tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-67639721335414266542024-03-12T21:27:36.298-05:00Momentary LogicAn informal collection of "Maladaptive Brain Activity Changes", since "Brain Farts" sounds too coarse. :)Shawn Graberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06442043972170630969noreply@blogger.comBlogger101125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6763972133541426654.post-41865994036891119032020-03-25T19:56:00.000-05:002020-03-28T21:11:18.788-05:00Windows of HeavenHello my friends, it's been quite some time since I've sat down to write.
Many of you faithful blog readers have encouraged me to write again, and I
thank you. I know others refrained from prodding or persisting that I write due
to the immense strain my family is under, and I thank you as well.<br />
<br />
Since we last visited, my wife Heidi has been on the mend. There was a short
stent of narcotics addiction and weaning off. She's been so very brave. She no
longer has any phantom limb pain from her right-arm amputation but there is
still much physical pain. Her stump is full of nerves and they waste no time
screaming when she's bumped, jostled, or works as vigorously as she'd like. Our
two young boys keep her remaining hand very full. We have not yet fitted Heidi
with a prosthetic arm, on account that her excellent state-provided health
insurance was terminated and her arm is still too sensitive for the fittings.
We have two nannies that come once a week to help with our house and the kids
and various projects, funded through the generous donations of hundreds of
people that came to our aid in the weeks and months after the accident.<br />
<br />
Heidi and I are homeowners now. We moved into our home in July 2019 and purchased
it in November from my Grandpa Graber. It's the home I've wanted to live in
since I was a young boy. It's just up the hill from my workplace and my
parents' home in rural Iowa. Often times I'm overwhelmed with this massive,
complex machine that I live inside, but mostly I love it.<br />
<br />
If I were able to make this into a "Choose Your Adventure" book,
I'd give you the opportunity to select the next topic you'd like to know more
about.<br />
<br />
Perhaps the "Learn Along with Shawn as He Restores an 1800's-era
Brunswick Billiard Table"<br />
<br />
And "<a href="https://unkashawn.blogspot.com/2020/03/i-wrote-childrens-book-and-am-thinking.html">I
Wrote a Children's Book and am Thinking of Publishing It</a>"<br />
<br />
Or "Mighty Heidi and How She Conquers Day-to-Day Activities
Single-Handedly"<br />
<br />
Maybe "<a href="https://unkashawn.blogspot.com/2020/03/how-to-shop-for-lawn-mowers-when-you.html">How
to Shop for Lawn Mowers When You Would Literally Rather Do Anything Else</a>"<br />
<br />
Also “The Great Graberly Thanksgiving Exodus to Oregon”<br />
<br />
And "Happy New Year! I Forgot to Write This Three Months Ago"<br />
<br />
Perhaps at some point I'll turn each and every one of those headlines into a
navigable link to a separate post. But instead I'll write about the trip that
Heidi and I just went on.<br />
<br />
In July 2019, Heidi approached me with a vacation idea. "What do you
think about going on Sail & Sing's cruise?" she asked me. I was
nonplussed. Heidi had lost her arm just two months before and we were still
recovering. The community had rallied to help us with a liberal outpouring
of money, gifts, cards, helpful tips and advice, offers of service, breast milk
for Canon and much more. At one point there were so many people offering a hand
to do anything we needed, I suggested to Heidi that I might recruit one group
to dig holes in the yard and have another group fill them back in. We were completely
overwhelmed with the amazing response of loving family, friends, neighbors,
distant relatives and complete strangers. With the money that was coming in
through various fundraisers came new responsibilities. Some of our friends had experienced
a life-altering accident and the benevolent response of a Mennonite community.
They shared that some of the money they received had unspoken expectations tied
to the gift; expectations they knew nothing about until they had spent the money
on something else that they needed. The donors felt slighted and it caused sensitive,
wealthy feathers to be ruffled. Heidi and I were told to be cautious about ruffling
those feathers, because it may negatively impact future fundraisers. If the
community thinks that someone is going to spend the donation money foolishly,
they might not give as freely. With the looming threat of unspoken expectations
swirling in my mind, I set out to spend the donation funds as fiscally
responsible as possible. Heidi’s suggestion to spend donation funds on a
vacation cruise fell solidly into the “foolish” category, in my mind. I mentally
envisioned the community sharpening their pitchforks. <br />
<br />
“That’s nonsense!” another friend scoffed. “If the donor didn’t put specific requirements
on their cash donation, they have no say in how you spend it.” The friend described
that donors could, if they so desired, earmark their donations to go toward particular
items or request that we pay for an object and get reimbursed upon presentation
of a receipt. That approach made more sense to me than openly donating money
while secretly hoping it went toward something specific, but donations are
emotional affairs.<br />
<br />
But Heidi was insistent. She was eager to go on this cruise, slated for February
2020. Not only did she want to go, but she wanted to take our two infant sons
along as well. My snort of incredulity nearly shifted the house foundation.<br />
<br />
“WHAT!” I declared, “Our boys won’t even remember the trip!”<br />
<br />
“Maybe not,” Heidi replied, “but we’ll take lots of photos and show ‘em to
our boys when they get older.”<br />
<br />
In 2016 Heidi and I went on a 4-day cruise through the Bahamas for our
honeymoon. We absolutely loved it. All the food we could possibly eat, gorgeous
tropical islands, snorkeling over a coral reef, loads of fun activities and
beaches and sun, all for the low, low price of $333 per person plus tips plus
required gratuities plus glamour photographs plus shore excursions plus room
service plus virgin piña coladas. It was a delightful experience and we both
wanted to go again someday.<br />
<br />
“Steve Stutzman’s whole family is gonna be singing on this cruise!” Heidi informed
me.<br />
<br />
A Sail & Sing cruise (which my brain transposes into “Sing & Sail” every
time. Why does it feel shorter?) is just like a regular, normal cruise but hosted
by a Christian outfit that coordinates entertainment from groups like Gospel
Express singing families and the ventriloquist Ryan & Friends. Not every
passenger would be part of the Sail & Sing group; Royal Caribbean’s Allure
of the Seas could hold 6,000 passengers and 2,000 crew. Sail & Sing had 750
tickets available. But it would be an opportunity to fellowship (i.e. suntan) with
likeminded believers and perhaps even witness to the unsuspecting heathens that
would be trapped beside us on the high seas with nowhere to escape. Heidi had
grown up listening to Steve Stutzman’s family sing. Tanisha, the eldest
daughter, is one of our dearest friends and was planning to move out of state.
Heidi was eager to reconnect with Tanisha, who had lived just down the street
from us before she and her husband and their two darling babies relocated to
Pennsylvania.<br />
<br />
“Absolutely not!” I thundered, “Do you really think this trip is worth FIVE
of our honeymoon cruises?” I was critically eyeballing the cruise ticket prices
in the Sail & Sing brochure. Owen would turn two the day before the ship’s
departure, and would require a full-price ticket. Canon would be just shy of 9
months old and would require a full-price ticket, minus $200 since he wouldn’t
be eating any of the food. We would have to purchase a larger cabin since there
would technically be four of us staying together. Heidi wanted a cabin with a
balcony view of the ocean, which was an additional upgrade. Pitchforks danced
in my peripheral vision.<br />
<br />
Meanwhile, Heidi was persistent. I wanted so desperately to provide her a restful
getaway. Things had been stressful with recovery, heavy doses of pain
medications, and the subsequent addiction. Heidi fought bravely to wean off the
powerful narcotics but it was truly miserable. She no longer had phantom pains
shooting error messages to her brain, but her stump was still incredibly sensitive
and painful. She had trouble sleeping. As funds poured in, we converted our
house’s existing deck into a screened-in porch to give Heidi the peaceful
sanctuary that she had been dreaming about. But a cruise? I fought with Heidi
about it to the point that when the topic would come up, we’d both be in tears
before long. She had a deep peace about going and was assured that Jesus was telling
us that we should take the trip. I was hearing nothing and refused to consider
it. I was a complete bully. After two weeks of arguing, Heidi said softly “I
give up. If you don’t want to go, we won’t go.” She had been worn down by my negativity.
I couldn’t afford this trip, so therefore it was out of the question. But now
that I saw how devastated Heidi was with the idea that we wouldn’t go, I began
to pray. I should have been praying long before that point, but I realized that
maybe I was completely off track only after telling Heidi “NO” the fifteenth time.
She had humbled herself and submitted to my decision, so now it was my turn. I
humbled myself and asked Jesus, “Should we go on this cruise?”<br />
<br />
He replied, “Why not?”<br />
<br />
Why <b><i>not?</i></b> Six thousand reasons why not! I thought of all the
things that could be done with the money this trip would cost, all the
medications or physical therapy classes or handy kitchen utensils that are made
for single-handed use. I could feel the community out there, silently expecting
me to build a handicap-accessible bathroom or something. I sincerely doubted
the community would humor me if I told them “You can’t spell ‘stewardship’
without ‘expensive vacation cruise to the Caribbean.’”<br />
<br />
But I realized in His simple query the depth of my selfishness and fear. I
was saying “No” to my wife because I was afraid of what people might think or
say. I was afraid I would be labeled a “poor steward”. I felt that my wife
wanted things that I couldn’t provide myself, so therefore I wasn’t enough for
her. So many lies and fears straight from Hell had coursed through my mind that
I was completely blocked off from saying “Yes” to a new adventure. I repented
to Jesus and to my wife.<br />
<br />
In August 2019 Heidi and I made a non-refundable down-payment for our cruise
tickets. The full balance of the tickets would be required of us in a few months.<br />
<br />
I wish I could say I was fully on board after that moment, but I still had
huge reservations. Get it, on board? Reservations? I’ll see myself out now. The
truth is, I was still deeply pessimistic about the entire trip. Heidi began to
prepare for the trip but had to drag my grudging, reluctant behind along with
her each step of the way.<br />
<br />
The children would need passports in order to travel outside of the country.
I downloaded and printed the required forms and filled them out. We traveled to
our local Post Office to submit the forms and get our photos taken. We elected
for passcards for the boys, since they were slightly cheaper than full passports
and would be good for travel into Canada, Mexico, and the Caribbean, just as
long as we didn’t fly. The passcards are good for 5 years, so we elected to
make Owen wait until he turns 7 to fly to Switzerland. Heidi needed a new
passport, since her maiden name was still on her existing one. Mine was set to
expire two months after we returned, and since the cruise line requires a
passport valid for up to 6 months after the end of the trip, I got a new
passport as well. It made no sense to me at the time. I had no intention of playing
hooky off the ship and hiding in Puerto Rico for a couple months. But seeing the
cruise ships wandering around the ocean for weeks waiting to dock during the
COVID-19 epidemic showed the wisdom behind this extra precaution.<br />
<br />
Heidi began to compile packing lists. We would need a suitcase each for her
and myself, along with a shared suitcase for the boys. We’d have to take along
formula and diapers and a Pack ‘N Play for the boys to sleep in. The list began
to grow ominously. Because we would be driving down to Florida, we didn’t have
to stress about airline luggage restrictions. But the amount of baby furniture
that we would need to hoist along was flaring my stress back up to its pre-prayer
levels.<br />
<br />
One evening, Steve and Dorcas Stutzman called us. They asked if we were in
the mood for some good news, and we said “yes please!” They explained that some
mysterious benefactors had paid for our cruise tickets. The entire remaining
balance.<br />
<br />
Heidi and I cried.<br />
<br />
We don’t know the names of the people that paid for our tickets. All we know
is that they live in a different state. They had received a word from God to
buy us tickets with the specific instruction to buy tickets for the boys as well.
Dorcas recounted that the benefactors weren’t even sure if we’d be interested
in the trip, and would Dorcas please secretly find out if we were interested?
Dorcas, knowing that we had already placed a down-payment, laughed and told
them that yes, she was pretty sure we were interested.<br />
<br />
How amazing is that? Heidi had heard from the Father and obeyed. <br />
These random strangers had heard from the Father and obeyed. <br />
If either of us had not obeyed, we would have missed out on such a sweet,
incredible gift.<br />
<br />
Lavish. Extravagant. <br />
<br />
But isn’t that how our Father in Heaven operates? Isn’t that the God we read
about in the Bible? <br />
Planning for the trip began in earnest. I no longer felt like I was dragging
around a ball and chain of fiscal responsibility. We would drive down to Ft.
Lauderdale, Florida where the ship was departing from. We’d leave with plenty
of time because Ft. Lauderdale is right next to Miami, where the Superbowl was
to be hosted. The Superbowl was taking place the same day as the ship departure,
so the hotels and highways were sure to be jammed full.<br />
<br />
We left in the wee hours of Friday morning, while the boys were still
asleep. We nestled them into their car seats in our tidily-packed-but-crammed-full
van and set out. The GPS told us we had 1,462 miles to go, which should take 21
hours and zero minutes.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhERLoYaPUQtwVqqUFtIS7TnnKn_Fdsoyda-jpsZ9X9feguRDQZtenIwGMayndPAEPM1hgx2faKDUFZWmRQheVXOeMIn4X5uYscAoqElSbT8hVh20Uo8kRK5VH-Z0hrMN9qCHcbCUH9zEkT/s1600/IMG_0585.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhERLoYaPUQtwVqqUFtIS7TnnKn_Fdsoyda-jpsZ9X9feguRDQZtenIwGMayndPAEPM1hgx2faKDUFZWmRQheVXOeMIn4X5uYscAoqElSbT8hVh20Uo8kRK5VH-Z0hrMN9qCHcbCUH9zEkT/s320/IMG_0585.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i> Owen (left) and Canon (right) buckled in for adventure. </i></div>
<br />
For those of you who have traveled with infants, I commend you. I <i>understand</i>
you. My parents traveled with me when I was an infant and it’s a miracle that
they didn’t pitch me out the window. My boys were absolute champions but it was
taxing on all of us. Heidi had made a sweet little bed in the middle of the van
for us to take turns sleeping, but since the children needed lots of love and
attention, it felt like we were taking turns babysitting. The boys were
confused why they had to be restrained by five-point harnesses for hours on end
instead of getting to run wild and free with the wind caressing their tiny
little leg hairs. We stopped often and the hours trudged by.<br />
<br />
As evening approached, we elected to stop at a Cracker Barrel for supper. Those
of you with infants know how much of an ordeal it is to take them into a
sit-down restaurant on a normal day, but these kids had been wedged in the van
for nearly 14 hours which cranked the frazzle factor up to eleven. I felt
guilty for knowingly releasing two crotchety sirens into a public eating area,
but Heidi and I were emotionally strained and ready to be anywhere but inside
the Cherriot. Owen was also glad to be out of the van; I supervised him as he
ran laps through the Cracker Barrel gift shop, touching every stuffed animal and
children’s book. Shortly, we were escorted to a table in the middle of the
restaurant. It was Friday night and the place was hoppin’. I would have
preferred a corner booth so we could hide our smelly, travel-worn bodies but was
glad we were seated so quickly. Heidi struck up a conversation with the older couple
seated at the neighboring table while I followed Owen through the restaurant. He
found a checker board and within the first ten seconds lost a checker. Where
did it go? Did he throw it into the neighboring booth? Did it roll across the
floor and disappear into the kitchen? Did he pitch it into the cheery fire roaring
in the nearby hearth? I took him back to our table after thoroughly scouring
the area to no avail. Heidi was busily chatting with the neighboring couple,
who were eating dinner with their adult daughter. They were from Florida on
their way to Illinois and found it delightful that we were making the opposite
trajectory. I asked them how they managed to raise their daughter to an adult
without strangling her when she was a child. They laughed heartily. They blessed
our journey and said sweet things about our boys before getting up to leave. A
few minutes later, the daughter rushed back to our table and gave us $40 in
Cracker Barrel gift cards. <br />
<br />
Heidi and I cried into our mashed potatoes.<br />
<br />
The food was good but it sat heavily in our stomachs. The thought of
continuing through the night felt overwhelming. We were approaching Atlanta and
quickly called up some friends that lived just outside of the city. They graciously
opened their home to us even though we had only given them an hour’s notice. We
arrived at their place close to midnight. We had been on the road for 17 hours
and still had 9 hours to go. I wondered if there was a setting on my GPS for “traveling
with infants” that would automatically add 6 hours to the total journey. Maybe
it was near the “avoid ferries and toll roads” menu?<br />
<br />
We slept heavily and left our friends’ home in the morning after eating the
fantastic breakfast they whipped up for us. It was Saturday, February 1<sup>st</sup>,
Owen’s 2<sup>nd</sup> birthday. Even though we had celebrated his birthday with
cake, presents and family a few days prior, I still felt horrible strapping him
back into his car seat. Another day of grueling travel was not fair to him,
even if he didn’t know it was his birthday. As I tightened his seatbelts, Owen
looked pleadingly up at me as if to say, “Please Dad, don’t make me sit in this
chair any longer.” Our friends told us to stop back in on our way home, after we
returned from the cruise. We said goodbye and told them we’d take them up on
their offer.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirPJCSrngKcSbp5yV-Vqd6qGZuCydN7-rSsCee_cYPDjQbvNG2_SAEVqKuMcN9OaH9NArkSVgAJUB241n1e_9z7zcku_zhihpAyJwrIwsPSVP2CGu4NXZGlU6bOrmCWh136swTWQ3BODj4/s1600/IMG_0591.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirPJCSrngKcSbp5yV-Vqd6qGZuCydN7-rSsCee_cYPDjQbvNG2_SAEVqKuMcN9OaH9NArkSVgAJUB241n1e_9z7zcku_zhihpAyJwrIwsPSVP2CGu4NXZGlU6bOrmCWh136swTWQ3BODj4/s320/IMG_0591.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Sweet little birthday boy. Thank you for </i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>making the best of a long, weary trip.</i> </div>
<br />
For lunch we stopped at a Chick-Fil-A with a play place to let Owen eat
chicken nuggets and burn off some energy. A grandmother watching us eat slipped
a $20 bill to Heidi. We cried again.<br />
<br />
By evening we were nearing our destination and the very last edge of our
ragged nerves. God had provided so abundantly during our trip, but couldn’t He
have just teleported us to Florida? And what was up with these paper straws?
The entire state of Florida had switched from plastic to paper. I’m a huge fan
of nature, conservation, and sustainable plastic use but each paper straw that
smugly disintegrated halfway through my beverage and left a gooey membrane on
my lips made me want to personally choke a turtle. I often share drinks with
Owen but his habit of biting straws mangled the paper ones and left them
unusable.<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">We stopped in Port St. Lucie for supper and to
purchase a few items we had left behind at home, namely extra bottles for Canon
and a small trash can for the van. I had emptied the trash can in the house but
forgot to reinstall it before we left on our trip. The small grocery mart that
we visited didn’t have mini wastebaskets but they had cleaning buckets, so we
bought one of those along with some garbage bags that would fit it, more or
less. Near the grocery mart was a pizza place that was no more than a hole in
the wall. The interior was dimly lit and grungy but the scents of fresh pizza were
delightful. Heidi and I sat down to order some pizza. It became quickly
apparent that customers only stopped at the restaurant long enough to get their
pizza to go; they had ordered ahead of time and were here just to pick it up.
The dining area could hold maybe 20 people and we were the only ones that were
going to be dining in. While we waited for our pizza to arrive, I decided to
change Owen’s diaper. I took him to the back of the restaurant, down a tight
hallway stacked high with empty pizza boxes and into a tiny, cramped closet
that was the bathroom. There was nowhere to set Owen down to change him, so I
turned back around and returned to our table. I decided to change his diaper
right there. After all, he was just wet and my diaper-changing skills had vastly
improved over the past months. Heidi could still change diapers but it was
labor-intensive to do it single-handedly. I would be quick, like a NASCAR pit
crew. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Well, I wasn’t quick enough. The owner/head chef came
boiling out of the kitchen and chewed me out for changing my son on the table.
I understood his anger; no restaurant owner wants bare buns on their eating
surfaces, especially when those surfaces get cleaned only once a month. I apologized
to the man. I did not confront him about his restaurant’s lack of OSHA-approved
baby-changing stations. Those were made from plastic, right? The State had probably
outlawed them. Soon enough the pizza arrived hot, fresh and delicious; we ate it
in silence and left. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">We finally arrived in Ft. Lauderdale Saturday evening
and stopped at the first hotel that we found. It had taken us nearly 40 hours
to get from our home to the hotel. I paid a premium for a room but was glad
that there was even a vacancy, since we were close to the interstate and only a
few miles from Miami and the Superbowl. I also paid to park my van at the hotel
for the week while we’d be gone; the hotel offered a free shuttle service to and
from the cruise ships and their parking was $8 per day rather than the $15 per day
if we parked at the docks. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Heidi and I put the boys to sleep, showered, and
tagged our luggage with little identification papers that would tell the
porters which room to deliver the bags to once we got to the ship. Our boarding
time was noon on Sunday, so we slept in and grabbed a leisurely breakfast at
the hotel. Their orange juice was truly fantastic. All orange juice should taste
that rich and fresh. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The shuttles were running behind. Not so much that it
would be an issue, but enough that we started getting antsy milling around in
the hotel lobby. It was nice to see palm trees and sunshine but we were ready
to just BE somewhere rather than in between. I found a small foam football in
the parking lot and tossed it back and forth with Owen while we waited. </span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJY0fCuVFD6P-i8SiFpnIAGUwNIvg_-ssECJKd_E2XIJMOuoSS6hJWOORueh898C71CAS236Ia-2NaYLBiIn8s9cCh0rcxKVsT7Zd3KpkeLXUGn1zq0Lv88Cv4r_C3JrrHrONJJcaQO7Ds/s1600/IMG_5632.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJY0fCuVFD6P-i8SiFpnIAGUwNIvg_-ssECJKd_E2XIJMOuoSS6hJWOORueh898C71CAS236Ia-2NaYLBiIn8s9cCh0rcxKVsT7Zd3KpkeLXUGn1zq0Lv88Cv4r_C3JrrHrONJJcaQO7Ds/s320/IMG_5632.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Waiting in the hotel lobby for our shuttle.</i><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> </span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Finally, our shuttle arrived and escorted us to the
ship. At this point, neither Heidi or I had seen the ocean and we were
competing with each other to see it first. Florida is totally flat so we were
able to see the ships before we spied the water. I shouted “Ocean!” a
millisecond before Heidi. She claimed I had an unfair height advantage. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The ship boarded from early morning until early
afternoon, with departure at 4pm. The boarding is staggered so that you don’t
have to compete with 6,000 other humans trying to swarm the gangplanks at the
same time. We were assigned a boarding time of 12pm and arrived around 12:30pm.
It was time for the boys’ naps and they were reminding us very loudly that they
were tired and displeased. Even with the staggered boarding times, there was
still what felt like thousands of people trying to force their way through the
security checkpoint. When the boarding staff saw Heidi’s amputation and our two
little megaphones, we were directed to take the handicap entrance. We cut
straight past 400 people and went through security right away. Canon was
strapped to Heidi’s chest while she carried a diaper bag and rolled two suitcases.
I was rolling a suitcase, carrying Owen, a backpack and two Pack ‘N Plays. We
had to shuffle our loads or just sprawl the items across the hangar floor each
time we were asked to display boarding passes or passports. I was frantically
searching for a luggage drop-off location but found none. I should have taken
the time to find it, but we were just caught up in the sea of humanity flowing
toward the ship, struggling to prevent separation from our children or each
other. Every staff member we asked about luggage drop-off would shrug and act like
they had no clue. This is one of the low moments of the trip. We carried our
luggage and two screaming children up six flights of gang-plank ramp, down the
entire length of 2009’s largest cruise ship ever made, and to our cabin. We
were sweating, miserable, and totally exhausted by the time we got there. The
room was small and had a twin bed and a couch, with a glass door that opened up
onto a tiny balcony. We flopped our luggage inside and put the boys down for
their naps. I was in a foul mood. It had been over two days of back-breaking,
mind-numbing work to get my family to our room on the boat. The boat that I
still felt guilty about lodging in. </span></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>A view of our room on the cruise ship</i></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> <i>The ocean-view balcony that we were so dearly grateful for. <br />While the children took naps, Heidi and I would </i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><i>escape to the balcony. It's tough to see, but that's a <br />glass half-wall. The boys enjoyed smearing their <br />hands and faces on the glass. </i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The next seven days were a flurry of activities,
events, island hopping, and more food consumption than a possum at a potluck.
Heidi and I lugged the children around the ship, which slowly became more and
more familiar to us as the days progressed. We became acquainted with the
waitstaff that took care of us each day, cleaning our room, serving our meals,
and changing out our soggy towels. Seri was our head dinner server. He was from
Thailand and dearly missed his grandchildren. Nayeli was one of the staff
members on the pool deck. She was from Mexico and helped me with my halting Spanish.
We had a good laugh when I mixed up the word “towel” for “everyone”. We found
fun little nooks for Owen to run and play, but failed to find the actual
children’s playground until the last hours of the last day that we were on the
ship. There were comedy clubs, singing events, an underwater opera, ice skating,
zip lines, fresh donuts, ice cream machines, hot tubs, volleyball, and a pizza
parlor that served hot, delicious thin-crust pizza for free until 3am. When we
first wandered through the ship, Heidi and I couldn’t distinguish which restaurants
were complimentary and which would require an additional charge, but we soon
sorted it out when we realized all we had to do was follow the large congregations
of Amish and Mennonites. They knew where the deals were. </span></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Canon often spent the day in a chest carrier.</i><br />
</div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><i> Owen enjoying some breakfast on the 14th floor at the Windjammer Cafe. </i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><i>The breakfast buffet and lunch buffet were free, and we loved our meals there. </i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><i>The staff were especially sweet to our boys, and we discovered many of </i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><i>them had young children back at home that they dearly missed.</i></span></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Heidi's plate has breakfast food from four different cultures.</i><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><i> </i></span><br />
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<i>Formal night. Heidi looked stunning. </i></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Each day there were planned events for the Sail &
Sing group. We had to be wearing our name-tag lanyards, which were our entrance
badges to the events. This ensured that only our group would be together at the
concerts and shows. There were various denominations represented. Heidi and I
were surprised at the amount of Amish aboard. We were told that there were ten Amish
couples that were spending their honeymoon with our group. I only knew a
handful of the people at the event, but I stumbled across Lester, a dear Canadian
friend that I had no idea would be on the ship. He and I had a good chat
catching up with each other’s lives. </span></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>One of the evening sessions with Sail & Sing. The <br />stage was off to the left. That blue floor rolled away to <br />expose an ice skating rink.</i><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> </span></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Heidi, strolling on the boardwalk. There is a children's slide to the left that Owen loved. The boardwalk had delicious donuts and an open theater that faced the rear of the ship</i><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> </span></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Owen loves forks and spoons, so having three forks and </i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>two spoons (and a fancy dinner napkin) excited him </i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>greatly. A butter knife kept Canon well occupied.</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"></span><br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Although there were other families with young children,
the majority of the passengers on our cruise ship were senior citizens. We were
told that the new trend in senior living is “cruise ship hopping”. Rather than living
in a condo or rental somewhere down South, senior citizens are jumping from one
cruise ship to the next during the winter months. The food is prepared by
chefs, the rooms are cleaned daily; it’s a fully-staffed resort that takes you
around the ocean for a week. We met one couple that told us they had just gotten
off a 5-day cruise on the Princess. “The food on this ship is much better,”
they confided in us. The food was truly delicious. Heidi ordered a plate of
escargot one evening and fell in love with them. I wasn’t as quick to try them,
but Heidi encouraged me to try some. They were far more delicious than I
expected. The snails were bathed in a buttery garlic sauce and paired well with
the dinner rolls. “You just can’t think about the shape while you eat them,”
Heidi advised.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">One day I was sitting in the open-air central park on
the ship. Real trees stretching toward the sky provided shade over strategically-placed
park benches. Fake birds chirped and tittered through hidden speakers in the
foliage. Heidi and I watched as an older woman berated a buss boy. She launched
into one tirade after another about various slights that had happened to her
that day. We’d catch her saying “AND FURTHERMORE…” as she harangued the
employee about things that just weren’t quite up to her satisfaction. The muscles
in my body tensed as I coiled, ready to spring into action. Heidi wasn’t sure I
should intervene, but I could tell this woman had nothing but time on her hands
and complaints on her brain. The buss boy was not the cause of her troubles; he
was just the closest available set of eardrums. I scooped up Owen under my arm and
ran over to the duo. “Excuse me sir,” I said, interrupting the woman, “could I
quick ask you a question?” The woman looked at me, down to the small child
clutched under my arm, and quickly decided that my needs were more pressing
than her own. Her face brightened as she said, “Gotta go!” She turned around
and swiftly disappeared. The buss boy offered her a kind farewell and turned to
me, genuine help and concern in his eyes, and said with a thick accent, “What
can I do for you, sir?” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“Oh,” I replied “I don’t have a question.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The buss boy seemed extremely puzzled. “You…don’t have
a question?” <br />
<br />
“No, I just wanted to rescue you from that lady.” <br />
<br />
“Oh,” he replied, still confused. “She is no problem. It is my job to listen. I
listen to her, no problem.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I thanked him for being so sweet to her, patiently
letting her chide him for things he had no control over or responsibility for.
I told him he was free to get back to whatever he needed to do. He thought for
a while and then it finally dawned on him what I was up to; that I had chased
off that lady by asking him to help me. “OHHH!” He said, beaming. “You have a question
but you don’t have a question!” He seemed to think that was very clever. I did too. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">A lot of the crew on our ship were making <a href="https://www.cruisecritic.com/articles.cfm?ID=261" target="_blank">$4 a day</a> (which
is why many of the staff depend on tips and gratuities).
They hail from countries all over the world. One crew member from the Philippines
told us that he works 9 months away from home a year, but since his wages allow
him to send his children to a private school, it is well worth it. The absurdity
of a wealthy American woman griping to a boy that is paid so little, so far
from home really struck Heidi and I. We set out to be extra grateful (and reflect
that gratitude in our tips) to the staff that waited on us. </span><br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFC4hG0Bg3crOt37ssu8WbzF_u68EdKAK51cf7tNiD2eMqUBNQtiXdbu2rGQeKVZfsqqNWnzrcf2innC9Qh15aV3HXcybr2j6gGCSs96nfYdF82TBaKkKkl4fzjW_f6T5KTd26hNrUH_ed/s1600/IMG_5746.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFC4hG0Bg3crOt37ssu8WbzF_u68EdKAK51cf7tNiD2eMqUBNQtiXdbu2rGQeKVZfsqqNWnzrcf2innC9Qh15aV3HXcybr2j6gGCSs96nfYdF82TBaKkKkl4fzjW_f6T5KTd26hNrUH_ed/s320/IMG_5746.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Owen, offering to share his ice cream with mama Heidi. </i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNYnartGZpFzi9HufcJU-WkTOwzJAcKAUtlfFQbo1ECfHCAMG609CyCedcszSDArhTlMrY2Cox_w1tVCp3ZTcpkWCTz2tdpMi_8bVltTqeQt6LYeSv8bQ0EmcXD3GOUhKygJqcIiOJ6B8i/s1600/IMG_5796.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNYnartGZpFzi9HufcJU-WkTOwzJAcKAUtlfFQbo1ECfHCAMG609CyCedcszSDArhTlMrY2Cox_w1tVCp3ZTcpkWCTz2tdpMi_8bVltTqeQt6LYeSv8bQ0EmcXD3GOUhKygJqcIiOJ6B8i/s320/IMG_5796.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXl1arVfayhEiF6h5BJrFcVfCw-vvDIeSIkuzDYCEV7plRv3Jq8Qb1-arHhckd9ySBKzk-3-fjYvp298R0Dp5ARTfgXoRVja230BGt8ujQDafBaAipWepMjYcPxVlxAfiMaXoKFbRHfehq/s1600/IMG_5799.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXl1arVfayhEiF6h5BJrFcVfCw-vvDIeSIkuzDYCEV7plRv3Jq8Qb1-arHhckd9ySBKzk-3-fjYvp298R0Dp5ARTfgXoRVja230BGt8ujQDafBaAipWepMjYcPxVlxAfiMaXoKFbRHfehq/s320/IMG_5799.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
</div>
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<br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The ship’s first stop was St. Thomas in the Virgin
Islands. I had a lot of good times but that was my favorite day of the entire
trip. Some of the guys chartered a fishing expedition and invited me to join
in. Heidi blessed me going but I turned them down; I wanted to be with my
family on the beach. We got off the ship and wound our way off the pier. On the
sidewalk were enormous iguanas lounging in the sun, waiting for tourists to
share concession food with them. I needed some sunglasses since I had left mine
in Iowa, and wouldn’t you know, vendors were more than glad to sell me a pair
at a premium. We paid for the sunglasses and headed toward the waiting line of
taxis that would take us to anywhere we wanted on the island. The fees were
printed on a large sign to show us what it would cost to go to each destination.
I told the man in charge that we wanted to go to Emerald Beach. He asked how
many of us there were, and I said four. He got up to point us to a taxi and a
taxi driver started waving his arm at us. The man in charge barked at the taxi
driver something to the effect that if he didn’t put his hand down right that
very second there would be harsh and dire consequences that would last for
several generations. The taxi driver sheepishly lowered his hand. The man in
charge sent us toward an older woman that was waiting patiently for passengers.
As we followed her to her taxi, which was a Dodge pickup flatbed with what looked
like a trolley perched on the back, a younger female taxi driver came nearby snipping
and shouting at our taxi driver. She was carrying on about our driver not
having graduated from high school. Our driver stopped, turned to the woman and
replied “Yes, you are right, I never finished high school and you did. But we
are out here doing the same thing anyway!” which promptly shut up the younger
driver. Our driver turned to us with a smile and explained “Every time the boats
come, people start to eat each other. It’s people eating people!” She helped us
get into the back of the taxi/trolley and took us to the beach. We were the
only riders and she could have taken 15 passengers, but the beach was only a
mile away and she was more than glad to make the journey for just us. She only
charged us for two adults and let the boys ride for free, so I gave her a nice
tip. </span><br />
</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTjOIa1Qovy1gO5D29LNjo5c_YB0Py9wwYjUOs-nIdDnkfaNkkNa_PqxFv5nf6SqvubK21WIib2uOUnzu0sFmhzwY6KqHk0d9EEu-IZnwhJY8BHzhJNGkfbdz8WE5ssvarHn2YohN8Y1KO/s1600/IMG_0636.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTjOIa1Qovy1gO5D29LNjo5c_YB0Py9wwYjUOs-nIdDnkfaNkkNa_PqxFv5nf6SqvubK21WIib2uOUnzu0sFmhzwY6KqHk0d9EEu-IZnwhJY8BHzhJNGkfbdz8WE5ssvarHn2YohN8Y1KO/s320/IMG_0636.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Arriving in St. Thomas</i><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">A stocky American approached us as we walked onto the
beach. He was in his 50’s, tanned darker than a walnut, barrel-chested but in
good shape, his white goatee trimmed neatly and his head protected underneath a
red baseball cap. He pointed to the rows of lounge chairs on the beach and
asked us if we’d like to rent one. I wasn’t keen on the idea since my wallet
was still howling about the sunglasses. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“How much do the chairs cost?” I asked. <br />
<br />
“Ten dollars for the whole day.” He replied. <br />
<br />I turned him down but when Heidi and I found a nice spot to set our things, she
quietly asked me to reconsider. “It would be nice to have a spot to put our
things out of the sand,” she said.
I returned to the man and rented two. I was glad that I had, because they
eventually sold out. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfcFkw3oUn66Qjz2OsnrmGY-jZKW3XvwcdUjzlyzuO5_SUeUlTy26n60aX4OLXrRjMwWoUkGP-7RZZyAdsPmfHRxeoLXWmVnfQ_KlFOTJtPyNVYfdwFsWNhNEkJVegdWwCe-yBlazoenaW/s1600/IMG_0651.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfcFkw3oUn66Qjz2OsnrmGY-jZKW3XvwcdUjzlyzuO5_SUeUlTy26n60aX4OLXrRjMwWoUkGP-7RZZyAdsPmfHRxeoLXWmVnfQ_KlFOTJtPyNVYfdwFsWNhNEkJVegdWwCe-yBlazoenaW/s320/IMG_0651.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Owen and Canon sharing a lounge chair in the shade.</i><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> </span><br />
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirvGFHJVlnupYpO4KWEXo0pmLeeeU_2Jb4t4I2JzMHl1cAQ7XwFWnH2ydd6-qmHqlXMxUpgjnbhqyD5Mj_8cmL-p_K0QGKlt-cG6zM8w7VzT7O6-vstfMyIoV03AoJ5jUiXMIZecUMhKL3/s1600/IMG_0652.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirvGFHJVlnupYpO4KWEXo0pmLeeeU_2Jb4t4I2JzMHl1cAQ7XwFWnH2ydd6-qmHqlXMxUpgjnbhqyD5Mj_8cmL-p_K0QGKlt-cG6zM8w7VzT7O6-vstfMyIoV03AoJ5jUiXMIZecUMhKL3/s320/IMG_0652.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Emerald Beach on St. Thomas island. </i><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><i>Two older men yelled at each other
<br />over a beach chair rental misunderstanding under that shade in front of <br />us. The shades were rented out for an extra fee.</i> </span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The beach was packed. One lady told us this was her sixth
visit to the island and this beach was normally her secret getaway. “It’s often
sparsely inhabited.” She said. I looked around at over 3,000 people on the
beach. Loud music was blasting out of stacks of speakers over at the “Grown
& Sexy” beach bash. There were 2,000 passengers on our ship that were part
of that group, which catered to older African Americans that were single and
ready to mingle. They had just happened to choose Emerald beach for their
partying rather than the thirty other beaches on the island. We didn’t mind.
They were rowdy and energetic but treated us kindly and spoke sweetly to our
boys. The sun was shining brightly, the water of Emerald beach was crystal
clear, the children were happy, and Heidi was rested. I found a fist-sized rock
on the bottom of the ocean and spent 45 minutes lifting it with my foot to let Owen
throw it back in. We giggled and cackled and had a swell time. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq-XfvqK4zw7_dS0412ts-_JWmjlBiMy3VjjbQ3Gcq4Vs4lmN3ULnBbpqGoLP8m12YJgT5BN5BqktEd3alWdXC5uqmeKxD4vuU7dYt7cyGboQn2-EAc-xKb4J7E4PoiHTQfKVzpSecn-ah/s1600/IMG_0657.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq-XfvqK4zw7_dS0412ts-_JWmjlBiMy3VjjbQ3Gcq4Vs4lmN3ULnBbpqGoLP8m12YJgT5BN5BqktEd3alWdXC5uqmeKxD4vuU7dYt7cyGboQn2-EAc-xKb4J7E4PoiHTQfKVzpSecn-ah/s320/IMG_0657.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Heidi, swimming in the ocean.</i><br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLBuMSaSe8CKZJLP5jYBWkLgMNzQMGu2S9PGhT1dK1RnvxOb6V7PxuJKh_Rk8BzFHm1fkJPJpcc58oaJdeQ0d_ESg4qBbRAhlpIUfU1kmKpeqpBR52grjwvehlloUjWwaQTDZ7BslCQm3f/s1600/IMG_5744.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLBuMSaSe8CKZJLP5jYBWkLgMNzQMGu2S9PGhT1dK1RnvxOb6V7PxuJKh_Rk8BzFHm1fkJPJpcc58oaJdeQ0d_ESg4qBbRAhlpIUfU1kmKpeqpBR52grjwvehlloUjWwaQTDZ7BslCQm3f/s320/IMG_5744.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
<i>Despite lathering sunscreen on my forehead twice, I still burned to a crisp.</i><br />
<i> </i><i> </i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Our second stop was in San Juan, Puerto Rico. We were
only there for half a day and I would have gladly stayed there much longer.
