For longer than I care to admit, I’ve been feeling a call to donate my time in some type of community service capacity—a quiet but persistent voice telling me that with all the rich blessings in my life, I’m supposed to be giving something back. Rather than taking action, however, I have hemmed and hawed and procrastinated as I only occasionally pondered my options among the many charitable and service organizations that are represented in our area. All are perpetually in need of volunteers, and each makes a convincing recruitment case for what they do, but the nebulous question for me has always been where could I, little ol’ me, make a real contribution? What talents and skills could I offer that would make a lasting difference for someone in need?

Over a year ago, the answer came in the form of a job candidate who volunteers for our local Adult Literacy League. This candidate did not get the job (a tough call between two very qualified people), but her cause struck an instant chord. Why had I never thought of this before? Helping others learn to read and write—skills that mean so much to me, lifelong skills that will unlock potential and open doors and can never be unlearned? This is something I can wholeheartedly embrace. I have always been an avid and passionate reader and general lover of the written word. My career centers on the field of training, specifically in the development and writing of training materials. I am thoroughly schooled in adult learning principles. Back in my college days, I even served as an academic tutor. Could there be any more perfect match for merging my interests, experience, and abilities? I think not. So the notion of becoming a literacy volunteer gained a foothold in my consciousness, where it has lingered persistently, refusing to release its grip.

Until now, however, I have encountered one roadblock after another—some admittedly of my own making. Tutor training sessions only take place every couple of months—always when I was traveling, as bad timing would have it. Then as the unprecedented travel schedule finally wound down, we went into warp speed moving mode after selling our house far earlier than we ever expected to. And a generally hectic work and family life have afforded easy excuses for why now is never quite a convenient time to commit a mere couple of hours once or twice a week.

But despite family and personal commitments, it’s time follow my own advice of making time instead of waiting to find it. It’s time to get off my duff, quit dawdling and making excuses, and set an example for my kids. I want them to see that service is about more than just writing a check. So today, I finally registered with the Adult Literacy League. The next training is not until June, and I won’t get a student assignment until sometime after that, but at least I am finally doing something instead of just thinking about it. That’s progress. And I am very much looking forward to helping others learn such a practical life skill, one personal connection at a time.

Ah, this is the good life. Here I sit on the back patio at dusk, enjoying the balmy evening air of a Florida spring, watching a pair of birds court each other at the feeder hanging just outside. The birds go unnoticed by the cat, who wanders aimlessly on the cool concrete as if searching for a spot still warmed by the waning sun. I, however, watch and listen, captivated as the birds twitter and trill their intentions while flitting from feeder to fence posts to tree limbs and back. In the background, running water cascades peacefully through a tiered fountain topped by the statue of a girl, from whose chiseled seashell the water eternally flows.

The sun continues its descent and the landscape lighting flickers on, spotlighting the neatly shaped shrubbery and surrounding vegetation—a grouping of small but impeccably manicured palm trees, the leaves and blossoms of a fruit-bearing lemon tree, and the tropical bird of paradise plants that will be strikingly beautiful when in full bloom. The illuminated reflection in the flawless, unbroken surface of the still pool as the evening grows darker is stunning. Nearby, a vine overtakes a wrought iron trellis and trails casually across an exterior window. The dimmed tiki lights and street lantern add a gentle glow to the scene. Now the crickets begin their chirping song. Soon, the hot tub will erupt in steamy jet action, inviting this blogger to sink into its swirling, soothing waters.

Wait, we live here? This can’t be! Somebody pinch me. I must be dreaming.

My kids have inspired me today.

First came the Easter eggs. I helped Maia and Noah color them this afternoon, a day later than normal due to a busy day yesterday, and some of the fruits of their efforts are pictured in this photo. Every egg designed by Maia had a theme relevant to the meaning of this special day. Every single one. The full text circling the blue egg on the left, written in magic crayon, says “I love the Lord.” And Noah insisted that crosses adorn nearly all of his eggs; which he got, with a little help from Mommy.

