a fan of Survivor since Amazon Prime has 20-something seasons for me to watch, and I now know exactly how I would make it to the final three if I am ever chosen as a contestant. (Wouldn’t a season of mothers against their teen children be fun to watch?! Tribe names could be exotic sounding words that translate to ungrateful and under appreciated.)  

VBS kept us busy a few nights!

Many moms would use these rainy days to spend much-needed quality time with their children. The first three days were exactly that.  We cooked together. When I did my Bible study, Olivia read hers. We hung out on the couch and watched movies, and Asher even did chores with no complaining at all.  But just as fruit rots and milk spoils, the harmony in our little tribe soon turned to discord. The bickering and complaining began and I longed to leave camp for some peace and quiet. If only I could be voted off the Island. 

At this point, my momming now resembles less of June Cleaver and more of Rosanne Conner. Dysfunction has reached new levels in our home, and I don’t know how many more rainy days I can take before I enroll them ALL in daycare.  I came to this epiphany a few days ago when my three-year-old, wearing only a pull-up and a superhero cape, stood at the back door licking the glass like it was a cotton candy flavored sno-cone (his favorite).  As I yelled, “stop licking the door!”, I knew that if Mother Nature didn’t lay off with the rain soon, delirium was going to overtake me.

 Here are some things that I never imagined I would utter this summer, but ashamedly I have:

• Stop trying to light your sister’s hair on fire.
• You can’t put the dog in the dishwasher.
• Have you bathed this week? 
• Why do you have lip gloss on, son?
• Did you just scratch your butt and then grab watermelon out the bowl?
• Please stop feeding the dog your boogers.
• Who put coins in my glass of water?
• You can’t go to the mailbox in your underwear. Put on pants before you open that door!
• Do not put another Ramen noodle up your nose!
• Stop asking your brother to smell your feet while he is eating tacos! He can smell them after dinner. 

Luckily, the forecast shows a little sunshine heading our way, and nothing will help me regain my sanity like salt water in my hair and sugary white sand between my toes.  But I know that, although our shenanigans may move outdoors, the craziness that makes us us will continue, and I look forward to it with a mixture of excitement and anxiety.

As I sit here on the couch at two in the afternoon- still in my pajamas with unbrushed hair- my toddler is sweetly nestled up beside me watching the Spanish version of PJ Masks, which neither of us understands, and he is eyeing a booger on the end of his finger that he discovered on his cheek from a recent emotional meltdown he had over having to share a toy with his sister…..and the list of ludicrous things I must say to my children this summer continues. 

About Mom...and For Mom

She loves Jesus. She loves her family and friends. She is humble. She is patient. She is selfless. She is kind and caring. She is strong. She is thoughtful. She is wise.

I am sure she looks back and remembers where she failed and wishes for some do-overs, just as most moms do. But honestly, I can’t remember any time that she disappointed me. (Well, other than killing my kitten with flea powder when I was a little girl, but it was an accident and I am more of a dog person anyway, so I recovered quickly.) 

I don't remember her getting angry much with us. (I do remember that she had a mean swing with the flyswatter and her flip-flop, but I deserved every swat.)

What I remember most is her sacrificing for us, giving to us, and loving us.  Her family was her priority. 

Mom and my brother (Easter)

Titus 2:4-5 says that younger women must be trained to "love their husbands and their children, to live wisely and be pure, and to work in their homes, to be good, and to be submissive to their husbands." She taught me this by example. She lived out this principle every day for me to see. (Not sure that I am #winning with the submissive or housekeeping part, but she tried!)

Kelly (my awesome SIL) with Mom and me

Since Mother's Day is nearing, I wanted to say a few things to the most important woman in my life: 

I am sorry.  I am sorry for all the sleepless night that I caused you. I am sorry for being disrespectful and taking you for granted. I am sorry for acting like a spoiled brat. I am sorry for anything that I ever did that has caused you pain. 

I admire you.  You embody all the qualities that I long to possess. You are 1 Corinthians 13 and Proverbs 31 bundled all neatly into a petite Southern Belle.  Your servant heart and meek disposition inspire me daily, and I long to be the wife and mother you have been to our family.

I thank you. Thank you for all that you have done for my family and all that you continue to do. Thank you for loving me when I was unlovable. Thank you for believing in me and supporting me. Thank you for being a role model. Thank you for showing me what being the hands and feet of Jesus looks like. Thank you for being my mom and my friend.

I love you. 

"Her children arise up, and call her blessed." Proverbs 31:28

Dad and Mom on their wedding day!

Losing Dad

Before you read this blog, listen to a song. Then come back and let me tell you a story about the love of my Father.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CqybaIesbuA

Two years ago,  I couldn’t write this. How ironic that the event that kindled my desire to blog was the one that I didn’t even want to think about- much less write about for friends and family to read.   But before I tell you my story, let me tell you a little about him. 