There was so much to explore, with portions of the Old City still standing 499
years after its founding in 1521. The effects of the recent devastating
hurricanes were still evident on the island, with wind-damaged buildings and trees
stripped bare. The people were bright and friendly though, there was much to do
and lots of tourism dollars to collect. Our cruise ship was one of three docked
there that day. Instead of booking an island excursion with Royal Caribbean (who
priced a bus tour at $79 a person) Heidi and I grabbed a bus on the pier and
rode around the city for $25 a person. The tour took us through Old and New San
Juan and showed us a lot of the interesting, touristy sights. After the tour, Heidi
and I searched earnestly for horchata, a Mexican beverage made with rice water,
milk and cinnamon served over ice. We came up empty-handed. The locals seemed
to know what we were talking about, but gave us conflicting directions. One
would say “try the shop down the road there” and that shop would tell us to go
to another place. We ping-ponged around for a while before giving up. </span></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i> Bus tour through San Juan</i><br />
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJKVnHs68NEKtstei_dHl7XkbNYUenTjBO-Hz8nXsZaQsa7lMKrRHTZ0sF1m71jWNdciku0hXP6m2zQrVJEv33JcRmqTVI2ebPZAzeprNfvecKAqCT0e8YtQk87BqLf_vMm_SeEU13ldKE/s1600/IMG_0661.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJKVnHs68NEKtstei_dHl7XkbNYUenTjBO-Hz8nXsZaQsa7lMKrRHTZ0sF1m71jWNdciku0hXP6m2zQrVJEv33JcRmqTVI2ebPZAzeprNfvecKAqCT0e8YtQk87BqLf_vMm_SeEU13ldKE/s320/IMG_0661.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i> The island commemorates every U.S. President that visits the </i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>island with a life-sized bronze statue. The last one there is Barack Obama. </i><br />
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i> The bus air conditioner struggled to keep up in the tropical heat</i><br />
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> <i>A grassy hill with a massive cemetery and portions of the Old San Juan fortress. </i></span><br />
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<i>Moments after this photo was taken, the iguana slipped off my shoulder and fell. <br />With surprising reflexes, I snatched him out of the air on his <br />way down. The owner was very grateful.</i><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><i> </i></span></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>A man in a large floral shirt let people hold his parrots. There was a long </i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>line of people waiting. The parrots were well-behaved and would cuddle in your arms. </i></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Our ship, the Allure of the Seas. I pronounced it "Owller" instead of "Uh-lure" </i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>because my incorrect pronunciation rolled off the tongue easier. </i></div>
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<i>Poor Heidi puts up with a lot of that. </i></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Our third stop was on Coco Cay, which is a small strip
of land peeking above the surface of the ocean. The island is owned completely
by Royal Caribbean. All of the major cruise lines have their own island, where
they can drop their passengers off on a secluded beach. We went to a similar
setup on Half Moon Cay during our honeymoon cruise with Carnival. The island
has restroom facilities and a huge pavilion where lunch is prepared and served
for free. Royal Caribbean had built an entire water park on the island but it
cost $70 per person to enter. Heidi and I elected to find a beach and sit in the
sun. It was 68 degrees with a brisk wind, which had the island staff all
huddling in thick winter parkas. “This is cold, man!” the 6’ tall, 300lb tram
driver told us. “When it drops below 60 degrees, we all call in sick. We get a
week of sick days each year and we save ‘em for cold days.” </span><br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> <i>The beach on Coco Cay</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbs-Oi6VD0DMfDjTg1QjgjNZChN51GJwjumE4yZ7l5ufClDEH2U3gCDrByyz0o88iyNRX3-Hoq_7wsJL2ekNe9sMvCZ49hw4u2uvgo8rwZUM-mFrDa16D8zgVsJLw3VgEUXtN20Oskw91O/s1600/IMG_5805.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbs-Oi6VD0DMfDjTg1QjgjNZChN51GJwjumE4yZ7l5ufClDEH2U3gCDrByyz0o88iyNRX3-Hoq_7wsJL2ekNe9sMvCZ49hw4u2uvgo8rwZUM-mFrDa16D8zgVsJLw3VgEUXtN20Oskw91O/s320/IMG_5805.JPG" width="240" /></a></i></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><i> This mini pop-up Pack 'N Play was such a lifesaver. </i></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><i>Heidi packed so well for our trip. </i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><i></i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaBKVVkOMbkfOExRB2fWSlGs7VOme0Qhy22_MzWsMhYzUrKSXtEj2EtUawAn_1vNYVKr3Uj_sXkmrGzJZdXui2o33dUOV9egepDdrNxcV0tJv_3275QbTeeMBEeCtNMgroqPNg9UcqE6n4/s1600/IMG_5822.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaBKVVkOMbkfOExRB2fWSlGs7VOme0Qhy22_MzWsMhYzUrKSXtEj2EtUawAn_1vNYVKr3Uj_sXkmrGzJZdXui2o33dUOV9egepDdrNxcV0tJv_3275QbTeeMBEeCtNMgroqPNg9UcqE6n4/s320/IMG_5822.JPG" width="240" /></a></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">We finally returned to Ft. Lauderdale and deboarded.
We let the boat staff take our luggage down. On the shuttle back to the hotel,
Owen started vomiting. He seemed perfectly normal and gave me no warning before
showering himself and me with hot, sticky barf. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Back at the hotel we discovered that someone had
stolen the rear license plate off of our van. I stormed into the office and asked
what they were going to do about it, and they shrugged. The hotel was not
liable for theft or damage. “But I paid good money to have my van stored here!”
I said. “Just call the police and file a report,” the hotel staff advised. I was
ready to go home, not sit around for hours waiting for the police to show up
and say “Yup, sure looks like your license plate is gone.” But I called them
anyway. A kind officer took my statement over the phone and logged a police
report. She made sure that our information was filed so that we wouldn’t get
into trouble for driving around without a license plate. We started homeward. If
you happen to see a vehicle driving around with the Iowa license “IDO4EVR”, let
me know. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Owen continued to vomit. He threw up multiple times on
the drive home and we stopped to get him electrolytes and medicine. He seemed unbothered,
albeit dehydrated, so we did all the worrying for him. We went through almost
all his remaining clean clothing as he vomited on his outfits. We pulled over
onto the side of the interstate to clean him up and stuff the smelly clothing
and blankets into a clean garbage bag. While we were pulled over, a tow truck came
up behind us, lights flashing. The back hatch of our van was up and the side
doors were open. A Hispanic driver hopped out and asked if we needed any
assistance. I told him that my son was sick and we were just cleaning him up. I
thanked him for stopping and then closed my back hatch. The tow truck driver
immediately noticed we didn’t have a license plate. I explained to him what had
happened, how our plate was stolen. I told him that I had another plate on the
front of the van, since our home state of Iowa requires a front and rear
license plate. I had wanted to move the plate from the front to the rear, but
found myself without a screwdriver. I promised to remedy the situation that
evening when we stopped back at our friends’ home in Atlanta. The tow truck driver
said “No problem, I’ll move it for you now.” He swapped the plate in a few
minutes. It didn’t have the registration sticker but we had the phone line and
case number of the report in Florida to help us out if we got pulled over. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">We returned to our friends’ home and stayed the night.
We were so grateful for their sweet hospitality. It was a gift from Heaven. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> </span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1kI4FjD5bOzSZbNGqPUETY26ebUOhQfNUwp4wOxuv8MqFxbp_9BdQ8-sslYRl_-nIzB9KwFlGZOqNCHNSoJttABoxG_FU3XorWoy7fj7R8Qbwo4Tf55YVGyB_4aW8vSnMxZdEpikm2neV/s1600/IMG_5601.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1kI4FjD5bOzSZbNGqPUETY26ebUOhQfNUwp4wOxuv8MqFxbp_9BdQ8-sslYRl_-nIzB9KwFlGZOqNCHNSoJttABoxG_FU3XorWoy7fj7R8Qbwo4Tf55YVGyB_4aW8vSnMxZdEpikm2neV/s320/IMG_5601.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">There were frustrating, tear-filled moments during the
trip but there were so many sweet, restful moments too. Heidi and I felt loved
and lavished. Malachi 3:10 refers to God’s blessings after faithful tithing,
but we felt it directly applied to us during this trip. </span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Bring the full tithe into the storehouse,
that there may be food in my house. And thereby put me to the test, says the
LORD of hosts, if I will not open the windows of heaven for you and pour down
for you a blessing until there is no more need. -Malachi 3:10 ESV</span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The fundraisers, donations, gifts, intercessory prayers,
food items, cards, words of life, meals, and tickets to a vacation cruise all felt
like the windows of Heaven had opened up over Heidi and myself. </span></div>
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<![endif]-->Shawn Graberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06442043972170630969noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6763972133541426654.post-60249563765293890492020-03-22T14:34:00.002-05:002020-03-22T14:34:33.422-05:00I Wrote a Children's Book and am Thinking of Publishing ItMy children's book has been an on-and-off project for quite some time, but I finally sat down and finished the written portion. My relatives keep pestering me to publish it. I haven't illustrated it yet because although I love to doodle, I've never been consistent with my drawings and I would hate for the children to think they were reading about cats at first, only to find at the end of the book they were badgers and horses all along. Here is a little teaser from my book, Titled "It's Raining Cats!" <br />
<br />
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{mso-style-name:"Table Normal";
mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0;
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mso-style-noshow:yes;
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>By morning there were piles of cats<br />
As far as eyes could see<br />
Stuck in every flower pot<br />
And perched in every tree</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>The Farmer didn’t know what to do<br />
He shouted with alarm<br />
He found a herd of angry cats<br />
Had trampled through his farm</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<i>
</i><div class="MsoNormal">
<i>The Baker had lots of bread to sell<br />
Before the cats arrived<br />
Late last night they munched his goods<br />
So he sat down and cried</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<i>
</i><div class="MsoNormal">
<i>The Butcher had been robbed as well<br />
His shop in disarray<br />
He shook his fist at the naughty cats<br />
“I’ll surely make you pay!”</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<i>
</i><div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Cat hair floated through the air<br />
Carried by the breezes<br />
The quiet, restful little town<br />
Was filled with many sneezes</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Dear reader, do you have experience with writing or authoring or publishing or illustrating? Advice and tips would be gladly received<i>. </i></div>
Shawn Graberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06442043972170630969noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6763972133541426654.post-44157842914296969262020-03-22T14:24:00.000-05:002020-03-22T14:24:05.077-05:00How to Shop for Lawn Mowers When You Would Literally Rather Do Anything ElseAh yes, the grass is turning green as Spring arrives. Along with the house, I have a hilly property that spans nearly three acres filled with trees and shrubs, which is why I lean toward a zero-turn model. For many years my grandfather tended to his property with a trusty Walker zero-turn lawn mower. I've always been partial to the Walker brand mowers; I grew up with them since my father owns one as well. But since Heidi was nearly killed by a well-used Walker mower, our families have been less than enthusiastic about me owning one. Heidi has sweetly given me permission to own a Walker if that's what I truly want, but the controls on a Walker are such that it would be impossible for her to operate the mower single-handedly. Some people say "well that's just fine. Heidi shouldn't be on a lawn mower" but I disagree. Heidi is perfectly capable and extremely competent. Even experienced equipment operators get harmed or killed when safeties are bypassed or disabled; I don't hold Heidi responsible for her accident on the lawn mower. So what lawn mowers do you recommend, my dear readers? There are plenty of contenders out there: Husler, Grasshopper, Gravely, John Deere, Cub Cadet...<br /><br />Hello, my name is Shawn. I'm looking for a used zero-turn mower and my budget is $3,000 and a roll of toilet paper. Shawn Graberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06442043972170630969noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6763972133541426654.post-51114819211898225322019-06-30T22:45:00.000-05:002019-07-02T13:51:41.957-05:00An Arm Lost but Not Hope<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Much has happened since I last wrote, as is becoming the
norm. In fact, so much has happened, I don’t think I can even summarize it. I
don’t even plan to; my goal with this post is to briefly recall the accounts of
Friday, June 14<sup>th</sup>: the night my wife lost her right arm to a
lawnmower. <br />
<br />
I had gotten home from work at 5pm, which is unusually early for Summer when
air conditioning work picks up but it had been a cool, breezy day with rain on
the forecast. There had been a lot of rain this Spring and I was finding it
difficult to keep up with the mowing around the farm that Heidi and I were
renting. More like house-sitting; the grand old farmhouse and surrounding barns
were worth more than what we were paying in rent. Along with paying a small
monthly stipend, I was responsible for snow removal and lawn mowing. A large 62”-deck
zero-turn riding mower was provided and it took roughly 5 hours to get the
lawns looking nice and clean again. Because it had rained for nearly two weeks
straight, I would attempt to mow in between cloudbursts. My landlords Kenny and
Mary Beth would stop in to mow as well; it was truly a group effort to combat
the teeming lawns. I was glad for the cool weather and rains; work was a little
bit slower and it allowed me to get home early and spend a little extra time
with my wife and sons. Canon, our second son, was fresh from the hospital. Arriving
three weeks before his due date, Heidi had given birth to Canon by a traumatic
c-section. The surgery itself had gone without a hitch, but we had hoped to
give birth to him naturally so it was our emotions that were traumatized. Heidi
greeted me at the door when I arrived home and said “Excellent timing! You can
get some mowing done before it rains!” Her grin was full of energy that I didn’t
feel myself. “Uhhhhghghghghghg” I exclaimed, trying to invent an excuse to get
out of mowing. It was a Friday night and I just wanted to be lazy. But Heidi
declared that the mowing needed to be done before Mary Beth came swooping in to
help us out again. “It’s our responsibility; let’s do it.” She said. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I headed out to the barn that housed the lawnmowers and
found not just one but two zero-turn mowers sitting inside. The mower I
normally used was sitting there beside an older, slightly smaller model of the
same lawnmower. I raced back into the house. “Hey honey, you wanna be my mowing
buddy? There’s a second mower! Come on out and help me.” Heidi was excited
about it and started strapping Canon into a chest carrier. “No, he’s asleep.
Leave him inside and come out with me!” I said. I had Owen sitting on my lap.
He’s mowed with me before and behaves quite nicely for a 16-month old; sitting
very still with big, comfy earmuffs clamped over his ears. Owen enjoyed mowing with
his daddy. Heidi didn’t want to leave Canon alone in the house while we swooped
around on noisy mowers, so she brought him along. I started up her lawnmower and
showed her how to operate the controls. “Have you driven one of these before?”
I asked her. “Yeah, once I think.” She replied. Her reply didn’t assure me that
she knew what she was up against; these mowers operate differently than other
mowers. The brand is Walker. I’ve waited to share that information until now,
because many people aren’t familiar with the brand. Often when people hear “Walker
mower”, their brains envision a push mower that you walk behind. Not so. Walker
mowers are common around our area and are known to be high-quality zero-turn riding
mowers that leave your lawn looking like the 17<sup>th</sup> fairway of a golf
course. I had grown up using both my grandpa’s and father’s Walker lawnmowers
and was intimately familiar with how they operated. One of their features is
that the same levers that move the lawnmower forward also turn and reverse the
lawnmower, depending on how they’re pulled. Pull the left directional lever
toward yourself, the mower turns left. Pull the right, it turns right. Pull
both together and the mower reverses. The faster you’re going forward, the more
abruptly the lawnmower jerks to a stop and tries to reverse. The lawnmower’s
speed is controlled by a throttle lever which is operated by the right hand. The
left hand holds on to the two directional levers. To reverse, one would
normally bring the throttle back all the way and then reverse using the directional
levers. The mower is designed with the cutting deck in the front. This way, the
mower can quickly and easily mow around trees, bushes, and other obstacles.
Heidi hopped on her lawnmower and was soon dashing around the property mowing
like a champ. We mowed sections together so I could keep an eye on her. Several
times, Heidi yanked the mower into reverse too quickly, which caused her mower
to buck. I stopped her and told her that she couldn’t do that; my stern,
worried glare bouncing off her infectious grin. She was having way too much fun
to be intimidated by a jerky little lawnmower. “Okay!” She hollered. “I’ll be
careful!” And she was. She quickly got the hang of the mower’s behavior and
began to mow like a seasoned champ. Canon slept peacefully on her chest as we
raced hither and yon. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The wind was picking up as the sun began to set. It was
nearing 7:30pm and I was ready to call it a day. We were almost finished with
the yards; there were two left. I decided to call it quits after the lawn that
we were working on, which was a hilly section behind one of the barns. I was
mowing behind one of the barns and came back around the corner of the building
to find my wife underneath her mower. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My heart stopped. <br />
<br />
I killed the blades on my mower and deposited Owen on the ground.<br />
<br />
I ran. <br />
<br />
Heidi was screaming; her right arm was shattered, torn, and mangled. The hand
was untouched, attached to the rest of the arm by skin and ligaments. She was
laying on her stomach in a growing pool of blood. The lawnmower was still
trying to push her down a hill but the blades were stopped. I pushed the
throttle back to its stop so that the mower would stop pushing Heidi. The mower
deck was on her back, so I lifted it and pushed against the mower to try backing
it up the hill. My wife was screaming for me to get Canon; she had fallen on
top of him and he had gone silent for a moment. She was afraid that she killed
him. I pushed the mower off Heidi and reached for Canon. He was screaming, the
breath returning to him after it was knocked out of his lungs. I pulled him out
of the chest carrier. The legs of his little blue onesie were soaked crimson
with blood. I had no phone with me and I remembered that Heidi’s phone was inside.
I screamed for Heidi to stay with me, please Oh God just stay with me as I ran back
to the house. I grabbed her phone and dialed 911, blubbering and sobbing to the
dispatcher that my wife had been in an accident. I was still gripping Canon,
who was shouting and crying. The dispatcher heard me blubber “lawnmower
accident” and “blood” and heard the baby crying, so she sent every available
emergency response unit within a 10-mile radius. I ran back to Heidi but my
call with 911 dropped due to poor cell service in that section of the yard. I
managed to get a bar of service and call back. I was quickly transferred to the
dispatcher that I had been talking with, who calmly helped me apply a clean
cloth to Heidi’s bleeding shoulder. I had removed my belt in case I needed to
make a tourniquet, but the dispatcher told me to hold off; since paramedics were
on the way. Heidi was calming <i>me</i> down at this point, telling me that
everything was going to be okay. I was in hysterics, bawling and sobbing and
screaming. I had prided myself in times past for keeping a cool head under
duress, but I found myself overwhelmed with the sense that I was losing my
wife. She was very white but still conscious. “Check on Canon, please,” She
said.<br />
<br />
I ran over to where I had set Canon down in the grass in order to try
reconnecting with the 911 dispatcher. Canon was squalling and all four limbs
were moving. I pulled open his onesie and found no scratch on his body. The
blood on his onesie was from Heidi. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My landlords Kenny and Mary Beth arrived first. They had been
close by and heard the call go out over emergency frequencies. Kenny is a
firefighter and once he heard the familiar address, he came immediately. He
found us in the yard far from the driveway and was able to direct the ambulance
and first responders to our location. The first responders checked Canon and determined
he was in good shape, but recommended that I take him to the hospital for further
evaluation. A paramedic placed a tourniquet on Heidi’s right shoulder and, once
I thought it was tight, cinched it two twists further. Heidi screamed and
screamed. I was grateful I had not tried to rig a tourniquet by myself, because
mine would have been far too loose to do any good. A paramedic asked me if I’d
like Heidi transported by helicopter or ambulance. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
“Which do you recommend?” I asked him. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
“Fastest way possible.” He replied. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
“Air Care, please.” I said. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
As it turns out, the ambulance was faster. Heidi would have to be stabilized
before she could be transported by helicopter, so the paramedics opted for
ambulance. It was a short trip to the University Hospital; roughly 20 minutes
if you have to obey traffic signs and speed limits. The Air Care helicopter circled
the field next to our home and left without landing. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Neighbors showed up to take care of the boys. Canon was still
softly crying but was warm and cozy in the arms of one woman. Owen, who had
contented himself to play in the yard with his large earmuffs on, was oblivious
during the screaming. Heidi told me later that when I had run into the house,
Owen had come over to her and she was afraid that he would see her mangled arm.
“I wasn’t able to hide it,” she sobbed to me as she recounted “I prayed, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>‘Jesus, shield his eyes.’” Her prayer
answered, Owen was more interested in her lawnmower, and he had crawled over to
inspect it. Now with flashing lights and nearly 20 people in the yard, Owen was
getting very sleepy. I carried him into the house as Heidi was being loaded
into the ambulance. I set him down in his crib to go to sleep. Some friends of
ours had arrived and stayed by his crib, singing to him and reading stories to
him. I collected a few things for Canon and hopped in my dad’s waiting van to
be taken to the hospital. I had felt that I would be able to drive myself but
the paramedics told me I was not allowed to drive myself to the hospital. On
the way, I was grateful for their refusal as my adrenaline gave out and I was completely
sapped of strength. Once arriving at the emergency room, Canon was checked quickly
and thoroughly. The waiting room in the ER was three-quarters full but a one-month
old baby with bloodstains on his clothing takes absolute precedence. The
patients waiting in the ER lobby didn’t seem upset by the cut in line; in fact,
they hushed almost reverently. Doctors quickly surmised that Canon was in good shape.
He was hungry and alert and all his limbs were moving. There was no swelling or
bruising; Heidi’s padded baby carrier had protected him. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In the haze of the moment, I couldn’t figure out how Heidi
had gotten hurt. Had she fallen and gotten hit by a blade as it was slowing
down? Surely the mower was off; but why was it still trying to move when I got
to her? So many strange things were unanswered and confusing to me. After all,
there’s a disconnect safety in these lawnmowers that kills the engine and mower
blades as soon as the rider gets off the seat. Was Heidi still in the seat when
her arm got caught? I couldn’t see how that was possible. My father-in-law Alan
examined the mower and discovered the answer; the seat safety had been disabled.
No one has come forward and admitted to disabling the safety, but it’s a common
practice. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Heidi was coming down a short
hill and wanted to slow down. Rather than slowing down with the throttle, she instinctively
jerked back on the directional levers, which caused the lawnmower to buck her
off in front of it. Instead of stopping immediately when Heidi was bucked off,
the lawnmower continued to drive and mow on its own. The lawnmower pushed her down
the rest of the short hill and across a gravel drive; a total distance of 45
feet. She had been on her back for the majority of the bulldozing, but as the
lawnmower started pushing up onto her, she had reached her right arm up to
shield Canon from the mower. The still-whipping mower blades hit her right
elbow. The jolt of the blade hitting her bone is what broke the shear pin; a
pin that sacrifices itself and stops the blades in order to prevent the mower blade
gears from grinding when something hard is struck. The mower, still pushing,
rolled Heidi over onto her stomach. Her right arm was outside of the lawnmower when
I reached her, but her back and left arm were obscured underneath the mower deck.
As I moved the lawnmower back, I could see pieces of bone, tendon and ligament scattered
on the ground underneath the mower. Heidi’s right arm had deep gashes all the
way to the top of the shoulder, but the worst of the damage was at the elbow,
where no bones remained. The skin on her forearm was torn into ribbons but was
still holding what was left of her arm to her shoulder. In the moment, as I
watched the tourniquet get applied and the deep gashes up the bicep, I was certain
that Heidi would have to get amputated at the shoulder. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Heidi’s parents had been alerted that there was a terrible accident
and met me at the hospital. Once Canon was cleared, we journeyed to find Heidi.
I was asked to fill out some paperwork. Was I aware that Heidi’s arm was in poor
shape? Yes. Was I aware that it may need to be amputated? Yes. The aides with
the paperwork told me that Heidi’s hand was in good shape and could be eligible
for a foreshortening procedure; that is, they would preserve the hand and
reattach it higher up on the arm. But the final decision would be up to the head
surgeon, a Dr. Buckwalter. I was allowed to see Heidi before she was wheeled
into surgery. A small row of staples had been placed in her head where a small
gash had been found. She was heavily sedated but was actively fighting the drugs
and trying to come up out of her sedation, her mothering instincts still firing
on all cylinders. She was not able to respond to my voice, but Heidi and I have
a little squeeze that we give each other; the first person squeezes three times
to signal “I love you” and the second person responds by squeezing twice, signaling
“you too”. When I squeezed Heidi’s left hand three times, she squeezed back
twice immediately. I burst into tears again. Shortly, Heidi was wheeled toward
the operating room. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Heidi’s parents, Alan and Jean, stayed with me in the
waiting room, along with my pastor Floyd and his wife Elaine, my friend Ryan, my
sisters Shelley and Sheryl, and my parents Barry and Debby. Other friends stopped
in to pray and to cry. One friend prayed specifically against trauma in my
mind, against nightmares and flashbacks of the accident. He asked the Father to
show me where He was during the accident. Immediately in my mind I saw myself
running toward Heidi under the lawnmower, but this time there were two massive
angels flanking me, and they were the ones that helped me not only lift the
lawnmower, but push it uphill off of Heidi. A third angel was on the ground
under the lawnmower, arms and wings wrapped protectively around Heidi and
Canon.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>An hour and a half after
Heidi was wheeled into surgery, Dr. Buckwalter emerged from the operating room.
He was a kind man in his late 30’s or early 40’s with what looked like two
pounds of soft curly hair tucked into a massive surgeon’s cap in the shape of a
portabella mushroom. He walked over to me and sat down on the only chair left
in the waiting room; a little plastic toddler seat. “I’m going to be really
honest with you, Shawn. Your wife Heidi has just undergone a life-altering
experience,” He said kindly and softly. “I took a look at her arm and made the
decision to amputate at the middle of her bicep,” He described as he drew a
line with his hand through his own bicep. “There really just wasn’t enough
structure left for us to rebuild her arm. I hate that we have to meet under
these circumstances. I would never wish to have this happen. But your wife is going
to be okay. She’s going to be just fine.” After hours of not knowing what was
going to happen to my wife, Dr. Buckwalter’s words were like cool, refreshing dew.
He didn’t mince words but was open and frank. He answered all my questions. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Would Heidi’s balance while walking be affected? <br />
No, not really. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I thought maybe the shoulder would have to be amputated? <br />
No, the shoulder is in good shape and we just had to stitch the skin in a few places.
Her shoulder has full range of motion and should make a nice recovery. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Dr. Buckwalter described how he had tagged each of Heidi’s
nerves and folded them into the stump, for later retrieval if needed. He pinched
off the arteries and cut the stump so that he could stitch it all up. In his opinion,
the stump would make an excellent base for a prosthetic, if we chose to go that
route. He recommended we pursue a prosthetic immediately once the swelling
reduced, to give Heidi the best chance to acclimate to it. In his view, those
patients that adjusted to life without a limb had a tougher time getting used
to a prosthetic later, versus those patients that started living with a prosthetic
immediately. He repeated the phrase “life-altering” a few more times, and
I replied “but it’s not life-ending, is it?” to which he responded with a grin,
“No, not at all.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It took another hour for Heidi to come up out of the general
anesthesia. Once she awoke, I was escorted to her bedside. I saw the bandaged
stump and her groggy face and once again wept. But these tears were different; I
was so glad she was okay. Heidi lifted her face toward me, still hazy from anesthetics. Her first words to me were "I'm sorry I lost my arm." </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Heidi was surrounded by absolute angels during her three-day
stay at the hospital. There were countless nurses with hearts of gold. Several
of them donated breast milk to Heidi for Canon. Heidi’s mom Jean kept Canon and
stayed overnight to let Heidi be near to him as I went home in the evenings to
be with Owen. Dozens of family and friends visited and left us with gifts, flowers,
words of life, and their prayers. Many came to encourage Heidi and left more
encouraged <i>by </i>Heidi than when they arrived. But Heidi has that effect;
she is a beam of pure light from the Father. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Heidi rated her pain as a 10 out of 10, which raised the
hair on the back of my neck because she rated her terribly difficult labor and
delivery of Owen as a 9 out of 10. “I would gladly give birth to both of my
children again instead of this pain,” Heidi said one day through the haze of
multiple painkillers, “but I would give my arm up again in an instant to save
my baby.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On our third day in the hospital, Heidi walked with me to a
rooftop terrace to get some fresh air. The outdoor terrace was attached to an
atrium that had a baby grand piano sitting in it. Heidi sat down and played
with her left hand. We both cried. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Heidi was released from the hospital as soon as she was able
to manage her pain with oral medications. She has been faithfully taking those medications
but the pain has persisted. Heidi experiences a great deal of phantom pain;
pain felt in her hand and wrist that are no longer there. At times, she
describes that her right hand feels as if it had been dipped in boiling tar. At
other times, it feels as if her hand is caught in a gear, grinding and tearing
her nonexistent fingers. At various times Heidi would scratch my right hand to
satisfy an itch in her missing right hand. Heidi is taking the maximum dose of
several high-power drugs, including a narcotic, which the doctors are monitoring
closely and the pharmacists worry about incessantly. I asked one pharmacist if
Heidi runs the risk of addiction to the narcotic, and she replied that addictions
form when using narcotics for chronic pain rather than using them for temporary
pain, like from an amputation or surgery. Dr. Buckwalter is confident that
Heidi’s pain will reduce over time, although he mentioned that 25% of amputees
suffer debilitating phantom pain, 25% feel nearly none at all, and the
remaining 50% span the full spectrum between the two ends. In time, we’ll know
where Heidi lies on that spectrum, but we pray that the phantom pain will
subside and leave her at peace. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Last week, we moved from the farmhouse rental to the home
that we plan to raise our family in. We love it here, at the House on the Hill,
but rebuilding Heidi’s life still looks daunting at times. We take each day,
one at a time. I was fortunate enough to take two weeks off work to tend to
Heidi. Mama Jean and my mom Debby have been close by to help with children and
love on us. Church friends have brought meals in abundance. Heidi’s cousin
Jennifer has stopped in each morning to help Heidi fix her hair. Heidi’s cousin
Ashley came from South Carolina to spend a week with us and take care of Heidi.
My sister Shannon took good care of Owen and my brother-in-law Randy helped me
move several truckloads of our possessions to our new home. We have been completely
overwhelmed with the love and outpouring of prayers, finances, gifts, and
sympathies of hundreds of people all over the world. We are loved, and we love
you all in return. Please continue to pray. Heidi is strong-willed and a fierce
warrior, but this valley is very dark. Heidi has spent time each morning intentionally
engaging in worship, by singing or listening to worship songs. At times Heidi
has had friends come to help her worship. This has boosted our hearts considerably.
God is still on the throne, still sovereign, still good. "Jesus is going to receive so much glory through this," Heidi says, tears in her eyes. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In Jesus' name, let it be so. </div>
Shawn Graberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06442043972170630969noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6763972133541426654.post-56356211052114741952018-12-30T17:28:00.002-06:002018-12-30T17:31:34.736-06:00Graber Christmas Letter 2018<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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A warm, cheerful, heartfelt and tardy ‘Merry Christmas’ from
my family to yours! Also, I extend our wishes that your New Year is filled with
all of the very best blessings, including finances and health and laughter. My New
Years’ blessing might be tardy too, depending on which day you read this. <br />
<br />
Heidi and I would have loved to send you a personal Christmas card, but we didn’t
set aside enough time to get it done. So here is our Christmas card! You can
print this photo out and hang it on your refrigerator. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyz_l50AouHsvBs-Qzw57NA3siFWIoKQyMytzHF4P3mzcEeSgFlVyJO1AmXWiuuLHBSK-LjFG2VngZqQIivl9oOhr70NRaSwOoFrM_TZ9OTG38C-hxlL_2KMlspdR7CKMlwc8bh3PPXuZX/s1600/YOC_1659-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1060" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyz_l50AouHsvBs-Qzw57NA3siFWIoKQyMytzHF4P3mzcEeSgFlVyJO1AmXWiuuLHBSK-LjFG2VngZqQIivl9oOhr70NRaSwOoFrM_TZ9OTG38C-hxlL_2KMlspdR7CKMlwc8bh3PPXuZX/s400/YOC_1659-1.jpg" width="263" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i>Merry Christmas from Shawn (353 months), </i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i>Heidi ([redacted] months), and Owen (11
months). </i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgQsHGe-GIQ1Dw12qeT737FrICNqn27VSArh9MxEBQgVe4yaX-WFa0Avsi9JwpNKZNAWPvF4IlJnCfXq_6BI6i6d3v0AEmmpooXXq43qGjIt86LzevLU2K2syKeiMVArPdDfkaEpgDq2EM/s1600/IMG_2892.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1061" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgQsHGe-GIQ1Dw12qeT737FrICNqn27VSArh9MxEBQgVe4yaX-WFa0Avsi9JwpNKZNAWPvF4IlJnCfXq_6BI6i6d3v0AEmmpooXXq43qGjIt86LzevLU2K2syKeiMVArPdDfkaEpgDq2EM/s320/IMG_2892.JPG" width="212" /></a></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh917Dvk_2LUuYbJjt75u3STz_UKRkYasr_TydCClcHdnOZZ1Vt6Va0t23F8aS2uY51X7_W2s9Fi7RHjaOtv1Ebqrl-YcFHIT7TtMVk6bul7luCAXO92-XMIiyj6aRg9HN1IcYGt_YhEfMz/s1600/IMG_2896.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="678" data-original-width="1023" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh917Dvk_2LUuYbJjt75u3STz_UKRkYasr_TydCClcHdnOZZ1Vt6Va0t23F8aS2uY51X7_W2s9Fi7RHjaOtv1Ebqrl-YcFHIT7TtMVk6bul7luCAXO92-XMIiyj6aRg9HN1IcYGt_YhEfMz/s320/IMG_2896.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<i> Photo credit: Lynda Halteman</i></div>
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Much has happened this last year in the Graber household, and
I’ll try to briefly highlight some of the events of the past 12 months. I’m
having a hard time concentrating, because my wife is still cackling about the
thought of me describing anything “briefly”. </div>
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On the last day of <b>January</b>, my wife started having
contractions. We were two weeks earlier than our due date and had recently
returned from a lovely “babymoon” getaway. Owen took 24 hours to arrive and was
born February 1<sup>st</sup>. </div>
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On <b>February</b> 16<sup>th</sup>, we took Owen home from the hospital.
He was having difficulties breathing when he was born, so he spent his first two
weeks in the NICU. We are so grateful for all the prayers, love, and money that
were poured over Heidi and I during that stressful time. Owen is now chipper
and lively and makes horses look sickly in comparison.<br />
</div>
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In <b>March</b>, I took Heidi to the hospital. She was suffering
from intense abdominal pain, which turned out to be a gallstone stuck in her
bile duct. The gallstone was removed, but bile had backed up into her pancreas.
