A Crooked Adventure

We woke up on a Saturday morning with nothing on the agenda. A strange phenomenon at the Van Patten house. Dan rolled over in bed and said to me, "You wanna float Crooked Creek?" We'd often talked about floating Crooked Creek, but never had actually done it. "Why not," I replied, "We don't have anything else going on."

We got the kids out of bed and kicked preparations into high gear. "How far are we going to float?" I asked Dan as we drove towards the river. "From the bridge to the park," he said. "How far is that?" I asked. "Not sure," was his confident reply.

We have this problem. We love adventure, but we forget sometimes that small children are involved and bite off more than we can handle. I didn't want this to be one of those times. I felt a little relieved as the drive from the park to the bridge was only about 12 minutes. "It can't be that far by river, " I thought to myself.

Dan pulled off onto the side of the road near a small creek. "We're paddling that?" I asked. I was pretty sure we would be walking in that trickle. "No," he said, "that's where we're putting the canoes in. It will meet the river eventually, I think..." "Oh," was my heartfelt reply. We drug the canoes down a long steep embankment to the creek. And by drug, I literally mean "Dan is the only one of the Van Pattens that's actually strong enough to carry a canoe farther then, oh say, five feet. So we push, pull, and drag." That's how we roll, and I vow to workout more every time I do it.

We put the kids in the canoes and Dan and I "drug" the canoes down this small trickle toward what he said would be the river. After we had been doing this awhile, I had my doubts and started committing to more exercise if I made it home again. We passed a dead snake. I don't mind snakes, especially dead ones, but Dan doesn't like them at all. He informed me that if we came across a live one, he and his canoe would be sailing across the water at high speeds past me. "Every man for himself," were the words I think I heard him mutter.

Thankfully this crick did eventually empty into Crooked Creek, which was fairly high and flowing quite nicely. We were all glad to see it, and gratefully hopped into the canoe to float instead of drag.

The float started out perfect! It's a beautiful float, and I hoped it wouldn't be too short. The wildlife  was abundant. It started out with a bald eagle flying right over us. Then there were deer, fish, turkey, lizards, snakes, turtles, and the most exciting of all - a black bear! My first sighting in Arkansas.

After we had been on the river about three days, I decided that the float was definitely not too short, and may never end. Crooked Creek got it's name for a reason! That 12 minute drive by road was absolutely NOT a good judge of the distance on the water! I was getting a little agitated because the child in the front of my boat was not pulling his weight with the paddling. Understandably so though, because we had been paddling for so many days by then. I think he was tired, and he wasn't the only one.

 Every few minutes he would decide to rest from paddling and fish. Fish! I was happy to let him fish when we set out days ago, but by this time all I wanted to do was paddle down this crooked river to the end. Why fish when you can paddle to your car and comfort and real food! But, fish he did, and I tried to humor him. He threw his line in the water as I paddled furiously to try to keep up with Dan, which if no one has noticed is twice my size and has four times my strength. It equals to one paddle stroke to my fifteen..... Zack was in no real hurry to help as he relaxed in the front of the boat and slowly reeled his line in.

"Mom, stop!" He shouted seconds after he begin to fish for the forty-third time. "My line is stuck." "Really? Now?' I thought. Dan was too far ahead to paddle back and help. I was going to have to be a big girl and paddle back up stream to save the line and lure. I was not happy about it. "What did you do that for?" I asked harshly. He looked at me like I might be a crazy woman. "J=
Please just paddle, Mom," he said. We got somewhat close to the stuck line, and he jumped into the river to see what he could salvage. I got out of the boat to hold it in place against the current. As I watched my son wade out into the middle of the river, I heard a commotion on the bank across from us. It sounded like a large animal lumbering through the woods. "That can't be a deer," I thought to myself. I was quite distracted watching the bushes bend under the weight of this creature while Zack was still busying himself with the fishing line. All of the sudden it burst through an opening in the trees - a black bear! I couldn't believe it! Right there, on the other side of the river! Excitement turned to fear as I realized there was a black bear right there on the other side of the river!

"Zack! Zack! Get in the boat!!" I shouted a little frantically. If the bear didn't know we were there before, it did now. I had just made sure of it with my shouting. I was pretty confident that fat black bear was going to come down to the river and eat my child as he collected his fishing line. "Now!!" I yelled, 'There's a bear!!" Of course Zack stopped what he was doing to look because, who doesn't want to see a bear? That made me a little more frantic and caused me to do a bit more yelling. I finally got my son, the fishing line and the pole in the canoe. I grabbed my paddle and took off with the renewed energy that comes with the knowledge that there is a bear swimming after your boat and about to eat your children. If the Olympic committee had been there, they would have signed me up, no questions asked.

Of course, the bear was nowhere to be seen by this time, but I wasn't taking the time to turn around and make sure. I had already let him know that we were on his river, and I was going to do my best to get off of it.

I caught up with Dan quicker than we all thought possible. He was extremely disappointed to have missed the bear sighting altogether, and was much more calm about the whole affair. He suggested we paddle back up the river to take a look. I gave him a "look" that promptly made him decide heading on down the river was by far the best idea he could come up with.

We paddled for another two or three days when we finally came upon the first pull out we had we seen. A road! People! I was excited. "Dan," I asked, "do you know how much farther it is to the car." "No idea," he answered. I was determined to find out. I found a couple of paddlers that looked like they might know the river, and asked how much farther we had to go. "Oh, it's about four more miles," they said nonchalantly, "should take you about another four hours." The look on my face must have been something because they immediately offered to give us a ride out. I didn't hesitate. "We'll take it!" I said. I walked over to Dan to give him the joyful news that we had an out. He wasn't thrilled at all. "No, we can do it," he said. My heart sank as the canoers drove off in the comfort of their car, leaving us to paddle four more hours.

I looked at Dan with the attitude of a martyr. I took in the situation, and came up with what I thought was a fantastic idea. I suggested we ditch my canoe and all six of us ride in his. He looked at me like I was a crazy woman. I was beginning to feel like I was one! "I'm tired," I whined, "I want to go home. I don't want to paddle four more miles with a non paddling helper!" "Why not? You used to not be so wimpy," was the only reply he could come up with.

Sometimes you have to take matters into your own hands. I thanked God for cell phones, and called my sister and begged her to drive over and bail us out. I even bribed her. I admit it.

She came. God bless her.

We've talked about finishing Crooked Creek ever since that day - it has yet to happen. Maybe when the children are older and the bears are gone.....

Why I Homeschool

"Why do you homeschool?" someone asks me. I stop, stammer a bit, and gave some kind of not very real answer.

"Why do I spend all this time homeschooling?" I think to myself later.

This is what I want to say: "Because beyond a shadow of a doubt God has called me to it! I must raise my children up in my home giving them a wonderful, godly education. It's a calling." And smile sweetly after it.

The truth is though, that that's not the truth. I have never felt an overwhelming "calling" to homeschool. In fact there were several (many) school days last year, that I felt very "called" to stick my 6th grader on that big yellow bus and send him away to school.

So, why do I spend most of my year homeschooling my children?

After much deliberation (with myself) I finally figured it out:

I homeschool because I want to.

It's not very holy, but it's true.

I want to.

I want to get up every morning in a relaxed environment with them. We eat breakfast together and read Bible stories together.

I want to know what they are learning every day. I'm very nosy.

I want to handpick their subjects and their curriculum.

I want to learn right along with them. Do you know how much 7th grade math I have forgotten! I'm learning it again. I can almost say, that, "Yes, I am smarter than a 5th grader!"

I want to be there when they learn something new. I want to see the excitement in their eyes when the light bulb comes on.

I want my children to be good friends with each other. It helps when you don't have a lot of options.

I want to teach them things that they won't learn in school. I want our life to be a part of their schooling.

I want them to be done with their school day earlier than if they went off to school, so we have time to do more together.

I want to teach them lots about Jesus every day. And I want it to come from me. Not because God told me that's how it has to be, because that's how I want it.

So, I figured it out this year. After 8 years of homeschooling, I finally know why I do it. It has a lot less to do with holiness than I had hoped, but it's still nice to know.

I'm doing it, not because I have to, but because I want to.

Happy 2015-2016 school year, Everyone!

Hope

We were sitting in church on a Wednesday night. My son leaned over to me and whispered, "Mom, do you want to play Hangman?" I was a little surprised. This child is my struggling learner - word games are not his thing. I whispered back, "Sure." He wanted to go first. He is seven, but there are very few words he can write from memory. I knew it wasn't going to be too hard. He drew his hangman's noose, and made four spaces. I guessed a few letters off just for fun. It was his name, and I knew it before we even started. The next word he picked had three spaces. I guessed e and a. The first letter was e and there was no a. "T," I said. He put the T in the last spot. E _ T.....hmmm.. I kept guessing random letters, all of which he said were not there. He finally looked up at me and whispered, "Mom, why can't you get this? I read it in my reading all the time!" It hit me like a brick. "H," I said. "Yes!" he whispered excitedly, "E-H-T - 'the', Mom, it spells 'the'! Didn't you know?"

No, I didn't. But, suddenly I did. Suddenly everything started making sense. This child who has had such a hard time in school -  this momma who the last two years has felt like a complete failure, feeling like I have absolutely NO CLUE how to teach my child after successfully teaching two others.

I quickly grabbed a piece of paper, leaned over to him, and whispered, "Write me any words you can think of." He could think of three, and could write none of them from memory correctly. I no longer felt like I was in church, my mind was running so fast I couldn't keep up with it. "That's it! He has dyslexia," I thought. "I don't know anything about dyslexia. What are we going to do? How am I going to teach him? I know NOTHING about dyslexia!" I took the paper from my son and put it in front of my husband, who was actually trying to listen to the sermon. "Look," I whispered. He took the paper, looked at it, then up at me.

We had both discussed this child many times. We realized that learning was hard for him, but weren't sure why. Many times I thought it was me. In a way it was - I don't know how to teach how he thinks.

That night we went home and became students of dyslexia. I learned more about it in the next 24 hours then I would have thought possible. I had websites marked, curriculum to look at, people to call, and classes to try to get into. And I felt overwhelmed. Relieved and overwhelmed at the same time. Relieved that I had an answer and overwhelmed because I've never walked this road before.

But here I am.

This is what parenting is about isn't it? Each child that we have is so beautifully unique, and we must become students of that uniqueness. Some are much harder than others. One of mine is dyslexic, other parents have children that have tougher challenges - Autism, Down Syndrome, disease, and others that I don't even know about. Then there's the child with anxieties, social issues,  and even plain ole strong will. (I have one of those too!)

We find out something about our child, maybe at birth, two, four, or, like me, seven, and we feel discouraged, and overwhelmed, sometimes very alone.

And then there is......

Hope.

 You find you are not alone. There is hope in community. Community made up of parents that have already been there. They care because they know. They pass on the hope.

There is hope when you become a student of your child. First it's little bits of light shining through, but the more you learn, the light begins to grow.

There is hope because you learn to be strong. A boldness in you comes out of nowhere. I found myself making phone calls and asking for help from places I never thought I would.

There is hope because you actually find answers. You start putting into place the things you're learning and you see that same hope come onto your child's face as things start to make sense to him. And it is a glorious moment.

Don't get me wrong - there is discouragement also. The discouragement comes in knowing that you cannot change what your child is. That some things will always be different. Harder. More time consuming. Difficult to explain.

The answer - You must not live in the discouragement. You will be discouraged, but don't stay there! To dwell there is to fail the beautiful child God has given you. To dwell there robs your joy.

The phonics curriculum I own and know does not work with my child. Teaching him to read and write well is not going to be easy.  His little brain thinks way beyond what mine does. I am learning to try think like him, so I can learn with him. I am buying new curriculum - stuff I've never heard of before. I'm taking a class, watching dvds, talking with other parents, and researching.

I have become a student of my child. And our relationship has grown. When we pass a sign that has a flag on it and my son says, "Look, Mom, it's the ASU flag!" I say, "It sure is." I've stopped correcting all the time and started learning a better way.

We are both finding hope.

Five Ways to Help an Anxious Child

I am 7, my family has traveled to a big city and we are about to ride up an elevator in the mall. My heart starts beating faster and I begin to sweat. My parents assure me that it's perfectly safe to get on the elevator. I am sure it is not. The thoughts start swirling in my head - "We're going to get stuck in there." "Forever." "It's going to be dark; the lights are going to go out." "I'm going to be thirsty!" "If the dark doesn't kill me, the thirst will." "No one will ever find us." The more irrational thoughts I have, the more the anxiety builds. I'm a wreck by the time we actually step into the elevator. I don't think I will survive the ride to the third floor.

I am 10, my little sister is 4 and is playing in the yard. She has been outside for 20 minutes when my mom sends me to check on her. I don't see her in the front yard. My heart starts racing. I don't see her in the side yard, I start sweating. I don't see her in the backyard, I go into hysterics. Real live, uncontrollable hysterics. I am sure she is kidnapped. We will never find her and our family will never be the same. I am sure of it, and the only response I can muster is hysterics.

I am 12, my mom leaves me at home while she runs up to the grocery store. I am in the yard and I am panicking. My heart is racing and I am shaking. I watch my mom drive off and the irrational thoughts in my head start swirling - "My mom's leaving me." "She's never coming back!" "What will I do?" "I can't stay here by myself!" I begin to cry, and the shakes become violent.

These are not isolated incidents. Things like this happened frequently during my childhood. I'm laying it bare, and I didn't realize how hard it would be for me to see it in black and white. These are the things I try not to remember. Tears are in my eyes and my heart aches as I think of that little girl and the fears that held her captive. Held me captive.

That's how it feels - like captivity. When you are in captivity, everything is out of your control. You don't want to be there, but there you are. You wish it away, but it doesn't go away. Sometimes it's too much to bear. You wish someone could help you, but no one really knows how.

I am no longer that anxious child.  I am an adult who still fights fear at times,  but I am not held captive by it. Fear does not overcome me anymore. There is hope for the anxious child, and there are ways we can help -


1. Be very patient. There is no overnight fix for anxieties. It most often takes lots of time and maturity. Realize this and accept it. This is very important. If you are constantly frustrated with your child for "not just getting over it" this will hurt your relationship with your child and do NOTHING to improve the anxieties. A child with anxieties requires lots of patience and kindness. And time. I was a teenager before my anxieties improved. But they eventually did.

2. Never make fun of a child with anxieties. Do not laugh at them. ever. This can be hard because irrationalities can be funny. The anxious child needs to know that you are on their side, and that you are the one person not laughing at them. It feels like the world is against you when you are fearing something, and a parent who can calmly say, "I understand, I am here for you and we are going to walk through this together" is invaluable to that child. Hold them. Hug them. Be there for them.

3. Give your child opportunities to be in the situation that causes them anxieties with a protector. If your child is deathly afraid of water, don't throw them in alone and tell them there's nothing to be afraid of. Walk in with them. Small steps at a time. Let them feel the water while holding your hand. If your child fears strangers, don't make them go to that birthday party alone, or drop them off at Bible school where they don't know anyone. Go with them. Don't stand by their side the whole time, but make sure when they look around, that they can find you. This may seem like coddling, but for a child with true anxieties it is not. It is training. It is learning that the thing that causes them fear is not as dangerous as they believe in their mind. I would have probably had a heart attack if my parents had made me ride an elevator alone as a child. But they didn't. Each tine they went with me to assure me of the safety of it. And guess what? It's not my favorite activity, but I do get on elevators by myself now.

4. Tell them truths. Over and over and over. Anxieties are most often very irrational. The thoughts in a child's head become more and more irrational the more worked up they become. If you can counteract these irrational thoughts with truths, it will help. My daughter has anxieties over storms. We've never been in a tornado, but she is sure every time it begins to rain that we are about to be blown away by one. Taking the time each time to tell her the truth about the situation helps curb the anxious feelings. We talk about the safely of our home, how to watch for the kinds of storms that are actually dangerous, what the plan will be if we have a bad storm, etc. She has started reminding herself of these truths when a storm starts, and it helps keep her calmer. Do NOT tell your child their fears are irrational. They know that, but they can't help it. In a calm voice tell them the truths about the thing they fear.

5. And most importantly, don't ever, ever, ever leave God out of the equation. The Bible promises that "perfect love casts out fear." The only One with perfect love is God. And He is the only One that can make true lasting changes in your child. Pray for your child daily. Encourage your child to have a personal relationship with Jesus Christ. Knowing God as I grew up is one of the only things that have helped me overcome my anxieties. Quote Scripture to your child. This is vital. God's Word will not return to Him void, and it is true and living. I believe that because I have lived it. Every time I would have anxieties my mom would say to me, "Remember what God says, Honey." And then she would quote, "What time I am afraid, I will trust in Thee." I've said that verse so many times until I've lived it true in my life. And true it is. Introduce your child to the One that calmed the storms and conquered death.

Don't give up. It will take time, but there is hope for an anxious child.

A Story 19 Years in the Making

The year was 1996. I was 17. It was my first overseas mission trip. I was in Russia. I was young. Very young. Sometimes I wonder why God allowed me, so young and dumb, to do His work.

I'm realizing now it was a journey. A part of my growing up. Just like now. It doesn't stop. As long as you're seeking God, God is changing you.

There are certain things from that trip that stick out in my memory. Some of them, I can't shake. Some are seemingly trivial, but they're there none the less and I think about them often.

This one is an untold story. Mainly because it's not really a story. Just a blip in time. But it's come full circle and now it must be told.

I was living in an orphanage of sorts, and we all had Russian roommates (mostly students that were going to school there). I was assigned to a small room with just two beds and an early teen girl who barely spoke English. My Russian was worse than her English, so conversation between us was minimal. She didn't own a lot. But, as I soon learned, neither did any of the other ordinary Russians. Small flats that they lived in, minimal possessions, no cars - the list was short. I had more "stuff" in that room that I had brought over the sea in my two oversized suitcases than she probably owned.

One of the rules for the Americans that lived there was that we weren't supposed to share clothes. Simple and silly, but not the point of this story. Everyone shared clothes anyway, without much regard to the "rule." Everyone but me anyway. I was (and still am if you ask Dan) a rule follower. To a T. I try not to be such a stickler, but my conscience works overtime. To put it plainly, it never sleeps.

My roommate came up to me one day and asked in broken English if she might borrow one of my skirts for the day. I quickly explained to her that that was not allowed, and I was sorry, but, no, she couldn't. She quickly turned away in embarrassment and never asked again. She knew that all her Russian friends were borrowing clothes from the Americans, and she wanted to develop that camaraderie with me. I really have no clue if she even understood my lame explanation.

That was it. That was the untold story. The story that won't leave me alone. It's been 19 years since that day. And I am still plagued. For the first 10 years the guilt I felt every time I thought of it was for not just breaking the dumb rule and letting her borrow my skirt. You know, learning to follow the spirit of the law and not the letter. Developing a sweet friendship with another soul.

But then, something changed, something inside me. Seeking God, growing, changing, seeing the world through Jesus' eyes. And one day when I thought of that incident, the light bulb came on. The guilt was no longer - "Why didn't I let her borrow the skirt?" The revelation was - "WHY IN THE WORLD DIDN'T I JUST GIVE HER THE SKIRT??!!!!" Why wasn't I being Jesus, the very Person, I was in Russia to be?

Why? Because it wasn't even in my radar. That's why.

But it is now. When I think of this, I'm looking at it through different eyes. I think of our closet there in that small room in Moscow, Russia. My roommate had 2 skirts to her name. I remember that clearly. I think I must have had 10, and probably at least 5 more at home. So many clothes compared to this girl, but it didn't even occur to me in my immature mind to give out of my abundance.

The reason this story has come full circle for me is because God is teaching me to give. If I was smarter on the computer I would change the font just on that little word "give" and put it in the most beautiful script I could find because it is beautiful.

I just read a story about a church in Austin, TX  who had a guest speaker on an Easter evening in 2007. Near the end of the service he mentioned that earlier that morning he had spent some time in a homeless community in San Antonio. Their spokesman had told him that their biggest need was - shoes. He said that homeless people spend all day on their feet, and since their shoes are worn out cast offs they have chronic leg and back pain. As people came forward for communion that Easter evening, the speaker gave them an opportunity. He told them if they wanted they could leave their shoes (and socks) at the altar, and they would see that it all got to that homeless community in San Antonio.

Easter Sunday 2007 - 150 people at a church in Texas in their best shoes. So many of them left that service barefoot and smiling. There's something about leaving your gift at the altar. It may have been your favorite pair of shoes, but now it's a gift to the Savior. There was a need and communion called not just for remembering the gift of Christ, but a call to action in giving a gift to Christ.  "For when we give unto the least of these we're giving unto Him." (My paraphrase of Matthew 25:40 inserting the beautiful word - give.) They gave their shoes because they couldn't help it! And they had church that day, the way it was meant to be.

That's where God is taking me. I'm not there yet, but it's my journey. I want it to be second nature to give. When the Russian girl asks to borrow my skirt, I don't want to have to even think about it when I smile and say, "Here, take it, it was for you all along." I want to walk home barefoot because someone needed my shoes more than I did. I want to not be able to help it!

The two things I remember about that sweet young Russian girl so many years ago, is the story I just told, and the gifts she gave me the day I left for home. I still have them. Sweet, generous gifts out of a kind heart. A constant reminder of the beauty of giving, whether it's out of abundance or out of precious little.

 I missed that opportunity 19 years ago, but there are oh, so many more. Everyday, everywhere - opportunities to give in Jesus' name, opportunities to be The Gospel. You don't even have to look to find them. They will find you.

And you won't be able to help it.

Give because it's beautiful.

Floaters in the Tub

Elijah pooped in the tub the other day. I should have seen it coming, but since he's been potty trained for about a year, I had let my guard down. I'm still not sure why he did it. Maybe the relaxing warm water, maybe the beans he had for dinner, maybe it was just time and he didn't want to move... Whatever the reason, there we were with a floater. I yanked him up out of the water as quickly as I could and plopped him on the potty to finish his business. He looked over at the floater in the tub, and then looked at me. "Get it out," he stated. "No," I said, "You did it, you're going to have to get it out." He looked up at me in surprise. "I can't," he said, "I will get my hands dirty!"

Needless to say, I did the deed, but I told Elijah that if he did it ever again he was getting his own hands dirty.

I didn't really mean it, but I hoped that the threat would keep him from a repeat offense.

So, I just walked into the bathroom because I got the yell - "Mom! I'm done!!" I found Elijah sitting on the pot, hiding his face in his hands. All around him were brown streaks. Everywhere. On the floor, on the toilet, on his legs, everywhere. My first thought was, "Oh yippee."

I looked at what looked like smeared poop on the floor, put my hands on my hips, and said, "What happened?" Silence. "Elijah, what happened?" I repeated. