Rehema

This...is Rehema. One short life lived. So many other lives touched.


photo courtesy of http://www.projectrehema.org/

BlogCatalog's Dream--No More Hunger

April 29, 2009, is the day of BlogCatalog’s Unite for Hunger and Hope. BlogCatalog hoped that as many bloggers as possible would post about the seriousness of the world hunger situation. At last count, 598 bloggers agreed to participate.

My sister, Kelli Solsma, President of Project Rehema [see picture] has made me acutely aware of the growing problem of world hunger. Kelli has traveled to Tanzania, Africa, on numerous occasions. She began traveling there as a member of a medical and educational ministry team. The doctors on the team would perform much-needed surgeries for the citizens of Tanzania, often in hospitals with dirt floors. Kelli’s special focus was on the orphans, most of whom had lost their parents due to the AIDS epidemic. She has worked tirelessly with the Tanzanian government in an attempt to open adoptions.

When the ministry that she supported could no longer focus as much on the orphans as Kelli would have liked, she simply began her own ministry. Her heart could not forget a special little girl. According to the Project Rehema website:

“Rehema was a beautiful, but small, frail, little girl who was first noticed by a group of missionaries at 3 separate orphanages in July of 2003. When asked why she was moved so often, the reply was, "Rehema is HIV positive, you know." The perception that Rehema's mere presence would spread HIV to others prevented her from being admitted to most orphanages. Rehema spent her last days at one of the few orphanages that do accept HIV positive children. She died on July 24, 2004. She was only 8 years old. Project Rehema is named in her honor.”

Since so many of Tanzania’s orphans have AIDS, the food shortage has become especially painful for Tanzanian children. The AIDS medication that is available to them, has to be taken with food. Many children do not get enough food to even be able to take their medicine. They die, hungry and sick. 1 in 9 Tanzanian children die before age five.

Kelli related to me an especially poignant conversation she had with a Tanzanian adult woman. When Kelli asked the woman how many meals she had a day, the woman replied “Two.” As shocked as Kelli was by that answer, she had the presence of mind to pursue it further. “And what do you eat for your meals?”

The answer was shocking. “The first meal we have tea. For the second meal, we share a piece of corn.” [On the cob--shared among four people.]

That answer alone should make us grateful for every mouthful we stuff into our faces and for every plateful we scrape into the garbage. Super-size me indeed.

If your heart is touched this Unite for Hunger and Hope Day, Project Rehema does accept donations. They are attempting to fix the “Donate” section of their website so please call Kelli directly using the numbers on the website.

For some real inspiration, watch Daughtry's video, "What About Now?"

Whose Scowl is Scarier? ("24" Fans Only)

Assume you know nothing about Chloe O'Brian or Tony Almeida (and don't know that Tony could more likely elicit an ambulance ride than Chloe.)

Whose perpetual frown would send you running for cover first, Chloe's or Tony's?












Photo Credits: Chloe: www.beyondhollywood.com
Tony: www.lowculture.co.uk/.../tony-looking-mean-2.jpg

Parenting Teens Effectively

An acquaintance asked me once, “Why do you let your son yell ‘Mommy!’ and run up to you and give you a hug? Aren’t you afraid of embarrassing him in front of his friends? Don’t you think he’ll get a reputation as a mama’s boy?”

“No,” I answered. “I will take every hug and kiss my ten year old gives me until he no longer wants to give them. That day will come soon enough.”

I know that because he’s my third child and I’ve had teenagers before. I’ve also had the worst kind of teenagers---female ones. I know that a day will come when he will be hanging out with his friends and he will dodge me to avoid being embarrassed. In fact, I’m counting on it.

When my girls were neophytes at the teenager thing, I had a good friend that I’ll call Libby. Libby’s two daughters were in their early and mid-twenties and were very close to their mother, even though both girls had started their own families. Erin and Rachel still called their mom every day, lavished her with hugs and kisses, and respected her for her advice on homemaking and child rearing.