Gallstones are fairly common, but Heidi’s case had advanced into the very-rare-and-sometimes-fatal
Necrotizing Pancreatitis. Nearly 75% of Heidi’s pancreas was dissolved. Heidi
was in the hospital for two weeks, where Owen and I made frequent trips to her
bedside. Doctors had hoped to stabilize Heidi enough for surgery to remove her
gall bladder, but with her pancreas in such a fragile state, we were sent home
instead. Heidi was placed on a feeding tube for 10 weeks with a pump that constantly
fed her a liquid diet of what looked like Ensure and tasted like fiber
supplements. Those months were filled with a lot of tears. Heidi felt like her
bonding time with Owen was hijacked by the two hospitalization events. During
Heidi’s stay in the hospital and months recovering at home, we were given
donations of breast milk from several incredible mothers. We had hoped that
Heidi would be able to return to breastfeeding but we still had to transition
Owen to formula. On top of that, Heidi was unable to eat anything when we met
with friends, hung out with family, or went to social events. Only during a
fast do you realize how often people gather around food…even Bible studies
often have snacks or dessert. Heidi’s feeding tube would often clog and leave
her starving. Yet through all these soul-crushing trials Heidi maintained her
sweet spirit.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2hh-uuNB-s57o_-DK0j03MvUnwTxTo44lLz-JLObl60Pfyr0xQ67sGBuB8X1SjAkTpQvb8R7v0J7SNACmxkkh1YICYfy6-AiE2jXiPIt5XRk_WuMK1YB__REx9KrLp-PNO8rhsNaGBO-U/s1600/IMG_1840.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2hh-uuNB-s57o_-DK0j03MvUnwTxTo44lLz-JLObl60Pfyr0xQ67sGBuB8X1SjAkTpQvb8R7v0J7SNACmxkkh1YICYfy6-AiE2jXiPIt5XRk_WuMK1YB__REx9KrLp-PNO8rhsNaGBO-U/s320/IMG_1840.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<i>Heidi talking with her team of doctors</i></div>
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<i> My brother Shaylon's birthday was in April, and I helped </i><br />
<i>him build his massive Lego Batmobile</i> </div>
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In<b> May</b> we attended the Pella Tulip Festival. Heidi was still
on her feeding tube and was more than ready to get out of the house. The Tulip
Festival was a beautiful field trip. Owen spent the day in a stroller and
thoroughly loved it. I ate some Dutch-themed fair food, which was greasy and
delicious but didn’t come with a complimentary set of wooden clogs like I had
hoped. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYznFyz50ekueBTE8hyphenhyphenCRGDLbNRio__Oct_fvyvL91wN8XYIrRam4SjEAIdUAYSnfcJf3Erqc8O8mU_D8dM7s48rQnNPIy6dNNaLYOAyR2hg7ylCvViAlc6vv_T4H2n4KSX3d9ww0AcSyG/s1600/IMG_1936.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYznFyz50ekueBTE8hyphenhyphenCRGDLbNRio__Oct_fvyvL91wN8XYIrRam4SjEAIdUAYSnfcJf3Erqc8O8mU_D8dM7s48rQnNPIy6dNNaLYOAyR2hg7ylCvViAlc6vv_T4H2n4KSX3d9ww0AcSyG/s320/IMG_1936.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
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<i> Windmill in Pella, IA</i></div>
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<i> I got to see my dear friend John Lamansky at his Priestly confirmation. Here John and I are with Rebecca. We three were teammates years ago in Future Problem Solving. </i></div>
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<i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNyHZ55yTBRd08ZnQxT9RWjRnOWSM6N9ifojRvPyMV6UWehRlhy6tjO5_3Q98-4Ravc2_Nj3vo33WaFFk4y2CR4V0idJff0NTVM31wOHBT-Y8sR7x7_aW34terfzU0cmvA-geUlEG3A8QP/s1600/IMG_2022.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNyHZ55yTBRd08ZnQxT9RWjRnOWSM6N9ifojRvPyMV6UWehRlhy6tjO5_3Q98-4Ravc2_Nj3vo33WaFFk4y2CR4V0idJff0NTVM31wOHBT-Y8sR7x7_aW34terfzU0cmvA-geUlEG3A8QP/s320/IMG_2022.JPG" width="240" /></a></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>In May I completed my four-year HVAC apprenticeship training </i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>and became a licensed Journeyman.</i></div>
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Our second anniversary came in <b>June</b>, and we spent a weekend
together with Owen in a local hotel. You know those moments when you feel like
you procrastinated too long on something important? Failing to book a hotel
until they were all full during Memorial Day Weekend was my moment like that. Heidi
and I love to travel and would have enjoyed a road trip to another state, but
the accumulation of traumatic events had left us too weary to even consider a
trip. </div>
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A weekend after our anniversary, I met with several of my high school classmates for our 10-year high school reunion. It was so good to see them again. </div>
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<i>From left to right (classmates noted with *): Shawn* & Heidi, Onassis and Sarah* Rivera, Terry* & Samantha Miller, Harmony* Headings, Bethany* Kramer</i><br />
<i>We missed our classmates Ilene and Joanna! </i></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Celebrated Father's day with four generations of Graber boys: </i></div>
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<i>Grandpa Lynn, Father Barry, myself, and Son Owen</i> </div>
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In <b>July</b>, we traveled to Michigan for a Maust reunion at my
uncle Larry’s home. He and Aunt Cherie live on the edge of a magnificent lake
and we spent five days splashing, swimming, playing games, kayaking, tubing,
and eating more ice cream than I thought was humanly possible. Uncle Larry had
rented an ice cream machine and furnished over 200 ice cream cones. Thanks to
the diligent efforts of myself and my fellow cousins, the cones were gone in
the first 36 hours and we switched over to bowls. We had a lovely time with my
Grandpa Clayton Maust, who passed away shortly after the reunion. At the end of
the reunion, I sensed this was the last time I’d see him alive. As I cried and
thanked him for being such an amazing blessing to me, he wept and blessed me one
last time. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg789Hm6z73XcjCkfwyGUy9-sQ-IrSWmGCFDawEooFn_2Dz4l1QMCoNfEOFgKDrdfqNDcbQKDHYrXwNENyvbuwwS7y4AhJbNqM-kr3HwpuXoHR7k1q2eFDQPw6-OYN3qp0qTxxU4KYywa3l/s1600/IMG_2438.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="968" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg789Hm6z73XcjCkfwyGUy9-sQ-IrSWmGCFDawEooFn_2Dz4l1QMCoNfEOFgKDrdfqNDcbQKDHYrXwNENyvbuwwS7y4AhJbNqM-kr3HwpuXoHR7k1q2eFDQPw6-OYN3qp0qTxxU4KYywa3l/s320/IMG_2438.JPG" width="193" /></a><i> </i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>This photo of Grandpa Clayton and Grandma Thelma </i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>was taken in 2016 at my wedding</i></div>
<br />
A few weeks later, we traveled back to Michigan for Grandpa’s
funeral. Several of us grandsons were the pallbearers, and I shared this memory
at the funeral:<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
-----<br />
Back when I was a young whippersnapper, well, younger and snappier than I am
now, I wasn’t sure how to go about finding a bride. Grandpa Clayton had managed
to find not one but TWO beautiful soulmates, and he let me in on his secret:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Marriage isn’t about finding someone you can live with; <br />
It’s about finding someone you can’t live without.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Grandpa left an amazing example to follow; he was humble,
good-natured, open, honest, and kind. I took it for granted that Grandpa loved Bernice,
[and when Bernice passed away] loved Thelma. I took it for granted that he
loved his children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren. Over the years I
realized how rare and precious that is; a man who loves and speaks life over
his family. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Grandpa was generous with his time, his possessions, his
wisdom, his laughter. He was able to discern what was important and what
wasn’t.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I watched him navigate
effortlessly through hundreds of emails to find the ones he needed to read. The
emails from his children and grandchildren were read, as were all emails with
“THE MAUST CORNER” in the heading. He was searching for some important stock
trading articles and found them. As for the rest of the emails blurring past,
he didn’t seem to be bothered. The unopened, unimportant emails totaled over
13,000.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The last time I saw Grandpa Clayton was a few weeks before
he passed away. I thanked him for all the ways he blessed my life; for setting
a Godly foundation that I had long taken for granted. His rich bass voice that
once flowed so smoothly was gone. He had to labor to speak, but he responded
anyway. His last words to me were “I bless you.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He’s now with his first love, Jesus Christ. I knew this
“goodbye” was coming, but I also know that it’s temporary. How wonderful is
that? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
-----</div>
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYCl2oZmn0QKtH4DYOcw3xMWTb4ETMmHlKcbVITH_Gien7-HfJZdRFXAKYnKowxRyH8qJ25-xQ80GBd0cqATj-fviDv8nB-NyUy0EN8q7ulzwujvd3wqS90Oasp95M7G9iVs9qNw81TLqA/s1600/IMG_2506.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYCl2oZmn0QKtH4DYOcw3xMWTb4ETMmHlKcbVITH_Gien7-HfJZdRFXAKYnKowxRyH8qJ25-xQ80GBd0cqATj-fviDv8nB-NyUy0EN8q7ulzwujvd3wqS90Oasp95M7G9iVs9qNw81TLqA/s320/IMG_2506.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Myself and my cousins with Grandpa's casket</i></div>
<br />
<br />
Also in July, Heidi and I ran up to the Iowa State Fair for
an evening. We went to see Casting Crowns and Matthew West in concert. It was a
hot, sticky Summer evening but there was a lovely breeze as the sun set. Heidi
and I shared an extra giant corndog and strolled around the closed-for-the-night agriculture
booths. We took it easy on the greasy fair food this time, since Heidi was
still feeling tender in the stomach and I was feeling tender in the wallet. But
the fryers were churning out all sorts of deep-fat-fried delicacies.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Oreos? Sure.
<br />
Snickers Candy bars? Yep. <br />
Pickles? Got those too. <br />
Sticks of butter? Deep-fat-fried and served hot before your eyes right next to
the cotton candy. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
I’m not sure how the Iowa State Fair got to be such a big deal, but it’s one of
the largest fairs in the U.S. In 2017, 1.1 million people passed through the gates during the 7-day event. For
a state that only has 3 million residents, that’s mind-boggling. “It’s because
Iowans have nothing else to do! Hyuk hyuk!” I can hear the Pennsylvanians say. Surprisingly,
2018 was my first time at the Iowa State Fair. It was lovely and I’d go again. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In <b>August</b> Heidi took me flying for my birthday, which was a complete surprise. Like, I got to fly a small four-seater airplane.<br />
</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzdY-W17Hlc-oDJ3WsVWFo8TVkGASm3wCc2zszAsqqcZO3-1PW8jgLYKE66sYOIUGBHqfghnyvOlyJfFRGJTvVr7c21H073HZPZ6igkx5OUkF5yhMaFQl9LIJf2DfV3VcjN_8UA31vARO8/s1600/IMG_2254.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzdY-W17Hlc-oDJ3WsVWFo8TVkGASm3wCc2zszAsqqcZO3-1PW8jgLYKE66sYOIUGBHqfghnyvOlyJfFRGJTvVr7c21H073HZPZ6igkx5OUkF5yhMaFQl9LIJf2DfV3VcjN_8UA31vARO8/s320/IMG_2254.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i> Heidi rode along and got only a tiny bit airsick. </i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcFZDD79P8xclQwieuCuNaxdpYUwvhNf5UBi1qDthCPiCQM1extWWAJgFU91NQcGijX8AhG599171KFL9zv7AlrUiqMjqLAaLkXpBbllC-L1_aFmPtEYRsMzknSGxoBHGXIAokWqoCTZay/s1600/IMG_2245.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcFZDD79P8xclQwieuCuNaxdpYUwvhNf5UBi1qDthCPiCQM1extWWAJgFU91NQcGijX8AhG599171KFL9zv7AlrUiqMjqLAaLkXpBbllC-L1_aFmPtEYRsMzknSGxoBHGXIAokWqoCTZay/s320/IMG_2245.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i>Heidi served a Low Country Boil for my birthday and it was tremendous. </i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidsXmqdT1I1qEoh3tEInwVlgUik8flU3aG4L91ToH3_KlIHsIcM30AoBjGAImzEJhQ4VD42M8A70wt0e7Y5pvP_aQCxgqtBQ1lP4QO0hfuLwBwZoB209zUggspayLaQJtkS0vmC9sgns-1/s1600/IMG_2203.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="852" data-original-width="852" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidsXmqdT1I1qEoh3tEInwVlgUik8flU3aG4L91ToH3_KlIHsIcM30AoBjGAImzEJhQ4VD42M8A70wt0e7Y5pvP_aQCxgqtBQ1lP4QO0hfuLwBwZoB209zUggspayLaQJtkS0vmC9sgns-1/s320/IMG_2203.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqCZgAbJRI19k0wfqYS4PkxSV0TUpm4RpWH2xz6866LNO4Oid3oPUnWbMBS9UwI7Gbn-PpOTImyN1-sHSf04g-VXWM7mw6pqW59m6ZDPk3t6-mz6UObvSPqjjxBkGvt8zCONIW79LVHrBP/s1600/IMG_2342.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqCZgAbJRI19k0wfqYS4PkxSV0TUpm4RpWH2xz6866LNO4Oid3oPUnWbMBS9UwI7Gbn-PpOTImyN1-sHSf04g-VXWM7mw6pqW59m6ZDPk3t6-mz6UObvSPqjjxBkGvt8zCONIW79LVHrBP/s320/IMG_2342.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Heidi and her friend Harmony flew to North Carolina to visit some </i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>of Heidi's cousins this Summer. Heidi took Owen and spent a week </i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>out there. Shawn missed them both sorely.</i><i> </i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On <b>September</b> 19<sup>th</sup>, Heidi had her gall bladder
removed. Heidi’s gall bladder had to be removed in order to prevent any
additional gallstones from harming the remains of her pancreas. Before her
surgery, the doctors had Heidi take a pregnancy test. This was because they
didn’t want to perform surgery if there was a pregnancy. The test returned negative,
and a laparoscopic [small cameras and tools fished through three tiny holes] cholecystectomy
[removal of the gall bladder] was performed. The surgery went smoothly and the
doctors were very pleased with the operation. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr4a9x_FyqwrJpqMBExAHvjGhiunoR9Ichtp8GT2JiZjmDnlVd4fPE9y0wo4ALNdmWX3AWyK62MhNYOTy1pwTUzzHtQhwklv7KsxymBVDR2_XwVRPOOUtaPlvsiqpPxoCH9Tn5zv2Mx5JX/s1600/IMG_2359.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr4a9x_FyqwrJpqMBExAHvjGhiunoR9Ichtp8GT2JiZjmDnlVd4fPE9y0wo4ALNdmWX3AWyK62MhNYOTy1pwTUzzHtQhwklv7KsxymBVDR2_XwVRPOOUtaPlvsiqpPxoCH9Tn5zv2Mx5JX/s320/IMG_2359.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Heidi, getting fitted with a sweet hospital gown that had </i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>warm air ducts in it to keep her comfy.</i> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifvOsr06i7U3hnYtDc5ANZPyGLF4LmQVvMnP7UeC2-zaWOXh6PfEPuHPxDMBSfKVsem0Ayo98ce7yqmbvrsvQiX80or0-kphyphenhyphenaaAlLVowmEAv8aETBpEooQ_tEFXb_a_sJJmNPQnY7W-Mv/s1600/IMG_2417.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="960" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifvOsr06i7U3hnYtDc5ANZPyGLF4LmQVvMnP7UeC2-zaWOXh6PfEPuHPxDMBSfKVsem0Ayo98ce7yqmbvrsvQiX80or0-kphyphenhyphenaaAlLVowmEAv8aETBpEooQ_tEFXb_a_sJJmNPQnY7W-Mv/s320/IMG_2417.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i> Owen and I surveying the flooded yard at the trailers</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSENyEzv_Mg4gM8VMn-EwH3I6hQxEUtJv27b8FkqV-eqMZFeh2ctHPK2x8lYBlSB8glFDTWlZdejFTd90yUneYsnzZTGnRYW6GHsE3OTIbFgMElECUdMFJOhGBHSG_2qIHuDdkLT9dHmLp/s1600/IMG_2424.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSENyEzv_Mg4gM8VMn-EwH3I6hQxEUtJv27b8FkqV-eqMZFeh2ctHPK2x8lYBlSB8glFDTWlZdejFTd90yUneYsnzZTGnRYW6GHsE3OTIbFgMElECUdMFJOhGBHSG_2qIHuDdkLT9dHmLp/s320/IMG_2424.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i> Heidi came to the rescue with coffee and donuts while we pumped water out of the shop</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In <b>September</b> and October, Iowa experienced torrential downpour after downpour, which flooded our shop twice. Graber Heating celebrated our 80th Anniversary with an open house. We hosted over 200 friends and family only days after our shops were flooded. Many friends came to help us clean up, which we are supremely grateful for. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If I asked you to tell me “where is the most photographed
location on earth?” You might say “Eiffel Tower, Paris” or “Taj Mahal, India”
or maybe “Kim Kardashian’s bathroom mirror”. These are all close, but incorrect.
Evidently, it’s a location in Northern Canada, and I went to look at it with my
own eyes. In <b>October,</b> I traveled to the northern reaches of North Alberta, North
Canada to attend my dear friend Brooks’ wedding. Brooks had tried to get his fiancé
Fallyn into the U.S., but the process is complex and expensive and could take
several years, so he elected to move to Canada and get hitched there. I road-tripped
with several of my close manfriends (Jordan Shebek, Shane Schwartz, Truman
Shetler, and Stu Yoder) and we had a blast. We’re still on speaking terms with
each other after more than 60 hours of road time in a single vehicle, so I count
that as a win. I keep saying “North” because Fallyn lives in Peace River, AB.,
which is 20 hours NORTH of the U.S. Border. The scariest thing is, after all
that driving, we were still only north enough to reach the bottom islands
of Alaska. There is so much land that keeps going northlier and northlier… I
can’t even process it. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Speaking of the border, we crossed with a nearly-illegal amount
of cheese. My friend Stu had brought along nearly 80 lbs of the stuff in giant
tubes. Cheddar, Pepper Jack, and Marble. The crossing guard asked us if we had
any dairy along with us. When we mentioned the truckload of cheese, she nearly
croaked. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
“Are you planning to sell any of it?” she asked, while frantically short-selling
all the stocks she had in Canadian Milk Farming. <br />
“No, we’re gonna eat it or give it away to friends,” we replied. <br />
“Normally, you’re only allowed twenty dollars of dairy per person, but I suppose I'll let you through this time” she said. <br />
“Oh, we have under that. There’s 5 of us so that would be $100-worth of cheese.
How much did you spend on this stuff, Stu?” <br />
“Oh about 85 bucks or so,” he replied. <br />
We were under! But the crossing guard seemed a little incredulous. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Stu, cheese aficionado, napping during a sunrise in Canada. </i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i> Shane, Truman, Jordan and myself in Canada next to a giant Moose statue </i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
While in Canada, we swung though Banff and Jasper, two large
national parks located in the Canadian Rockies. To say the parks were beautiful
would be like saying “the Pacific Ocean is damp” or “Grabers tell stories sometimes”.
We drove to Lake Louise, which is (according to the Lake Louise official website)
the “most photographed location on the face of the earth”. In the Summer, over
15,000 people visit the lake EACH DAY. My friends and I arrived right at the
end of the touring season. With heavy snows making their way into the forecast,
several of the roads and trails around the lake had been closed for the year,
along with all of the restrooms, strangely. Shane and I remarked that the “CLOSED
FOR THE SEASON” signs hanging on the bathroom doors could be used year-round
and nobody would know the difference. But even on a cloudy, overcast day, the
emerald-tinted crystal-clear ice-cold water in the lake was sensational. Lake
Louise is fed by six glaciers and is over 230 feet deep. It’s not as deep or as
blue as Crater Lake in Oregon, but it does give Crater Lake some stiff
competition in the beauty department. In fact, all of the things we saw in
those two parks (three, if we count the brief detour into Yoho) were absolutely
beautiful. My dear friend Jordan has toured much of the Western United States
and has visited Yellowstone and Yosemite and many other national parks but as
we walked and drove through Jasper, he declared that the Canadians had us whipped
in the Rocky Mountain department. The Canadian Rockies are really, really
beautiful. Of course, Canada plays this nicely by putting Saskatchewan in your
way before you get to Alberta and the mountains. After hours of driving through
what we now refer to as “North Nebraska”, even a speed bump would have looked
magnificent. </div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i> Lake Louise, Alberta</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i> </i> </div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Found some elk grazing in a campground. Classic Canadian wildlife just struttin' around. </i></div>
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We arrived in Peace River, Alberta and
found, to our delight, a bare minimum of snow. We had expected that we’d have
to fashion igloos out of ice blocks in order to survive the first night, but instead
we were treated to a balmy 40-degree afternoon. “Oh yah,” the locals said “we
had aboot 29.5 centimeters of snow a month ago but it melted. This is kinda rare
weather to be having this time of year, eh?” </div>
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Brooks gave us a tour of his wife’s hometown and made sure
we got a hot, steamy bowl of poutine, which I wouldn’t mind seeing as a booth
at the Iowa State Fair. A massive pile of golden French fries slathered with
gravy and cheese curds? Ideal. My mouth is watering right now just thinking
about it, mostly because my body requires the extra saliva to survive the salt
intake. While shopping for some groceries, we discovered why that crossing
guard seemed so astonished at our cheese hoard: an equivalent amount of cheese
would have cost us $250 in Canada, or three beavers and a good hatchet.</div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Brooks' wedding photographer captured this excellent moment in the Canadian bush.</i> </div>
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At Brooks’ wedding, we helped set up the reception hall. Over
the coffee table was a banner that read “SWEET LOVE” so I found the craft supplies
and made a banner with the word “MAKING” and added it above the first banner.
The groom and the bride found it and, instead of tearing it down hastily like I
suspected they would, left it up for the entire wedding and reception. </div>
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In <b>November</b> Heidi and I moved out of our trailer. I had been
living there for 8 years, two of those years with Heidi. She had transformed the
place, repainting every wall and bringing her sparkle and charm to the
decoration and layout. She had built such a cozy nest for Owen; we really were
reluctant to leave. But we found ourselves caught between two events: the sale
of the trailers and the purchase of a home. We needed an in-between house. Heidi
and I prayed and prayed about it. Some dear friends of ours offered us a giant
farmhouse to stay in and house-sit for them, so we jumped at the chance. It has
truly been an answer to prayers. At the time we were moving, Heidi and I were
just telling close family that we were pregnant, so it felt extra bittersweet to
leave our little trailer that we had prepared together. Heidi and I made the
choice to move together, but I still felt awful that our move happened during pregnancy.
A preggo momma wants to feel safe and secure. She wants a cozy little nest for
her baby. Moving into a new house is the opposite of all of those things. But
yet again my wife met each new challenge with bravery and determination, even
when we discovered that the house was very, very cold. There had been a woodstove
in the living room but it had been removed and replaced with nothing, mostly
because the homeowner wanted another woodstove but his children wanted
something a little less high-maintenance. They ordered a gas-fired stove to
replace it, but it took four weeks to arrive. (My dad and I joked that, upon placement
of the order, an elderly man took a pickaxe into the mountain to extract the
ore to make the stove.) In those four weeks, we kept the house from freezing by
using little electric heaters. There were several windows that had been left open
over the Summer, and we didn’t find the last open window until AFTER the blizzard
that left 12” of snow on the ground. With 19-degree air pouring through a small
window in the cluttered office, we finally discovered why the adjacent laundry
room always felt so drafty. Heidi has been marvelously adding her signature to
this house. We’re here for just a year, but in the meantime, Heidi has made it
our home. It has been a lovely adventure. </div>
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The farmhouse is connected to a smaller guest house, which in
the Amish circles is referred to as a “Dawdy Haus” I don’t speak Pennsylvania
Dutch but my online searches tell me I’m in the right ballpark. Several helpful
references I’ve found online tell me I’m referring to a “Granny Flat” in Australia
or a “Mother-in-law house” in Norway. We’ve become good friends with the young
couple that lives in whatever-it-is that’s connected to us. Their names are
Merlin and Kimmy and they have a darling little girl a few months younger than
Owen. We’ve played Rook late into the night on several occasions with them. </div>
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Speaking of wee little children, we’re expecting! Heidi is
due June 5<sup>th</sup>. We traced back the due date and discovered that Heidi
was about a week pregnant when she had her gall bladder surgery. Evidently it
was too early for the pregnancy test to detect? We were again grateful for how
well the surgery went, since there appears to be no harm or trouble with our
Lil Sprout. When Week 20 rolls around, we’ll find out the gender, but Heidi already
suspects it’s a girl. Her reasoning is that with this pregnancy, she’s craving
all the sugary and sweet things that she normally doesn’t crave. So evidently
boys aren’t sweet?? She craved radishes and beets and all sorts of red
vegetables with Owen, so I’m not sure what that says about boys. </div>
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This year-end summary has really reminded me of all the
things we’ve been through this year; so many blessings and trials all
intertwined. I haven’t hardly even scratched the surface of all the things we’ve
been up to, but this will suffice for now. God has carried Heidi, Owen and I
through so much this year, and we give Him all credit for our health, our home,
and our happiness. We love each and every one of you and wish God’s presence in
your lives this coming year!<br />
<br />
With love, <br />
<br />
Shawn, Heidi, and Owen. </div>
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<br />Shawn Graberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06442043972170630969noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6763972133541426654.post-79986181343961977682018-04-05T17:39:00.000-05:002018-04-05T17:39:18.523-05:00Adventures with Heidi: the Case of the Grouchy GallstoneLately I've been using this blog as a quick way to keep all my relatives and friends up to date and on the same page with the events that are happening in my family's lives. I'm not convinced that it's truly "quick", that people have been kept "up to date" or that anyone is "on the same page", but it's an effort nonetheless. I'm aware that some of you have discovered my blog by searching for "fish tacos", "real mustache" and "graeber family crest". For those of you who have stumbled here quite innocently and have no idea who I am or what I'm going on about, here's a brief summary: <br />
<br />
I'm Shawn. I'm married to an absolute darling named Heidi. She's very sick right now. More on that later. <br />
<br />
We have a son, Owen. He's incredible. He's 2 months old. He spent the first 16 days of his life in the NICU. He's doing great now. <br />
<br />
We own a red minivan, which we affectionately call the Cherriot. I am unapologetic in my love for the Cherriot. <br />
<br />
We live in Southeast Iowa, the most beautiful section of the most beautiful state in the most beautiful country on the face of the earth. Take that, Canary Islands!<br />
<br />
That'll do for an introduction; I'll bring in other characters along the way, just to keep you on your toes. <br />
<br />
On March 20th, 2018, I raced Heidi to the University of Iowa emergency room (henceforth called "the ER" or "hospital"), where doctors diagnosed and removed a fairly large gallstone that was giving her alarming "10 on a scale of 10" levels of pain. This coming from a woman that knows a thing or two about pain, what with enduring 24 solid hours of agonizing labor just 6 weeks prior. The gallstone was a substantial 6mm troublemaker. It had exited the gall bladder, carved and scraped a lumbering path down the Common Bile Duct, and had wedged itself against a sphincter. I say 'a' sphincter because I discovered that the human body has all manner of sphincters, when all along I had conservatively placed the "number of sphincters in the human body" at "probably just the one". This particular sphincter (I promise, I'll stop using that word) wouldn't allow the passage of the stone, which prevented bile from safely draining through the duct and caused an inappropriate amount of bile to back up and visit the pancreas. What is an appropriate amount of bile backup, you ask? Zero, probably. Bile should not visit the pancreas. <br />
<br />
Now some of you are saying "hey, he said a word about a thing I may or may not have heard about at some point!" Good on you, my friend. You're sharp! The pancreas is the organ that produces insulin and keeps most people from diabetes. I'm not most people; I have Type 1 Diabetes. The pancreas also produces several different enzymes that help digest food. Store that nugget of information away for later. The gall bladder is nestled comfortably against the liver, where bile is produced. The liver is very eager to produce bile. It just makes more and more and more of the slimy, yellow-brown enzyme like it's doing the world a favor. The gall bladder acts like a holding tank for extra bile. "Whoa there, hoss. This food doesn't need that much bile!" the gall bladder is often heard saying to the liver. Occasionally, the gall bladder accumulates little bits of cholesterol and hardens them into gallstones.<span class="Y0NH2b CLPzrc g9yevd"> This is surprisingly common. I say 'surprisingly' because I was under the impression that gallstones happened to elderly, crotchety men that spent their time swilling whiskey sours and muttering bitterly about the economy. </span><br />
<span class="Y0NH2b CLPzrc g9yevd"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Y0NH2b CLPzrc g9yevd"><i>"In the United States, an estimated 10 to 15 percent of adults have
gallstone disease. </i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Y0NH2b CLPzrc g9yevd"><i>About a million new cases are diagnosed each year,
and some 800,000 operations are </i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Y0NH2b CLPzrc g9yevd"><i>performed to treat gallstones, making
gallstone disease the most common gastrointestinal </i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Y0NH2b CLPzrc g9yevd"><i>disorder requiring
hospitalization." -US News</i></span></div>
<br />
<span class="Y0NH2b CLPzrc g9yevd">That's a lot of grouchy alcoholics. If you would like to read more about gallstones, </span><span class="Y0NH2b CLPzrc g9yevd">check <a href="https://health.usnews.com/health-conditions/digestive-disorders/gallstones/overview" target="_blank">this link out</a>. It's where I pulled that excerpt from, so when you get to that part of the article, you can say "Hey, I read this somewhere before."</span><br />
<span class="Y0NH2b CLPzrc g9yevd"></span><br />
The gall bladder, liver, and pancreas all share a hallway where food-devouring, highly acidic juices are pumped into the small intestine. This hallway is called the Common Bile Duct. So we've got all these neighboring glands and organs, workin' hard behind the scenes to hide the evidence of your 3am run to Taco Bell. Some cholesterol gets caught undigested in the gall bladder, where concentrated bile juices harden it into a stone. The stone can sit in the gall bladder indefinitely but at some point, without so much as a "howdy do", it'll roll out and slam through the sphincter. I'm sorry, I said sphincter again. I just don't know how to describe these events without saying "sphincter". Perhaps I can substitute "Muscular Opening In Slippery Tunnels", or MOIST. The gallstone's journey to the MOIST causes a severe amount of pain. The pain is not as severe as a kidney stone, but it's still up there in the "very unpleasant" territory. Heidi would feel like she couldn't breathe; as if a vise was squeezing her lungs. She would be doubled over in pain for about 20-30 minutes before the pain relented. Oh yeah, I forgot to mention that Heidi had multiple gallstones. At the time, we had no idea what was going on. We'd be winding down for the evening and just crawling into bed when SLAMMO (Sweet Lord Almighty, My Midsection's Ouchy) a gallstone would have Heidi gasping for her next breath. Heidi was pregnant with Owen at the time, and we weren't sure if this was a worrisome omen or just one more funky side-effect of manufacturing a human. It turned out to be a worrisome omen, or WOmen...uh, that's enough acronyms for one blog. This happened three or four times during Heidi's pregnancy, with each instance causing more and more concern. Was this a spiritual attack? Heidi and I would spend time praying and crying and the vise-like weight on Heidi's lungs would release and she would once again breathe freely. I'd ask Heidi if she wanted to travel to the ER, but she's a tough little cookie and would say "no, I think I'm alright."<br />
<br />
Fast forward to March 19th, Monday evening. Heidi was feeling short of breath and nauseous. She was no longer pregnant, so we couldn't blame her symptoms on that. We decided to stay at home rather than join our weekly prayer group. Her pain didn't let up, and by Tuesday afternoon, she had vomited several times. When I got home from work, Heidi informed me that she was unable to keep any food down, and was now unable to keep even water down. "I need to go to the hospital," she said.<br />
<br />
When we arrived, the ER was busily attending to a roomful of people that were also having a rough day. Heidi's vital signs were checked in a tiny entryway/hallway by a technician who swooshed around on a wheeled office chair. Once he was satisfied that Heidi's vitals looked stable and she wasn't suffering from heart problems, he sent us back to the waiting room. We waited for an eternity, which turns out to be around 40 minutes, to be ushered into a consultation bay where Heidi was more thoroughly examined, poked, and prodded. The pain was mainly in her abdomen; it fluctuated in waves up to her chest and down to her pelvis. Heidi was asked about previous hospitalizations and surgeries, of which she'd had none. She was given some pain medications and we were sent back to the ER waiting room to stay until a hospital bed opened up. An ultrasound was ordered, and revealed several things: a gallstone causing mayhem and a very inflamed pancreas. Well, I think it was the ultrasound. Honestly, I'm not sure the ultrasound showed the gallstone. My memory is pretty foggy. I'll try my best to recount things factually but I am by no means a doctor, so feel free to take my account with nutritionist-approved amount of salt. Anyway, a gallstone removal was scheduled. <br />
<br />
By that night, Heidi was placed in a room shared with another patient. I took Owen home and spent the night discovering just <i>how much </i>Heidi did to take care of an infant when most people are sound asleep. Once again, I was not most people. Before I was able to get back to the hospital on Wednesday morning, Heidi had already undergone the procedure to remove the gallstone. They had done an ERCP, which stands for Endoscopic Retrograde Cholangio-Pancreatography. Basically, the doctors used an endoscope to observe the pancreas and remove the gallstone. More basically, good people used a camera on a bendy straw to look at Heidi's innards and make the pain go away. While removing the stone, the doctors made a small incision on the bile duct sphinc, uh, MOIST, to let any additional stones pass through without hanging up. Additional stones? Yep, the doctors were fairly certain that Heidi's gall bladder had additional stones, waiting to cause additional mayhem. A cholecystectomy was ordered. The "Chole" prefix refers to the gall bladder, the "-cystectomy" is the removal part. Surgical removal of the gall bladder. <br />
<br />
What does a life without a gall bladder look like? The gall bladder stores excess bile, bile helps dissolve fat, fat makes food delicious. Therefore, no gall bladder = no delicious, right? My math is impeccable! Well, not quite. Without the extra bile on hand to dissolve Thanksgiving Dinner properly, a person's stool might become--I'm using a direct quotation from a doctor--"more floaty". "So Heidi won't have to go on a low-fat diet the rest of her life?" I asked. "Certainly not," her doctor replied, "In fact, she could have an onion-ring eating contest if she wanted. Of course, if she feels nauseous or pained, she should cut back on fatty foods." The day before, I had never heard of a gall bladder surgery. Now, I was being told by members of my church that they'd had the surgery and were doing just fine. That's fascinating to me...people that I'm acquainted with have had surgeries done to their bodies and they're not talking about it, for some reason. If I had a part of me chopped out by professionals <i>and I lived to tell the tale</i>, it would most likely be the second thing I tell you; the first thing being my name. Nevertheless, it was reassuring to know that Heidi's experience was not ultra rare. <br />
<br />
The ERCP procedure stirred up quite a bit of stuff and Heidi's body reacted by turning up the heat. Heidi soon had a fever of 101, with occasional spikes to 102. This was an expected reaction, but the fever lasted for a week, which was <b>not</b> expected. It became evident that her pancreas was severely inflamed. The inflammation was worrying the doctors. <br />
<br />
Three days into Heidi's hospital visit, her heart rate spiked and her blood oxygen levels dropped. This indicated a clot in the lungs which got all sorts of doctors running, literally. I was sitting with Heidi, Heidi's parents Alan & Jean, and Owen. A nurse quietly mentioned to Alan & Jean that she would like to escort them to a family waiting room. Some doctors were coming to see Heidi, and the small room was about to get crowded. Heidi's parents took Owen with them. Two minutes later, 13 doctors and nurses were crammed into the room, shouting for vitals and an oxygen mask. Some of the doctors were huffing from their sprint across the hospital. The nurse attending Heidi had been told to alert the doctors if there was any sudden change in her vitals, so when her oxygen dropped and pulse spiked, the nurse hit the "ALL HANDS ON DECK" button that paged the doctors. A technician wheeled in a portable X-ray machine, propped Heidi up in bed, and placed a lead shield behind her back. X-ray photos were taken of her lungs. At this point, she was taking shallow breaths but the oxygen mask was bringing her oxygen back up to a tolerable level. Heidi was whisked to the ICU, hospital bed and all. I followed closely behind, wheeling a cart with Heidi's bags. <br /><br />The next three days were spent in the ICU. I would video message Heidi from home so she could see baby Owen, who was not permitted to visit his mama in the extra dangerous germ-ridden ICU. The X-rays of Heidi's lungs showed no clots, which was an incredible blessing. Heidi would be on an oxygen cannula for the next 10 days, which just added to the host of tubes and wires and hoses covering her body. Heidi was on two separate IV's and had an array of sensors monitoring her pulse and blood oxygen saturation. She had a blood pressure cuff on one arm, automatically taking readings every 30 minutes. She had a catheter installed, so she didn't have to get out of bed to urinate. She was being pumped full of bags of saline fluid, along with a high-power antibiotic and Dilaudid, a concentrated form of morphine.<br />
<br />
I would travel home each night and return to Heidi each day. I would work during the daylight hours and then visit Heidi in the evening. Heidi was asleep most of the time; napping in between the barrage of CT scans and vital checks. We discovered that portions of Heidi's pancreas had necrotized. The pancreatitis, or inflammation of the pancreas, had been more advanced than we first thought. Remember that nugget about the pancreas producing enzymes to digest food? Well Heidi's pancreas had been producing insane amounts of enzymes, which were busy eating the pancreas itself. "How bad is it?" I asked the doctor. "Is fifty percent necrotized? Eighty percent?" The doctor paused for a moment before responding "We'd say it's closer to eighty percent," she said. The necrotized pancreas was the reason Heidi was getting pumped full of antibiotics. The doctors had not seen any signs of infection, but since the pancreas was this damaged already, any infection would be life-threatening. Better to risk the side-effects of continuous high-power antibiotics rather than find an infection and be three days behind. One of the side-effects of the antibiotics was the potential to cause a sustained fever. I commented to the doctors that I'd like to see her taken off the antibiotics, or switched to a different one, so that Heidi could get a break from her fever. They complied and changed Heidi's antibiotic. It was a variety that was still just as strong, but was not known to cause fevers. Heidi's fever remained a few more days, and finally subsided. We are not sure if it was due to the antibiotics. Meanwhile, Heidi's daily blood draws were showing excellent results. Two of her enzyme levels, which were supposed to remain below 100 and 80, respectively, were initially at 2,400 and 1,200, respectively. Those enzyme levels lowered day by day, until they settled to an elevated level around 200. Her white blood cell count had elevated, and then lowered back to normal parameters. Her heart and kidneys were functioning splendidly. There was minimal fluid buildup in the lungs, and the liver looked good. The gall bladder was quiet, like a dog that knew it had done something naughty and the owner was looking for a newspaper to roll up. We were waiting for the pancreas to settle down in order to schedule the gall bladder removal. The doctors wanted to have the surgery performed while Heidi was still in the hospital, to finish everything in one visit. They had hoped it would only take a day or two, but as the days stretched into weeks, the doctors began to consider postponing the surgery to let Heidi recover at home.<br /><br />At this point, we had a clearer picture of what was happening. The pancreatitis was caused by the gallstone. The pancreatitis caused the pancreas to start digesting itself. The inflammation was causing continued pain, even though the gallstone was gone. In order to keep from irritating the pancreas, a feeding tube was pushed down Heidi's nostril and lowered into the duodenum, an area of the small intestine just below the pancreas. There, oatmeal-colored protein juice could be fed into Heidi right past the pancreas without it knowing a thing. A "bridle", the fancy term for what looked like a white shoelace, was pulled in one nostril and out the other to make sure her feeding tube didn't get yanked out in her sleep. With Heidi's fever faded away and her
doctor-mandated stint of antibiotics completed, Heidi was released to
come home. She had been in the hospital 14 days at this point. Her feeding tube had a kink in it, so she had to have it removed and replaced with a new tube, which wasn't as traumatic as the first time. As I drove her up the lane to our place, she burst into tears. <br /><br />Heidi is still on her feeding tube, and was given enough protein slurry to remain on it for the next several weeks. With time, we are told, Heidi's pancreas will recover and she will not
become insulin dependent. We spent Easter in the hospital and thought about how Christ rose from death to life The gall bladder removal will take place at some point in the future, depending on how smoothly her pancreas improves. For the friends and relatives that suggested lifestyle changes or natural ways to reduce gallstones and avoid the gall bladder surgery, we are so grateful for your concern and for the way you would like to see Heidi keep her gall bladder. We understand that fully. At the time, we had no idea how life-threatening her condition was, and after talking to the doctors, we feel very much at peace about removing the gall bladder so that Heidi's pancreas is not threatened again.<br />
<br />
Many friends and family members bathed us in prayer through our entire hospital stay, and we are so grateful. Heidi loved all the gifts, cards, flowers, texts, phone calls, words of encouragement, and visits while she was in the hospital. Heidi's mom stayed by her side for several days and nights at the hospital, and cared for Owen for several days. My parents cut their trip to Florida short and drove home a few days early to help me out and check on Heidi. Dear angels brought vast supplies of frozen breast milk for Owen and groceries for me, which was incredible. Others sent cash for things that we needed. Several of Heidi's friends came over to make sure dishes and laundry were taken care of. Several ladies from church with great big Momma hearts babysat Owen while I worked. We were absolutely, thoroughly pampered and blessed in so many. Others offered assistance and help if I needed anything. I was completely blown away by the outpouring of love and help by our community, and it was a definite blessing to have both my family and Heidi's family close by. We have a journey of recovery ahead, but Heidi's a warrior princess and things are looking good. If you think of us, please continue to pray for swift recovery and ample rest for Heidi. Shawn Graberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06442043972170630969noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6763972133541426654.post-3367429225756523282018-02-06T01:41:00.003-06:002018-02-06T01:41:41.880-06:00Baby Owen, the First Few DaysWhew. I didn't give birth to you, but I'm flat-out just as exhausted as if I had. <br /><br />Owen, I'm so very, very glad you're here! But where is "here"? Well, I'm glad you asked, little man. <br />
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<strong>Wednesday, January 31st, 2018:</strong> <br /><br />I had spent the day working at the family business. Mom and Dad were traveling in the farthest Western reaches of the United States, visiting Hawaii and Oregon. I was holding down the fort at home, making sure our customers were provided with comfortable heat while the wind howled outside. Each year in January, we count all our stuff at the shop to give an accurate inventory to our tax preparers. The massive undertaking of counting, organizing, counting, searching, counting, compiling, and counting our vast supply of fittings, equipment, and spare parts is lumped under the word "Inventory". Such as, "Hey Dylan, we're going to do some Inventory today," to which Dylan would appropriately groan and roll his eyes. I don't blame Dylan; inventory can often be monotonous. Unlike most of our tasks that can get completed in a day or less, Inventory can take over a week. We often draw it out as long as possible, finding every and any excuse to do something else. "Whaddya mean I have to climb up on Mr. So-and-So's roof? It's howling wind and twenty below! Oh, I don't have to do Inventory? Gimme that ladder." <br />
<br />
At 3:30 PM, I had completed my list of service calls and was back at the shop. I wasn't feeling too good but I thought I could work on the Inventory to finish out my time for the day. I had been chipping away at the monstrous, 30-pages-of-single-spaced-items summary of our shop's contents when I decided that I was too nauseous to continue. It was 4:30 PM...close enough to 5PM. I was outside, heading to my car when I vomited everything I had in my body. I had felt it coming so I retched into a spot that was close to the water hydrant. I washed everything away and caught my breath. Finally, a valid excuse to avoid Inventory. <br />
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I arrived home. Vomiting had made me feel better, but I was exhausted. Heidi was doing some laundry and told me to lay on the couch. We sat down to watch Captain America beat up some ne'er-do-wells. Halfway through the movie, Heidi's water broke. I checked my watch. 6:30 PM. I checked the calendar, because I was pretty sure I had penciled in your delivery for February 15th, which is when Heidi's doctor said she was due. Didn't you know you're supposed to follow schedules, Owen? <br />
<br />
Heidi started having contractions, so I drew her a bath and let her soak. We timed the contractions together, and informed our doctor and Mercy Hospital that the labor had started. I sounded calm and collected, but it was because I was too weak to get worked up. Once the contractions were coming every three minutes and lasting a minute each, we headed to the hospital. We were supposed to go when they were five minutes apart, but Heidi's contractions skipped right past 5 and jumped to 3. This was gonna be a speedy delivery, maybe before we even got to the hospital. I ran through my mental "how to deliver your own baby" checklist. I grabbed the bags Heidi had packed in preparation for our hospital trip and assisted Heidi to the van. It was nearly 9PM. Heidi had been having contractions since 7PM. <br />