Then came the sidewalk chalk. While I was inside cleaning up remnants of Easter Bunny chaos and then rearranging kitchen cabinets to make more functional sense for our high traffic use, the young’uns were outside playing with the chalk that came in Maia’s Easter basket. When I later went out to inspect the damage, the proclamation in this photo was the very first thing I saw outside the front door. “Donahues love Jesus.” I think I can safely say Maia speaks for us all.

The next thing I saw was this announcement that “Jesus is the King.” Our front walkway is actually graced with two of these—one labeled with Maia’s name (pictured) and another with Noah’s name—and Maia proudly showed them off.

I’m convinced that God is whispering in Maia’s ear, the same way I have heard Him whispering in mine. She’s certainly not shy in talking about God or showing her love for Him through prayer, song, and, apparently, Easter eggs and sidewalk chalk.

I can’t wait for the day when both of my kids make these types of statements in front of our church congregation as they are about to be baptized. That will be a celebration, indeed.

In almost 13 years of marriage, Kent and I had never brushed our teeth at the same time. Until yesterday. You see, our new master bathroom has two sinks, a luxury we’ve never enjoyed before. And so without planning to, Kent and I found ourselves taking care of our dental health at precisely the same time yesterday morning. And we both noticed the novelty of it.

I hope the novelty never wears off. I want to be brushing my teeth side by side with my husband for many more years to come.

Between all the packing and the unpacking during the last few weeks, we have barely had a spare minute to just sit down and enjoy our new surroundings. But we finally made it into the new place, and so far, we are thinking that buying this house is pretty much the smartest thing we have ever done. It couldn’t be more perfect for us—the size, the layout, the location, and of course, the swimming pool. Even (girls, I know you are with me on this) the closets. Storage was something severely lacking in our old house.

And, true to form, the first thing Noah noticed after we unpacked Maia’s room was the return of the gumball machine. Silly kid!

Despite a few stressful moments along the way, so many things aligned with such perfect timing that we know we are supposed to be here. Still, Kent and I looked at each other last night and we both said, “I can’t believe this is our house!” We could have gotten something bigger for the same money, or a fancier neighborhood, but nothing else we looked at felt like home the way this one does. We’re in love, and we have every intention of maintaining it with the same meticulous attention that the previous owners showered on it.

We are home.

Update: Just to keep it all in perspective, read this post from Paul as a reminder of why we should never take the things we have for granted, and if you are so inclined, say a prayer for the families who lost their homes. Paul’s blog happened to be the first I visited after writing the above post. It’s amazing to me how God always places these reminders before me with perfect timing.

In all this moving business, it’s the little things that throw the kids for a loop. Last night, we put Maia to bed in our room so we could work on packing her room. This morning, upon seeing his sister’s newly sparse habitat, it became clear just which details are most important to Noah. He was not discombobulated by the newly barren furnishings or by the utter chaos of boxes everywhere. My little go with the flow man only cared about one thing.

His most pressing concern?

“Someone took the gumball machine!”

We’re in a purging and packing frenzy for the next week. Then an unpacking and getting settled frenzy for at least a week after that. I am therefore officially declaring a moving hiatus for this blog. I will be back when the boxes are unpacked and the computer is set up at the new place. Until then, feel free to keep yourself occupied digging into the archives here, and wish us luck in the big move!

This morning, I did something not very nice. But I had a change of heart, corrected my mistake, and am glad to say that this story has a happy ending.

Imagine, if you will, a full flight aboard a commercial aircraft, where you are contentedly settled in your choice aisle seat hoping, as the remaining passengers board, that the middle seat next to you will remain unoccupied. Further imagine that near the end of the boarding process, said middle seat companion not only arrives, but asks if you would be willing to trade seats with her husband, so they can sit together. The only catch is, you would be trading your cushy aisle seat for a cramped middle seat.

Readers, I was in just this situation this morning. Shamefully, I said no. I wanted my carefully selected aisle seat, which offered a bit more room to stretch out. So the passenger turned to the person on her other side with the same request, who responded pretty much as I had. And in that exchange I heard exactly what I must have sounded like with my lame excuses.