Al Ash was an amazing father to me- not perfect- but I knew without a shadow of a doubt that he loved me with all of his heart. I was a daddy’s girl as long as I can remember, and that didn’t change even when I got married and had kids of my own.  He spoiled me all of my life. 

He loved us with a love that I have never seen from any other person on the face of the earth.  He was happiest when he was surrounded by his family. His face lit up when his sisters and nieces came to visit, when my brother and his family came to town, when the grandkids spent the night, or any other time his family was around him. 

He also loved to cook and was good at it. He used food to bring the people he loved close to him. Nothing made him happier than being in the kitchen working on a meal as a table full of friends and family sat around laughing and talking, anxiously awaiting a plate of his food. 

He was pessimistic about many things in the world, but he had the most tender heart. He cried like a baby at Hallmark movies and sappy commercials.  During the holidays, mom and I always bet whose card would make the tears flow. Usually, I won.  He would help anybody who came to him in need, and I watched him countless times give to others. 

He was my financial advisor. He was my therapist. He helped me with recipes for dinner- that is, if he hadn’t already cooked mine and delivered to the house. He offered advice on parenting. He talked me through homeowner issues. He guided me in all areas of my life. He was the first person I called when life threw me a proverbial curveball.  Dad was so much more than a father to me.

Now the hard part. Thursday, January 8, 2015, after being sick a few days, Dad finally gave in to mom’s request to get checked out. She called me that evening to let me know they were headed to the ER at West Florida Hospital. I had school the next day, so I hadn’t made plans to meet them at the hospital.  We just assumed it was his gallbladder or something of that nature, so I told mom to keep me posted, and I went to bed not knowing that my world was about to be turned upside down. 

Around midnight, the phone rang. It was Mom. The doctors had advised her to call in his family. He was already in a coma when I arrived. I can’t write about the next 24 hours as we sat at the hospital praying for a miracle because even now the pain is immense. So I will fast forward a bit to Saturday, January 10th. In the dark hours of the morning, Dad died. He was one of 17 people ever diagnosed with a rare bacterial infection, and only one of those 17 survived it. The doctors never determined where he contracted it- maybe from oysters, maybe from the soil at his farm- we will never know. 

Did you listen to the song? It was a Wednesday night at church a week or so after the funeral that I first heard it. I remember getting out of my car wanting to be anywhere but in God's house. I was angry with Him, but I was going to go through the motions and do what I knew was right. And then the worship team sang that song. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. 

“You're a good, good father...

and I'm loved by you.”

I had a good, good earthly father, and he was ripped from my life too soon. I couldn't stand that song and I told myself I would never worship to it. It would only remind me of losing the most important man in my life.

And Romans 8:28. If I heard that one more time! Nothing. Good. Could. Come. From. This!!!!

So February came and went- as did March and April and May.  And they kept playing that song. It seemed to be almost every week that we sang it in one of our services. Then it started playing on the radio. I still hated it, and I still refused to worship when it played. I only cried because it was a reminder of what I had lost. 

Then the beautiful part of this story began. 

Life continued. Engines blew up. Vehicles needed purchasing. A/C’s needed maintenance. Dinners needed to be cooked. Kids acted like fools. No, it really does get beautiful....hang on.  All the things I needed to call dad for continued to happen, but he wasn’t there. Over the last few months, I had done a lot of whining and complaining to God, so I decided to try something new. I asked Him for the help I needed from my dad. I remember what I said when I finally turned to Him for help: “You say you will be the Father to fatherless. That's me now, so where are you? I don't have my dad to call, so I am now calling on you." I am pretty sure my tone didn't make him happy, but He listened nonetheless.

And one problem after another, God met me exactly where I needed him to. He met my needs, He comforted me, and He even blessed me beyond what I deserved.  He did everything my dad would have done and then some.  

Every time I recognized his work in my life when I needed it, he whispered little things into my spirit:

“Come to me when you have troubles.”

“Let me guide and help you.”

“I can do abundantly more than your earthly father.”

And He did.

And then I finally realized something.

I was relying on my dad when I should have been relying on God.  Before I prayed about an issue, I called Al.  I loved God, but I had Him in a box. He was my Lord and Savior, but I had not given him any other role in my life because Dad was doing such a good job at them already. And so, I finally allowed God to be all that He had always wanted to be in my life: my advisor, my confidant, my protector, my father. 

So it was through the loss of Dad that my relationship with God totally changed.  If you had asked me in 2015 what good could come from the death of my dad, I would have told you absolutely nothing. However, today, that answer is very different. 

And that song. I still hear it- at church and on the radio.  I still cry too, but I am no longer crying because it reminds me of what I lost.  I cry as I worship because I am in awe of the love I feel from my Heavenly Father. 

Hunting Fireflies

by Lisa


Earlier in the week, my students were working with an excerpt from the short story “The Firefly Hunt.”  The imagery took me back to summer nights chasing fireflies, mason jar in hand, in my own backyard. Then it occurred to me that I haven’t seen a firefly in a very long time. That thought made me question whether or not my own children have experienced a firefly hunt, so I asked Olivia, and she responded with “I have only seen them in the movie The Princess and the Frog.”  That saddened me. 