<br />
We got to the hospital and were taken to an examination room. Heidi and I had taken a birth class at Mercy earlier in January and were shown all the various rooms in Labor & Delivery. During our class, I had joked about the room marked "Test D" because it sounded like "Testy" when said out loud. No, not "Teste", that room was across the hall. I giggled about that one too. We were put in "Testy". <br />
<br />
Twenty minutes later, we were moved from the test room to a Labor & Delivery room. <em>Here we go!</em> I thought. Some traces of Strep B had been found in Heidi, and antibiotics needed to be administered for 4 hours prior to delivery to keep the baby from catching anything. The nurses tried to get an IV into Heidi and had to stick her half a dozen times. Heidi's veins could easily apply for an occupation of international espionage, because they are extremely difficult to trace or locate, and when they finally DO get caught, they surrender nothing. "These veins are kinda valve-y," one nurse muttered. They wheeled a small projector into the room that used SCIENCE and LASERS and COOL GREEN LIGHT to find Heidi's veins. I was totally impressed. <br />
<br />
It was nearing 10PM. We might have this baby hatched before February. The nurses smiled and told me it could take a while. <br />
<br />
"What's the average delivery?" I asked.<br />
"Oh, about 14 hours," said one nurse. <br />
"Heh, I'd hate to be that family that was on the HIGH side of that average," I joked. <em>*insert ominous foreboding here*</em><br />
<br />
<strong>Thursday, February 1st, 2018</strong> <br />
<br />
8 hours of screaming, crying, and laboring went by, and I wasn't so sure you'd be born til MARCH. You were head down, but you had rotated face-up. The hour-hand of the clock was making its rounds but Heidi had only dilated to a 5. A dilation of 10 was 'go-time'. (I can hear the female half of my audience going, "Yeah, duh" and the male half of my audience going, "Huh, what?") Heidi was so exhausted, she was blacking out in between contractions. In the moments she <em>was</em> coherent, she would apologize and say "I just feel so <em>grouchy</em>." Don't apologize, I told her. You're doing great. We've got this. Meanwhile, many of the scary words from my pregnancy studies came prancing back into my mind, words like "Cesarean" and "episiotomy" and "epidural". Heidi and I had written down a birth plan with our hopes and plans for the labor and delivery. We had wanted a natural birth without the aid of drugs injected directly into Heidi's spine, and we smugly grinned at each other when we heard other couples talking about getting an epidural to deliver their baby. "I feel like <em>swearing</em>!" Heidi said, in tears. <br />
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Heidi's aunt Louise was our Doula, or birth coach. She had arrived at the hospital shortly after we did, and was busy assisting Heidi and making her feel as comfortable as possible during the labor. Louise is a birth expert, having had eight of her own through the years, and assisting others through theirs. Louise had soft music playing and was applying warm compresses to Heidi's back to soothe the contractions. She fetched juice and water for Heidi and would help her change positions to try getting you down a little further in the birth canal. Dr. Wenzel, Heidi's OB/GYN, was not available so Dr. Shepard took her place and was giving you as much time as possible to come out naturally. Heidi's dilation crept to 6. <br />
<br />
"Can I have drugs, please?" Heidi moaned. Her hands were slowly grinding mine into sweaty meat paste. <br />
<br />
We had talked about this, and it was my job to be strong for Heidi when she couldn't. That time had arrived. "No, honey, we don't want drugs. You can do this!" I told her. She weathered the next several contractions gamely, but she was completely out of strength and was rating her pain as "10 out of 10, would not recommend."<br />
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<em>"I WANT DRUGS," </em>your momma said. She wasn't asking. I felt like I was on the wilderness frontier, about to lose both mom and baby in one horrible, never-ending labor straight out of my nightmares. <br />
<br />
We got her an epidural. It took about 45 minutes and I was excused from the room. Mercy Hospital has seen too many people faint when the foot-long, flexible tube is inserted through the small of the back into the spinal column, and they were already wary of my pale complexion. "I'm fine, I just feel abominably sick, that's all," I said. Louise told me she could take care of Heidi and was not afraid of epidurals, having had four of them herself. <br />
<br />
I joined Alan and Jean, Heidi's parents, in the waiting room. They had come to support us through the labor and had arrived shortly after Louise. They were awaiting the good news of the delivery of you, their first grandchild, and each hour had them waiting a little more anxiously. I felt guilty for wanting to be away from the labor room, but I was tired of the emotional drain and the completely helpless feeling of watching my bride suffer excruciating pain. I know using the word "tired" is not even valid, because I did not suffer even a fraction what Heidi suffered. Looking back over what I've written so far, I've been tempted to erase it because it really looks like I'm making it all about me, which is dumb. Heidi is the heroine here. She was an absolute champion. <br />
<br />
After the epidural kicked in, Heidi was able to relax for the first time in nearly 12 hours of labor. Dr. Shepard was extremely patient and gave us encouraging updates. The dilation crept to 7, then 8. Each time Dr. Shepard checked, she'd give Heidi another few hours to contract. "Let's see where you're at in two hours," she said with a smile. "As long as you're still getting closer to '10', we'll keep letting things progress."<br />
<br />
Heidi and I caught short naps. The epidural completely numbed Heidi's nerves from the waist down, but left her muscles free to contract and squeeze. The monitor above her bed showed steady, strong contractions and your steady, strong heartbeat. <br />
<br />
At 21 hours of labor, the nurses were getting antsy. "C-section" was getting mentioned. We were on our second or third shift of nurses...there were so many kind, helpful people that worked with us and I wish I could remember all their names. Heidi was finally dilated to 10. She had skipped right past 9 from our last check, so it brought a ray of hope into the room. Things were progressing! Slower than the tectonic shift of the continents, but moving nonetheless! Heidi was instructed to start pushing. You were at +2, 2 centimeters further up than you were supposed to be, my son. Traditionally, a baby is located at "0" when the pushing begins. Heidi had to get you to -2, which meant she had double the distance of a normal delivery. She began to push with the contractions. For the first time, we began hoping for the contractions rather than dreading them. Heidi was on a dose of Pitocin, a drug that keeps labor going. Otherwise, the body might say "That's enough of that!" and leave you stranded halfway. <br />
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Heidi pushed valiantly. She gave it everything her body had left to give. I shouted encouragement alongside her, coaching her breathing and helping hold her as she pushed through the contractions. After an hour, I was feeling light-headed and excused myself to the adjoining bathroom, where I vomited again. I didn't think I had anything to offer the porcelain altar but some horrid green stuff found its way out of me.<br />
<br />
At 6:59 PM on Thursday, February 1st, you arrived. 38 weeks in the womb. 24 hours of labor. 3 hours of pushing. You came out a worrisome shade of blue, so they placed you on Heidi's chest just long enough for me to cut your umbilical cord before you were whisked across the room to a small warming table. Doctors that had suddenly appeared out of thin air were placing an oxygen mask over your tiny face and monitoring your vitals. I stayed by your side, fulfilling one of Heidi's birth-plan requests that the baby not be left alone. We weren't <em>completely</em> suspicious that the doctors would try to do something we didn't want, but we were a teeny bit suspicious. You began to breathe on your own and we all sighed a huge gasp together, as if some unseen conductor motioned our orchestra to rest for a beat. Heidi was still fairly out of it, and didn't fully realize that you were born. THOSE OF YOU WHO ARE NOT MARRIED SHOULD PROBABLY NOT READ THIS NEXT BIT. She had been told to wait a little bit while your head crowned. Dr. Shepard had noticed the shade of blue, contacted the doctors hiding in the woodwork, grabbed you by the head and forcefully yanked you out. The forceful yank caused tearing in two places, so by the time I had made sure you were okay, she had delivered the placenta and was receiving dissolvable stitches. <br />
<br />
They placed an IV into you. Well, they tried for a long, long time. After six attempts, you were having none of it, and you were letting us know with tiny squeals and yelps. They had tried your heels, your wrists, and an elbow, and it just wasn't working. "He has his mother's veins!" I said. That was my first attempt at a Dad Joke. The doctors didn't find it terribly funny, and neither did I. They were finally able to get an IV in place by stabbing into a vein located right on the top of your head. I nearly keeled over. Later I was told that doctors often avoid using that vein, not because it's more dangerous, but because it scares the parents. They were correct. The vein, located on the outside of the skull, does not go to the brain like I first imagined but goes directly to the heart just like a heel vein or an elbow vein. It just happens to look a whole lot more gnarly, paired with the fact that the posterior position of labor squeezed your head into an elongated gourd shape. Moments prior to the IV, you were set on a scale. You weighed 6lbs 11oz, which pleased me because before you arrived I had guessed you'd be 6lbs 9 oz and Heidi guessed 7lbs 2 oz. You were right in between (but I was totally closest). <br />
<br />
Another of Heidi's requests for the birth was that she'd get to have immediate skin-to-skin contact with her baby. It's standard procedure and highly recommended, since that initial contact between mother and baby does a whole lot of good for both parties. Mom gets endorphins and hormones stimulated, you get your blood sugar regulated and your pulse settled and both of you feel all warm and glowy. But as it was, you were in the Nursery across the hall, getting stabbed in the brain with the sixth IV attempt and Heidi was asking "Where's my baby?" She had gotten to hold you for less than 30 seconds. <br />
<br />
We had been hoping to take you home straight away, but it was looking like some tests would need to be done first. You were placed on antibiotics of your own, even though Heidi had labored long enough to receive four rounds of antibiotics. The doctors were nervous about your tendency to stop breathing, which were called "apneic episodes" (similar to sleep apnea). The pediatricians mentioned there might be bleeding on the brain. You were held in the nursery for observation, and placed on a c-pap machine like the world's most adorable retiree. Around 10 PM, Louise's husband Jason showed up and brought a sack of tacos. I inhaled three, the first meal I'd eaten since Wednesday's lunch. They were delicious but sat heavily in my stomach. Heidi and I were moved to a nice recovery room. I was told that under no circumstances was I allowed to leave our recovery room, what with the vomiting and potential flu. Heidi was allowed to visit the nursery, but only if she wore a mask. There was a notice taped to the nursery door warning about the spread of influenza. I knew the sign had been freshly put up thanks to my rude behavior, bringing in germs and whatnot without checking with the front desk first. Back in our room, Heidi soaked in the bathtub/whirlpool for a while and then we sank into sleep.<br />
<br />
<strong>Friday, February 2nd, 2018</strong><br />
<br />
We woke up feeling somewhat refreshed. Heidi had several nurse visits through the night to get her vitals checked and her uterus pushed back down. She was recovering very well, considering all she had been through the day before. You had needed some oxygen but were doing well. You were being fed with sugar water intravenously. We spent the day filling out paperwork and getting you a birth certificate and a social security number. Heidi and I met with a lively, joyous lactation consultant that called herself "the Boob Lady". Boob Lady taught us how to collect milk with a breast pump. Try as hard as I could, no milk came out of me. Huehuehue Dad Joke. The nurses stamped your footprints on a card and your heel left a tiny drop of blood on the print. Meals were brought to our room, and Heidi ate with good appetite. I picked at the food while I watched Chip and Joanna Gaines resurrect yet another gorgeous home from dry bones. By afternoon I was feeling much better and by evening I wasn't showing any horrible signs of The Plague so they let me come see you again. I held you for the first time. Heidi snapped a photo and I burst into tears moments later. <br />
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<strong>Saturday, February 3rd, 2018</strong><br />
<br />
We were woken out of a deep sleep at 4am to be told that you were being transported, by ambulance, to the University of Iowa Natal Intensive Care Unit, or NICU. We were told that you had experienced a seizure, or something that looked very close to one. You were being prepped for the journey. The doctors had added an anti-seizure medication to the cocktail of three antibiotics you were receiving. We dressed quickly and came to see you in the nursery. The influenza signs had spread faster than the disease and were now posted on every door and in every hallway warning about the horrible, unwelcome guest. I imagine they were talking about the germs but I felt like I was looking at a bounty poster with my mugshot on it. I asked if Heidi could ride in the ambulance, but she was not allowed to. We were given directions on where to go once we arrived at the NICU, and you were shipped off in a small incubator on wheels. I told the ambulance driver it looked like one of those pizza delivery warmers, and he laughed. He said the paramedics call the incubator "the toaster". My Dad Jokes were improving.<br />
<br />
We packed up our room, signed Heidi out, and followed you in the Cherriot, our red minivan. When we arrived, you were being admitted for a CT scan with a future MRI scheduled. The staff at the NICU removed the IV from your scalp and placed one in your heel, which looked only half as sinister. Heidi and I collapsed into sleep on a fold-out couch in the family lounge. <br />
<br />
When we awoke, you were sleeping soundly in your little NICU bay. The CT scan showed nothing worrisome. There had not been any bleeding on the brain detected, but the MRI would show more. Several blood tests were taken, as well as a spinal fluid sample. The blood tests came back negative for all the infections and bacteria they were searching for, and your spinal fluid was clear and excellent. The MRI showed a well-formed brain with all the proper structure in place, and no bleeding. The doctors at Mercy had worried that some bleeding in the brain <em>might</em> cause seizures, so it was nice to see that ruled out. Louise stopped in with groceries and sweet words of life. Alan and Jean came to see the baby and love on us. They brought steamy hot chicken pot pies from KFC. In the evening, Heidi and I drove home to sleep in our bed. Heidi had been using a pump for breast milk, so we got up every 4 hours. I felt like a dairy farmer, and real dairy farmers received my utmost respect. <br />
<br />
<strong>Sunday, February 4th, 2018</strong><br /><br />We drove to the hospital to see you again. Heidi and I met with your doctors to talk about the test results and the plans for the day. Each morning, the doctors visit each NICU baby and discuss all that has been done and that is planned to be done. They were open, honest, friendly, and answered all the questions we had. We wanted to know when we could take you home, and they responded that it may be a week. An EEG, or electro-encephalogram, was scheduled to check for seizure activity. Your scalp was covered in 18 sensors and your brain activity was closely monitored for 24 hours. We talked and sang to you but were not allowed to hold you during the test. The test showed what we had been convinced of the whole time: absolutely no sign of any seizures. What had caused this whole hullabaloo was your tendency to shake vigorously when you were unwrapped from your blanket. Your arms would get stiff and you'd wave them like little egg-beaters. Heidi and I had seen it several times and found it to be cute, because your Dad does the same thing when Heidi pulls the blankets off of him. We realized within the first few hours of your life that you don't particularly like being cold, but evidently the doctors at Mercy took one look at your shiver/shake and cried wolf. I will not write names, because I don't want to make them into the bad guy of this story. The nurses and doctors at Mercy were amazing and took wonderful care of the three of us. <br />
<br />
You had several apneic episodes throughout the day, eight to be exact. One episode was serious enough to require "bagging". When I was told this, I imagined you were placed in a giant plastic sack and given increased atmospheric pressure. What really happened was they placed a oxygen mask on your face and used a Whoopie cushion to push a little air into your lungs. The Whoopie cushion was the "bag" part of "bagging". You had turned "dusky" which is a fancy, sophisticated word for "kinda the wrong color, kiddo" and places a whole new meaning to "riding off into the sunset". Aside from that worrisome episode, you had a lot of healthy progress. There was even one apneic episode where you stopped breathing but self-corrected and started breathing on your own again. We were very pleased. <br />
<br />
At one point in the afternoon, I stopped in to check on you and found you screaming at the doctors. They were trying to take a blood sample from your foot. I came up beside you and as soon as I said "Owen, it's okay. I'm right here," you quieted down. I felt 10 feet tall. <br />
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Barry and Debby, my parents and your grandparents, arrived home from Oregon Sunday afternoon. They quickly came to visit us at the hospital and to see if you looked like their most adorable son. Sadly, you looked a whole lot like me and nothing like Uncle Shelby. Huehuehue Dad Joke. They took Heidi and I out to eat at Village Inn, where I ordered a delicious hearty breakfast skillet full of foods that I love. When it arrived, I was only able to eat a few bites. I no longer felt barfy but my appetite wasn't back yet. <br /><br />With negative results (negative being good in Hospitals and bad everywhere else) on the blood tests, spinal fluid tests, and others, you were taken off two of your three antibiotics. I remembered that the Mercy doctors had hinted about herpes being an issue and requiring antibiotics. I wanted to set things straight, so I told the NICU doctors that Heidi and I were virgins until we married each other and we have been each other's only sexual partner. Your doctor's eyes widened and she said, "Well, then Owen has a zero chance--no, LESS than zero chance of having any issues with that! Good for you two," she said, a little incredulously. She instructed the nurses to finish you out on your last round of antibiotics and then cease any further doses. <br />
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We were told that you'd get your EEG sensors off by evening but it didn't happen. The Neurology guys said they wanted to monitor you for a few more hours, but we secretly suspected they were just watching the Superbowl instead. "In the morning," they said "we'll get those sensors off and you'll be able to hold him again." Heidi and I went home to sleep. <br />
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<strong>Monday, February 5th, 2018</strong> <br /><br />I spent the morning helping Grandpa Barry at the business office, just trying to get some paperwork taken care of and transitioning him back into the swing of things. He had been gone for three weeks. Heidi and I came to the hospital around noon. The EEG sensors were still plastered all over your head, but the doctors had heard back from Neurology that there were absolutely no signs of seizure activity, and things were looking good. It doesn't look like your brain is to blame for these apneic episodes. A heart echo was scheduled and performed, which is essentially an ultrasound used to look at the heart. All of your valves look lovely squooshing and swooshing blood, and it doesn't look like your heart is to blame for these apneic episodes. The doctors are pleased with your results, but also puzzled about the apnea and the cause behind it. The episodes were much more rare; you had two today. You went 12 full hours without a single problem, which is the longest stretch yet. You're off all antibiotics and are currently being fed breast milk through a straw that enters your nose and runs down into your stomach. You still have an IV pushing some sugar water into you, so between that and the breast milk, you're constantly fed and almost always sleepy. I changed your diaper today, which contained some mysterious bright green nuggets. You took great pleasure in trying to pee on me, but I was quick and smothered your crotch with another diaper just in time. I can already see that diaper changing is going to be a contest of the wills. <br /><br />Grandma Debby came to visit and brought freshly-baked coffee cakes along with a sack of groceries. She stayed the night to watch you, as did Heidi and I. It had snowed 8 inches today so we didn't feel like going anywhere. <br />
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<strong>Tuesday, February 6th, 2018</strong><br />
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It is currently 1:38 AM on Tuesday, and I've come to an end of this update. Rumors are flying about Owen's condition because Owen's condition changes so rapidly. He's always been healthy, and he's always been improving, but different details about blood on the brain or seizures have been told to family and friends, and it has spread from there. I'm trying to clarify the situation as quickly as I can. <br /><br />We are so grateful for all the many prayers and encouragement and words of life that we've received from so many. You mean the world to us, and we credit Owen's progress to your prayers. God has kept his hand on us through this, and although we're not home yet, it should be soon. We'll keep you updated. <br /><br />Love,<br /><br />Shawn, Heidi, & Owen. <br />
Shawn Graberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06442043972170630969noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6763972133541426654.post-83026934881547256852018-01-01T17:29:00.000-06:002018-01-01T17:29:37.812-06:00New Year's Note"Hey Siri, how many days until Christmas?"<br /><br /><i>It's three hundred fifty-eight days until then, Shawn.</i><br /><br />"Heh, I'm WAY ahead of schedule with this whole Christmas letter writing business!"<br /><br /><i>It appears you missed 2017's letter. </i><br /><br />"Oh, well no need to mention THAT."<br /><br /><i>It also appears that you will be turning 30 next year. My research indicates that is a stressful milestone for human males.</i><br />
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"Okay, Siri, that's enough!"<br />
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<i>Based on my accelerometer recordings and the sounds of your labored breathing, it appears you've gained weight. </i><br /><br />*aggressively mashes power-off button*<br /><br />Smart phones.<br />
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The Graber household wishes you a very Merry Christmas, regardless of the fact that we're a whole week late in saying it. We had an amazing holiday jam-packed with family reunions. When I was single, there was the Maust family reunion and the Graber family reunion to keep an eye on. My assumption was that marriage would bring two more family reunions to the table BUT WE ALL KNOW ABOUT ASSUMING and somehow there's about 15 reunions now. Heidi loves to say that she's related to half of Kalona and I'm related to the other half. Not only is she right, I dare say she's underestimating the length and breadth of our relations.<br />
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Heidi and I are eagerly awaiting the arrival of our son in mid February, and his name is Mr. George <span class="_Tgc">José</span> Duncan Walter Zinfandel Ronald Graber, if the guessers are to be believed. We have our name picked out (along with the names of our next three children) and the curiosity arising from our families is growing at an exponential rate. If I could somehow capitalize on this explosive growth...hmm mumble mumble BirthCoins...<br />
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<i> Photos by Lynda Halteman</i></div>
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<i> </i></div>
We had a miscarriage in February of 2017, an early pregnancy loss. The baby was far too young for us to know the gender but Jesus has sweetly shown us visions of a little girl, whom we named Amanda. I'm not sure if that means the FOUR of us wish you a Happy New Year or just the three of us...I'm trying to grapple with this delirious idea that I'm a father of two and I haven't even held a baby yet. I know that this is not an uncommon experience for families, and my heart grieves for each family that experienced a miscarriage this past year.<br />
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Heidi and I celebrated our first anniversary in June, where we took a sweet little getaway to Chicago. "Why not just fly to Afghanistan, it's less violent!" I hear you say. We had some fascinating experiences in Chicago, and most of them were amazing. We stayed in a fancy hotel in Schaumburg and traveled to the heart (gizzard? liver?) of the city each day to explore. We toured Willis Tower and stepped out into a tiny glass box suspended 108 floors above the ground. We moseyed through the Museum of Science and Industry, where we did all sorts of interactive things that were too fun to be considered 'learning experiences', even though that's exactly what they were. We visited the Shedd aquarium and a sweet staff member let me not only pet stingrays, but keep a section of their teeth. Maybe you don't know how cool that is, but it is way cool. Stingrays lose their teeth sections (which look like tiny, flat combs) about as often as a shark will lose its teeth. They regrow constantly, so it's no big deal for them to just drop chunks of their teeth. I am the only person that left the aquarium that day with a section of
stingray teeth. What's that? You say it's because that's kinda gross and
nobody else would want them? Pish posh! I had fun stumping my brother Shaylon with the small comb of teeth, giving him clues as to its origin and seeing if he'd guess which animal they belonged to. He guessed it eventually, because he's a genius.<br />
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<i>Willis Tower, Chicago</i></div>
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<i>View from the Willis Tower glass boxes. We were in one box, photographing </i></div>
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<i>across the open expanse to the other box. The floor, walls, and ceiling are all glass. </i></div>
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<i>Museum of Science and Industry, Chicago</i></div>
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<i>Shedd Aquarium, Chicago. Heidi is petting various stingrays. </i></div>
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<i>Stingrays in the Shedd Aquarium. They felt smooth and slippery.</i></div>
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Speaking of brothers; my brother Shane got married to his adorable fiance Fern in July. We had an awesome time with the whole family out in Storm Lake, IA. Shannon & Konrad, Shelley & Randy, and all their kiddos made the trip out, which was extra amazing. With the addition of Fernie, we now number 25 in the Barry Graber family, with 11 of those being grandchildren. An interesting side note; our forthcoming son is the grandson/granddaughter tie-breaker. I didn't know that was a competition, but of course the boys need to win, for reasons.<br />
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Heidi's brother Christopher has been in Costa Rica for the past 18 months with Pura Vida ministries. Christopher had a short break for the holidays; it was so lovely to spend time with him, his girlfriend Rosetta, and the whole Zook family this Christmas. Chris has returned to Central America and we miss him already. <br />
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Heidi and I bought a minivan...we couldn't be more excited. I do mean WE, because I've been wanting a minivan since I was in high school. It's superior to an SUV in every way. Sliding doors rather than traditional doors that swing wayyyy out and ding nearby vehicles, a low center of gravity that keeps the vehicle on its four wheels where it belongs, and most of all: the blessings that other drivers give. Just think about it; when you see a humble little minivan making its way through traffic with a cute young lady at the wheel, you say things like "Aww look at that little momma just doing her best, day in and day out!" but if you see an SUV on your way to the grocery store, your thoughts are more "Who does that <i>IDIOT</i> think they are? What a pretentious oaf!" You can't tell it's a cute young lady driving because of the tinted windows and the fact that it's upside-down in a ditch.<br />
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<i> Our sweet new-to-us minivan, a 2006 Nissan Quest</i></div>
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2017 was a busy year for Heidi. She's been cleaning houses and finished painting the rooms in our trailer. Colors with the names "Midnight Sonata", "Mill Run Blue", Summer Shower Green", "Quiet Rain" and others have transformed drab wallpaper into beautiful vistas. Her latest project has been setting up a delightful baby room. Decorating, organizing, painting, rearranging furniture...all the things that would drain my energy seems to replenish hers. Heidi is transitioning out of her house-cleaning jobs and plans to stay home with our baby when he finally decides to arrive.<br />
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One of our 2017 goals was to take swing dance lessons, and we just finished our beginner lessons this past month. Initially we didn't plan to take up dancing while Heidi was pregnant, but she was a champ. We took 12 weeks of lessons with the University of Iowa Swing Dance Club and we had a marvelous time. We learned East Coast, Lindy, and a little bit of Charleston. We took a single class of Balboa and that was ultra saucy. For those of you ne'er-do-wells that have no idea what swing dance is, it's that fun, old-timey dancing that you see in all the old classic movies, like It's a Wonderful Life (George Bailey is dancing the Charleston when he ends up falling into the swimming pool) or Singin' in the Rain. <br /><br />We experienced the 2017 Total Solar Eclipse. It was everything we had hoped to see and much, much more. Heidi and I got up in the wee hours of August 21st and traveled to Jefferson City, Missouri, which was located in the totality band of the eclipse. NASA set up their eclipse coverage in Jefferson City, so that tells you how prime of a spot it was. We took Heidi's brother Austin and my brother Shaylon along for the ride. I had initially planned to take a 10-passenger van and fill it with friends, but then I discovered that most of my friends weren't that eager to go. I didn't blame them; there were news reports stating that it would be the worst traffic jam Armageddon in the history of the United States. "Take extra water!" the reports shouted "You'll probably be stuck in your vehicle for a day!" The drive down to Missouri was swift and smooth with hardly a hint of traffic. We arrived with hours to spare, and met up with my dear friend Brian Shirk, who invited us to camp out in his front yard. This is totally an instance of "It's not <i>what </i>you know, it's <i>who </i>you know." I had known Brian lived in Missouri but I didn't know where, so when I found out that my planned eclipse watching spot was 10 minutes from his house...it was mind-blowing. After setting up chairs and a telescope and setting out sheets of paper for temperature testing, we saw such a beautiful eclipse...I'm still having a hard time describing it. <b>Photographs of the eclipse do not do any justice of any kind</b> to the event, and no, you can't say "I saw it" if you only saw pictures. That would be akin to me saying that I've been in Europe, when I've only been in the Amsterdam airport. (That's true, by the way. My friends won't let me say I've been to Europe because I didn't step outside of the airport. What's that all about? Do airports exist outside of the physical realm?) <br /><br />The eclipse was beautiful and well worth the trip. As the moon fully concealed the sun, we were able to take off our glasses and view the event with the bare eye. We could even see the sun's corona, the white-hot ring of burning gases around the surface of the sun. It appeared as a white wreath around the black of the moon. The return home took two hours longer than the trip there, and I got all fidgety and fussy but that horrifying snarl of traffic is now just a dim, foggy memory. The eclipse still stands bright and clear in my mind. Worth it, no doubt. <br />
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<i>It was a chore to find pairs of solar eclipse glasses, </i></div>
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<i>but we had enough to go around by the time we left. </i></div>
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<i>My packing list for the solar eclipse. </i></div>
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<i>The welding helmets were added just in case </i></div>
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<i>we needed additional solar protection.</i></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>One of Brian's friends brought a sweet telescope to view the eclipse. We were able to observe sunspots on the surface of the sun with it, as well as track the progress of the moon as it traversed across the sun. It was absolutely incredible. Note the duct-taped solar shield on top of both the telescope and the spotting scope; this was to keep our eyes safe. Ain't nobody got time to eyeball the sun directly through a telescope!</i></div>
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<i> </i></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>View through the spotting scope, not quite halfway to the eclipse</i></div>
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<i> </i></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>View through the main telescope, taken nearer to the time of total eclipse.</i></div>
<br />
<br />
We have three cats that run around outside and bring us freshly-killed moles and birds as gifts. Clutch and Chester are brothers and nearly full-grown. Shane's cat Ferris is their mother, and appears to be waddling around with another litter of kittens inside her. Even though Clutch and Chester are beautiful, they're a touch on the wild side and are difficult to snuggle with. I know a lot of people that view their dogs and cats as more than pets...they're members of the family! Fur babies! Bah humbug to that, I don't even think our cats are pets. They're just cats. If I had to call something my pets, it would be my ever-growing collection of guns, of which I now have ***REDACTED***<br />
<br />
I've been busy working with my dad at Graber Heating & Air. Dad made the last payment on the business this year and he now fully owns the business. I'm in my last year of apprenticeship and plan to take my Journeyman's exam this year. And what a journey it's been; many of my fellow classmates are gone. What started as a class of over 30 in 1st Year was down to 15 or so in 3rd Year. With 4th Year classes beginning next week, I expect to see even less of my classmates. Several have accepted other job offers or dropped out of the HVAC industry. The U.S. is desperate for more plumbers and HVAC technicians (very high job security, BTW) and there doesn't seem to be enough applicants.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Barry (my father) giving Lynn (my grandfather) the last payment for Graber Heating. </i></div>
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<i>Brother Shelby loiters in the background.</i></div>
<br />
Some trips Heidi and I made this year:<br />
<br />
-Three weeks in South Carolina helping with Strait Paths ministries in February<br />
-Anniversary trip to Chicago in June<br />
-July 4th trip to the Maquoketa Caves with the Barry Graber family<br />-A weekend in Storm Lake, IA in July for Shane's wedding<br />
-Camping trip to Prairie du Chien, Wisconsin with the Alan Zook family<br />
-A day in Missouri for the eclipse in August<br />
-Two separate trips to Ohio for weddings, one for Dawnita (Martin) Stoltzfus and one for Jeanette (Falb) Stoltzfus. I probably should have caught this, but those two girls married boys with the same last name. Huh. <br />
-A quick weekend trip to Minnesota to visit dear friends Doyle and Teresa Byler in November<br />
-Field trip to Des Moines, IA to visit Shane & Fern and tour the Iowa Capitol building in November<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Capitol building, Des Moines, IA</i></div>
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<i> </i></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Maquoketa Caves, IA</i></div>
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<i> </i></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Prairie du Chien, Wisconsin</i></div>
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<i> </i></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>That one time we went dumpster diving and found questionable meat; undisclosed location.</i></div>
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<i> </i></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Downtown Chicago, IL </i></div>
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<i> </i></div>
Heidi and I are still attending Cornerstone Community Church, where it has been fun to connect with our growing church family. Soapbox alert: I find it strange that the Bride of Christ meets in so many different buildings on Sunday mornings, but it is nice to get to know people and see familiar faces each week. If you're one of those people that says "Well we couldn't possibly combine a Sunday service with *those* people because they do [fill in the blank] differently than we do", I encourage you to thoughtfully consider those reasons this new year.<br />
<br />
Speaking of the new year, I ALSO encourage you to pronounce it "Twenty-eighteen". Saying "Two-thousand-eighteen" is SO last decade. I hold this gleam of hope in my heart that by 2020, everyone will be on board with saying "twenty" rather than "two thousand", but who knows; we're a stubborn culture. If you won't change, then at least be consistent. Pronounce ALL the years in long-hand. For instance, I was born in One-Thousand-Nine-Hundred-and-Eighty-Nine.<br />
<br />
I realize that my blog has been abandoned and neglected and otherwise completely unused since last year's Christmas letter. That surprised me a little; where has time gone? If I keep with this schedule, I'll have a little 10-month old to talk about the next time I write. :)<br />
<br />
Heidi and I love each and every one of you, and we're grateful for your influence in our lives. We pray God's abundance in finances, health, wisdom, and joy for you and your families this new year.<br />
<br />
<br />
P.S. I'm totally looking forward to 30 next year. Take that, Siri! <br />
<br />
<br />Shawn Graberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06442043972170630969noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6763972133541426654.post-85655076447745282832016-12-31T18:29:00.000-06:002016-12-31T18:29:05.221-06:00Christmas LetterIn what seems like a short span of time, I've made the switch from bachelor to husband. That switch comes with monumental changes in a person's life that extend far past adjusting one's Facebook relationship status from "single" to "married". I welcome those changes but still find myself catching up to what it is that married humans do. Writing a Christmas letter to send to family and friends is so far down on a bachelor's list, it hovers near "hunting for the source of that moldy smell" and "baking cookies to give to the neighbors and not eat all of them by yourself". I'm not saying Christmas letters are a bad idea...just one that didn't occupy my world until recently. <br /><br />Heidi and I sat down and wrote a Christmas letter several weeks ago, but were unable to print it off and send it out to our families. We found ourselves traveling to the East coast for a lovely wedding and working every spare minute in between, with the Christmas letter falling beneath "sleep" and "eat" on our to-do list. But like good Mennonites that don't want to let anything go to waste, I'll post our Christmas letter here, rather than allow 2017 to show up without people knowing what Heidi and I are up to. <br />___________________________________________________________<br />
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December 2016<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
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Greetings, family and friends! Heidi and I wish a very Merry
Christmas to each and every one of you. <br />
<br />
Okay, am I done?<br />
<br />
“No cutie, you’re supposed to tell everyone what we’ve been up to.” <br />
<br />
Oh, right! <br />
<br />
Heidi and I have been blissfully married for just over 6 months, and for all
the unmarried cousins reading this, we highly recommend the whole
operation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We’ve done a little bit of
traveling but for the most part, Heidi has been transforming my humble trailer
in the woods into a beautiful chateau perched near the English River. After
kicking out my roommates (essentially by telling them how many cooties they
were going to contract if they stuck around after our wedding), we began to
meld two houses into one. Several friends and brothers pitched in to transport
Heidi’s baby grand piano. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I admit I
didn’t think there would be space for it in our trailer but it fits naturally
in the living room and looks extra festive with a small Christmas tree perched
on the lid. It took a few weeks, but the application of candles and scented
oils purged out the baked-in bachelor stenches that had permeated the household
before Heidi moved in. </div>
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<br /></div>
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During the week, Heidi housecleans, babysits, delivers
insulin to me when I leave it at home (which is more often than I'd care to admit), and fights off the crafty mice that have
found their way into our chateau. She’s recently started repainting the rooms
in the trailer, which have been in serious need of updating. Heidi is intensely
focused when it comes to renovation projects but will set aside time to speak life
to friends, family members, visitors, strangers…she is positively bursting with
words of affirmation and love. </div>
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<br /></div>
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I’ve been working at Graber Heating & Air,
our family business. There are all sorts of wild stories to tell about the
basements and attics and crawlspaces that I’ve been in, but I can’t possibly
tell you about those because they may involve YOUR basements and attics. :D I’ve
been busy attending classes to become licensed in Heating, Ventilating, and Air
Conditioning, or HVAC for short. I’m currently three years in to my 4-year
apprenticeship, with a Journeyman’s program to be taken after that, and a
Master’s exam following that. It sounds like a lot, but it’s relatively few
classroom hours. I've already completed the apprenticeship's required 8,000 hours of on-the-job training, since they allowed me to grandfather in all the years I've already worked. <br /><br />Heidi and I took an impromptu trip to Omaha, Nebraska recently to deliver an ancient gas pump to a collector, in order to keep it from falling into the hands of a greedy swindler. That tale requires its own letter, so I'll save that one for later.<br />
<br />
How’s that, honey? <br />
<br />
“Great! Did you mention Coach yet?” <br />
<br />
I was totally getting to him, but then I got sidetracked and forgot. Thanks for
the reminder! Coach is our stubborn golden cat that behaves like a dog. In my
opinion, that’s the best kind of cat behavior. <br /><i>EDIT: Coach died suddenly and unexpectedly on Christmas Eve, and I cried more for him that I've cried for any pet. I never thought I was much of a cat person but Coach and I had a strong connection. True to his nature, Coach stubbornly refused to let something like a work van make him move from his comfortable perch in the middle of the driveway, and got squished. In the dark, rainy hours just before the dawn of Christmas day, I buried him in the woods a short distance from our trailer.</i><br />
<br />
Heidi and I have been meeting with a small group of believers on Sunday at a
school house in Kalona. The group is called Cornerstone Christian, and it’s
been wonderful to see God at work in the fellowship. We had a Christmas Eve service in lieu of attending a service on Christmas day, and it was lovely. Heidi and I were in charge of a children's meeting, and I read a story I found written by Dave Miller, which is worth the read. I'll leave the link for <a href="http://sbcvoices.com/the-perfect-gift-a-childrens-story/" target="_blank">that story here</a>.<br />
<br />
I married a marvelous chef, and my body bears the evidence. I’ve gained 15 lbs
since our wedding thanks to her incredible home-cooked meals and treats. Heidi’s
family created a secret barbecue sauce recipe that requires all sorts of exotic
ingredients. I’ve been commanded not to share it…well that’s not true. They
don’t realize how revolutionary this barbecue sauce is, so I’ve decided to keep
it a secret myself. Once I start marketing it as “Mama Zook’s Zesty Spread”,
we’ll become millionaires, like that Sriracha guy. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Arial Rounded MT Bold","sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Aharoni;">“Now may the God of peace who brought again from
the dead our Lord Jesus, the great shepherd of the sheep, by the blood of the
eternal covenant, equip you with everything good that you may do his will,
working in us that which is pleasing in his sight, through Jesus Christ, to
whom be glory forever and ever. Amen. <br />
–Hebrews 13:20-21</span></span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Arial Rounded MT Bold","sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Aharoni;"><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
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<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">As Heidi and I nestle cozily under warm fuzzy
blankets inside, we watch fuzzy snowflakes blanket the yard outside. We wish
you all a Christmas as warm and joyful as ours.<br />
<br />
“And a happy New Year too.” <br />
<br />
Oh yes, and a Happy New Year to you and your families!<br />
<br />
Love, <br />
<br />Shawn & Heidi Graber
</span><br />Shawn Graberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06442043972170630969noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6763972133541426654.post-61838926342691676452016-09-04T12:23:00.000-05:002016-09-04T20:16:35.076-05:00Love Your Spouse Challenge<span style="font-family: inherit;">Lately on Facebook there have been a lot of trendy "challenges" that have swooped through; the ALS ice bucket challenge and "Change your profile picture for Paris" come to mind. Currently the hot topic is the "Love your spouse" challenge. Now, I'm not against these challenges, especially the latest one. My standard Facebook news feed is bloated with advertisements and awful news, so seeing a man praise his wife with words of love or a woman speaking life to her husband is a welcome respite from the barrage of drama and Farmville requests.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">A few weeks ago, my cousin Kendra tagged me to complete the challenge, which requires a person to post something uplifting about their significant other once a day for seven days. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">"Posh!" I declared. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">"As if that's a challenge!" I scoffed. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The notion that loving one's spouse was a challenge to be conquered...I rejected the whole premise. I shouldn't have to be <i>CHALLENGED</i> into loving my wife, I should do it naturally! I should desire to! My relationship with Heidi shouldn't be based off someone double-dog-daring me to say "I love you." Silliness!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">But it is a challenge.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Loving a spouse takes everything, and the moment you say to yourself "Ah, this romance is effortless", you've been lulled into a dangerous complacency.</span><br />