My conscience took over and I thought to myself, “Self, what is wrong with you? You’re no better than that self-absorbed jerk who thinks he is more entitled to the aisle seat just because he travels frequently. It’s a short flight. You’re skinnier than you used to be, so sandwiching between two strangers will be less tortuous than it might have been in the past. And for goodness sake, where is your Christian heart? This woman wants to sit next to her husband. You would want the same in her shoes. When did you get so selfish?”

So I mustered the courage to eat some humble pie and offered to give up my seat after all.

Want proof that God forgives mistakes and repays kindness? On the very next leg of my flight, I got upgraded to first class—for the first time since earning elite status last year. I’m convinced that was no coincidence, and I learned an important lesson. With kindness, everyone wins.

My sister claims we sold our house by accident. Maybe so, but technically, I maintain that we sold it at the bus stop. It certainly makes a better story.

Here is the full synopsis of dramatic events that have transpired in recent weeks. Only God could bring events together in such a timely manner. I really believe that He has put all the right conditions in place and is shoving our complacent behinds right out the door.

• In late 2006, we decide that 2007 is the year to sell our house.
• Within a month, Kent and I BOTH get promotions at exactly the same time, which confirms that financially, this is a good time to think about taking on a larger mortgage.
• We know our home needs repairs and other work before we can sell it, so we call a couple of contractors for estimates.
• Less than a week later, one of the contractors, looking for an investment opportunity, offers to buy our house “as is.” Our house was not even on the market yet. It’s a low offer, but we get excited about the possibility of a quick and easy sale with no hassles or headaches, combined with no out-of-pocket repair costs and no realtor commissions, and decide that’s worth something to us.
• We do a tremendous amount of research to determine how low we’re willing to go on the sale price, and in the meantime we start house hunting as we negotiate with the buyer. We find a house that we fall in love with, in a nearby neighborhood which will not require Maia to change schools.
• Throughout the process, we ask everyone we know for advice, including anyone who will listen at Maia’s school bus stop.
• Apparently, I blab to all the right people. Just as we are about to come to a verbal agreement with the original buyer, one of the bus stop parents—who also happens to be a realtor—tells me that he might have a buyer interested in acquiring our home as a rental investment.
• Our negotiations with buyer #1 go on hold while the neighbor/realtor inspects our property on behalf of his clients, who are not local.
• Within 24 hours, an offer from buyer #2 comes in that beats buyer #1, with the added bonus that it is a cash offer with a significant deposit. They too agree to take it as is and make the needed repairs themselves.
• It turns out that the new buyers happen to be the in-laws of the realtor/neighbor, who agrees to waive all commission in order to secure the best possible deal on their behalf and maintain family harmony.
• We accept the deal. Who knew you could transact such big business at the bus stop? I sure didn’t!
• Now, with contract in hand, we are ready to proceed with buying our new home. But there is a roadblock in that someone beats us to it and puts a contract on the house before we can present our offer. Shady ethics are involved on the part of the listing agent, who blocked our initial attempt to put in a timely offer in order to push through a deal for his own buyer clients, resulting in a larger commission for himself.
• Our only saving grace is that the first contract is full of contingencies, with a “kick out” clause that the sellers can exercise if they get another acceptable offer. We spend several days negotiating said acceptable offer, after which time the other buyers have 48 hours to come up with additional cash and remove their contingencies or cancel the contract. We spend two nail-biting days knowing that the fate of “our” house is in the hands of our competition.
• In a bittersweet victory, the other buyers cannot fulfill on the contract and must cancel. We were simply in a much better position to move forward quickly, but I feel a bit like a criminal, knowing that our gain was someone else’s loss. It did not have to be that way. Had the listing agent been more honest up front, we would have had the house in the first place and saved stress and disappointment all around. But the experience keeps us humble and reminds us that not everything is destined to always go our way.
• Meanwhile, our credit is so outstanding that lenders are aggressively fighting each other to get our business and literally throwing money at us. There is certainly a lot to be said for the benefits of fiscal responsibility!