I confessed to Libby how touching it was to see her relate to her daughters in such a loving way.

“My daughters,” I said, “act like they hate my guts. If I even attempt a hug, they shudder, cringe or flat-out say ‘Don’t touch me.’ If I ask them questions about school, I get dramatic eye-rolling in response. Asking them to clean their room is a major insult. If I see one of them talking to someone new, they will say, ‘And don’t bug me about who that was,’ before I even say anything! What happened to my sweet little girls? They ones who used to make me cards and notes, and who used to grab my hand in the mall? Where did they go? What happened?”

Libby laughed and said, “The teenage years are what happened. You need to change your tactics.”

What tactics? Why did this all of a sudden feel like a game?

Libby explained that her girls used to behave just like mine did. That gave me hope because I truly admired her daughters. They were blond lovelies, dance professionals, literate, intelligent, and morally upright. “So what did you do?” I asked.

“I got even.”

“You what?”

“I parent teenagers by retaliation.” She smiled.

Whoa. Totally new concept. Brain could not fathom what ears were hearing. Psych major who thought she knew how to do it right was stumped. I needed elucidation.

“Let me tell you a story that explains what I mean,” said Libby. “When Erin was seventeen, my friend Cynthia came to stay with us for a few days. I told Cynthia that she could put her bags in Erin’s room, and that I would move Erin to the family room.

“Erin happened to be passing through the kitchen, and right in front of Cynthia, she threw a horrific, wenchy, hissy fit. I thought for sure my daughter had been possessed by Satan spawn. Erin went on and on about how she was always the one who had to give up her room when Cynthia came to stay. Why couldn’t Rachel give up her room for once? Why did it always have to be her room? Couldn’t someone else make a sacrifice?

“Erin went on and on, despite my pleading with her to stop. Cynthia just stood there and apologized, saying that she would sleep on the couch; she didn’t mind at all. She said she was sorry for being a bother. Randi, I was so embarrassed by my daughter’s behavior, but I knew what must be done.

“I followed Erin out of the kitchen, and upstairs to her bedroom. I did not act angry. I did not insist she apologize. I only did the one thing I knew how to do when parenting teens. I said this to her---

“Erin. Someday, somehow, I will get even.” Later I calmly grabbed Cynthia’s bags and placed them right inside Erin’s door.

“It was about six months before I found my chance. Erin came home from school all excited because James, the football player she’d had a crush on for several months finally noticed her. He asked her out for the coming Friday.

“When the doorbell rang on Friday, I calmly walked up to Erin and whispered in her ear, ‘Today’s the day.’

“Her eyes widened. ‘Oh no. Mom. Please. I beg you. I will do anything you ask. Mom, you can’t. I swear I will never do anything wrong again. I will be your slave forever.’

“You can’t even begin to imagine the fun I had with that boy. I grilled him incessantly about his plans for my daughter, what he was going to do with his life and anything else I could think of. Erin stood slightly behind him, looking like she was going to be sick.

“From that day on, my daughter had a new respect for me. I had spoken to her on her level and she got my message loud and clear. Teens have an irritating, unfounded belief that they are smarter than we are. What they don’t realize is that we can play their mind games so much harder and so much faster that it makes their heads spin. Plus, they can only embarrass us so much. At their age, the embarrassment we can cause them goes to infinity.”

I got Libby’s message loud and clear too. She was right. My daughters might embarrass me by their Neanderthal behavior, but I was a grown-up. I already had self-esteem! There wasn’t much they could do to touch me. But them? I could play with them like a dog plays with Jello. Now I, like Libby, just had to wait for the moment to present itself.

No matter how much you promise me free scrapbooking materials for the rest of my life, I can never be prevailed upon to disclose which daughter I experimented upon first. They were both equally deserving of return torment, but one unlucky antagonista pushed me too far first. Let’s just call her Daughter X.