<br />
Big words for a man who's been married one day over three months.<br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #363030; font-size: 17.28px; line-height: 22.464px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> "Do nothing from selfish ambition or conceit, but in humility count others more significant than yourselves. Let each of you look not only to his own interests, but also to the interests of others." (Philippians 2:3-4 ESV)
</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #363030; line-height: 22.464px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: black; font-family: inherit; font-size: small; line-height: normal; white-space: normal;">I've gone from being grouchy about this whole challenge to introspective about it. The challenge is calling men and women out and saying "Hey, you know that love you lavish on each other? That's rare and precious in this culture. Share about it." For perspective, Heidi and I have some Godly friends in Canada that are completely unfamiliar with displays of affection between husband and wife. One couple explained how they turned it into a game; chasing the children down the hallway before giving their spouse a quick peck, unseen by the kids. Now "love" and "excessive displays of saliva transfer" are not the same. But what should be considered normal--the love of a man for his wife and a woman for her husband--is abnormal in our time and is almost unseen by the youngest generation.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Essentially, that's all I have to share. You may continue browsing Facebook now, or perusing other blogs, or checking those unread emails, or harvesting your crops in Farmville.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">All gone? Okay, good. Heidi, this is for you.</span><br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-qq-ILNSswzp7qP_TL_aSicwOgD5yX1osNS9RrvSjryQdcej_lN4K2k33GviWV3-oBSUE0-pLqOwHpvMu5_jKfR5mg0t7F5X8eb13-HcTQ7n2h5cvyq-AHwewMbacYb9iOdfpph2M0Nmi/s1600/IMG_4714.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-qq-ILNSswzp7qP_TL_aSicwOgD5yX1osNS9RrvSjryQdcej_lN4K2k33GviWV3-oBSUE0-pLqOwHpvMu5_jKfR5mg0t7F5X8eb13-HcTQ7n2h5cvyq-AHwewMbacYb9iOdfpph2M0Nmi/s320/IMG_4714.jpg" width="180" /></a></div>
<br />
I love you, Mrs. Graber. I love the way you prioritize communicating with me throughout each day, even when your hands are full. I love the hand-written notes and drawings you make for me, as well as the texts and voicemail recordings and Snapchats and phone calls. That barrage of communication may seem overwhelming to a bachelor but let me tell you, this former bachelor adores it. You are the bee's knees, little lady.<br />
<br />
Thank you for waking up early to pack delicious lunches for me. I have been SO well-fed by you, Heidi. The touches that you put into my meals are astonishing. I often feel like an emperor as I pull out perfectly crafted sandwiches, piping hot soups and stews packed in a Thermos, tasty snacks and fruits and desserts and salads...all in the same lunch box. Seriously, you have done an expert job reminding me that my bachelor years were woeful times indeed.<br />
<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrodNE5AmpunGO-vMWbNnmdnV5VUgqfNjXNHtgJsx-VVKTNgcz7vo-6Nf7EHc8Xxqir2T2IA6VSDTL5OuHFC608z0UZOQ1lBOJxznbNMYBaLZTOdBFekqkOAx6WQeYtsYiSoTly_sNJvjP/s1600/IMG_4709.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrodNE5AmpunGO-vMWbNnmdnV5VUgqfNjXNHtgJsx-VVKTNgcz7vo-6Nf7EHc8Xxqir2T2IA6VSDTL5OuHFC608z0UZOQ1lBOJxznbNMYBaLZTOdBFekqkOAx6WQeYtsYiSoTly_sNJvjP/s320/IMG_4709.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
Speaking of challenges, I love the way you rise to them, Heidi. I have loved marriage with you, and I owe a lot of that to the way you meet every obstacle with vigor and determination. I am so grateful I'm not a mountain in your path, because I know I'd get bulldozed just after you've had your morning coffee.<br />
<br />
This photo was taken at our yearly extended Graber reunion, which takes place over the course of a Sunday afternoon and packs enough conversation to last a four-day weekend, easily. There were around 100 Graber descendants at this reunion and Heidi jumped right into the noisy fray. (Great-great Uncle Joseph hosted the reunion this year and held it in a refurbished hog barn on his farm. He remarked that our reunion cacophony sounded very similar to the barn's previous inhabitants.)<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNfWzCoDd7NY-wnOi-1dMMgRoScDTebELXVdTvFboyC0ya94fSXysZjBmB8WQ8FNOzrGajKEaNbhpwk37PnngZFOHfYzXEh-B3uL5vawivGNV42pyBLnJhJbH_HhBMBzaXOr7qoIOzhlHY/s1600/IMG_4724.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNfWzCoDd7NY-wnOi-1dMMgRoScDTebELXVdTvFboyC0ya94fSXysZjBmB8WQ8FNOzrGajKEaNbhpwk37PnngZFOHfYzXEh-B3uL5vawivGNV42pyBLnJhJbH_HhBMBzaXOr7qoIOzhlHY/s320/IMG_4724.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
Heidi, you're holding a hammock strap that was impossibly knotted to itself, so tight that both my Mom and I gave up after assailing it with pliers, screwdrivers, and stern looks. I say <i>"was"</i> because you managed to unravel the knot that stymied the rest of us. The word "helpful" gets thrown around a lot but you are truly full of help, my dear.<br />
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This photo was taken after work on an especially long day for both of us. You had been cleaning and running all over the countryside, but when I arrived at home you had me sit down so you could rub my hot, sweaty feet. I have been so respected by you, Heidi. You have shown with your words and your actions that you cherish me. If putting up with my smelly toes isn't the epitome of faithful loving, I don't know what is. :) Even when you spend your full day blessing others, you bless me too. When I get home, you greet me at the door with a hug and tell me how glad you are that I'm back.<br />
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I love that you Snapchat me throughout the day. I also love that I have a difficult time finding Snapchats that are appropriate to share publicly. ;) You are beautiful, my love. We just received a copy of "Cosmopolitan" magazine (which puzzles me, because neither of us signed up for it) in the mail. The magazine's cover boasts about the latest "super sex secrets" and "booty boosting cardio tricks" but that magazine can take a hike. I have beheld true beauty, and she snuggles with me at night.<br />
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Life with you has been a true adventure, and there isn't a soul I'd rather have by my side, honey. I love the snarky humor you have, especially about the way you believe the world is out to inconvenience short people. There are a lot of complainers out there who have the ability to manufacture gripes out of just about anything. <br />
<i>Sunny day?</i> "It's too hot to do anything!" <br />
<i>Rainy day?</i> "My socks are all damp ugggghhh." <br />
<i>Day without coffee?</i> "Waaahhh I can't get anything done I'm hopeless without my caffeine fix." <br />
<i>Day with coffee?</i> "Man this coffee is expensive and tastes bad and probably isn't fair-trade." <br />
But that's not you, Heidi. You have remained steadfast and upbeat and always have a word of encouragement to keep me going, even when it's "This too shall pass. I'll go get you another pair of socks."<br />
<br />
Heidi, you've been sick this past week with a fever and a bad cough. You've had days where it was painful to breathe and nights where your coughing kept you from sleeping. The doctor prescribed some antibiotics and said that, unchecked, your condition could have developed into Walking Pneumonia, which sounds even more awful than Regular Pneumonia somehow. Through this, you have worked extremely hard to provide for our marriage and our home. You have been faithful to care for me despite your own need for care. Yesterday I had a slight cough and you rushed around to nurse me back into health even though you were coughing enough to summon the Grim Reaper.<br />
<br />
I have been so blessed beyond what anyone could ever hope to deserve. I'm so grateful for you, my darling. Thank you for being my spouse.<br />
<br />
I love you, Heidi.Shawn Graberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06442043972170630969noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6763972133541426654.post-69595740817542661762016-02-18T13:33:00.000-06:002016-02-18T21:55:44.123-06:00The Quest for a Rare BookI read a lot. The amount of books I read has diminished in the past few years, but I still manage to stalk, overpower, consume, and digest several books a month. Lately I've been getting in on some of the audiobook phenomenon and it's been nice. Not extraordinary, because I will always love the weight and smell and feel of a true book*, but it has had its advantages, such as listening to beloved Narnia tales alongside my little lady. <br />
<br />
*Before you label me as a "book hipster", I'll have you know that the word you're searching for is "bibliophile". I DO like reading ebooks but often find the process for adding books to my Kindle or smartphone akin to wrangling an ostrich into pajamas. One day I'll be able to take my Kindle into my local library and "e-borrow" (as much as I hate the fad of adding "i" or "e" in front of things to make them sound techy, I wasn't sure how to explain my idea) a book for three weeks. When that day comes, I'll drop real books like they're full of termites. <br />
<br />
But there are certain books that cannot be downloaded, copied to a PDF, or sent to an e-reader. Neither would they fare well as an audiobook. This post is about such a book. <br />
<br />
One of my most favorite man-made objects ever created is the Lockheed SR-71 stealth plane, nicknamed "Blackbird". You may not recognize the name, but you'll definitely recognize the plane. We're talking about an icon of American Freedom right up there with bald eagles and Abraham Lincoln.<br />
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<i>Every time I look at that magnificent beast, I appreciate it even more. </i></div>
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The SR-71 retired from the skies when I was still in diapers so I have never seen one fly, but I have seen two of the exquisite creatures in person. One, in the <a href="http://www.evergreenmuseum.org/" target="_blank">Evergreen Aviation & Space Museum</a> in McMinnville, Oregon, and the other in the <a href="https://airandspace.si.edu/" target="_blank">Smithsonian National Air and Space Museum </a>in Virginia. If I were to take a road trip starting at one museum and ending at the other, it would take me roughly 42 hours by car, traveling over 2,873 miles. The SR-71 could do the <a href="http://www.wvi.com/~sr71webmaster/972record1.htm" target="_blank">same trip</a> in 1 hour, 8 minutes, and 17 seconds while averaging 2,112 miles per hour. Seriously, don't even get me started about this aircraft unless you want to be completely DELUGED with trivia. <br />
<br />
But how does one become packed with trivia about an airplane that has little public information released? You read books about the airplane, of course! And the best books are written by the builders, the engineers, and the pilots that spent countless hours with the airplane. A few months ago I discovered an online article written by SR-71 pilot Brian Shul. The article was excellent and I wished there were more. In the comment section was a mention of a book Mr. Shul had published called "Sled Driver." <br />
<br />
Cool, I thought. Maybe I'd buy a copy off Amazon. <i>SEVEN HUNDRED DOLLARS FOR A USED COPY?? </i>(or $1,999.95 + $3.99 shipping if you want the <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/offer-listing/0972268200/ref=tmm_hrd_collectible_olp_sr?ie=UTF8&condition=collectible&qid=1455823617&sr=8-2" target="_blank">collectible version</a>.) Good gracious, I haven't seen prices that bad since I bought textbooks for college classes. Perhaps I would download the book or borrow it from a library. <i>NO DOWNLOADS OF ANY KIND AVAILABLE, EVEN THE ILLEGAL TYPE OF DOWNLOADS??</i> What kind of ultra-rare book am I dealing with here? It turns out that crafty Mr. Shul had released a very limited run of his book; a giant glossy coffee-table monopolizing tome filled with photographs that he personally took of the airplane. Supposedly, the way to sell expensive books is the following: <br />
<br />
1. Take an exotic, secret aircraft that became an unrivaled champion
of speed and stealth for decades, swath it in a cozy blanket of top
secrecy. <br />
<br />
2. Get selected for the grueling, extra-top secret SR-71 pilot program. <br />
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3. Pass aforementioned program training (along with the extra rigorous physical examinations) with sanity intact. <br />
<br />
4. Fly the airplane successfully without piledriving into the ground at the 3 times the speed of sound.<br />
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5. Write a book about your experiences. Snap a few photos. <br />
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6. Release ONLY A HANDFUL OF COPIES. <br />
<br />
7. Profit.<br />
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Brian Shul has just recently re-released the book in another Limited Edition run with glossy golden book covers. Those copies, under the lofty title of SR71 Golden Anniversary Set are fetching the <a href="http://galleryonepublishing.com/BlackbirdStores/product_info.php?cPath=22&products_id=57" target="_blank">princely sum</a> of, uh, $550? For a brand new book? Granted, that's still astronomical but used copies are more expensive than that. What's the deal, Amazon?<br />
<br />
Faced with such a ghastly price tag, what was a purebred Mennonite to do? Acquiring a copy of the book <i>just to read it</i> became an obsession. None of the local libraries had a copy so I started looking into interlibrary loaning (or ILL for short), which is a cool book-sharing system (one could say that it's a SICK program hahahaha okay I'll stop). If a local library doesn't have a resource, it will reach out to its network of libraries to see if THEY have the resource. If they do, the local library will borrow it on your behalf. I started by asking the ponderously large Iowa City Public Library and they informed me that "...[ILL] is just for Iowa City residents, you country peasant!*"<br />
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<i>"Your mother was a hamster and your father smelt of elderberries!" -Monty Python</i> </div>
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*I may have added the "you country peasant" part. In reality, the ICPL librarian I spoke to was stern but kind. That seems to be the norm for all librarians worldwide, as if they all attended the same college and learned how to be stern and informative and quiet hahahaha but seriously.<br />
<br />
<br />
Next, I visited a small local library about five minutes from my home in the town of Wellman. The Wellman-Scofield Public Library is run by one of my most favorite librarians, a sweet lady named Carol. Carol is not stern in the slightest (maybe she missed the Stern Librarian course in college?), even when I forget to bring in my library card to borrow items...which is every single time I visit the library. I told her about the book, which by now had grown its own identity, that of an elusive hardcover unicorn. I admitted that I wouldn't be surprised if there were zero copies available. After all, who gives a $700 limited-run book to a public library? And what library would let grubby little kids mash their Cheeto-stained fingers all over the aforementioned $700 book? <br />
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Carol checked the ILL database that her library was affiliated with. The database contained literally <i>dozens</i> of libraries across the state of Iowa, which may come as a shock to those of you who thought Iowa contained 2.5 towns, at most. A most surprising search result came back: there was one copy of Sled Driver in the library database. Huzzah and hip hip hoorayyyyy! I nearly shouted, until I remembered I was in a library. Carol explained that she would have to send in a request to see if the library would send the copy to Wellman. If so, she would give me a call when the book arrived. I thanked her and left, knowing full well that no library in their right mind would transfer that book. After all, what library loans out a $700 book to let OTHER library districts get their Cheeto-crusted fingerprints all over it? <br />
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The Harlan Community Library in Harlan, Iowa, that's who. <br />
<br />
Carol called me several weeks later and told me that my book had came in. I didn't have to be reminded which book she was referring to. I rushed over to the library and picked it up.<br />
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<i> *reverent whisper* I FOUND ONE IN THE WILD.</i></div>
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The book was extremely good, just as I had hoped. I took my time and enjoyed reading through the chapters, getting to know the author and the plane just a little bit more. <br />
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<i>It cost me $1.50 in ILL postage to read this book. Take that, Amazon resellers! </i></div>
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I was tempted to take a photo of every single page and make a PDF or eBook but I decided against it because A) the real book is just too wonderful to confine to a series of photos and B) the pursuit of the book was half the fun.<br />
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After I finished reading the book, I passed it on to my dad, and then my fiance's dad. Is it a coincidence that I'm marrying a woman whose father loves the same aircraft that I do? Yes, that part was a coincidence.<br />
<br />
Brian Shul is truly an amazing author, and like many have already
commented on forums and Amazon comment sections, Brian makes you feel
like you're in the cockpit with him. The book didn't contain the story I
had read online, which I found slightly odd...WHAT!? Brian Shul wrote another book, entitled "The Untouchables"? I MUST ACQUIRE A COPY.<br />
<br />
*Checks Amazon* Amazon wants $200 for a used "In good shape" copy of The Untouchables?? *sigh* The book is about as difficult to obtain as its name implies. <br />
<br />
Those of you who have been following the links in this article saw that the
SR-71 Golden Anniversary Set includes a copy of Sled Driver and The
Untouchables. The Mennonite in me wants to buy the Golden Anniversary set for $550, read the books several times, then run to Amazon to sell Sled Driver for $700 and The Untouchables for $200, thereby making a fabulous profit.<br />
<br />
Eh, maybe I'll just check my local library again. <br />
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Small local librarys are truly lovely. Take a little time out of your week to stop in and visit yours.<br />
<br />Shawn Graberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06442043972170630969noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6763972133541426654.post-53548743971467783702015-12-10T15:19:00.000-06:002016-02-18T13:34:21.704-06:00Goodbye, My Trusty SteedIt was Summer 2010 and I was diligently searching for a car. Or a truck, SUV, Jeep, wagon, hatchback...even a minivan. ANYTHING that would replace the untrustworthy 1998 Jetta I was driving. My preference was a Dodge Intrepid in the 2001-2004 range, equipped with the rare 3.5L high-output engine.<br />
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<i>Must see! Sunday driver, garage kept! <br />Previous owner was a wee little granny!</i> </div>
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But as the word "rare" implies, there just weren't any 3.5L Intrepids to be found unless I'd settle for a retired police cruiser with 200k miles and a penchant for guzzling oil. <br />
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<i>The engine rattles a little...we spent most of the past 198,000 miles chasing <br />little grannies through corn fields and gravel quarries on Sundays.<br />They sure knew how to evade capture...but their cars were always in the local Garage. </i></div>
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Dad and I stopped at a dealership to view their 2003 Intrepid with the 3.5L engine. A fully equipped 3.5 for sale, loaded with luxury options and under 200,000 miles on the odometer! Sitting inside it was like shaking hands (hooves?) with a unicorn. The salesman, fully equipped with a smug grin, seemed to know that and quoted a price two times higher than the one we were offered on the phone BEFORE we drove an hour to look at it. When we just absolutely refused to pay the amount, Smug Grin consoled us by showing us other options, like the Jeep Commander sitting in the parking lot. "I can get that to you for Thirty-seven-five!" He boasted. "Thirty-seven hundred dollars?" I asked, confused. "No, $37,500." He replied, his grin managing to somehow produce even more smugness. I was unable to purchase <i>the car I came for</i> so he offered me a vehicle that was six times more expensive? A curious sales technique, to be sure. I left the dealership wishing I could have done some non-non-resistant (so just, regular resistant?) things to Smug Grin.<br />
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There were plenty of Intrepids to be found but the vast majority of them had the dreaded 2.7L engine in it. Not only was it almost guaranteed to seize after 150,000 miles and leave you stranded somewhere but it was also underpowered, which we can all agree is the worse of the two. Sellers were especially sneaky about this aspect when posting their car for sale. "It has a V-6 engine!" They'd crow. Unfortunately, the 2.7 and the 3.5 are both V-6's. Each Intrepid sale that turned out to be a 2.7 was like a tantalizing carrot that ended up being an orange tongue depressor. <br />
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During this time, the Chrysler 300M was not even on my radar. It was the luxury upgrade of the Dodge Intrepid and therefore way out of my league. But I eventually discovered that no matter what 300M I looked at, it had the trusty 3.5L engine in it. No need to worry about the pesky 2.7. And there were tons of Chryslers available, some even at the price range I was able to afford! It was a Christmas miracle, but in June.<br />
<br />
When you hear "Chrysler 300", a giant thugmobile might immediately
spring to your imagination. I'm referring to the previous generation.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>On the left, the 2004 300<b>M</b>. On the right, the 2005 300<b>C</b>. </i></div>
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<br />
One day, my family was traveling home from the Adventureland theme park. My friend Solly was along for the day. We had just gotten off the Space Shot after nine back-to-back rides and we were feeling a little vertigo. So to help keep our insides from lunging out, we started looking through CARS 4 U magazines to look for deals. Solly pointed out a dark blue Chrysler 300M that met all my criteria for price and mileage. I called up the dealership, and they told me it was "Pre-Salvaged" which was supposedly better than "Regular Salvaged". Evidently, the car was a Frankenstein hybrid of two separate Chryslers. The rear end belonged to a purple 2002 Chrysler 300M that had been wrecked in the front. The front end was a dark blue 2004 Chrysler 300M that had been wrecked in the rear. This small body shop had sawed the cars in half and put the two good halves together. The engine and transmission belonged to the 2004 and had fairly low mileage. The vehicle had been repainted a dark blue so everything matched, mostly. The leather-and-wood-panel interiors of the two cars matched perfectly. Dad and I test-drove the car and I knew it was the one I was looking for. We haggled on the price and purchased with cash. On the way home, my odometer rolled over 107,000 miles. The date was July 17th, 2010. <br />
<br />
The car had just over 186,000 miles when I plowed into the side of a deer this December. As I coasted to the side of the road, I realized with sadness it was the last mile I would drive this car. Dad came and towed me home with the pickup. <br />
<br />
For nearly 80,000 miles, that Chrysler warmed my posterior with heated leather seats and cruised me comfortably around the United States. The independent suspension handled the gravel road pot holes with poise. I often drafted the car into use as a work truck, and it did a swell job. The roomy interior and trunk carried my friends and I with style. Before you giggle that I said "trunk" and "friends" together by mistake, let me clarify that once we packed 9 humans into the 5-passenger car to save a few bucks at the Shiloh Fireworks, an event that charges admission per vehicle rather than per person. My friend Shane rode in the trunk. He said the ride was "very uncomfortable" which may have been a result of the load of Mennonite Hymnals he was laying on. It also could have been a result of him riding in a trunk, but the results are inconclusive. <br />
<br />
I have a lot of fond memories of the car but I also have a few not-so-fond memories. I once made a Summer trip to Pennsylvania without a working air conditioner. The car stranded me in the middle of a busy intersection in Iowa City one afternoon with a faulty fuel pump. The combination of a thirsty V6 and a heavy car gave me lousy fuel mileage. Once I left it parked at the church and it got backed into by one of the Kids Club vans. I've replaced the water pump, the timing belt, six tires, the battery, the brakes, the air conditioner duct damper, and the headlight bulbs. Maintenance on the car was difficult and frustrating. The battery was located ahead of the front passenger wheel, so replacing the battery required removing the wheel. Because of the fancy independent suspension, there were absolutely no axles or tow-hooks to attach a rope or chain to the underside. This caused serious trouble when I needed to pull the car out of the snow drifts and sloppy mud pits it occasionally ambled into. The oil filter was in a difficult spot and required three hands to remove. Replacing the headlight bulbs required two people and...well I'll just let "ScottB" from a Chrysler forum explain his experience. <br />
<br />
<b>"</b>Anybody have the "pleasure" of replacing headlight bulbs
on a 300M? I just had one blow out on my 2004, but after 11 years and
137K miles, how can I complain? What I will complain about it how
difficult it is to get at the bulbs. <br />
<br />
When I started reading the owner's manual and realized I was going to
have to disassemble half the nose of the vehicle, I ended up replacing
all four bulbs so I wouldn't have to do this again anytime soon. What I
thought was going to be a 15 minute job took 90. You have to loosen
the crossmember that the hood latch and front fascia/grille are attached to <i>after</i> you remove the windshield washer reservior and cruise control servo
from it. Then you have to unscrew the headlight assemblies themselves
and remove them while prying the crossmember/fascia/grille forward
enough to get them out. Thankfully, the urethane bumper is flexible
enough. Then you get to reverse all those steps to get it all back
together. I don't normally advocate violence, but whoever designed this
needs to be slapped silly. I imagine that if I had a mechanic do this
that I'd be charged at least $100 in labor....to replace a headlight bulb. Ridiculous design.<b>"</b><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDVjzYNol-F9tFO_xiYsZNZfoKQRUAMLvi_B4Iu9Sze-coM6EaD3ZzAnlP1dN6whZ3qnuWDTRxz81PecJeLFVvfZZ85nLQPOtxLzx5Z6pwxxQfQexDusiZis2jIEZ8GtBNIYph6C0afJBv/s1600/100_1660.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDVjzYNol-F9tFO_xiYsZNZfoKQRUAMLvi_B4Iu9Sze-coM6EaD3ZzAnlP1dN6whZ3qnuWDTRxz81PecJeLFVvfZZ85nLQPOtxLzx5Z6pwxxQfQexDusiZis2jIEZ8GtBNIYph6C0afJBv/s400/100_1660.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<i> My dorm of crafty ninjas, Spring Valley Bible Camp. June 25th, 2012</i></div>
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<i>A blizzard in Iowa. February 14th, 2014<br /> </i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV5rAFCwAz7hoRr-9JSIcECUTkUJ7JvvrSkR5g33636oxKD-r3gtKPFK9OAVsvzoK3rXsWr8xA0t2QuyIL5Fw9kif7nrnhuHyAMzPMD8MMkorKwl1ajQKfI5loKSQbcSApvmBgVUjHxJ2S/s1600/100_1461.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV5rAFCwAz7hoRr-9JSIcECUTkUJ7JvvrSkR5g33636oxKD-r3gtKPFK9OAVsvzoK3rXsWr8xA0t2QuyIL5Fw9kif7nrnhuHyAMzPMD8MMkorKwl1ajQKfI5loKSQbcSApvmBgVUjHxJ2S/s320/100_1461.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<i> </i><i>My brother Shane, copiloting the 300M. March 11th, 2012.</i></div>
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I didn't ask Shane permission to load that photo, which isn't very nice. To make up for that, I'll load one of myself. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaeY4oSLZWkjdmzMTW3NaMxP0ye72NJ9ku-oIOo6PVNaquId6FWhiymIAhzYKo_GkZ5p4X0lM4iic8pk1-E9CVkd4Aw7VIHX2ELanAfK2CEaxvQWfdBt716pgOCAwInA_TxpPGWw_l-Bvn/s1600/100_1447.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaeY4oSLZWkjdmzMTW3NaMxP0ye72NJ9ku-oIOo6PVNaquId6FWhiymIAhzYKo_GkZ5p4X0lM4iic8pk1-E9CVkd4Aw7VIHX2ELanAfK2CEaxvQWfdBt716pgOCAwInA_TxpPGWw_l-Bvn/s320/100_1447.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<i> Myself, piloting the 300M. March 11th, 2012. Yes, those are evergreens <br />blurring in the background as I make silly faces in the foreground. </i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA0W0BhyYYoMEh9nZsvoRvDVhHq2b41bwwCYDPgobfvbUNb2ZN8L0gx3-AvrWR9zjwJ4JcYsih252SIjKVQojFa6dsln4zCFuLhYtnCOd9_GIz6A5LzjRRwJEZclMDfxewuK9Ybs_Wd_kn/s1600/IMG_0858.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA0W0BhyYYoMEh9nZsvoRvDVhHq2b41bwwCYDPgobfvbUNb2ZN8L0gx3-AvrWR9zjwJ4JcYsih252SIjKVQojFa6dsln4zCFuLhYtnCOd9_GIz6A5LzjRRwJEZclMDfxewuK9Ybs_Wd_kn/s320/IMG_0858.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<i> My brother Shaylon, lovingly washing the car for some Summer cash. </i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd7AagSr88f6gCL_PgcuZXCQ5Sa3DjEvNtJqJNlsWurdC1j13rHKpEADvc9uKOnxf9aYQpokyUCK2xOKGLixA1bfGw94xS2uWG2e9i6M5PzeSRrwJnhYi171ZE5gGWwdwke3Vpz4P-ifs4/s1600/IMG_4148.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd7AagSr88f6gCL_PgcuZXCQ5Sa3DjEvNtJqJNlsWurdC1j13rHKpEADvc9uKOnxf9aYQpokyUCK2xOKGLixA1bfGw94xS2uWG2e9i6M5PzeSRrwJnhYi171ZE5gGWwdwke3Vpz4P-ifs4/s320/IMG_4148.JPG" width="240" /></a><i> </i></div>
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<i>This photo was taken moments after my car hugged a doe at 55 mph. December 1st, 2015</i></div>
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<i>The front bumper fell off while we towed the car. The good news: <br />the headlights are much more accessible now. </i></div>
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I had full insurance coverage on the car, and the insurance company estimated that the cost for repair was double the value. They wrote me a check and hauled the car away. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrpcs8H0ZacW4H-WOzsM7ZJSdMt_1kMXNIFhJJsCaTWhbEDAI6p3-2u03YR9r1GW7HR7-iapsAPrzYADJ3RtsjB4s-P75SKaAklagk3UU2JDYJozy3qODpdO_gzV7wJxTFh8bhNj07s4k6/s1600/IMG_4185.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrpcs8H0ZacW4H-WOzsM7ZJSdMt_1kMXNIFhJJsCaTWhbEDAI6p3-2u03YR9r1GW7HR7-iapsAPrzYADJ3RtsjB4s-P75SKaAklagk3UU2JDYJozy3qODpdO_gzV7wJxTFh8bhNj07s4k6/s320/IMG_4185.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<i>If you hustle to the Davenport insurance auction, you'll get a chance at this STEAL of a deal! Non-smoker, new front tires, engine is very quiet/makes no noise at all!</i> </div>
<br />
I may have had several complaints about the design but this car
was truly a blessing and I'm having a hard time saying goodbye. I
suppose that's what nostalgia is all about. Remembering the awesome moments and fond memories (I have spent many hours driving my little lady around in this car on dates) and selectively forgetting all the repairs and setbacks. <br />
<br />
I'm currently searching for a replacement.<i> </i>I've grown very fond of large 4-door sedans and their versatility, but I could entertain the idea of a different mode of transportation. What do you drive, and what do you like about it? Shawn Graberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06442043972170630969noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6763972133541426654.post-17352883483113786902015-11-23T17:33:00.002-06:002015-12-10T15:20:14.583-06:00The Case of the Wayward BulletOne sleepy, quiet afternoon late in October, a large-caliber rifle broke the still air with a sharp crack. The bullet left the barrel of the firearm without fuss and traveled gracefully through the countryside, spiralling majestically as it passed over a highway, through a row of trees, and into the quaint little home of an equally quaint little lady. <br />
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I had known absolutely nothing about the bullet, the house, or the little lady until my mom sent me a text two weeks later with the message: "Is it true a bullet went thru [Sweet little lady]'s house into her living room. Did you make it right with her?"<br />
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I was flabbergasted. Bullet? House? Little woman? Reparations?? I drove straight over to the woman's home to investigate. The sweet little lady was home and invited me in. I introduced myself, briefly mentioning who my parents and grandparents are so she could accurately place me. I then explained where I lived and that I had just heard about a stray bullet. She nodded her head and said, "Here, I'll show you." <br />
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The bullet mashed through the living room wall, scouring a hole through the vinyl siding and bursting through the sheetrock and wallpaper. The dust and sheetrock fragments powdered the floor of the living room. <br />
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Fortunately, the lady had been away when her house was bombarded with
heavy artillery. "I was at a funeral in Tennessee, praise the Lord!" she
said. "When I got back from my trip, I just went straight to bed. The next morning, I looked in the living room and saw the mess but I didn't know where it came from. I just saw some dust in the [exceedingly spotless] living room and wondered to myself, now how did that happen? So I just swept it up." Said the sweet little lady. <br />
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The bullet had continued through the living room, lanced through a hallway opening and into a closet door, punching a small hole through the thin woodgrain hollow-core door. The closet was filled with neatly folded sheets, pillow cases, and blankets.<br />
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"I didn't see the hole in the wall. Or in the closet door. My boys found the holes when they came to investigate." The sweet little lady recounted as she gave me a tour of the bullet's path through her home. "My boys cut some holes in the closet wall to look for the bullet but they didn't find it." She said, pointing to two small squares of sheetrock removed from the interior closet wall. "But I found the bullet. It was laying in a sheet." <br />
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Apparently, the sweet little lady's sons had come to visit and discovered the hole in the living room near the ceiling. They immediately deduced it was caused by a bullet and traced its trajectory through the house like eager detectives. Eager enough to empty the closet and cut holes in the wall, for further investigation. Meanwhile, the sweet little lady refolded the sheets that were removed from the closet, and that's when the 30-caliber projectile fell out of the sheet and plopped on the floor. <br />
<br />
I stood there, amazed that they had traced the trajectory and somehow managed to find the bullet. The sweet little lady reached into her china cabinet, pulled out the bullet, and handed it to me. It was unblemished, For all the damage it caused and distance it traveled, it was remarkably clean. So naturally I remarked about it. The sweet little lady commented that the
bullet had been dusty when she found it (You know, because it TRAVELED
THROUGH HER WALL) <b><i>so she gave it a good wash</i>.</b> No dust is allowed, even when it enters at speeds faster than Mach 1. <br />
<br />
I love little old ladies.<br />
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<br />
The entrance hole was near the ceiling of the living room, two feet above
my head. After chewing through the thin layers of outer wall, insulation, and sheetrock, the bullet ambled through the living room and into the hallway closet
door, dropping to about 6' high. The bullet would have scooted
right over the head of the sweet little lady, but it would have plowed
right through my crainium. <br />
<br />
30 caliber is big. Capable of vaporizing small varmints, easily kill any wildlife the state of Iowa has to offer, and certainly big enough to kill the not-so-wild life that consists of sweet little ladies. <br />
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To show what I'm referring to, here is a breakdown of three common rifle cartridges. The first is the noisy .223 Remington, which is used by the US military* and thousands of AR-15 owners. When you hear news reports about an "AR-15" or (the incorrectly named) "assault rifle", it uses this cartridge. It's noisy and fast and leaves a hole <i>slightly</i> larger than the little Ruger .22 rifle that you've currently got stashed in your coat closet.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiddRtiKqjOzky8wJdrIIL_pVjwMZfe9XVEKmRdqGGQQ8oFCByks5DmGo8Zra__fGa_2TDZCko5rSdPMqU41f-Km9PTwbAQT4avelA1PUG_kQy5KqB-8CsDpSdKA59sao8X72UtFjEOaE00/s1600/762ThumperBulletComparison+-+Copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiddRtiKqjOzky8wJdrIIL_pVjwMZfe9XVEKmRdqGGQQ8oFCByks5DmGo8Zra__fGa_2TDZCko5rSdPMqU41f-Km9PTwbAQT4avelA1PUG_kQy5KqB-8CsDpSdKA59sao8X72UtFjEOaE00/s320/762ThumperBulletComparison+-+Copy.jpg" width="155" /></a></div>
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*In truth, the US military currently uses 5.56x45mm NATO ammunition which is a hotter, faster version of .223 Remington. They look almost identical and can be put in the same gun, as long as the gun is rated for the high-pressured 5.56 round. But you didn't really want all that information, did you? <br />
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Next is the stout 7.62x39mm that the Russians invented for their world-famous AK-47 rifles.<br />
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This cartridge is one of the most widely-used rifle rounds in the world. AK-47's are the rifles that immediately spring to your mind when you hear the word "Terrorist." </div>
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<a href="http://cdn01.dailycaller.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/03/Ak47-e1363724603451.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://cdn01.dailycaller.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/03/Ak47-e1363724603451.png" height="171" width="400" /></a></div>
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<i>Half of you just shouted "ALOHA SNACKBAR!" </i></div>
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The third cartridge is a .308 Remington round, often used by hunters to
take down large game and by firearms enthusiasts that are looking for a
larger, louder, punchier round than the .223 Remington. The .308 is also
used by the military*.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimxz1_JJYe_wOJ2wcMFH2dy3Tb2T3tkFu0bsn1-Ar6xTF382ELTR_BiFEHWQwS88OLtobqb7YFc9P8YB3PB330fV6K6KW7rSqWX-GkRRXJg0woe7bX4I_tlu-yd6DGbTZ12SR215ftzCaW/s1600/762ThumperBulletComparison+-+Copy+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimxz1_JJYe_wOJ2wcMFH2dy3Tb2T3tkFu0bsn1-Ar6xTF382ELTR_BiFEHWQwS88OLtobqb7YFc9P8YB3PB330fV6K6KW7rSqWX-GkRRXJg0woe7bX4I_tlu-yd6DGbTZ12SR215ftzCaW/s320/762ThumperBulletComparison+-+Copy+%25282%2529.jpg" width="171" /></a></div>
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*In truth, the US military uses THE EXACT SAME ROUND GOOD GRIEF but they insist on calling it "7.62x51mm NATO" because a) they want to prove to the rest of the world that USA can count in metric too and b) pompous generals like to be able to easily say "We're bigger." and that's easy to compare when it's <br />
7.62x<b>51 haha AMERICA IS THE BEST</b><br />
vs<br />
7.62x<b>39 duhhh what a puny tiny little baby bullet hahahaha</b><br />
It's not as easy to compare when using the imperial standard. "Do pass me another handful of those delightful .308 Winchesters, Reginald old boy."<br />
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But what good does all this boring information do if you can't compare it side by side? Well hold on to your bespectacles, ladies and gentlemen, because I'm getting there.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyGb-R3Hy72Ya4zSmWPRZSj9H_UKsK7NjnJTQiz9F9gvI4gKBH58Q9n6OhFH11R7kcyJB6QVlFGpdzduaEsKhrWe7HFQbUcFXVSYqhyNcx7CAPCGiiV_VlooMNV-R8Hicl6Lr63kXZiITF/s1600/762ThumperBulletComparison.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="271" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyGb-R3Hy72Ya4zSmWPRZSj9H_UKsK7NjnJTQiz9F9gvI4gKBH58Q9n6OhFH11R7kcyJB6QVlFGpdzduaEsKhrWe7HFQbUcFXVSYqhyNcx7CAPCGiiV_VlooMNV-R8Hicl6Lr63kXZiITF/s400/762ThumperBulletComparison.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<br />
And here the story gets interesting. .308 Winchester is a 30-caliber round. For those of you still reading (thank you, by the way!), the sweet little lady found a <u>30-caliber projectile</u> snuggling in her bed sheets. Not in her bed, thank graciousness, but in the spare sheets in her closet.<br />
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If you thought I was exaggerating earlier about speeds greater than Mach 1, allow me to emphasize that this bullet was <i>cooking</i>. The .308 rifle cartridge is capable of 2,820 feet per second and can easily travel 500 meters. If that made no sense, allow me to explain that this shooty thing, uh, drives 1,922 miles per hour and it goes over 16 football fields faster than you can say "Starbucks CEO's are rabble-rousers." (By saying "shooty thing" I'm not trying to belittle those of you that don't understand the complex linguistics of ballistics data. I prefer saying "shooty thing" myself.) <br />
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On the topic of football fields, a bullet travels similarly to a football. It leaves the barrel of the gun, spiralling just as perfectly as if it was thrown by Iowa quarterback C.J. Beathard himself. It travels a very long way but, just like that freshly-spread jelly bread perched over some white carpet, eventually drops to the ground. For .308 Winchester, it drops 50 inches in 500 yards. That's over 4 feet of drop. <br />
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"Yaaaaaaawn!" Says the average reader, who like to pronounce their actions verbally. <br />
<br />
So there we have it, people! The US Military has gone rogue! They're eyeballing us with satellite predator drones, tapping into our cell phones and reading our text messages, and now they're shooting up quaint little houses! The military uses .308 Winchester. Case closed, the end. <br />
<br />
Heh, nope, not yet. See, .308 may be used by the military but guess who likes to buy stuff related to the military? Every boy in the whole world and a few ladies, probably. .308 rifles are widely available. That round could have been from a gun owned by anybody. But the bullet was a helpful start. It could be used to compare against guns in the vicinity. So the sons of the sweet little lady went rushing to and fro interrogating the neighbors about their current weapon stockpiles. Since most of their neighbors were Amish, the interrogations were brief. A few had shotguns. Others had pellet guns. Nobody had a 30-caliber rifle, and many of the households didn't have a gun of any type. <br />
<br />
But my household has guns. <br />
<br />
In fact, we currently have [<i>REDACTED</i>] guns in our household. Not just shotguns, but handguns and rifles as well. <br />
<br />
We do a lot of shooting in the woods, so the sons of the sweet little lady stopped in to ask about our firearms. It just so happened that my roommate had just purchased at .308 Remington bolt-action rifle that week. He pulled out an unfired round from his supply and showed it to the sons, who had the fired cartridge with them. It was a match.<br />
<br />
"CASE CLOSED. SEND THAT RUFFIAN TO SHOOTER JAIL." You say. <br />
<br />
Wait two seconds. Our house is 0.6 miles from the sweet little lady. 1,056 yards, give or take a few. That's twice as far as this round can go, unless someone was shooting in the general direction of the moon. <br />
<br />
Wait two more seconds. My roommate had purchased the rifle but neither he nor anyone else had fired it at my place on the weekend in question. I was gone that week, visiting family in Oregon. That statistic has my parents breathing great sighs of relief, because they can dispel the swirling rumors that their son was the attempted murderer of sweet little ladies. <br />
<br />
But my roommates and I aren't the only ones that shoot. My place is a popular hangout for firearms enthusiasts, because we're down in a wooded area with plenty of things to shoot at, all pointed in directions that are safe. Many of my friends have stopped in from time to time to fire a couple rounds at a target or a milk jug. In order to hit the sweet little lady's house, someone would have had to shoot in an entirely unsafe direction (toward civilization) where the bullet would have crossed the highway twice (the bullet doesn't wiggle that much, but the road does), traveled over half a mile, threaded its way between two farmhouses and gone through several stands of trees before saying "howdy" to the sweet little lady's siding. <br />
<br />
"BUT THE BULLET MATCHED!!" You say.<br />
<br />
We don't have a microscope, so we don't know. Yes, it looks similar, but welcome to the vast world of calibers. There are <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_rifle_cartridges" target="_blank">74 separate calibers</a> listed on wikipedia's page in the 30-caliber range. Many of those are oddball, rare, uncommon rounds but they include some of the most common rounds sold today, including 30-06. (The one that's pronounced "Thirty Aught Six") 30-06 is used by many farmers and hunters in our area, and it could have been any of them. It could also have been a round fired from any one of dozens of Mosin Nagant rifles in our area, which all fire 7.62x54 cartridges (exceedingly close in size, shape and consistency to the 7.62x51 rounds in question, for those of you following along at home.)<br />
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"NOW YOU'RE JUST SHIFTING BLAME, JAILBOY." <br />
<br />
I agree, and so does William of Ockham; the English Franciscan friar that stated:<br />
<br />
<i>Among competing hypotheses, the one with the fewest assumptions should be selected.</i><br />
<br />
Today we call this principle <a href="https://explorable.com/occams-razor" target="_blank">Occam's Razor</a>, and in simple terms, it says that "the simplest answer is most often correct."<br />
<br />
A woman's house was struck by a bullet. The bullet closely matches a gun recently purchased by a young man who lives less than a mile away. <br />
<br />
To this day, four weeks after the incident in question, we have no idea who fired the bullet. Halfway between our home and hers is a "Deer X-ing" sign with two bullet holes in it. Did some ne'er-do-well carouse the highways with a rifle shooting road signs? We just don't know. <br />
<br />
I have no complaints though. Nobody was injured and the sweet little lady was so kind and gentle. I've agreed to help pay for repairs. At this point, it's the proper thing to do. She offered to help pay for the damages but I refused. "Have you been
shooting your own house lately?" I asked her with a laugh. "No, I suppose I
haven't." She giggled. As you can well imagine with a scenario such as this, rumors have quickly spread of the gun-toting men down by the river that shot a woman's house, and it does no good to try shifting blame. Shooting a sweet little lady's house costs around $160 these days, which is a bargain considering that most living rooms are filled with expensive flat-screen tv's and Keurig machines that are shockingly vulnerable to bullets. And what if that hallway closet would have been filled with board games? We'd be looking at a bill around $600, most likely!<br />
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For now, the Case of the Wayward Bullet remains a mystery. If you have any information regarding this case, please let me know. Shawn Graberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06442043972170630969noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6763972133541426654.post-46641424035500743792015-04-08T15:14:00.000-05:002015-12-10T15:20:41.680-06:00Unexpected Hospital Detour"Have you ever been admitted into the hospital for DK?" The nurse asked me. <br />