My favorite novel is To Kill a Mockingbird. The English teacher in me appreciates it as a literary work- a simple plot with rich lessons. It is a sobering reminder of a dark period in our nation’s history, both racially and economically, but it also depicts acts of love and human kindness. It brings thoughtful discussions into the classroom, and students remember it long after they leave high school. However, I love it more for the personal connection. Every time I read it, I am transported back to the sweet days of my adolescence- back to the days of firefly hunts. 

Although I was born about 40 years after Scout roamed the streets of Maycomb, the setting and characters remind me of my hometown and its inhabitants. Like Scout, I grew up in a sleepy little town in the South that didn’t have much more than a post office, a country store, and a caution light. I, too, had an older brother who seemed put out when I tagged along with him but was forced by my parents to endure me. Boo Radley’s suspected indiscretions had nothing on the colorful characters in our community that scared us children to death.  So many other elements of the book make me nostalgic for the long, hot summer days in Holt. 

The world has changed so much since that time that seems so long ago now. Unfortunately, so many of my fond memories are things my children will never experience.

They will never jump on their bikes after breakfast and stay gone until dark.

They will never ride to the river on the tailgate of a pickup, dragging their bare feet across the red dirt road.

They will never make a pallet in the floorboard of the car to sleep during road trips to visit family out of state—- or lie in the back window and make faces at the drivers of the cars behind them.  

They will never walk into a convenience store and put an ice cream cone or a bag of chips and a soda on their parents’ tab.

They will never go outside to adjust the antenna so that Mom can get a clearer picture of Dallas or Knot’s Landing. 

They will never know the awkwardness of picking up the land line to hear someone in the neighborhood already in a conversation on the party line they share.

They will never know the frustration of finding a scratch on their favorite record or in having to twist the tape back into a cassette.  

They will never know the excitement of waiting for the bookmobile to arrive so that they can check out a book.

They may never know what it feels like to sleep on the pews of the church every night during a week-long revival.

They will never know what it feels like to sleep all night with the doors unlocked and the windows open.

Yes, things are so very different now! The world is safer yet scarier, more advanced yet less connected. So I know there is much from my childhood that my kids will never get to experience. But the fireflies! I will make sure that they get to chase fireflies. 

Things (Mostly Lies) I Tell Myself In Order To Get Through the Last Nine Weeks of School

by Cari

            As humans, we do what we can to survive.  It’s in our chemical makeup.  In the case of our caveman ancestors, they just needed to be able to run faster than the guy next to them.  Today, it’s not quite that serious.  Or violent.  However, as a teacher, getting out of bed and dragging yourself to school during the final quarter of the year, feels about as monumental as outrunning a saber-toothed tiger.  At least at 5:00 a.m. before coffee, it does.  Being that I am a “glass half full” kind of girl most of the time, I have found that some positive self-talk does help lower the anxiety just a bit.  I mean, I’m not standing in front of the mirror in the mornings like some kind of wackadoo, telling myself how awesome I am, but at night, before I lay my head down on my pillow and set that God-forsaken alarm clock, I like to get my mind right.  Or lie to myself.  Call it what you will.  Either way, here are just a few of the things I tell myself when I am facing the final nine weeks of the school year with Seniors who are drowning in Senioritis and freshmen who think they are already done:

• ·      This didn’t kill you the last (insert number of years you’ve been teaching) times you had to do it.

• ·      Most, if not all, of your professional development is over.  There’s something to celebrate. 

• ·      Other people are about to work the next nine weeks and NOT get the summer off.  It could always be worse. 

• ·      There will be so much testing going on, you will probably only have to do about six days of actual teaching.  You can handle six days.  Hopefully.

• ·      You’ve done such a bangup job of teaching the previous three quarters that your kids will be fine no matter how many days you end up flying by the seat of your pants.  Not that teachers do that.  Ever.  I’m just sayin’.

• ·      By the time you factor in all of the end-of-year awards and trips, you will only see about half your kids most of the time, anyway.  Their numbers will be weakened, thus their complaining will not be as loud.

• ·      It could be worse.  You could be starting the second nine weeks tomorrow.  That would mean you only had a quarter behind you, but now, you only have a quarter to go!  (Try not to be too impressed with my ability to do simple math.)

And last, but definitely not least…

• ·      There are (insert number of remaining leave days here) days that you can take off when none of the above motivators are doing the trick. 

In all seriousness, we are in the final laps.  We are no longer learning names and assigning seats, but we are the masters of our classrooms.  By this time, not only do we know Little Johnny’s name, but we know what class period he’s in, who he can and cannot sit beside, and all about his obsession with Japanese Anime’.  We’ve got this licked.  We’ve survived this before, and we’ll do it again.  I have faith in us.  And Jesus.  And coffee.  Lots of coffee.