Little Miss X embraced teenager-hood with gusto. She began tying up my phone lines incessantly, demanding new features such as Caller ID and Call Waiting. She no longer would look at jeans that cost less than $50. And, aargh, she began hanging out with a new clique at school. You know, the one called “Da Gangstas.”

Part of the fashion requirement to be a Gangsta was to wear jeans that could fit two limbs into one pant leg. Thus could the over-sized pants be pulled down past the wearer’s hips. Why, you might ask, would anyone want their jeans pulled down past their hips? So they could display the lovely plaid boxers that the teen was wearing for underwear, of course!

Anyway, X decided to affront me with this new style as I was taking her to school one day. We had a brief argument (brief only because I had to get to work) during which she informed me that I was way behind the times, and that this practice was called “low riding” and that everyone was doing it.

Well, you know me---I had been through the Libby School of How to Get Even with Teens. I knew that I could get my way simply by retaliating. I would not even have to say anything really. I knew I would win this one.

So, the next day, X asked for a ride to her friend Liza’s house. This mama did not particularly enjoy Liza. Not only was Liza a Gangsta, but she was a Goth Gangsta—a combination of white makeup, black lipstick, the aforementioned jeans, and Tupac t-shirt. This was definitely get-even time.

I went to my bedroom to do a little adjusting. I yanked down my jeans and hiked up my white cotton briefs, exposing about 4 inches of uber-cool granny underwear. I was a mama with a mission.

The look on Daughter X’s face when I nonchalantly sauntered into the kitchen was priceless. She didn’t even need white makeup.

“What are you doing?” she cautiously asked.

“Aren’t we going to Liza’s house?”

“No, I mean what are you doing with your pants?”

“Um…low riding?”

“Mom! You can’t!”

“Why can’t I?” Boy, was I confused. I thought this was cool?

“Mom. You can’t leave the house!” Now I was even more confused.

“So you don’t need a ride to Liza’s?”

“Yes! But Mom, you can’t leave looking like that.”

“Oh, come on. It’ll be fun!” Indeed, I was having fun.

I walked out the door. X followed, begging me all the way to the car. “Please, please, please---I promise I will never low ride again. Just pull your pants up before we get to Liza’s. Please!”

Needless to say, she never low-rode again.

I only had to use my get-even tactics one more time before I had her trained.

Because X had started rolling with the Gangstas, she had left a few good friends behind—friends who were concerned for her welfare. Especially hurt was her former BFF, Kally.

Daughter X had gotten herself grounded because of some teen infractions. The only fun she was allowed to have was go to Kally’s house. One Friday night, X asked me if she could go to Kally’s house for a sleepover. I was ecstatic, hoping she was going to return to her former [read "parental love worthy"] friends. I drove her to Kally’s and dropped her off.

An hour later a worried Kally called me to tell me that I was being duped. X had used Kally as an alibi, but X in reality went to a dance and was planning to spend the night at Liza’s. I was more than a little steamed. I thanked Kally and got the dance details from her. Time for Mom Gets Even Part Deux.

I put on a dark maroon trench coat and headed over to the dance. I relied on the fact that most dances are pretty dark, and I was not disappointed. Also counting on the fact that my daughter was not expecting me there, I was able to lurk, mingling with the crowd. There were four huge posts in the room, providing superb cover for my clandestine operation.

Daughter X walked right past me on numerous occasions which, as any parent can imagine, caused me no end of glee. She danced right in front of my post a couple of times. I was amazed and nauseated at how provocatively she and the other thirteen year-olds were dancing.

Finally, the time was right for me to blow my cover. Daughter X was dancing with a boy, someone I had never met. X’s back was to me, about half the room away. I could not see the boy’s face as it was buried in her neck, but I could sure see his hands! They were splayed all over my daughter’s behind.