<br />
Even though my brain seemed to be racing, the rest of my body felt trapped in molasses--including my tongue. <br />
<br />
I mumbled, "Uh, what is DK?" <br />
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"<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Diabetic_ketoacidosis" target="_blank">Diabetic Ketoacidosis</a>." She replied. <br />
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"I don't think so." I responded.<br />
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For many of you, the following account of my visit to the ICU will make absolutely no sense. "Shawn did WHAT?!" You may say. To some of you, what I did will make a good deal of sense. Unfortunately, I can't tell you about everything first-hand...many of the events had to be told to me once I regained consciousness. <br />
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This particular tale begins over a year ago, when I visited a Youth Discipleship training week in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina. The focus of the training week was on spiritual warfare, and how spirit issues can affect physical issues. While I was there, on February 7th, 2014, I was healed from my <a href="http://unkashawn.blogspot.com/2014/02/gluten-tolerant.html" target="_blank">gluten intolerance</a>. Our group had done some prayer and repentance, and I renounced some spiritual strongholds in my heart. My head was anointed with oil, and we prayed for victory over Celiac, the intestinal disorder that gave me my intolerance to gluten. God was faithful, and instantaneously healed me. Previously when I ingested trace amounts of wheat, I would become increasingly sick until I vomited 6-8 hours later. Since that day in February, I have inhaled truckloads of wheat with no ill effect. It was a true miracle, and I have been grateful each day for it. <br />
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This past February, I returned to Myrtle Beach for another week of training. It was an incredible week; similar in many ways to the first week but yet vastly different in other ways. I met strangers that quickly became dear friends and spent a week listening to Jesus speak to me. We opened our hearts to hear from the Holy Spirit and bared our lives to each other, disclosing our fears and stumblings and weaknesses. We waged spiritual warfare against the Enemy on behalf of each other, often praying well into the morning hours. It was refreshing, stretching, exhausting, invigorating. There were visions and prophecies and the speaking in tongues and supernatural healings. Perhaps even the <i>thought </i>of some of those things causes you to feel squeamish, and I don't blame you. Two years ago, I felt the exact same way. That week at Myrtle Beach, I felt like I stepped back into the era of the church of Acts, where apostles proclaimed the Word of God despite the threats against their lives, and where many of the spiritual gifts were manifested among believers. <br />
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I've heard it said many times that "We can't be a first-generation church, like the account in Acts." and I disagree. <br />
<br />
"But the apostles were able to tell first-hand accounts of Jesus. We can't do that!" <br />
Why not? Doesn't Jesus speak to you? <br />
<br />
"But those hocus pocus 'gifts of the spirit', like speaking in tongues, they're just manufactured spirituality, aren't they?" <br />
Unfortunately there <i>are</i> many people who would try to make themselves look more righteous by mimicking the gifts of the Holy Spirit. I've seen false humility, I've seen man-centered joy and exultation. I've heard of people speaking gibberish and presenting it as a word from God, twisting out an "interpretation" that panders to their personal vendettas. Due to the deceits of the enemy, our modern churches have run from the gifts of the Spirit and said, "We will NOT be deceived." But it has come at the terrible cost of missing out on the <i>life</i> that the Holy Spirit provides. Yes, there is so much to be gained through quietness and prayer and steadfast living. I'm not expecting everyone to become raving Charismatics or shouting Pentecostals or chanting Baptists. The key here is being open to the Holy Spirit's moving. Two years ago I was completely unaware of the Holy Spirit. The Spirit was moving, nudging, and prompting but I would quickly explain away the phenomenon. Perhaps that stirring was just my own conscience? Perhaps these emotions I felt were due to this revival/worship service/awesome church retreat? <br />
<br />
"It is to your advantage that I go away." Jesus told his disciples in John 16:7. "...for if I do not go away, the Helper will not come to you. But if I
go, I will send him to you."<br />
<br />
The King James version calls it "the comforter." <br />
<br />
See, when Jesus visited this earth as a human, he was confined inside a mortal body. When Jesus was in Jerusalem, there were miracles and blessings in Jerusalem. When Jesus was in Galilee, the works of the Spirit were there. When Jesus was in Nazareth, that's where you could find forgiveness and peace and rest. But Jesus wanted his love and forgiveness and peace and wisdom to be in all places at all times, which is precisely what the Holy Spirit is. <br />
<br />
"When the Spirit of truth comes, he will guide you into all the truth,
for he will not speak on his own authority, but whatever he hears he
will speak, and <b>he will declare to you the things that are to come</b>." <span class="p">-John 16:13, ESV<br /><br />See, the Holy Spirit's job is to aid us in our faith, comfort us along life's journey, provide truth, give visions for the future, and much more. Now, many things can be learned from the Word of God, but if we try to somehow separate the Holy Spirit from the Bible, we only end up with lifeless text. Truly, the gifts of the Spirit are worrisome. Will I look like a babbling idiot in front of my entire church family? What if the vision I'm seeing is a figment of my own imagination? What if I say something and I get ridiculed for it? These are difficult questions but the answer can be found in John 10:27. </span>"My sheep hear my voice, and I know them, and they follow me."<br />
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How beautifully short and to the point! Eliminate the distractions, evade the hectic bedlam of activity for just 10 minutes and ask this one thing. "Jesus, I want to hear Your voice. I don't know what it sounds like and there are many voices crying for my attention. I'm just going to listen. Would You please speak?<br />
<br />
And Jesus spoke on that beach in South Carolina. He said, "Are you ready to be healed, Shawn?" <br />
<br />
"OH SWEET GIBLETS YES," I replied.<br />
<br />
In faith, I stopped taking insulin shortly after returning home from the trip. My blood sugars had been doing fairly well on a reduced regimen of insulin, but I wanted to act in total faith. I planned to perform a Daniel fast, subsisting on fruits, vegetables, nuts, and water for a week. I completely stopped taking my insulin. This (rightfully) appears to be the resolution of a complete lunatic, but after all, I had to step out in faith just 12 months before and start eating wheat to know if I had been healed or not. When I placed that handful of White Cheddar Cheese Nips in my mouth, I was <i>willfully </i>eating more wheat than I had consumed in over 15 years. This act of faith seemed no less daunting, but I jumped right into it. <br />
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Things didn't quite work the way I expected, as can be discerned by the photo of myself, lying unconscious in the University of Iowa Hospital intensive care unit. When I was admitted into the hospital, my blood sugar was over 1,000 milligrams per deciliter (mg/dl). A standard, non-diabetic human's blood sits comfortably at 80-120 mg/dl, so I was ten times the acceptable limit. Who knew celery and almonds had so many sugars in them? <br />
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Going back a few days before my hospitalization, my Daniel fast had been going well. I felt tired, but in a similar way that I had been on previous fasts. I was eating large quantites of fruit and vegetables, with supplements of almonds, cashews, and peanuts. On Saturday for lunch, I boiled some potatoes, diced an entire sweet onion, carmelized it in olive oil, and mixed the onions into the boiled potatoes. Unconventional, to say the least, but the mind churns out a surprising amount of creativity when given the proper motivation. In this case, ravenous hunger was sufficient incentive. I ate everything I had prepared, and it tasted surprisingly good. A few hours later, I vomited everything I had eaten for lunch, breakfast, and the previous day. Afraid I had violated some kind of culinary law, I asked Google, "Is it okay to eat an entire sweet onion in one sitting?" With all the answers pointing toward the affirmative, I then suspected I had gotten some form of food poisoning. That would explain my extreme weakness, nausea, stomach distress, and vomiting. The last of these was causing me the additional problem of dehydration. I started timing it; I could only hold down water for 7 minutes. <br />
<br />
At this point, it was late into Saturday night. I was exhausted and my body had emptied itself of everything. Now when I vomited, there was only my recently-consumed water mixed with a brown fluid coming up, which smelled awful and burned like crazy. I determined that I was now purging stomach acid. Mom became sufficiently alarmed and sent over some Mylanta or some such remedy for stomach ache. I took some and vomited it up 15 minutes later. Nothing tastes quite right returning from the stomach, and I now had a strong distaste for onions. <br />
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On Sunday morning, I was too weak to attend church. I was also too stubborn to request assistance, because I was still positive this was just food poisoning or a spiritual attack. Call me insane, but I was having a difficult time thinking clearly. I was borderline delirious and my trips to the bathroom became dangerous adventures filled with sharp furniture-shaped obstacles and a floor that wouldn't keep level. Mom dropped off some Powerade and told me to take a tablespoon every 15 minutes. I did, and it was the first substance I was able to keep down without vomiting. <br />
<br />
Mom and Dad picked me up after church and took me to their place. I grumbled and complained and made it known that I wanted to weather this storm in my own comfortable bed. They wisely ignored me and carried me to the van. <br />
<br />
I don't remember much of my 4-hour stay at my parent's home but I vaguely remember my friends coming over to pray with me. <br />
<br />
Mom and Dad rushed me to the hospital. I was nearly unconscious at that point, but Mom tells me I grumpily declared to the ER desk attendant from my wheelchair that I needed to use the restroom. Mom was upset with the staff, evidently it took quite a while to admit me and Grabers don't have much patience. Once the doctors discovered my sky-high blood sugar, they started shouting and running and stabbing needles into my veins. Dad says they started out with a single drip IV but quickly advanced to two separate IV's and put them under pressure. Soon fluids and insulin were pouring into me. Dad counted 8 bags of fluid emptied intravenously. It was the first insulin my body had received since Tuesday, four days previous.<br />
<br />
Visitors came to see how I was doing, but I don't remember many of them. I was in and out of consciousness for most of Monday. Once I was up and conscious, all I wanted was water, but everything tasted awful. I couldn't understand why they kept giving me water that tasted like burnt copper. I slowly realized it was perfectly clean, fresh water and my throat and tongue were still mangled from the stomach acid. <br />
<br />
With consciousness, I got to appreciate my guests a whole lot more. I wasn't able to see them, since my contacts and glasses had been left at home, but it was good to hear their voices. <br />
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Many friends visited me. I'd write down the names and thank you publicly but I would be guaranteed to miss some of the lovely people that took time out of their day to see me. For all you kind souls, thank you very much. You lifted my spirits and brought joy into my room. I appreciate it more than I can say.<br />
<br />
I felt lashed to the bed. I had cuffs around my ankles that alternated pressure to stimulate blood flow. I had a blood pressure cuff on my left arm that took readings every 20 minutes and two IV's in my right arm. I had sensors attached to 6 places on my chest and stomach with a wire trailing from each. I had a little alligator clip attached to my finger. A nurse helped me detach the cuffs so I could shuffle over to a bedside commode when I needed to use the restroom. It was at one of those moments, half-naked, half-shackled to the bed and blind as a bat, one of my friends poked their head into my room. At least, I think it was a friend. The doctors would come in and politely do whatever they wanted to do. This stranger was just standing there with their head poked in, looking at me. <br />
<br />
"Uh, hello. I can't see who you are." I said, trying to modestly use a bedside commode while keeping from pulling the IV's from my arm. <br />
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"I can see what you're up to!" The voice of my friend Nate replied. He chuckled, "Do you need some more time to finish?" <br />
<br />
Relieved in several ways, I replied that a little extra time would be nice. Nate and I had a good conversation and I was glad for the visit. <br />
<br />
Tuesday was a flurry of activity. The door to my room was constantly flapping about, with doctors and insurance agents and nutritionists and clinic attendants coming in to ask me all sorts of questions. The nurses kept giving me bland-tasting gluten free food, because all of my hospital records still said "Celiac - allergic to wheat" on them. I tried explaining that I had been healed from Celiac for over a year, but they weren't very inclined to listen to the ravings of a wild young man sitting in the ICU due to DK. My Dad brought me a hot, steamy McGriddle for breakfast and I nearly cried in thanks. It was the most delicious thing I had eaten in the past seven days. <br />
<br />
After some recuperation and half a dozen conversations with my doctors (who asked understandable questions such as, "Why did you stop taking insulin?"), I was finally allowed to walk around a little. With help from my parents, I hobbled around the ICU in my scandalously immodest hospital gown. I wasn't bothered. It felt good to be out of bed, and since I didn't have my glasses, I was free to jaunt around without seeing the looks of shock and alarm on the faces of passerby. I was quickly exhausted though and although I didn't admit it out loud, I was grateful to return to my bed. I rested for a while as the doctors took some final readings. They announced I was free to go later that day if I wished. <br />
<br />
I left the hospital late Tuesday afternoon. I was unsteady on my feet for a few days but slowly regained strength. My blood sugars were abnormally high for a week after the hospital stay but I was told that was to be expected. Since then, they've come back down to agreeable levels, but only with constant insulin injections. <br />
<br />
So what does this mean about Jesus? Had I misheard him? <br />
<br />
In Daniel chapter 10, an angel appears to Daniel and announces that he had been journeying to get to Daniel, but "The prince of the kingdom of Persia withstood me twenty-one days, but
Michael, one of the chief princes, came to help me, for I was left there
with the kings of Persia,<span class="p">" -Daniel 10:13<br /><br />Perhaps Jesus is sending a ministering angel that hasn't yet reached me. Perhaps Jesus was referring to the vast spiritual healing I received in my heart during the week at Myrtle Beach. I don't know what all my Savior has up his sleeve, but I DO know that He's in control and He has wonderful things in store for me. <br /><br />As for myself, I'm grateful for the work God is doing in my life. I'm grateful for my energy and strength and sense of balance...things I <i>took</i> for granted until they were <i>taken</i> from me for a few days. I'm grateful for my family and friends and my church, who ministered to me and tended to me and cared deeply for me. I'm grateful for my doctors, pharmacists and nutritionists that want to see me live a long, healthy life. I'm even grateful for onions, even though I pause momentarily before eating them. </span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">For I know the plans I have for you, declares the LORD, plans for welfare and not for evil, to give you a future and a hope.</span><span class="p"><br />-Jeremiah 29:11, ESV</span>Shawn Graberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06442043972170630969noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6763972133541426654.post-57612936497952919882015-01-26T16:37:00.000-06:002015-12-10T15:23:35.311-06:00My Jesus is Life-changing. "Why do bad things happen to good people if that Jesus character is as
powerful as you say He is?" many have asked. God is in the business of
changing lives, but because He has promised to give us free choice, He
never forces that change on us. This may be a simple concept, but simple
is not equated with easy. We get to choose our own way, but we reap the
consequences of it as well. <br />
<br />
Despite the overall badness of our society, God Himself is good. He is <i>so good</i>. These two-dimentional words on a screen that you're reading right now cannot portray the depth of emotions that flood through one's heart and soul when the Creator of the universe bends down and whispers, "I love you, my child." <br />
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There have been many times that Abba Father has whispered His favor to me, but each time is fresh and unique and unforgettable. How often I forget that God is truly <i>relational</i> and wants nothing more than time spent with His children. I'm grateful for His constant reminders. <br />
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Seeing others experience that same connection with their Heavenly Father is incredibly rewarding. I had the pleasure of participating in a <a href="http://www.straitpathsfoundation.com/" target="_blank">Land of Promise conference</a> this past week where I saw men and women removing hindrances between them and their Maker and basking in His love. Our group of 160, though strangers to each other, felt completely at home worshiping and praying and crying and generally behaving like we'd all been swept up in the Charismatic Movement. It was truly glorious. <br />
<br />
Seeing a famous person's life changed in the same manner is a rare treat, so I was floored when I saw the radical life-change and equally radical testimony of Lacey Sturm. Don't know who she is? Well hold on to your suspenders, I'm about to tell you. <br />
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My taste in music is wide and varied. I'm not an indie grassroots you-haven't-heard-of-them hipster by any means, but I like all sorts of different genres. I haven't acquired a taste for opera or country music, but I can enjoy pop, soul, Christian, classical, dubstep, Gospel, techno, a capella, rock, and whatever banjo-twangin' knee-stompin' genre that groups like the Lumineers and Mumford & Sons would classify themselves as. <br />
<br />
I used to listen to a large quantity of "Christian" rock when I was in high school. I use air-quotations around "Christian" because although the lyrics were curse- and profanity-free, the spirit involved with the music was definitely rebellious. My friends and I liked to describe the music as "edgy" and "real". One of those bands that I listened to was Flyleaf, who made quite the impression with their eardrum-mangling instrumentals and their lead female vocalist, who could easily be described as "tormented".<br />
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The song lyrics had faint traces of Christianity (and you better believe we touted that fact often) but spoke more often of "real" topics like immorality and suicide. The song "All Around Me" spoke of God's presence and contained the lyrics <br />
<br />
<i>I can feel you all around me<br />
Thickening the air I'm breathing<br />
Holding on to what I'm feeling<br />
Savoring this heart that's healing</i><br />
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Yet on the very same album, the song "I'm So Sick" portrayed something entirely <i>opposite</i> from the presence of God. <br />
<br />
<a href="http://gunshyassassin.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/10/1316lacey_mosley.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://gunshyassassin.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/10/1316lacey_mosley.jpg" height="266" width="320" /></a><i>I will break into your thoughts<br />
With what's written on my heart<br />
I will break, break<br />
<br />
I'm so sick,<br />
Infected with where I live<br />
Let me live without this<br />
Empty bliss,<br />
Selfishness<br />
I'm so sick<br />
I'm so sick</i><br />
<br />
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The band was fairly successful and developed a large following. Christian teens and young adults rejoiced that <i>finally</i> there was a mainstream-accepted band that they could feel comfortable supporting. So when lead vocalist Lacey Sturm announced she was <a href="http://www.fuse.tv/2012/10/flyleaf-lacey-sturm-leaves-band" target="_blank">l</a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" target="_blank">eaving the band</a> in October 2012, there was a lot of confusion. Didn't she realize that she was a pioneer in her field? Who else could we turn to for borderline-screamo songs about Jesus and self-harm? <br />
<br />
But it turns out that Jesus was doing a redemptive work in her heart. Here's her story, which I highly recommend you take the time to watch. <br />
<br />
<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ruaoEB19S-w">https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ruaoEB19S-w</a><br />
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No one can survive an encounter with Jesus and preserve their lives unchanged. For Lacey, it shows. Her entire countenance has brightened, as has her music style. How much has it changed? When my friend Benji introduced me to her new(ish) single, I said, "Man, that song is amazing. Who's the artist?" <br />
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Benji replied. "Where do you think the singer is from?" <br />
"I dunno." I said, "Her voice has a hint of Irish. Is she from Ireland?" <br />
Ireland seems to pump out a large quantity of excellent worship leaders. <br />
"Nope. She's that chick from Flyleaf." Benji said, matter-of-factly ejecting me from my socks due to sheer surprise. <br />
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Sturm's song "Mercy Tree" is one my new favorite worship songs. (Benji, thank you so much for introducing me to the song!) "Mercy Tree" was released in <i>The Cross</i>, a 2013 movie made in honor of Billy Graham's 95th birthday. Like Lacey's testimony, the music video for "Mercy Tree" is most definitely worth your time. <br />
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<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?x-yt-ts=1421914688&v=hrgl9z3grKU&x-yt-cl=84503534">https://www.youtube.com/watch?x-yt-ts=1421914688&v=hrgl9z3grKU&x-yt-cl=84503534</a><br />
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I'm not here to preach against rock music (mainly because I would get instantaneously struck by lightning for my hypocrisy) but I <i>will</i> comment that when a person meets Jesus Christ in a personal way, it changes everything. Could Lacey have continued to produce alternative-metal-genre songs and used her fame to reach unbelievers for the Lord? Perhaps. But we need to get away from the crowd that chants "Well the lyrics aren't bad so the music must be good too" without even once considering the spirits involved with that same music. Food for thought, at least. <br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Testimonies like Lacey's make me glad that I serve a God that is not only <b>powerful</b>, but <i>relational</i> as well. </span><br />
<br />
I will praise the LORD as long as I live; I will sing praises to my God while I have my being.<br />
Psalm 146:2<br />
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So I will bless you as long as I live; in your name I will lift up my hands.<br />
Psalm 63:4<br />
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I give thanks to you, O Lord my God, with my whole heart, and I will glorify your name forever.<br />
<span class="p">Psalm 86:12</span>Shawn Graberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06442043972170630969noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6763972133541426654.post-38113634108776157202015-01-20T13:10:00.004-06:002015-01-26T16:46:25.057-06:00Apprenticeship TrainingI am a member of several online forums, but I hardly sign in to check messages. I signed in to one this afternoon and saw the notification for an unread message. Upon inspection of the message, it was entirely in a form of Cryllic text. <br />
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<i>Сколько ни прогоняй грустные размышления, а они всё равно тебя достанут. Я в очередной раз раздумывала о том, что в моей судьбе не достаёт эмоций, сочных красок, хороших новостей. А, возможно, нужно хоть что-то сделать, чтобы внести изменения в такую обстановку? Например, куда-либо сходить с друзьями. Определить, в конце концов, за какую цену можно сбыть старенькую машину и приобрести более новую. Отослать резюме и сменить надоевшую работу. Следовательно, мне требуется различная информация о нашем Житомире. Выбрать достойный информативный сайт города оказалось нетрудно.<br /><br />олевский янтарь<br /><br />Заинтересовавшись событиями города, я даже запамятовала, зачем заходила. Как оказалось, у нас в развлекательном центре вскоре открытие выставки, премьерный показ мелодрамы,а я раздумывала, куда же новенький пуловер одеть! А тут и перерыв на работе истёк. Засияло солнышко, и реальность перестала казаться настолько бесцветной. Тем более, что я таки составила и отослала личное резюме. Да и одна работа меня уже привлекла. Правильно считается, важные изменения стартуют с незначительных усилий.</i><br />
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Normally I'd just delete such spammery, but this time I was intrigued enough to investigate. I tossed the text into Google Translate and it came out with the following: <br />
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[Detected language: Russian]<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i><span class="" id="result_box" lang="en"><span class="hps">No matter how much</span> <span class="hps">banishes</span> <span class="hps">sad reflections</span>, and <span class="hps">they still</span> <span class="hps">would get</span> <span class="hps">you</span>. <span class="hps">I</span> <span class="hps">once again</span> <span class="hps">wondered</span> <span class="hps">about</span> <span class="hps">that</span> <span class="hps">in my life</span> <span class="hps">lacks</span> <span class="hps">emotions,</span> <span class="hps">rich colors</span>, <span class="hps">good news.</span> <span class="hps">And</span>, you may need <span class="hps">at least</span> <span class="hps">do something</span> <span class="hps">to make a change</span> <span class="hps">in</span> <span class="hps">this</span> <span class="hps">situation</span>? <span class="hps">For example,</span> <span class="hps">somewhere</span> <span class="hps">to go</span> <span class="hps">with friends.</span> <span class="hps">Determine</span>, in the end, <span class="hps">at what price</span> <span class="hps">can</span> <span class="hps">sell</span> <span class="hps">an old</span> <span class="hps">car and</span> <span class="hps">buy</span> <span class="hps">a</span> <span class="hps">new one.</span> <span class="hps">Send</span> <span class="hps">resume</span> <span class="hps">and</span> <span class="hps">replace</span> <span class="hps">the boring</span> <span class="hps">work.</span> <span class="hps">Therefore,</span> <span class="hps">I need</span> <span class="hps">different information</span> <span class="hps">about this</span> <span class="hps">Zhitomir.</span> <span class="hps">Choose a worthy</span> <span class="hps">informative site</span> <span class="hps">of the city</span> <span class="hps">was easy</span>.<br /><br /> <span class="hps">Olevskii</span> <span class="hps">amber</span><br /><br /> <span class="hps">Intrigued by</span> <span class="hps">the events of</span> <span class="hps">the city</span>, I even <span class="hps">have forgotten</span> <span class="hps">why</span> <span class="hps">sign up</span>. <span class="hps">As it turned out</span>, <span class="hps">in our</span> <span class="hps">entertainment center</span> <span class="hps">soon</span> <span class="hps">opened an exhibition</span> <span class="hps">premiere of</span> <span class="hps">melodrama</span>, and <span class="hps">I was thinking</span>, <span class="hps">where is</span> <span class="hps">a brand new</span> <span class="hps">sweater</span> <span class="hps">dress</span>! <span class="hps">A</span> <span class="hps">break</span> <span class="hps">here and</span> <span class="hps">at work</span> <span class="hps">has expired.</span> <span class="hps">The sun</span> <span class="hps">shone</span>, and the reality <span class="hps">is no longer</span> <span class="hps">seem so</span> <span class="hps">colorless.</span> <span class="hps">Especially because</span> <span class="hps">I</span> <span class="hps">was</span> <span class="hps">still</span> <span class="hps">private</span> <span class="hps">and sent</span> <span class="hps">the resume.</span> <span class="hps">And</span> <span class="hps">one work</span> <span class="hps">has already attracted</span> <span class="hps">me</span>. <span class="hps">Properly</span> <span class="hps">considered</span>, <span class="hps">important changes</span> <span class="hps">start</span> <span class="hps">with</span> <span class="hps">little effort</span>.</span></i></span><br />
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Now I'm just intrigued even more. Whoever you are, dear Forum Note Sender, I hope you get yourself a brand new sweater dress. <br />
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<a name='more'></a><br /><br />
I've been up to quite a bit lately. Something I discovered this past week was that if I get up really, really early when nobody else wants to be awake, I can call in to a local Christian radio station and be the first caller of the day. I got to talk to Host Bryon on Life 101.9 four days in a row and he declared that it was some type of record. <br />
<br />
I don't get up early just to talk to Bryon, even though that was a lot of fun. The reason I found myself rising hours before the sun each morning last week was to attend my first week of HVAC Apprenticeship training classes, which were held at the Kirkwood Community College in Cedar Rapids. <br />
<br />
I found out I need to be licensed if I desire to continue in my line of work. I certainly desire it, so I've enrolled in classes. My apprenticeship license will take four years of classes and 8,000 hours of on-the-job-training to obtain. It's not so bad, though. Each year consists of 144 hours of classes (which is accomplished in two weeks), 2,000 hours of on-the-job-training, and some online quizzes. After the apprenticeship, I'll have two years of classes to obtain my Journeyman licensing, at which point I can study for the Master's license. <br />
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Fortunately, I was able to submit hours that I've previously worked toward the 8,000 hour requirement. I've got 7,000 hours already finished. Now that I'm done with the first week of classes, I'm practically 1/8th of an Apprentice. <br />
<br />
My classmates were a pleasant bunch, although a little rough around the edges. We were all in the same proverbial boat, sandwiched between changing regulations in the HVAC field and the necessity to get licensed. Through the week, we worked together to get various lab assignments done. We learned about electrical circuits and sheet metal fabrication, and I enjoyed it a lot. Safety regulations prevented us from using a majority of the more useful (albiet dangerous) tools, so a lot of our time was spent figuring out how to accomplish our assignments using "safe" tools that weren't as capable as the dangerous ones. <br />
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The class instructor was awesome. A good teacher can change the entire outlook of a class, and Mr. Victor Schmidt did exactly that. None of us relished starting classes at 7am and slogging through them until 4:15pm, but Vic did an excellent job teaching the course material. Contemporary hipster liberals would probably classify our teacher as "Old-fashioned, prudish, square." But that would mean they'd classify me using the same terms because Mr. Schmidt and I were like two peas in a pod. "I'll reveal some of the secrets behind how this works, but don't you worry--I won't ruin the magic," Victor would say with a grin, delving into electromagnets and step-down transformers. "Ruining the magic" became one of his catchphrases through the week. At one point, he said "Fellas, if you ever stumble across a pornographic film, avert your eyes. Just avert 'em! Porn really ruins the magic of a marriage." While most of the class rolled their eyes, I was like, "Ayyyyy-MEN!" I'm not entirely sure what inspired his proclamation, but it was common for Vic to interject anecdotes about his own small heating and cooling business or dole out wisdom and advice about life in general. He spoke my jive. <br />
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On that very same subject, I just got back from the Passion conference in Atlanta and Pastor Judah Smith speaks my jive as well. Judah is my spirit animal. Perhaps not in his apparel...were those women's high-heeled boots he was wearing?! But in his speech and behavior and mannerisms, yeah, I can relate. Even though Judah Smith was my favorite, I loved all the speakers and worship leaders at Passion and I highly recommend attending one of their shindigs if you can. It was a time of focusing on Jesus alongside 20,000 other believers. That injection of fervor and joy was precisely what I needed in order to prepare for the upcoming Land of Promise conference that's taking place this week in my hometown. I'm getting all psyched up about it, you don't even KNOW. Steve and Dorcas Stutzman are dear friends and mentors of mine and they've been hosting these conferences all over the USA and Canada. I've wanted them to host one in Kalona for ages, and it's finally happening for real, after a scheduling change that shifted the conference from its initial date in September 2014. People from all over the landscape are heading to our little town for the 4-day conference and I can already tell that there is going to be some hardcore spiritual battling that will take place. It's difficult to explain what all takes place at these conferences but essentially they are jam-packed with sessions that deal with root issues in a person's life. There's worship, prayer, intercession, counseling, teaching, loads of Scripture reading, and the presence of the Holy Spirit. Much like my HVAC training, I feel like a spiritual apprentice. There is so much to learn, so much wisdom to gain, so many virtues to hone, so many truths to unveil...I've been following Jesus for 17 years but I still feel like I'm only just starting. <br />
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I know this is last-minute but you should come to the Land of Promise conference, dear reader. Many of you may think that spiritual conferences are hoaxy and I can't argue with that, because there are some real shammy charlatans out there professing to know God but actually serve the almighty dollar. If you're in the area and want to check this Land of Promise conference out for yourself, you are welcome to attend the Wednesday evening service tomorrow night, 6pm at Fairview Church. If you like what you see and want to continue, you can register and pay for the rest of the conference, which goes all day Thursday, Friday, and Saturday. If you cannot attend but the conference pops into your mind anytime this week, please send up a prayer on our behalf. We want to put our selfish flesh to death and serve Jesus alone. Already I've been sensing "a disturbance in the force" as George Lucas
would say. It's difficult to describe, but the evil spiritual realm
is <i>not pleased</i> with this conference and is already trying to
delay, distract, and destroy it. Regardless of what takes place, it's
going to be a wild ride.Shawn Graberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06442043972170630969noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6763972133541426654.post-91478005424237504472014-11-26T15:08:00.001-06:002014-11-26T15:08:32.560-06:00[Insert Eye-Catching Yet Informative Title Here]"Your friends are sending me some pictures of our skydive. It was amazing; you shoulda been there."<div>I said to Heather, the sales rep that hooked me up with the skydiving trip. </div><div><br></div><div>Heather laughed, "I know! I couldn't make it because I went to a wedding instead. My friends sent a few photos to me while I was at the wedding. But I'm planning to go skydiving next year. Wanna go again?"</div><div><br></div><div>I paused. </div><div><br></div><div>"Yes!" </div><div><br></div><div>My hesitation was because I decided I need to start saving up for skydiving.</div><div><br></div><div>Shelby walked into the shop, heard two words, and said "Skydiving?"</div><div><br></div><div>Heather asked, "Are you interested in going too?"</div><div><br></div><div>"Sure. I need to save some money to go, though." He replied. </div><div><br></div><div>Shane burst through the shop door, nose twitching. Without hearing a word of our conversation, he turned and said, "Skydiving!" </div><div><br></div><div>Heather laughed and said "Would you like to go along with</div><div><br></div><div>"YES." Shane interrupted. <span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"> </span></div><div><br></div><div>Cue song: "It's Rainin' Men."</div><div><br></div><div>November has been a busy month. Once I have a spare moment to collect my thoughts, I'll tell you all about the wedding, the funeral, the road trip, the deer collision, and the other road trip to the other wedding. With the way things have been scheduled, I'll have some spare time to blog in April 2016. </div><div><br></div><div>For those of you that take time to read my oft-neglected blog, thanks. I appreciate that. </div><div><br></div><div>Happy Thanksgiving, everyone! </div>Shawn Graberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06442043972170630969noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6763972133541426654.post-38867903210741135682014-10-12T23:37:00.000-05:002015-01-26T16:47:13.342-06:00Adrenaline JunkieYesterday I fell out of an airplane. <br />
While it was flying.<br />
On purpose. <br />
I've got the story and the documentation to prove it. <br />
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It started a few months ago when I discovered that Heather, a sales rep that works with our business, has a pilot's license and several jumps under her belt. <br />
<br />
Full disclosure: it actually started 21 years ago when I learned how to ride a bicycle, and therefore began to speed on things with wheels.<br />
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I asked Heather to let me know when the next jump would be happening. A month ago, she informed me that some of her friends were getting a group together to skydive. "Are you still interested?" She asked me. "Ab. So. Lutely." I replied. <br />
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I was contacted by Heather's friend Kathy, one of the jumpers. Over the phone, she sounded completely thrilled that I was joining. Perhaps because my interest confirmed that there were other humans as crazy as herself. The fact that I made the group large enough to get a discounted rate was a bonus. Kathy informed me that "Kathy, spelled with a C" was in charge of the group. I talked with Cathy and found her to be just as exuberant about skydiving as Kathy was. Cathy informed me that I could bring along a friend if I wanted, so I set out to find someone as wantonly reckless as myself. <br />
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My friend Anne has been laboring away at the University of Iowa for quite some time, and I determined that she could use a break from her studies. What better way to relax than to get thrown out of an airplane? I imagine there are various alternative activities you would recommend, dear reader, but then you're most likely not a Graber. I asked Anne if she wanted to join, and she replied, "I would totally go but I should perhaps converse with my parents. They might be concerned for my safety." An excellent course of action, and one that I deliberately avoided because my parents are always concerned for my safety, so why bother them with additional worries?<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2i5EONFNdb763uOKrq2sGxLhoUKbTxWOAI7AEcPnMApLBLYFA0PE6P6v9pHGCltY70XtFeMo609mBN8ZYfDmHNpJGtq9h7mp9YKMx1POr4TiTqHqm7Wm3Yp6P7Q8u06Z2uAngsni9ui8y/s1600/068.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2i5EONFNdb763uOKrq2sGxLhoUKbTxWOAI7AEcPnMApLBLYFA0PE6P6v9pHGCltY70XtFeMo609mBN8ZYfDmHNpJGtq9h7mp9YKMx1POr4TiTqHqm7Wm3Yp6P7Q8u06Z2uAngsni9ui8y/s1600/068.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>You'd never suspect that Anne is a borderline </i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>maniac, but then you'd be wrong. </i></div>
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<a name='more'></a><br /><br />
"I called my parents and my dad told me not to die if I go skydiving. Which I think can be done. So at least tentatively YES I want to jump out of an airplane." Anne texted. I planned to do a lot of Not Dying as well, so I agreed that it could be done. I refrained from mentioning that a solo jumper had perished earlier this year when his chute failed to deploy, because what kind of monster burdens his friends with worries? I'm considerate like that. <br />
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Yesterday afternoon, Anne and I traveled an hour to <a href="http://www.skydiveia.com/" target="_blank">Skydive Iowa</a>! in the town of Brooklyn. We met up with the rest of the team, a collection of middle-aged thrill-seeking adrenaline enthusiasts and a young man about my age. Kathy and Cathy were just as rambunctious and delightful as I imagined they'd be from our phone conversations. Kathy is a grandmother of two, so I gave her all sorts of grief about doing dangerous things when she's just a step away from the retirement home. That wasn't true, of course. Kathy was in better shape than I am. <br />
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<i> I hope I can be a cool grandma like Kathy someday. </i></div>
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We were required to sign waivers releasing Skydive Iowa! from all blame should anything go wrong. If you've ever gone skiing or snowboarding, you're familiar with release waivers. This one was slightly more...alarming. Seven pages of carefully worded paragraphs that looked like they'd be right at home on a poison bottle. Instead of a signature at the end of the waiver, or even one at the end of each page, this document required an initial at the end of every <i>paragraph</i>. Not only was I waiving <b>my</b> rights to sue the company should something go horrifically wrong, but I was waiving my relatives' rights to sue the company as well. I was declaring I would not hold Skydive Iowa responsible for gross OR regular negligence. The waiver added an <b>air</b> of <b>gravity</b> to the <b>atmosphere</b> but as you can tell by the horrible puns I just highlighted, I was too busy thinking about my upcoming airplane ride to be concerned with accidental death court cases.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i> This portion caught my eye: <b>"I understand that the success of my jump is dependent upon the perfect functioning of the airplane from which I intend to jump and the parachute system, and that neither the airplane nor the parachute system can be guaranteed to function perfectly."</b></i></div>
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We selected whether we wanted to have our jump videoed for an additional $80. Kathy wanted video footage of her drop but she was afraid that her cheeks would flap and she'd look silly. She ended up selecting the footage and hoping that her cheeks would behave. <br />
<br />
Our group was shown an instructional video that further tried to discourage any inclination of ever wanting to jump out of an airplane like are you crazy or something?!!? but again I was distracted with the video instructor's magnificent beard to notice his dire warnings. All I heard was "Blah blah jumping out of a plane will "jump" start your facial hair! You'll have flowing manes like myself in no time, captain!"<br />
<br />
Seriously, watch <b><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tFVINO-BqCw" target="_blank">this video</a></b>. Try to get any useful instructions out of it while looking at that glorious beard.<br />
<br />
We practiced our "fall position" on the floor in the hanger. Laying on our stomachs, back arched, legs bent up, arms cocked out in a "lazy W" position, our thumbs connecting invisible wires to our ears. The position was fairly strenuous for all of us that haven't taken yoga, but I assured myself that it would be much easier when I was actually falling and there was a rush of air to help push my legs up.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Cathy, standing beside our extremely calm instructor, who </i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>assuaged most of our new-found fears of skydiving. </i></div>
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<br />
After we had been properly and legally forewarned, we set out to...wait. There were a few groups before us, and the airplane holds only four occupants. Four solo jumpers or two sets of tandem jumpers. There were several of each type in front of us, and we watched as they loaded up in the airplane and came swooping gracefully back to the ground, faces glowing. I noticed that after each 30-minute flight, the pilot refueled the plane. Made sense to me; carrying unnecessary extra fuel would mean more takeoff weight, and that would just be wasteful. The pilot was also wearing a parachute, and I wasn't sure how to feel about that. Pensive, I suppose. <br />
<br />
The weather was fantastic. A beautiful, clear day with just a slight breeze. I had dressed warm because it was 35 degrees in the morning, but it wasn't long before I began to shed layers and collect some vitamin D. <br />
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Finally, it was our group's turn. Kathy and Cathy went up first, and we could hear them cackling and howling almost before we could see their parachutes. A few minutes later, they landed breathless and wide-eyed. "Amazing!" Cathy said. "That was incredible."<br />
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<br />
<span id="goog_1354668984"></span><span id="goog_1354668985"></span>I had been observing the different instructors and there was one in particular I was keeping my eye on. His name was "Junkyard Dog" and I had a strong sense that I was going to be paired with him. Firstly, all the other instructors had perfectly reasonable names. Brent Romberg, Gary Billings, Mike Parnell, and so on. As far as I could tell, Junkyard Dog was the only instructor that had any sort of nickname. He was borderline crazy, but an acceptable crazy. All the instructors loved what they were doing, but it just seemed that Junkyard Dog <i>especially</i> loved what he was doing. I could tell he was a serious adrenaline junkie. I liked him a lot, and hoped that my buddy-pairing intuition would prove to be correct. (I am still shocked that I failed to get a photo of Junkyard Dog. It saddens me.)<br />
<br />
While waiting on the other groups, I watched the instructors pack the parachutes. They took their time and made sure the lines were untangled before rolling the chutes like an oversized sleeping bag and stuffing them into the backpack. The process took quite a while and looked fairly tedious, but I was grateful the instructors took their time doing it. Again, there have been humans that failed to pack their parachutes perfectly, and they are no longer on this mortal coil. We were informed that our instructors were carrying multiple safeties. If they happened to get knocked unconscious when we exited the plane, the chute would automatically deploy at 2900 feet. If the main chute failed to deploy, they were carrying a full-sized emergency chute. <br />
<br />
The jump order was selected by the order we handed in our paperwork. Anne and I had been last to hand our paperwork in, so we were scheduled last to jump. Anne was hoping to return to Iowa City by 6pm, and our flight time was scheduled for around 6:30pm. I asked two of the other group members if we could switch places with them and they kindly agreed. Our new flight time was just past 5pm.<br />