So we’re moving. Soon. Very soon. We have packing to do. We have furniture arrangements to plan. I think we need to borrow some of my mother’s graph paper.

Let’s be perfectly clear about one thing. Daddy never actually took the Mustang away; rather, he was the one who bought it for me. A brand-spanking new 1986 white Mustang convertible with a sporty red interior. License plate number AXC 76P. (It’s amazing, the trivial things the brain chooses to remember.) I wasn’t quite yet 16. I didn’t know anything about horsepower. But I knew I had a way cool car—arguably one of the most coveted vehicles in the Pirate parking lot. With those wheels, I should have been officially the coolest kid in school.

Yes, I was one of those privileged youth. Raised in a family that enjoyed a relatively high standard of living within the small town we lived in. I think, I hope, that I didn’t let it go to my head. The truth is, although we lived in a nice house, I didn’t have any more than my classmates in terms of flashy clothes or faddish trinkets or spendable cash. At school, the only obvious sign of my socioeconomic status was that car, and a prized possession it was, though I was careful not to show off too much. I didn’t want to be known as the spoiled rich kid. But the car spoke for itself and attracted new friends who were more than happy to hang with me as long as I would drive—in the way cool convertible, of course.

So the Mustang and I spent much quality time together with friends and, later, boyfriends, zooming all around town and beyond, top always down, with wind rippling through our hair. And all was blissful in Mo-land.

But as time wore on, I began to sense that some of my new “friends” cared more about being seen in the convertible than about being seen with me, while others resented my good fortune and really did see me as spoiled. Me, Most Shy, the girl who just wanted to get along. Still, a good-natured joke here, and a snide comment there, and before long it was clear that the cool car didn’t really make me any cooler. Or more popular. Though for the most part the teasing was harmless, and I took it as it was intended—in good fun.

Except it wasn’t always good fun.

I was sometimes teased by peers for not having to work. The implication was clear. I had the easy life, with everything—especially the fancy car—handed to me on a silver platter. The truth was, my parents placed much more emphasis on an education that would lead to a self-sustaining career than on a part-time job that would land me enough cash for the movies or the latest designer jeans. As far as they were concerned, unless I was making straight A’s, my time was better spent studying. Smart parents. Their push for long-term academic excellence in lieu of short-term “gotta have it” gain paid off.

Later, when I finally landed that longed-for first summer job as a waitress, eager to demonstrate a work ethic and establish an employment history, a catty co-worker, who also happened to be a classmate, informed me that my posh car was out of place in the employee parking lot. She then went on to say the thing that humiliated one sensitive and circumspect teen. She bluntly accused me of taking a job away from someone who “really” needed it. Typical, isn’t it, that the coveted dream car fed into an unjust stereotype and resulted in spiteful barbs?

Don’t get me wrong. I loved that car, which holds many fond memories, and I have long since forgiven the cutting remark, having attributed the scene to adolescent inexperience. But I still remember it clearly nearly 20 years later, word for word, because it taught an important life lesson that has stayed with me to this day. It taught me to appreciate the things I am fortunate enough to have, but not to bank my happiness or social acceptance on them. At the end of the day it’s just “stuff,” and only temporary stuff, at that.

Now, these many years later, my family and I find ourselves on the verge of buying a new home. It’s natural to want the best our budget will allow—the most space, the nicest accoutrements, a desirable neighborhood, a swimming pool for the kids. The suburban family version of “stuff.” Yet I find myself remembering the days of the Mustang, and reminding myself that our lifestyle is not about bragging rights or “keeping up.” It’s not about impressing our neighbors and friends or finding fulfillment in our accumulated possessions. It’s about wise choices tempered with modesty and respect, and remembering not to let the things we own define who we are.

And no, my kids will not be getting brand new convertibles when they turn 16. Pity them deeply, because their first cars will be big and ugly and safe. But they will still be the coolest kids in school, because their parents will have taught them it’s who they are on the inside that makes them stand out, not what they have or don’t have.