I left the safety of my hiding place and fairly flew across the floor, my target in view, trench coat flying like a crusader’s cape behind me. I homed in on playboy’s hands, grabbing them with my sharp fingernails. “Ouch!” he yelped, as I twisted his arms over X’s head so he could face me, my nails still embedded in his hands.

“Don’t ever touch my daughter again, or you will feel worse than this. Do I make myself clear?” He yelped again as I shoved his hands back at him. But he nodded.

I looked at Daughter X. “Time to go home, sweetie,” I smiled.

I’m really amazed that teens ever mess with parents.

Epilogue: My daughters are beautiful young ladies in their twenties. Both are hard workers, and one is married with two little boys. The other makes me happy by being extremely picky about men. Luckily, any rebellious stages were short-lived. I mean seriously, how much embarrassment can a teen take? When they behaved, helicopter mom made herself scarce. When they crossed the line, the helicopter landed, becoming their worst nightmare.

Tips if you are contemplating using this strategy on your own teen:
1. This only works if you have already cultivated a loving relationship with your teen. Otherwise, they will view actions on your part as acts of hostility, which these are not. These are acts of love and education. The “get even” façade is for humorous purposes only.

2. All maneuvers must be accomplished with an extremely calm attitude. If you lose your cool, you’ve already lost.

3. You are not supposed to be your child’s best friend until after they have left your home. Until that time, you are their parent. You are not supposed to be cool.


I only have three my years left until my boy is thirteen.

Spring's Really Here!

And it's not just the socks that are blooming in the trees, either!

My son came in the house today to tell me about these blossoms in the yard. We assume they are from some sort of fruit tree, but we don't know what kind. Anyone have any ideas?

The Christmas(?) cactus in our classroom also decided to bloom. Isn't it true that these are only supposed to bloom around Christmas?

Help out a professional black thumb!

I love viewing the colors of spring.
I just don't know how to get them to stay that way...

My Baby Doll...A Call for Authors

Madonna Dries Christensen, author of Swinging Sisters and Masquerade: The Swindler Who Conned J. Edgar Hoover
is requesting stories about cherished childhood dolls. A book of submitted stories will be published this summer.

If you have a story about your favorite baby doll, Barbie, Raggedy Ann, or any other, please send an email to iowagirl1@aol.com. The submission should be less than 1500 words, and should contain details about the doll and why it was special to you. If you have a picture, send one, but not all pictures will be used. With each submission, please include a brief author bio. The deadline is May 31, 2009 so hurry!

The Best Kind of Busy

I left my dishes in the sink. I didn't get more boxes unpacked from my move in December(!) like I had planned. My son was supposed to get his room clean and practice his state capitals. Hubby didn't even get to finish his dinner.

But we were the best kind of busy--the kind that brings a new little grandson to our family. Mason was born at 6:25 p.m. yesterday, so he is a little more than 24 hours old. And in that short 24 hours, we have already decided that he is perfect.
Megan, my daughter, is doing well. Baby Mason stayed up with his dad, Matt, until 3:00 a.m. playing Free Cell. (Addict them early, that's what I always say.) Big brother Levi is happy to not be the youngest anymore.

Anyone who doesn't believe in miracles should hold a newborn for fifteen minutes.

Shyness in a Nutshell

5th graders get upset over seemingly trivial things.

"I wanted to get an A in spelling but every week she gets an A without even trying."

"It's not fair. He can do math in his head so he gets done faster."

"Why does her painting look like a horse but mine just looks like a blob?"

So we have the conversation about talents, and how each of them are good at something different and how boring the world would be if we were all alike---you know the drill.

I'd like to take this opportunity to introduce you to a true talent, to someone I appreciate because he has a gift that I do not have. His name is Robert Brault.


A few days ago I wrote a post on shyness. Robert took that post and condensed it into 5 concise sentences, each sentence profound in its own right, each sentence capturing the essence of what I was trying to say. Like I said in my "Meme" post, he is a modern-day Confucius. Check out his site and see what an amazing job he did. It's a quote-lover's haven.