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<br />
When our names were shown on the flight display, I was indeed paired with Junkyard Dog. This says great things for my intuition. It's practically a superpower, with females being the kryptonite. Junkyard Dog grabbed me a flight suit, which I eagerly put on and snapped approximately 20 selfies in. Then he helped me into the harness, which had various straps and belts and carabiners to fasten me securely to him for the jump. I had asked some of the flight instructors, "Do you keep track of how many jumps you've done?" <br />
"Oh yeah. We all keep track. I have a little over 4,000." Said Brent. "I don't have near as many as Junkyard Dog, though. He's got over 8,000." <br />
I walked over to Junkyard Dog and asked him, "I've heard you've done over 8,000 jumps. Is that true?"<br />
"Eighty-six hundred, man. I love it." He replied. <br />
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<i>"Stop tightening all those belts for a little bit so I can take this </i></div>
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<i>selfie. I'm sure the latches aren't that important anyway." </i></div>
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<i>I'd post the other 18 selfies but you get the picture. </i></div>
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I'm not sure how to word this delicately, but when Junkyard Dog hauled on the straps to tighten the harness, a sensitive portion of my body got pinched, <i>hard</i>. I didn't say anything about it because hey, these straps are a key factor in keeping me from not only pushing daisies, but fertilizing them with my pulverized body. And what do I know about skydiving harnesses? Perhaps this is part of the price one must pay for the thrill. Later on, I really wished I would have said something. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
Soon after we were geared up, the airplane was ready to go. When I asked to switch flights, I had been talking with one of the secretaries. I checked with her about the time between flights and she mentioned that they were able to make far more flights in the cooler weather, because although this plane was a real workhorse, it would need longer breaks in warmer weather. Something about the way she explained the airplane getting "tired" made me feel even better about changing our flight time.<br />
<br />
We shoehorned into the plane. Anne and her instructor slid in the compartment first, with Junkyard Dog and I entering last. We were going to jump first, and we were positioned right beside the gull-wing door of the aircraft. Even without seats, there wasn't much room for three-and-a-half adults. As I folded my left foot up into my left nostril to get into the plane, I envied Anne's shorter frame. That was the main similarity this flight had to a commercial flight. Height can be overrated.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>You can't store additional leg yardage in the overhead compartment. I tried. </i></div>
<br />
Let me just take a short intermission to explain to all you lovely viewers out there reading between the lines that Anne is a wonderful friend of mine (and I appreciate that she went along with me on my mad adventure) but we aren't dating. Those of you who are disappointed by that statement are precisely the reason that I must make this clarification. :) Squeezing into a small airplane in order to fall out of it at astonishing heights can be quite the bonding moment, though, so I will definitely keep it in mind as a prime date-night activity. <br />
<br />
After getting situated in the small, rear-facing compartment, the plane wheeled out onto the runway. Junkyard Dog was holding the door slightly ajar, and didn't close it until we were lined up for takeoff. I appreciated that, because the open door afforded us a precious few spare inches of wiggle room. Once the door was closed, the instructors signaled that they were ready to the pilot, and the pilot throttled down the small grass airstrip. I thought to myself, <i>I really wish I would have said something. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
Taking off facing backwards was a fun experience. The small airstrip with the large parachute landing strip beside it quickly faded as we climbed. We rose slowly over the landscape, making large lazy circles. I watched as Iowa stretched out in all directions and realized, <i>Good grief. Everyone is right, Iowa </i>IS <i>flat.</i> I also kept an eye on Junkyard Dog's wrist altimeter as we ascended. After about a 5-minute flight, we reached our launch altitude of 9,000 feet. Junkyard Dog helped me adjust my goggles and threw open the gull-wing door, inviting a fierce blast of 45-degree air into the cabin. I had almost forgotten all of my instructions but Junkyard Dog patiently explained each step to me. My biggest fear about the whole thing was being unable to get my legs out the door. It took a little while, but I got it done and was soon seated on the edge of the plane. My feet were perched on a small platform above the landing gear, and I was looking nearly two miles straight down to the Iowa landscape. The view (and Iowa) was beautiful. Junkyard Dog explained that I just needed to tuck my thumbs under my harness and arch my back as soon as we exited the plane. He'd take care of the actual jump. I tucked my thumbs and declared I was ready.<br />
<br />
I'm not sure why they call it "the jump" and "skydiving" when it could much more accurately be called "flopping". We just rolled out of the airplane like we were that extra scoop of cheese in an over-stuffed burrito. As we somersaulted away from the aircraft, I caught fleeting glimpses of Iowa, aircraft, Iowa, smaller aircraft. I had my back arched to avoid "potato chipping" and prayed that I was doing it right. Potato chipping is exactly like it sounds. If you aren't arched properly, the wind will throw you around. After a few flips, Junkyard Dog had us oriented into the correct "fall position". <br />
<br />
And we fell. <br />
For 30 seconds/two eternities.<br />
The wind was brisk, but not as icy cold as I had thought it would be. <br />
The fall was astounding. I loved every week of it. <br />
I heard the drogue chute deploy, and I realized that I had forgotten how to breathe. I took a breath. <br />
The main chute started pulling out, I could hear the nylon cords slithering. <br />
The main chute filled with air, and we went from a 120mph free-fall to a 15mph float in a matter of seconds. The whole experience was unbelievably wonderful but tinged with searing pain, as only happens when one has a pinched, uh, nerve. The 105 mile-per-hour shift in velocity was akin to getting a wedgie from Arnold Schwarzenegger. <br />
<br />
Junkyard Dog reached over my head and pulled my goggles free. It was incredibly quiet, and clear, and warm. We were lofting along on the gentle breeze, and it was such a contrast to the hurricane-force winds howling past us moments before. The next thing I knew we were launching around a corkscrew turn, g-forces swinging our bodies out like a pendulum. Junkyard Dog pulled out of the turn and asked, "Is that alright? Will that make you sick?" I was still trying to remember how to breathe consistently and I gasped out "Yeah, no! That was quite a bit of g-force but I'll be okay I think you can go ahead I liked it was great I don't think I'll get dizzy." So we plunged into another banked turn, looping first clockwise and then counter-clockwise, which I appreciated because I may have gotten dizzy. I don't normally get dizzy, but there was a lot going on. I looked up and saw Anne's chute far above us, swooping through a similar turn. Junkyard Dog was a little worried because I hadn't made a single peep, so he asked, "What do you think, man? Pretty cool, eh?" I discovered my tongue and started telling him, and all of central Iowa, how cool the jump was. We approached the landing site and Junkyard Dog took us straight over the aircraft hangars. I felt that we were going only slightly slower than the speed of sound, but we were actually coming in very gently. Junkyard Dog told me to raise my legs up like I was sitting in an imaginary chair, and we slid to a leisurely stop on the soft grass. I don't know how to explain the landing but it felt "fluffy". It was such a pleasant surprise. The flight suits were slippery and just glided over the grass. Junkyard Dog whooped, separated the joining carabiners between us and jumped up. We watched as Anne came swooping in shortly after. <br />
<br />
"That was amazing." I said. <br />
"Next best thing to sex, in my opinion." He said.<br />
<br />
Junkyard Dog came over and loosened my harness. I think I may have almost cried in relief at that point. I mentioned my predicament and he replied, "Aw man. I <i>hate</i> when that happens." Yep. I <i>really</i> should have mentioned something before we took off. Regardless, the entire skydiving experience was excellent. I told that to Junkyard Dog, and he laughed and replied "After my first jump, I took out a bank loan so I could do it for a living!" I still can't believe I didn't get a photo of that man. <br />
<br />
As for documentation? <br />
<br />
<span id="goog_1354669002"></span><span id="goog_1354669003"></span>
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<i>Junkyard Dog signed his name upside down because </i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>he lives life on the edge. Or because he's illiterate.</i></div>
<br />
"Shawn Graber has successfully completed ground and aerial training and performed a skydive in accordance with the basic safety requirements of the United States Parachute Association"<br />
<br />
And I'd do it again. Shawn Graberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06442043972170630969noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6763972133541426654.post-31406324899266546112014-10-09T18:09:00.004-05:002015-01-26T16:55:51.636-06:00Gun BuybackFirearms are a sticky subject nowadays and I understand if you don't like firearms. I receive shivers in the presence of ceramic clowns, so I know that inanimate objects can make one feel uncomfortable. <br />
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<i></i><i>Terribly uncomfortable. </i></div>
<br />
For many years, cities all over the United States have offered Gun Buyback programs where your surrendered firearm will earn you a gift card for fuel or groceries. These buybacks, hosted by police stations, have become more frequent since the shootings at Sandy Hook Elementary and the theater in Aurora, Colorado. The premise is that if there are less guns on the street, there will be less robbery and homicide. For many, the idea seems brilliant. "Less guns = less crime and sadness!" They proclaim. <br />
<br />
In 2012 (the year of the Sandy Hook shooting), there were 625 murders committed with shotguns and rifles. <br />
That's a lot. <br />
<br />
In 2012, there were 1,196 murders committed with <b><a href="http://www.breitbart.com/Big-Government/2014/05/21/FBI-More-People-Killed-With-Fists-And-Hammers-Than-With-Rifles-And-Shotguns" target="_blank">hammers and fists.</a> </b><br />
That's a <i>lot</i>. <br />
<b><br /></b>As a Christian, I understand that man's thoughts are wicked, and without
the redemption of Jesus Christ, people will do terrible things to other
people. They'll just keep on doing those terrible things with whatever tool or object they have at hand. Uh, pun not intended. <br />
<br />
As a Graber, I understand that guns <i>can</i> be used for harm, but they are tools. No more, no less. Like a golf club or a baseball bat or a screwdriver or one of those teeny little brushes that puts on mascara. Guns used properly (I am reluctant to use the word "recreationally" because that makes guns sound like marijuana) can be a whole lot of fun. <br />
<br />
Where was I? Oh yes, gun buybacks. Bring all your unwanted firearms and ammunition to the police station, and exchange them for some gift cards******! <br />
*Ammunition will be accepted for surrender, but will not qualify for a gift card.<br />
**One gift card per person, regardless of the amount of firearms surrendered. <br />
***The surrendered firearms cannot have been previously stolen. <br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br /><br />
Cedar Rapids is a city about 45 minutes from where I live. A new police chief was recently elected and he thinks gun buybacks are the veritable knees on the proverbial bee. Cedar Rapids' previous gun buyback was staged in 1994, at which the CRPD received over 500 guns and destroyed them. This year, the Police Department was informed that they could not use federal funding for the gift cards. If the police wanted a gun buyback, they'd have to fundraise for it. Police Chief Wayne Jerman immediately began fundraising for the buyback. He called on the businesses of Cedar Rapids to donate funds. <br />
<br />
Chief Jerman had a few problems with his fundraiser, though. This is Iowa, and although we're home to two exceedingly <a href="http://www.usatoday.com/story/life/2013/08/05/university-of-iowa-claims-top-party-school-title/2619793/" target="_blank">liberal colleges</a>, the vast majority of the population is comprised of practical, no-nonsense conservatives. Those conservatives run businesses, and those businesses aren't about to donate money toward a gun buyback program. The backlash of being involved with a gun buyback would be devastating to most local business. No siree bob, they didn't want any part of that. <br />
<br />
So Police Chief Jerman ended up with $1,700 after a<i> year</i> of fundraising, which was enough for 17 guns. For every gun
surrendered, citizens would receive a $100 gift card to Hy-Vee, a local
chain of grocery stores. Things were looking pretty grim, but in the very last week before the gun buyback, the EMT's sent a matching donation to the police station. Perhaps the EMT's thought that their donation would ensure fewer gunshot wounds to attend to. <br />
<br />
Armed (heh, pun!) with $3,400 <i>NO WAIT A SECOND A GOOD SAMARITAN JUST DONATED $200, BLESS HER SOUL! </i>$3,600.00, the Cedar Rapids Gun Buyback was on for Saturday, September 27th at 9:00am. <br />
<br />
Enter the scheming, greedy, ties-to-the-Black-Market-and-possibly-the-Chinese-Mafia no good dirty rotten GUN BUYERS. Encircling the gun buyback venue like vultures, their beady eyes roved for firearms to purchase with cold, capitalistic cash. <br />
<br />
Those gun buyers included myself and my good friend Brooks. <br />
<br />
Many guns are worth far more than $100, so we went to Cedar Rapids early, pockets full of cash, in order to barter with the townspeople that came to the buyback with their guns. After all, it's legal for a citizen to sell a firearm to another citizen (handguns require a license, which I possess) and for goodness sakes this is what America is all about. Capitalism and things that explode!<br />
<br />
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<i>A nearby bald eagle shed a single, majestic tear at this display of freedom. </i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
My brother Shane tagged along for the adventure and we got to the gun buyback only a few minutes before 9:00am. There was already an impressively long line of vehicles winding through the Civic Center parking lot, where the police department had set up camp. I approached several of the idling vehicles and offered to pay cash for the driver's firearm if they were interested. Many of the drivers replied that indeed they WERE interested, but they fully knew their firearms weren't worth $100. Enter Chief Wayne Jerman's second problem: rural Iowans are <i>frugal and they know the value of stuff. </i>One elderly farmer chuckled when I offered cash. "Sure, I'd sell to ya, sonny! But you don't want what I have. It's more rust than gun." The farmer cracked a sly grin. "I brought it cuz' they'll give me a hunnert dollars for it, which is far more than it (an ancient, break-action shotgun) is worth. I ain't giving anything valuable to the gov'n'mnt! Oh, by the way, you best be careful trying to buy guns on the gov'n'mnt property because they can run you off. I saw them run several others off before you." He said in confidant tones, as if we were American prisoners temporarily detained in a Fascist prison for political dissidents.<br />
<br />
<br />
<span id="goog_1891713565"></span><span id="goog_1891713566"></span>I thanked the farmer and moved out onto the street, where I found my friend Brooksy haggling for firearms. <br />
<br />
Several of the guns Brooks found were in good condition, so he offered $125 apiece. One man sold me his .22 caliber Phoenix Arms handgun after he checked my firearms license and determined I wasn't a hooligan. I paid him $100 cash for it.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i> Available to non-hooligans for the low, low price of $100. <br />(This is a similar kit to the one I purchased, but not <br />the exact kit. Mine came with only the short barrel)</i></div>
<br />
<br />
A woman with some ammunition stopped in, and I talked to her for a bit.
She said I probably wouldn't want the box of "a mix of all sorts of
calibers." I was considerably interested in taking a look at the ammo,
right up until she told me it had been sitting around for close to 30
years. I chuckled in surprise and agreed that I wasn't in the market for corroded ammunition. <br />
<br />
An older man drove up in a van and I asked him what he was bringing in. He pointed to the two revolvers on his passenger seat, and my eyes widened. They were tiny, able to be concealed in the palm of a hand. Brooks and I speculated on the caliber of such small firearms. <br />
<br />
".22 caliber?" I inquired.<br />
".25 caliber, it looks like." Corrected Brooks.<br />
"Actually they're mace pistols!" The man chortled. "Bought 'em for my daughter when she was in college, years ago." (I think he mentioned something about the 1970's being a crazy time.) "I don't think you can get the mace capsules for them anymore, though." <br />
He grabbed one of the revolvers and pulled the trigger several times. It cycled the cylinder but there wasn't anything in the chambers. The guns, made of steel and wood, were very realistic and would have been quite the deterrent as they were drawn from a young woman's purse. Or fanny pack...? Who knows. The 70's seem sketchy to me. <br />
<br />
A week prior, I had told my
neighbor Shane about the whole operation. "We're gonna run up to CR and save some guns from destruction! Oh, and I can take your old shotgun
and try to get a $100 gift card for it if you want." Shane agreed wholeheartedly. So I had Shane's rickety old
shotgun along to hand in. After buying the Phoenix handgun, I jumped into line to surrender the shotgun. With 20 vehicles in front of me, a kind police officer came to my window and told me that unfortunately there would not be enough gift cards to reach to me. The police officer informed me that they would still gladly take my firearm, but I'd get nothing in return. The break-action shotgun was not in working condition (Shane and I were convinced that if you looked at it funny, it would shoot you) but it was worth more than nothing, if only as a wall decoration. I exited the line, hopped out of my car, and went back on the street to buy guns. <br />
<br />
By 9:30am the 36 gift cards were all gone. Other citizens were being informed that the gift cards had run out, so they elected to either hold on to their rusted, bent, scratched firearms until the next buyback or sell to us. We were still out on the street, and they were more than glad to get some cash for their unwanted firearms. <br />
<br />
The owners were happy, Brooks and I were happy, everybody was happy. <br />
<br />
Except for the police officers. <br />
<br />
Like the farmer had mentioned, the police officers constantly patrolled
the parking lot to make sure that no capitalism was taking place on
their property. Out on the street we were perfectly fine, but under the
policemen's watchful gaze several people got nervous and refused to deal
with us. Around 9:45, a man in a minivan hauled up by the parking lot but stopped when I waved to him. From the passenger window, I informed him that the gift cards had run out, but would he be interested in cash? He declared he would certainly be interested. He told me to open the back hatch of the minivan, where his Mossberg pump shotgun rested behind the back seat. On the driver's side window, a police officer was standing at the entrance of the parking lot. The van driver called out to the police officer, "Is this legal?" The police officer glared in my direction. I didn't see the glare, but I could feel the heat. I didn't mind; I was too busy drooling over the beautiful Mossberg 500A in the back of the van. <span style="font-size: large;">"I don't like it,"</span> said the police officer,<span style="font-size: large;"> "but I can't stop it."</span> I handed over the cash and the driver left. <br />
<br />
By 10am there were only a few stragglers stopping by the Civic Center. Several other buyers had drifted over to Brooks and I and we talked about our purchases. When I showed the Phoenix handgun that I had bought, one of the buyers casually asked me, "How much you think you'll get for that gun?" "Oh, I'd like to sell it for $125." I replied. The buyer whipped $125 out of his pocket and once I recovered from my surprise, I sold it to him right there. <br />
<br />
Most of the guns brought in were complete junk: BB guns, ancient shotguns, old rusted .22 single-shot rifles...things worth far less than $100. (So I expect the EMT's are going to see considerably less BB gun and rusty .22 caliber rifle-inflicted wounds out there in the streets and alleys.) But there had been a few gems. Brooks walked away with a nice lever-action 30-30, an old German pistol (which turned out to be a knock-off Luger), and a Snake Charmer.<br />
<br />
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<a href="http://web.magicana.com/exhibitions/foy/images/Indian-SnakeCharmer2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://web.magicana.com/exhibitions/foy/images/Indian-SnakeCharmer2.jpg" height="205" width="320" /></a></div>
<span id="goog_641335631"></span><span id="goog_641335632"></span><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>No.</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br />
<span id="goog_641335631"></span><span id="goog_641335632"></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWgy58QkNnS7OVrnQw8aR-4hNjqj6rAyJ5H1dhKhp4eteowdelvUaaHSCDabEWz1WdW4Y3cJQ9Azc3n3ESbhPNVYOxC5IMK0e95xo_oc6hR3hfdPcbayhv_KKFs3i8S8_tlzfwwthKnIM5/s1600/700125_01_h_koon_snake_charmer_410_shotg_640.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWgy58QkNnS7OVrnQw8aR-4hNjqj6rAyJ5H1dhKhp4eteowdelvUaaHSCDabEWz1WdW4Y3cJQ9Azc3n3ESbhPNVYOxC5IMK0e95xo_oc6hR3hfdPcbayhv_KKFs3i8S8_tlzfwwthKnIM5/s1600/700125_01_h_koon_snake_charmer_410_shotg_640.jpg" height="162" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>YES. </i></div>
<br />
While we talked, a station wagon pulled up. The driver met every single criteria we had for a jackpot: an elderly woman bringing in her husband's guns. She wouldn't know the guns' values and ultimately hand the costly firearms to the police. We were there to rescue her from her lack of firearms expertise and send her home with a wad of cash. <br />
<br />
(Like <a href="http://news.yahoo.com/blogs/abc-news/valuable-wwii-gun-police-buy-back-022155231--abc-news-topstories.html" target="_blank">this woman</a> in Hartford Connecticut that brought in a WWII German machine gun to a buyback. The kind police officers told her that the gun was worth far more than a gift card, to the tune of $20,000. The officer said "We did not take the gun in for the gun buy-back program. If we took it as part of the buy-back, we would have no choice
but to destroy the gun. We don't want to destroy that gun." I sincerely appreciate policemen like Officer John Cavanna.) <br />
<br />
The little lady confirmed our hopeful suspicions when she said, "I've brought several of my husband's guns. He has Alzheimers and can't use them anymore." We nodded sympathetically while mentally calculating our cash reserves and eyeing the three cloth-wrapped firearms in her station wagon trunk. We carefully unwrapped the first, and found it was an old 12-gauge shotgun that looked like it had sat unused (and uncared for) the last 20 years. The second firearm was an equally old Stevens 12-gauge shotgun that looked in better shape, but the old man had taken a hacksaw to it and shortened the barrel. Short-barrel shotguns require a specialized license to own in Iowa, so we left that one alone. The third firearm was a bolt-action .22 rifle, in okay condition. It was worth around $80, which Brooks offered. The woman declined and said, "I'd really like to get $100 for it, so I'll just wait until the next gun buyback." Like many Iowans, that woman was very sensible. <br />
<br />
While we talked with her, KWWL News videoed us, most likely muttering cutting remarks about buzzards encircling a poor elderly woman. The little old lady looked toward the camera and whispered, "I don't want to be on television." One of the other buyers nearby said "KWWL tried to interview me earlier but I politely declined. They don't speak very highly of gun buyers and I didn't want to give them anything to use against us." We agreed. Gun buyers are cast in a negative light and many interviews are thinly veiled interrogations, with reporters hoping to uncover criminal intentions. So Brooks and I stood shoulder to shoulder and the elderly woman hid behind us. After talking with her for a while, we thanked the little old lady for stopping by and she left. <br />
<br />
A few minutes later, a pickup towing a trailer came hauling down the street toward us, so we moved to the side to let him pass. At the last possible moment, the driver stood on the brakes and whipped into the Civic Center parking lot. We were shocked. He had a firearm and we missed it! "Oh well," we consoled ourselves. "It was probably junk." We found out later that the driver received exactly zero reward for the $500 Glock handgun that he surrendered. We would have gladly offered $200-$300 cash for it. <br />
<br />
The firefighters helping with the gun buyback were extremely friendly and totally on our side. <br />
"Man, that last handgun just about made me lose my job!" Said one of the firefighters, referring to the Glock. "I would have gladly taken it home with me to keep it from being destroyed." <br />
"Can we take a look at the surrendered firearms?" Brooks asked. <br />
"No, sorry, you can't see them." Said one firefighter. <br />
"Yeah, you can't see them under all the saliva we drooled over them." Laughed another fireman. <br />
<br />
Shortly after that, we said goodbye to the other buyers and left. <br />
<br />
The Cedar Rapids Police Department called the gun buyback "<a href="http://www.kwwl.com/story/26643565/2014/09/27/cedar-rapids-authorities-call-gun-buyback-a-success" target="_blank">a success</a>". 72 guns and various supplies of ammunition were surrendered and destroyed. <br />
<br />
Brooks and I called Operation "Buy Back the Guns at the Buyback" a success too. Between the both of us, we rescued five firearms from the smelter. The other buyers purchased around 10 firearms total. Together we reclaimed a small handful of firearms and put them into decent, responsible hands. Hands that like to fire bullets at clay pigeons and plastic jugs filled with water. We're already looking forward to the next gun buyback. Shawn Graberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06442043972170630969noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6763972133541426654.post-32978464019158724242014-09-26T10:45:00.002-05:002014-10-10T00:28:02.794-05:00A Miracle in the Shape of a GuitarThis morning, I pulled my head up out of the sand and realized how long it has been since I've spoken to you, dear readers. <br />
<br />
I'd love to tell you all about the things that I've been up to. <br />
<br />
I'd love to tell you about the events that have caused this Summer to whip by like a turbo-charged carousel. <br />
<br />
But I can't right now. I don't quite have the words for it all. Wording is important to me; I often scrap entire paragraphs and even full posts if they don't meet my standards. <br />
<br />
I suppose that explains my extended hiatus from blogging...I haven't been able to find the words to say. <br />
<br />
Momentary Logic could be categorized as "Humorous, <a href="https://www.google.com/search?q=anecdotal%3F&ie=utf-8&oe=utf-8&aq=t&rls=org.mozilla:en-US:official&client=firefox-a&channel=sb#rls=org.mozilla:en-US:official&channel=sb&q=anecdotal" target="_blank">anecdotal</a>". I enjoy getting my readers to grin. So when difficult things come along, I refrain from blogging. I dislike <i>reading</i> posts filled with whining and complaining and pitiful pleas for attention, so why would I want to <i>write</i> one? <br />
<br />
So when faced with the most stretching, difficult few months of my life, I've been rendered speechless. <br />
<br />
Yet God. <br />
<br />
Yet God has been faithful and kind and loving. He daily reminds me of His presence and His promises, and I cannot let those miracles, those blessings, go unspoken.<br />
<br />
A few months ago I posted about the <a href="http://unkashawn.blogspot.com/2014/04/the-best-things-cannot-be-stolen.html" target="_blank">possessions I lost due to theft</a>. One of them was my brand-new Breedlove guitar. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNS7EFwFJNqym0Qpr0zU9lzzPHE8ImPxKHOuOMFmxVTYlw0FkRg2ipmcVrBVaH8RTWb3BID2wTx0HJ6Cbxmb7mhfyTte3bBZb4QiusZ-GweUyW_-erjA89atjqaI2PNsr8zhJPAPltDMY1/s1600/IMG_0989.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNS7EFwFJNqym0Qpr0zU9lzzPHE8ImPxKHOuOMFmxVTYlw0FkRg2ipmcVrBVaH8RTWb3BID2wTx0HJ6Cbxmb7mhfyTte3bBZb4QiusZ-GweUyW_-erjA89atjqaI2PNsr8zhJPAPltDMY1/s1600/IMG_0989.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Left: My 7-year-old trusty little Fender. <br />
Right: My one-week old Breedlove, just before it was stolen</div>
<b><br /></b><b>"That was YOUR guitar, God. I used it for praise and worship and sometimes impressing ladies. If You want me to have a guitar, You'll have to provide one."</b> I ranted. I went back to using my trusty blue Fender, which had begun to chip and peel and show signs of abuse only years of clumsiness and campfires can incur. <br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br /><br />
Several months passed, and the guitar theft faded in my mind due to other, worse events. Occasionally my brother Shelby and I would stop in at guitar shops to browse. Shelby had taken the theft personally since he had recommeneded Breedloves to me and was psyched that I bought one. He would recount the "horrible loss of my brand new guitar." The guitar shop proprietors would wring their hands and lament alongside Shelby, while I would shrug and say, "Yeah. Losing the guitar was a bummer." Shocked at my apathy, the guitar proprietors would say "Man, a guitar is like a child." or offer helpful advice like "If you have the serial number, we'll keep our eyes out for it." <br />
<br />
For my birthday in August, Shelby announced he would purchase half a guitar for me. I saved up the money for the other half, and we went shopping in late August. We traveled 45 minutes to the Guitar Center in Cedar Rapids, where I had purchased my previous Breedlove. On the way, I prayed that God would give us a nice deal. Within 10 minutes of arrival, we found a nearly-identical Breedlove. Not only was it exactly what I wanted, but it was <i>on sale! </i>We quickly ran it over to the counter to purchase. <br />
<br />
"By the way, I got this." Shelby said. <br />
"Wut." I said. <br />
"Perhaps Shelby is saying he'll pay for the guitar and I'll pay him back later, in order to avoid a cumbersome two-card transaction." I thought in my brain. <br />
"A mystery donor paid for your half of the guitar." Shelby replied with a grin.<br />
"Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat!" I replied. <br />
<br />
I've been playing my new Breedlove almost constantly since. It has been a tangible reminder that God hasn't forgotten about me. <br />
<br />
"BUT YOU WERE JUST HEALED OF AN INCURABLE AUTO-IMMUNE DISEASE, IDIOT." <br />
<br />
Yeah, I know. Each time I eat a bite of wheaty goodness, I am reminded of God's healing mercies.<br />
<br />
But how quickly I allow my joy to be stolen, as if it were a possession I left unattended in a dark alley. <br />
<br />
<b>Jesus has been restoring the joy that I so foolishly lost. </b><br />
<br />
I understand that this new guitar was not free. My brother and a kind benefactor paid dearly for it. <br />
<br />
I understand that <span style="font-size: large;">joy</span> is not free. Jesus paid everything for it. He was betrayed and beaten and broken and butchered so that the darkness of sin could not hold its gangly fingers over me. So that joy unspeakable could be mine. <br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><span class="text 1Pet-1-8" id="en-ESV-30366">Though you have not seen him, you love him. </span></i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><span class="text 1Pet-1-8" id="en-ESV-30366">Though you do not now see him, you believe in him </span></i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><span class="text 1Pet-1-8" id="en-ESV-30366">and rejoice with joy that is inexpressible and filled with glory,</span> </i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><span class="text 1Pet-1-9" id="en-ESV-30367">obtaining the outcome of your faith, the salvation of your souls.</span></i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><span class="text 1Pet-1-9" id="en-ESV-30367">-I Peter 1:8-9, ESV</span></i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span class="text 1Pet-1-9" id="en-ESV-30367">The story doesn't end there. God has an intricate plan that He's weaving. He gave me a guitar and now He has use for my old one. A former high-school classmate gave me a call yesterday. He's planning a mission trip to Moldova and wants to take a guitar over. Instead of hauling one there and back, he wondered if he might buy my old Fender and then just leave it there once he's finished.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span class="text 1Pet-1-9" id="en-ESV-30367">"Of course!" I replied without hesitation. The guitar proprietors would most likely croak, "But dude, that's like a 7-year old <i>child</i>, man! You can't just sell it. Think of all the memories you've made with it!" <br /><br />God gave me a guitar, and now He needs the other one. If it survives the flight over, God's people in Moldova will be using it to make a joyful noise for years to come. <br />That entire story arc just blows me away. </span></span><span class="text 1Pet-1-9" id="en-ESV-30367"><span style="font-size: small;">I had never mentioned my new guitar purchase to the church. <br />So God allowed it to get snatched.<br />So He could bless me with a new one. <br />So I'd declare it at church in a praise report. <br />Where my high-school friend's mom would hear it. <br />And she'd tell her son about my new guitar. <br />Which would prompt him to call me about my old guitar. <br /><br /><br />These past three months have been the most difficult I've ever faced, yet God is not worried. In fact, He's chuckling. He is in control, and His divine plan is straight-up unbelievable. There's no way I could have orchestrated any of these events, but He ordained them long, long ago. <br /><br />Continue to have Your way, Father. </span></span></span></div>
<br />Shawn Graberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06442043972170630969noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6763972133541426654.post-81694026378084618262014-08-09T17:02:00.002-05:002014-08-10T00:25:19.816-05:00Scavenger HuntLast night, our youth group leaders staged a scavenger hunt. We were told to bring along a smartphone or other video-recording device in order to record our progress, since this was not the type of scavenger hunt where you would bring your findings back to the church. The youth group was split into four teams and each team was given a list of objectives. The youth leaders gathered us together and issued a few basic ground rules. <br />
We had until 8pm to complete as many of the objectives as possible, along with the bonus objectives. (It was approximately 6:20pm, so we had an hour and 40 minutes.) <br />
The first team to return would get a bonus, the last team to return would get docked. <br />
Be respectful, but have lots of fun! <br />
For the team that returns to the church <b>first</b> and hands their camera in: (+2)<br />
For the team that returns to the church <b>last </b>and hands their camera in: (-2)<br />
To the best business advertisement (voted by Youth Leaders): (+2) <br />
If one of your teammates cannot be seen in any of the videos: (-5) <br />
<br />
After the objectives were explained and clarified, the teams were given $5 and a roll of toilet paper, and then sent out into the unsuspecting Kalona area. I was the leader of team #1, and my teammates were Jonathan, Emily, Rochelle, and Logan. <br />
<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkM07T3a_h5VMbFRdIGHRTpP5Nt_bN3SnoqJI2xgzkoPFU80VxLPXTLfvPabYSmmp-buOE-dnrF1tRXqc-7jovxm9e9ELo5xQUmRI5g5REQp2XRvBNSly12FXm_0Yrg5KwEFvdKa50asPf/s1600/IMG_2110.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkM07T3a_h5VMbFRdIGHRTpP5Nt_bN3SnoqJI2xgzkoPFU80VxLPXTLfvPabYSmmp-buOE-dnrF1tRXqc-7jovxm9e9ELo5xQUmRI5g5REQp2XRvBNSly12FXm_0Yrg5KwEFvdKa50asPf/s1600/IMG_2110.PNG" height="180" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Emily and Rochelle. Emily is displaying <br />our team number and overall status in life.</i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBrBlg5MRE4Nj7O7HZsucG4G_Mio-iN2Oavaco1EhVdSxYFgt6blk8rwuJwXaolFQ6E7i9H1LFNUKfqYyrM8S4r5QeE4bQdwRmDSS9v1bnI-ETnmaomV9NM6tFyKeZCqxOSPeWOfJimgap/s1600/IMG_2101.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBrBlg5MRE4Nj7O7HZsucG4G_Mio-iN2Oavaco1EhVdSxYFgt6blk8rwuJwXaolFQ6E7i9H1LFNUKfqYyrM8S4r5QeE4bQdwRmDSS9v1bnI-ETnmaomV9NM6tFyKeZCqxOSPeWOfJimgap/s1600/IMG_2101.PNG" height="180" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Jonathan. </i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQN_6yiI3tFGsLKulfHA-iLrrfWLb3BdAbWdLDXDl9dvVaoYFEJeUPlS80XlfQoewNsES3kZmAaiaBWmaaEnjM4MWhjS41A8-LzwsKYXlPtxhuwe7dFjiTh6h6AcZtn02NguLYAfnrW8Pf/s1600/IMG_2102.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQN_6yiI3tFGsLKulfHA-iLrrfWLb3BdAbWdLDXDl9dvVaoYFEJeUPlS80XlfQoewNsES3kZmAaiaBWmaaEnjM4MWhjS41A8-LzwsKYXlPtxhuwe7dFjiTh6h6AcZtn02NguLYAfnrW8Pf/s1600/IMG_2102.PNG" height="180" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Logan</i>.</div>
<br />
<br />
<b>1. Start with a short intro to your video!</b><br />
Our team didn't see this step until near the end of our scavenger hunt, so we ended up making our intro video at the end. We introduced ourselves by name and exemplified complete humility and modesty: "Hello. We're team #1. Thanks for coming along with us today, we're about to win." <br />
<br />
<b></b>
<i>Side note: I will be listing the objectives in the order that we completed them, not in the order they were given. </i><br />
<i>Side side note: The photos in this post are screenshots from the videos we took, since videos are bandwidth hogs. </i><br />
<b></b><br />
<b></b><br />
<b></b><br />
<a name='more'></a><b><br />2. Order an ice cream cone at a drive-thru with the person ordering piggybacking (+1)</b><br />
We quickly drove to JW's grocery and deli, the only location in Kalona that has a drive-thru window that serves ice cream. There are other ice cream joints in town, but only one with a drive thru. There are also other drive-thru locations in town, but they're all banks. Logan hopped on Jonathan's back and we hauled up to the order window. We quickly explained to the confused employee what we were up to, and also explained that we didn't want a normal ice cream cone, thanks to objective #3. The employee was understandably befuddled by our requests, but did exactly as we asked and gave us a plain vanilla ice cream cone with minimal ice cream. <br />
<br />
<br />
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<br />
<b>3. Eat an ice cream cone in 2 minutes or less. (+1) </b><br />
The key to eating ice cream quickly is eating the absolute minimum that still meets the requirements. In our briefing, we were told that there had to be ice cream INSIDE the cone. A normal cone would have ice cream towering 4 inches or so above the cone. We asked for as little ice cream as possible, but it still came with an additional inch of ice cream above the cone. I scraped that off immediately and downed the cone in a blistering 20 seconds. <br />
<br />
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<b>4. Order (and eat) a cheeseburger without any cheese (+2)</b><br />
We ran inside the deli at JW's and ordered a cheeseburger with everything BUT the cheese. The deli employees were now completely bewildered, which was reasonable considering three excited young adults were all clamoring for a "single cheeseburger minus the cheese, to go, please." At that point, another team piggybacked up to the drive-thru window which only heightened our pleas for speedy service. Emily, Rochelle and I were ordering the hamburger while Logan and Jonathan were completing objective #5. <br />
<span id="goog_2038632912"></span><span id="goog_2038632913"></span><br />
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<i>This JW's employee is a wonderful lady but Emily's request caught her off guard. </i></div>
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<br />
<b>5. Buy a gallon of milk and give it to a stranger. (+3) (-2 if not completed) </b><br />
Jonathan ran over to the dairy section of JW's and bought the cheapest gallon of milk he could find: Non-Fat. When I discovered what he had purchased, I lamented that we wouldn't hardly be able to GIVE that milk away. Well, perhaps someone with cats might accept it, maybe. While we were grabbing our receipt, a lady pulled into the checkout lane with just a few items in her cart. <i>"Ma'am, our youth group is part of a scavenger hunt and we need to give away a gallon of milk. Would you be interested?"</i> I asked her. "Well," she said politely, "Would it happen to be skim?" I was completely dumbfounded. <i>"Uh, it's non-fat?"</i> I managed to reply. "Then I'd love to take it!" She beamed. Unbelievable. We had lucked upon the sole non-fat-milk-drinking human in all of Southeast Iowa. <br />
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Jonathan, Logan, and I ran over to Emily and Rochelle, who were still waiting on the burger. The deli was making several at this point. We watched as a confused deli employee snatched up an ice cream cone and headed for the drive-thru window. He grabbed our cheese-less cheeseburger and almost gave it to the other team through the drive-thru window (since they had ordered one as well, but a good 5 minutes later than us). With a unified bellow, we all clarified whose uncheesy burger he was holding. He shuffled over and handed it to us. Since the objective didn't clarify that <i>one</i> person had to eat the burger, we split it into quarters and the team ate it while I videoed.<br />
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<b>6. Get a married couple over 70 to kiss for the camera. (+2) (+1 additional if he "dips" her) </b><br />
As we hastily retreated from JW's, we met Paul & Katie, a sweet elderly couple from our church. We hastily explained what we were up to, and would you two please kiss while we videotape it? They agreed with a chuckle and gave each other a peck. Since the couple is well into their eighties, I didn't ask Paul to "dip" his wife, lest they injure themselves in the parking lot of JW's. <br />
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<a href="http://www.kissmedaily.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/dip-kiss.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://www.kissmedaily.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/dip-kiss.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></div>
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<i>"Honey, I think I dislocated my hip." </i></div>
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<b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizq_GkJ10ZNTEPR7rvxq527PHKOgso0pqxF5jgGl5i8ymj6iyeEe_xxDq0gFAukeZ0XlvjWPFerCPPdsgzlHQdunQQmywLkOGKY7WDsmasbGRzS0feeHt_BkNR9DtMaLMieO7u6hPY7IFz/s1600/Sunnyside+Scavenger+Hunt+042.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizq_GkJ10ZNTEPR7rvxq527PHKOgso0pqxF5jgGl5i8ymj6iyeEe_xxDq0gFAukeZ0XlvjWPFerCPPdsgzlHQdunQQmywLkOGKY7WDsmasbGRzS0feeHt_BkNR9DtMaLMieO7u6hPY7IFz/s1600/Sunnyside+Scavenger+Hunt+042.PNG" height="320" width="180" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq8fuJBdkqw7FerwslE5dz7w8M_zM09Ejchm6wdF10lY30DA0i5lSIOJc7SR9Pbmls2Cjv9pz4unE-IFBfUGg6R-rO7_jQEeU0F3GOshBqIMx0DyRby2cTe2mqhx5_C7-q9coXCo4lub_T/s1600/Sunnyside+Scavenger+Hunt+043.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq8fuJBdkqw7FerwslE5dz7w8M_zM09Ejchm6wdF10lY30DA0i5lSIOJc7SR9Pbmls2Cjv9pz4unE-IFBfUGg6R-rO7_jQEeU0F3GOshBqIMx0DyRby2cTe2mqhx5_C7-q9coXCo4lub_T/s1600/Sunnyside+Scavenger+Hunt+043.PNG" height="320" width="180" /></a></b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i> D'awwwwwww</i></div>
<b><br /></b>
<b>7. T.P. <i>ONE </i>tree in the yard of a youth group person. (+1)</b><br />
This objective carried a few addendum. You could NOT T.P. a tree at a youth person's home if a tree had already been T.P'd. Also, any additional trees T.P'd at a single home would be -5 points. We blasted over to Youth Leader Anthony & Shaina's home and made quick work of the roll of TP we were given. We checked the door to see if it was unlocked, in order to do objective #8. Unfortunately, the door was firmly locked (with good reason, what with all the questionable youth running around in Kalona doing bizzare scavenger hunts). Fortunately, Anthony & Shaina's neighbor Suetta (another fine lady from our church) arrived home as we were TP'ing and graciously invited us over to do #8 on our list. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxDB2y3Zs1x2R19Y_UiW5NqB-iUurIA8zQGdjg6vjvKOWD7wZz3ykuKcUBBu2gaSp_XoQ68XWpBn53HNz2l1CWPy-T8DcKbs9qr1Axy6sNzm3KpRTBZ9ZY02cFZAoFgNC2DnMiFORCLMci/s1600/Sunnyside+Scavenger+Hunt+044.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxDB2y3Zs1x2R19Y_UiW5NqB-iUurIA8zQGdjg6vjvKOWD7wZz3ykuKcUBBu2gaSp_XoQ68XWpBn53HNz2l1CWPy-T8DcKbs9qr1Axy6sNzm3KpRTBZ9ZY02cFZAoFgNC2DnMiFORCLMci/s1600/Sunnyside+Scavenger+Hunt+044.PNG" height="320" width="180" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Jonathan was unnervingly good at TP'ing, </i><br />
<i>as if he's had lots and lots of practice...</i></div>
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<b>8. Clean a toilet for someone. (+1) (+1 additional if it's a public toilet/business restroom)</b><br />
We rushed into Suetta's home and Rochelle vigorously scrubbed her already-clean toilet. We offered the job to Logan, our Youth Pastor's son. He energetically declined, which is precisely what 10-year-old me did as well, so I couldn't fault him. <br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i> Rochelle cleans so quickly, her hand just </i><br />
<i>shows up as a blur when photographed. </i><br />
"This is my sixth toilet cleaned today!" <i>She exclaimed. </i><br />
<b></b></div>
<b> </b><br />
<b>9. Read a story to a child 4 years old or younger. (+1) </b><br />
Suetta has two little foster girls in her home so I jumped on the couch and offered to read a story to the youngest one. Jackie is 3 or so and was not interested in hearing a story. Well, not interested in the storyteller. Perhaps because I was radiating more energy and testosterone than a runaway nuclear plant, or perhaps because she just witnessed me help vandalize a tree at the neighbors'. Either way, she was in no mood for having a wild ogre read her a story. Jackie began to wail and scream. Anna, on the other hand, loves me and was completely fine with letting me read "Clifford gets the Hiccups" to her. Fortunately, she was 4 years old and met our objective perfectly.<br />
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<b>10. Sing a Christmas carol to someone from our church. (+1)</b><br />
Thankfully
the youth leaders didn't have us complete this objective at a
stranger's home. They would have thought the Sunnyside youth were
completely bonkers, which isn't an unfair assessment. Our church members
are used to our ways, though, so it didn't surprise Pastor Floyd in the
slightest when we showed up at his door on a sultry August evening and
sang "Joy to the World". <br />
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<i> Pastor Floyd: Pleasantly unsurprised by youth group antics</i>. </div>
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<i>All caroling should take place in short-sleeves </i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>when yards possess green grass, I say.</i></div>
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<br />
<b></b><b>11. Hang upside-down and sing a VeggieTales song. (+1) (minimum two teammates)</b><br />
Emily
and Rochelle flipped upside-down over a hitching post at Pastor Floyd's
and belted out "We are the Pirates Who Don't Do Anything." <br />
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<b>12. Climb a windmill. BE CAREFUL. (+1)</b><br />
Pastor Floyd is awesome
and we were more than happy to sing a Christmas carol to him, but it
just so happened that he also possesses several windmills at his home.
We asked his permission to climb a windmill and quickly scaled to the
top.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>I now understand why Michael Jordan <br />labeled it, "The Windmill Dunk" </i></div>
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<b>13. Advertise/do a 20-40 second commercial for a business in Kalona. (+2) (Each teammate must be seen in the commercial)</b><br />
Since we were at Pastor Floyd's already, we did a quick advertisement for Helmuth Repair, the shop that Floyd runs across the driveway from his home. We encouraged locals to come shop at Helmuth Repair by enthusiastically shouting its praises for 24 seconds. I was pleased with our end product, but it failed to win the "Best Advertisement" bonus. There was a lot of stiff competition in this event, due to the fact that my youth group is extremely creative.<br />
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<b>14. One teammate must do 10 pushups in the middle of any paved road. (+1)</b><br />
We had Logan drop and do 10 pushups while we cheered and jokingly cried wolf about oncoming traffic. Instead of doing the pushups in Kalona like we initially planned, we did them on the stretch of pavement in front of Helmuth Repair. Locals are familiar with the fact that Helmuth Repair is located on a long stretch of gravel road, but there's 200 feet of asphalt in front of the business itself. The stretch of road was traffic-free and met all of the requirements, so we accomplished the task right there. Efficiency!<br />
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<b>15. Buy exactly $0.10 worth of gas. (+1)</b><br />
This one, strangely, was the hardest one for me. It took THREE TRIES to get $0.10 worth. On the first two tries, I avoided ethanol fuel by selecting the fancy-pants premium. I was rewarded by purchasing $0.11 twice in a row, until I surrendered and purchased precisely 0.030 gallons of ethanol for $0.10. <br />
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We roared back to the Sunnyside parking lot, arriving at 7:30pm. Our speed caught the youth leaders by surprise. They thought it would be nigh onto 8pm before they saw any team return. We were first to arrive, with another team coming in just a few minutes after us. <br />
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Once all the teams returned, we ate a meal and watched the video footage that the teams recorded. There were all sorts of funny stories and incidents that took place. One team tried to give a gallon of milk to a distrusting police officer who was busy mowing his lawn. Once the officer heard they were from Sunnyside, he finally accepted the gift. Another team was trying to purchase milk and $0.10 at a gas station. <br />
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<i>Team member:</i> "I'd like to buy this milk and...<br />
<i>Gas attendant:</i> "Hold on a second. Some crazy idiots out there are trying to buy $0.10 worth of gas! I don't know what they're up to..." <br />
<i>Team member:</i> "Uh..that's us. I'd like to buy this milk and $0.10 worth of gas." <br />
<i>Gas attendant:</i> "Ohh I'm so sorry!" <br />
<i>Team member:</i> "We're currently doing a scavenger hunt. These are items on our list." <br />
<i>Gas attendant:</i> "I see! Well if you have any additional items on your list, don't do them at my store."<br />
<i>Team member:</i> "..." <br />
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The team scores were tallied up and the Youth Leaders discussed the bonus points. The teams all did exceedingly well and it was a close competition. Fourth place had 18 points, third and second place had 19 points, and my team finished with 21 points. The second-place team and our team had identical points for the objectives, but we were given +2 for finishing first and they were given -2 for finishing last. Our team was awarded the prize: a crisp $5 for each member, to be used on ice cream. <br />
<br />I'm super proud of my team, who all worked seamlessly well together to swiftly complete the objectives. To be sure, it took a concerted effort to refrain from excessive boasting while writing this post. I'm proud of my entire youth group, who seized upon the objectives with gusto and made a hilarious evening out of it. So everyone's a winner, in my book. <br /><br />It just so happens that some winners get more ice cream than other winners in this particular exercise. Shawn Graberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06442043972170630969noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6763972133541426654.post-16588336719136643702014-07-16T16:31:00.000-05:002014-07-16T23:46:50.015-05:00A Wedding in Maryland<span style="font-size: large;">"</span>We'll just run down to the old abandoned church and back. Should be about 1, 1.2 miles there, so we're looking at 2.4 miles, round trip.<span style="font-size: large;">"</span> Trent said.<br />
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For years as we grew up, I affectionately referred to my cousin Trent as "Chub Roll". His brother Kyle and I were the fearless champions of all things good, whereas our younger brothers Shelby and Trent were the portly faces of all things evil. When we'd play war games, Kyle and I were always the brave and true Americans, Trent and Shelby were the scheming Germans. </div>
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But recently Trent has jumped onto the Fitness Train. He developed a taste for weight-lifting and exercise when he joined the National Guard. When he finished Basic, he returned 35 lbs lighter and with a gleam for fitness twinkling in his eye. </div>
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I had joined a van load of Graber cousins and relatives and traveled into the mountains of Maryland for my cousin Melanie's wedding. We had arrived Thursday evening at a pristine chateau hidden back in the woods where we'd be rooming for the weekend. After less than an hour from our arrival, Trent decided it was high time we went on a run. After all, we had been on the road for 15 hours and our legs needed to stretch! He exclaimed. </div>
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I wasn't against the idea. Back at home, I occasionally go on runs. I have a route that I run that is 0.7 miles one way; 1.4 miles round-trip. Two miles would be a stretch, but I was up for the challenge. The weather was incredible. The sun had just set, it was around 71 degrees, and there was a slight breeze wafting through the pines. After stretching and limbering up, Trent and I took off down the smooth blacktop road. We hauled along at a decent pace, but it still took 11 minutes to get to the old church. We took a short break and did some push ups before heading back. "I'm feeling great!" Trent said. "My legs feel better now than when we started." I wasn't feeling too awful just yet, but my right leg was cramping so we took some time to stretch before resuming our run. On the return trip, I began to doubt we were going "only" two miles. The moonlit road seemed to stretch out before my eyes, doubling the distance between me and the sweet, sweet pond back at the cabin. My lungs began to burn, and I was acutely aware that I was running at 1,726 feet above sea level <i>higher</i> than I run at home. Trent calmly provided encouragement and advice as I wheezed like a locomotive with a siezed piston. "Use those long legs to lengthen your stride. It'll save you energy." "Inhale for two steps, exhale for two steps. Short breaths not only rob you of oxygen, but they rob you of energy." "You've got good form with your arms as you run. I had a friend that ran with his arms clenched at the chest. Very inefficient." <br />
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We ran back down the lane to the cabin, and it had taken us 15 minutes to make the return trip. My initial oxygen-deprived plan of action was to jump into the pond immediately and drink a few quarts of pond water. Trent cautioned that I should probably stretch and walk for a little bit, just so I don't cramp up and drown. He also mentioned that I should probably drink some water before going into the pond, lest I get tempted to drink questionable pond water. I thought nothing of Trent's mind-reading prowess at the time, but marveled at it later when I had regained my sanity. I took his advice, meanwhile hoping that we had run more than two miles. Otherwise, I was seriously out of shape. "I miscalculated that distance. It was probably a mile and a half to the church, so we just ran 3 miles." Trent mused. THREE MILES! AN IMPROMPTU 5k?! A warm feeling of accomplishment accompanied the warm feeling of my leg muscles tightening up like banjo strings. After an extended period of <strike>flopping around like a wounded groundhog</strike> stretching, I took a relaxing dip in the pond. A mist was rising off the surface and the water felt refreshingly cool, but not icy cold like I had expected.<br />
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On Friday morning, my uncle Corby showed up with his four-wheeler and told us we could drive it around and explore if we'd like.</div>
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"Careful," Grandpa cautioned "That thing can get up to 75 mph!" I wasn't about to let that claim go unverified, so I whipped the four-wheeler up to a face-blistering 70 mph before I ran out of straight road. I traced the route Trent and I had run the prior evening and used the odometer on the four-wheeler to see just how far we had run. Four miles. <i>FOUR STANKIN' MILES. </i>And we ran it in 26 minutes, or 6.5 minutes a mile. The only thing that prevented me from being completely tickled about the discovery was the dull ache in my legs. The trip by ATV was considerably shorter (it took me roughly 4 minutes) and far more pleasant, despite having various bugs assault my face at high speeds. I have determined that the Good Lord provided trusty four-wheelers to save us from unnecessary leg pains. <br />
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We spent the afternoon helping set up the outdoor reception for my cousin Melanie's wedding. Grandma Ruth bustled around helping with chairs and decorations and then jumped on a swing set. Seriously, I hope to grow up just like her someday. :) </div>
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The wedding on Friday was splendid. The ceremony was elegant and simple, (which seems to be the wedding theme this decade) but it was also unique and charming. The pastor told a story about a man who bought his bride for eight cows to make her feel special. I found the tale to be extra pertinent because Nathan, the groom, works on a family dairy farm. His family had butchered a cow for the reception meal, so I determined that Melanie was bought for one cow, or thereabouts. </div>
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At the reception we were fed <a href="http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/inordinate?s=t" target="_blank">inordinate</a> amounts of food. A massive meal, followed by chocolate shakes, cake, ice cream, tasty wafer straw things, and cheesecake pops. It was painfully delicious. </div>
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I've been to a few weddings lately and I always remember to take photos of things <i>after</i> the wedding is over. This time, I remembered to snap a photo of the bride and groom. </div>
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Melanie paused from making sure everyone received a cheesecake pop to take a photo. She's the best. </div>
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We threw bird seed as Nathan and Melanie left. There was a considerable pile of seed on the church parking lot once we were finished. My cousin Ryan and I determined to return with firearms the following day to snipe crows. A whole <i>murder </i>of crows, because that's what a group of crows are called. </div>
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Back at the cabin, my cousin Whitney kept ramming into the screen door. So grandma disappeared for a moment and came out with these: </div>
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Grandma couldn't find scotch tape so she grabbed a few band aids to work as helpful warning signs. </div>
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Aunt Jana, Whitney's mom, added to the notes when no one was looking. </div>
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And we all laughed about it for the rest of the weekend. </div>
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[Side note: all of you should buy my Aunt Jana's hilarious book, entitled "<a href="http://www.amazon.com/One-Those-Days-Mommy-Diaries-ebook/dp/B00HUV4RKQ/ref=sr_1_5?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1405545863&sr=1-5&keywords=one+of+those+days" target="_blank">One of Those Days</a>". It's a compilation of some of her "Mommy Diaries" articles and they're expertly, humorously written. Those of you who are allergic to comedic wit should probably steer clear of this book.]</div>
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On Saturday morning I received a text from Dad informing me that Mom was in the hospital due to carbon monoxide poisoning. She had been power washing out the basement with a gas engine pressure washer and felt extremely sick a few hours later. Dad ran her to the hospital and she quickly improved. We spent a lot of time praying for her and we were grateful when the doctor released her Saturday afternoon. </div>
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Aunt Kris fed us a monstrous brunch on Saturday morning. Moments after finishing the wedding meal, I had declared I would no longer need food for July. But the brunch caused me to completely forget my declaration and I ate waffles and cereal and fruit like I had just stepped off the Mayflower with nothing but sawdust and shoe leather. </div>
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After brunch, Ryan and I grabbed a .22 rifle, a BB gun, ammunition, and raced to the church to slay some birds of prey. We arrived to discover two chubby crows gorging on the piles of bird seed. We whipped into firing range with a whoop and the crows lazily flew into the nearby woods. So we set up a stakeout and waited for them to return. After fifteen minutes waiting on the birds, we left. Perhaps the crows were full. Perhaps they were extremely cautious. Or perhaps it was because Ryan and I were talking and laughing loud enough to alert all woodland creatures in the state of Maryland. We returned to the cabin to blast a few squirrels that had been chewing through the window screens. We searched in vain but found no squirrels. (Later, after we had put our guns away, a squirrel ran up Aunt Jana's leg, just to mock us.) Uncle Corby spied the bloodthirsty glint in our eyes and told us to flush some pigeons out of the barn and shoot them with a shotgun. We flushed them out, but I managed to miss all three pigeons that flew past me. Even though we were unable to procure the heap of vermin carcasses we wanted, we still had an enjoyable jaunt. </div>
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Ryan took Shelby and I down to the Mennonite Historical Archives to photograph some articles for his research in the history of the Mennonites. We learned all sorts of interesting things about our Menno history, including some history of our hometown, Kalona. </div>
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I read articles on church divisions and strife that sounded eerily similar to what our churches are currently going through, except with the issues of the 1850's, like bundling. </div>
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The rest of the cousins and relatives went to visit Swallow Falls while Ryan and Shelby and I dug into historical files and records. Iowa is beautiful but it lacks waterfalls, so I had hoped to go see some while in Maryland. It all worked out nicely though; Ryan, Shelby and I returned to the cabin and I had a relaxing afternoon catching up on some reading. </div>
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Saturday evening we had a wonderful potluck with Grabers and Mausts; both sides of Aunt Kris's family. We gathered in a large open pavilion just down the hill from the cabin. Scarily large quantities of food were consumed amid the joyful din of a hundred conversations. I watched one of Kris' relatives fly his fancy quad-copter around the campground. The quad-copter was equipped with a camera that captured incredible birds'-eye views of the surrounding area. The relative (I dearly wish I could remember his name, because he was very pleasant) had used the quad-copter previously at the wedding reception to get footage of the guests eating outside. While the quad-copter recorded footage from above the campground, several rounds of Spike Ball and sand volleyball were staged. Many of
the youth jumped enthusiastically into the games while the rest of us
sensible humans laid around the picnic tables like beached whales. I strongly believe in a 4-hour mandatory waiting period between a potluck and vigorous exercise. I nearly broke this very policy by joining a game of Spoons. Fortunately, I was eliminated before the group decided that snatching a spoon off the table wasn't exerting enough. They decided to hide the spoons in the moonlit yard and run for them once someone had gotten four-of-a-kind. </div>
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After the festivities died down, we packed up our belongings and prepared for the return trip. We all piled into the van at 4am on Sunday morning and arrived back in Iowa Sunday afternoon. We averaged 70mph, thanks to the plethora of Graber feet stepping on the accelerator. </div>
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Adventures like this one are all kinds of fun. A road trip with close relatives to visit <i>more</i> close relatives, a fairly laid-back weekend in a beautiful forest cabin, attending a wedding, and eating far too much food. I've truly been blessed with the family God has placed me in. </div>
Shawn Graberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06442043972170630969noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6763972133541426654.post-44295624720709771832014-05-29T12:35:00.001-05:002014-06-26T08:21:41.218-05:00So Long, Mr. BeardA few months ago, I was given the opportunity to own a pagona. A man was in need of more living room space, and he had a terrarium loaded with sand, heat lamps, special accessories, and an adult pagona.<br />
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Of course everyone knows what a pagona is, right? No? Perhaps you know them by their non-scientific classification: the bearded dragon. </div>
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Still no? Well neither did I, but Google told me it was a fairly unique lizard that made a good house pet, so I ran over to the man's house and snatched him up. </div>
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<a name='more'></a>He was much larger than I expected, but also much nicer. "Oh yeah. He'll sit in my lap and watch movies with me." Said the man, who also offered to give me a Russian tortoise, if I was interested. </div>
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The Man With All the Reptiles gave me an extensive list of care instructions for the bearded dragon and helped me lift the terrarium into my car. "His name is "Stripe". The previous owners named him that, I think." The Man With All the Reptiles said. I<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"> wasn't about to leave such a magnificent creature stuck with such a lame name, so I immediately changed it to Mr. Beard. The man gave me a basket of live crickets and some mealworms to give to Mr. Beard as a snack and wished me luck. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">I established Mr. Beard at my place. His terrarium took up my entire kitchen island, but who needs countertop for food preparation when you have an exotic lizard!? </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">Mr. Beard and I had a lot of fun together, but it was quickly evident that he was much higher maintenance than I prefer in a pet. Specific temperatures, various vegetables and proteins and calcium supplements and special sand... All this while I was beginning to realize I liked having my kitchen island for food preparation. So with great reluctance, I decided to sell him. A couple of friends showed interest, and my mom said "before you sell him, please let your brother Shaylon have him for a week." So Mr. Beard traveled to my parents' homestead. My brother Shane had not seen Mr. Beard yet but it was love at first sight. I ended up selling Mr. Beard to Shane for $30. Shane called him "Spyro" after a fictional dragon in a video game series. I opted to call him "Mr. Spyro Beard, or Mr. Beard for short."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">I would visit Mr. Beard at my parents home each day when I went to work. It was the very best of setups: Shane cared for him and fed him and cleaned his cage, and I got to occasionally hold him and scratch his chin the way he liked it. (Mr. Beard, not Shane.) </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">But as time drew on, mom grew weary of the reptile in her dining room. She vowed it would not stay much longer. Dad would mutter words about "that hideous lizard" but he liked showing it to guests and enjoyed using Mr. Beard as a conversation starter. I could see the writing on the wall...once upon a time I rescued an adult salamander and took it home. Mom decided that "salamander" sounded an awful lot like "salmonella" so she took the beautiful adult salamander to the pet store when I wasn't looking. I feared a similar fate would befall Mr. Beard. "Shane, you better sell that guy on craigslist before mom does something rash." I whispered to Shane one afternoon. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">Sure enough, mom became too impatient to wait a day longer and decided that it was time for Mr. Beard to travel to the pet store. She loaded him up and roared away, but not before I took a few photos with the guy. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">Meanwhile, Shane had actually taken my advice and posted a listing on craigslist. Fully-grown pagonas can fetch quite a high price, especially when they come with a furnished terrarium. Shane got an email from a woman offering to purchase Mr. Beard for his asking price of $100, since the market value on these (if you happen to be in a reptile-friendly market) is upwards of $200. Ecstatic, Shane ran home only to discover Mr. Beard had vanished. When he discovered what had happened, Shane called the pet store immediately to ask for his very own pet to be returned. "We apologize, but we don't allow returns." The pet store explained. "We do allow adoptions into loving homes, for the low adoption fee of $200, though." Those clever goons hadn't paid mom a single cent for Mr. Beard, and they were aiming to make maximum profits. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">Mom paid Shane $40, so he still made a little money on the whole operation. I just chuckled. When mom wants something done, she becomes a force of nature that can't wait 24 hours for results. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">As for myself, I still own a pet rat. Domestic rats are far less maintenance than lizards, which suits my hectic schedule just fine. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">Perhaps it was all for the best. I never mentioned to mom that Mr. Beard was given to the Man With All the Reptiles because he had caused some type of terrible allergic reaction to the previous owner. (The one that called him Stripe) I couldn't have mom reinforcing "salamanders equal salmonella, lizards equal leprosy" rumors. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">So long, Mr. Beard. It was fun while it lasted. </span></div>
Shawn Graberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06442043972170630969noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6763972133541426654.post-40349684499901359832014-05-23T11:47:00.001-05:002014-05-23T11:54:28.473-05:00Free Doughnuts Might be Treacherous"Hey Shawn, do you want a doughnut?"<br />
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Surely a voice from heaven just announced a blessing into my ear canals! I quickly identified the source of the heavenly blessing: Mom's voice coming through the office intercom. I checked my pulse. It was still pulsing, therefore I was in the mood for a doughnut. I quickly replied to the affirmative and ran into the house, located a mere 50 feet from the shop. <br />
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Mom handed me a hot, glazed doughnut and a glass of cold milk. I chowed into the doughnut hungrily. <br />
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"I made doughnuts! Accidentally." Sheryl exclaimed. <br />
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I gave my sister Sheryl a curious glance. <br />
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"Eat it quick, because it's tasty now but it's probably going to harden." Mom added. <br />
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I shifted my increasing curiosity from Sheryl to Mom. <br />
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"Dad was hiding these doughnuts from us." Mom said. <br />
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"Yeah but we found them." added Sheryl triumphantly. "He hid them in the oven." <br />
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"What?" I replied. It came out like "Whaff?" due to the mouthful of doughnut I was chewing.<br />
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"We found them when we started preheating the oven for cookies." Sheryl explained, fanning her arm to display the pans and pans of raw cookies waiting to enter the oven.<br />
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<i>Boys, I know what you're thinking. <br />"A gorgeous woman that also happens to be incredible at making cookies? MARRY ME NOW!" <br />But Sheryl is not allowed to date until she's 18, and since she's currently 7 years old, <br />that means you have to wait another 11 years before you come a'courtin. </i></div>
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"What!!" I replied, finally identifying the odd smell wafting through the kitchen as the scent of burnt plastic.<br />
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"Dad brought a box of doughnuts home last night and Sheryl found them immediately and helped herself to a couple, so he hid them so she couldn't find them." Mom expounded. "We didn't even eat them for breakfast, which is what he bought them for." Mom added, wistfully. <br />
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<i>Box 'O Doughnuts clearly wins THIS round of hide 'n seek. </i></div>
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"I only ate two." Sheryl countered. <br />
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I eyeballed my half-eaten doughnut. Perhaps it didn't start its life out glazed.<br />
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"So yeah we aren't sure if these doughnuts have any plastic in them, but we're Mennonites and we don't want any food to go to waste." Mom laughed. These words spoken by the woman that often pitches food if it hasn't been consumed within seven days. Perfectly good food, I might add! The food she pitches could probably keep a whole passel of bachelors from starving to death.<br />
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I finished the doughnut. It tasted slightly funny. Or was that my over-active imagination? My diet doesn't include very much plastic, so how could I know I was tasting plastic now? <br />
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"We'll be keeping an eye on you for the next hour or so, to see if it has any effect on you." Mom said, reassuringly. <br />
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I reasoned it would be a good way to perish. Local newspapers could proclaim. "Death by Doughnut: Detox was Drastically Delayed" or something along those lines. The Kalona News might even place the story on their front page, but only because 1) the Kalona News places twenty stories on the front page and tells you to continue reading "on page 4A" and 2) doughnuts are a big deal to the sleepy little town of 2,421. We take our doughnuts seriously around here. They're made fresh and sold at the Kalona Bakery as well as the Golden Delight Bakery, but you can also find doughnuts at all the gas stations, the Kalona General Store, and JW's Grocery. Kalona's welcome signs and visitor brochures don't say "We strive to make sure no man, woman, or child is left doughnutless." but they probably should.<br />
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Perhaps someday I'll become a pastry connoisseur and turn down inferior doughnuts. But for the time being, I'll accept freebies, even if I have to pick a little bit of melted plastic off of them. Shawn Graberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06442043972170630969noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6763972133541426654.post-49688959754494860072014-05-16T15:42:00.002-05:002014-05-16T15:49:43.576-05:00FavoritePick my favorite Bible verse?! <i>"Pick your favorite verse and tag others blah blah..."</i> I'm not very good at picking favorites. I like many things. Sure I like some things more than other things, but often my favorite book (currently "This Present Darkness") or movie (currently "Wall-E") or artist (currently "House of Heroes") or song (currently "House of God Forever") or food (currently French Fries, but I could possibly substitute them for anything grilled or smoked or slathered in wheat) is dependent on the season or my mood. Goodness, I sound like my sister. Lately tagging friends to do an activity has been all the rage on Facebook. It started with the Polar Plunge, which was ostensibly for raising money for cancer treatment and PLEASE HELP THE BABIES but was really more to see all of your friends get completely drenched in icy water and chuckle from the comfort of your Cozy Computer Chair. (I'm not sure where you find yourself at this moment, but I have stationed a lay-z-boy in front of my computer.) This newest trend has been far more spiritual and far less wet: "Share your favorite Bible verse." My brother Shane nominated me, sharing some fantastic verses of his own. It was only fair, I suppose, since I nominated Shane for the Polar Plunge. <br />
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<i>It'll be a piece of cake! They said. </i></div>
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Okay, no problem, right? Well, actually yes problem. I've found myself in the midst of an incredible journey and a lot of verses have been speaking to me through it all. There are several verses that I enjoy any time of the year, but God has given me a fresh understanding of several passages thanks to the things I've been experiencing lately, and that understanding has threatened to overthrow those verses that long held the spot of "Most Favorite". Some of these revelations and concepts span entire chapters, not just a tidy little phrase that pegs all of my hopes, dreams, and Christian values into one thought-provoking verse. I do have a few of those that I often turn to.<br />
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Like Jeremiah 29:11 - "For I know the plans I have for you, declares the LORD, plans for welfare and not for evil, to give you a future and a hope.<span class="p">" <br /><br />Like I John 5:4 - "</span>For everyone who has been born of God overcomes the world. And this is the victory that has overcome the world—our faith.<span class="p">"<br /><br />Yes indeed, excellent verses. But as I have seen my possessions get snatched and my brother graduate and my brother-in-law's business burn to the ground and the Holy Spirit move through my church in a raw way and my friends get married and my plans, hopes, and dreams get broken and replaced with far better plans, hopes and dreams from the Master... entire passages have spoken to me in new ways. In 2 Corinthians 5 it speaks about walking by faith, not by sight. <br />In Galatians 4, Paul exults that we would be slaves under the Law but thanks to Jesus' suffering and sacrifice, we have been adopted as sons and daughters. <br />In Isaiah chapters 40 to 66, there is a fresh breath of hope amidst desolation. <br /><br />A month ago, I attended a Secret Church online simulcast coordinated by David Platt. I would love to meet that man of God in person someday, but it was wonderful to tune in with 60,000 people worldwide and get deluged with Biblical truth for six straight hours. One of the points he hammered on during those six short hours was that we should really consider adding regular fasting to our lives, much like prayer and worship. Another point he stressed is that we must treasure God's word and really dive into it. So when my friends mentioned they were going to try to read the entire Bible in a week, I jumped on that bandwagon faster than a teenaged boy at a potluck. I informed the group that a week was entirely too short, so they consented to lengthening the deadline to two weeks. I also confessed that I wouldn't have time to read ten hours of Bible a day, so I'd be listening to an Audiobook version. I downloaded the free "Spoken Word" app on my phone and hopped to it. <br /><br />Now, many people might try to tell you that Psalm 119 is the longest chapter in the Bible, but that particular chapter practically RACED on by in comparison to a few chapters in Numbers and Jeremiah. Also racing were the days of the assignment, and by the time Week 2 was finished, I was far from Revelation 22. In fact, on the sunset of Week 4, I'm in Ephesians. I plan to finish the Bible, even though the deadline has passed. It has been an incredible experience cramming the Bible into a short span of time. Clearly, there is just no way to comprehend it all or remember everything, but it does a great job of giving the big picture. God has often timed it perfectly to encourage or chastise me at the exact moments I needed to be inspired or admonished. Like <b><br />Shawn:</b> "Maaan the future is looking pretty awful." <br /><b>Abba Father:</b> <i>OH? LISTEN UP CHILD. I AUTHORED ISAIAH, NEHEMIAH, AND DANIEL. SPOILER ALERT: I TAKE CARE OF MY KIDS.</i> <br /><b>Shawn: </b>"Oh my life is awful and woe is me."<br /><b>Abba Father:</b> <i>IS THAT SO!</i> <i>WELL GUESS WHAT BOOK FOLLOWS ESTHER? TEE HEE IT'S THE BOOK OF </i><b>JOB</b><i>. GO AHEAD AND FEEL SORRY FOR YOURSELF AFTER READING THAT. DON'T WORRY, I'LL WAIT. </i></span><br />
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<span class="p">Never before had I compacted the Old Testament and New Testament into such a short span of time. The striking differences contrasting Religion and Relationship have jumped out at me and grabbed me by the neck. I strongly recommend this exercise for anyone. The Bible can be listened to in roughly 70 hours, so it's totally doable in a month.<br /></span><br />
<span class="p">After much deliberation and consternation, I was left thinking, "to choose a favorite verse is to say that I like the other verses less." and that's just not the truth. That's just a crafty cop-out to keep from choosing a meaningful verse. No cop-outs for me. No retreating from the wind-whipped bank moments before the Polar Plunge. Lately, the verse thundering through my mind day and night, morning and evening, has been 2 Timothy 1:7</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">"</span>For God hath not given us the spirit of fear; but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind.<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">"</span></span></span></blockquote>
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Such an amazing contrast! God says "You may have the spirit of fear, which brings powerlessness and loathing and a mind that resembles a scrambled egg, OR you may have my Spirit, which freely provides an unlimited supply of power, love, and clear thinking." <br /><b>I choose Your Spirit, Jesus.</b><span class="p"><br /></span>Shawn Graberhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06442043972170630969noreply@blogger.com0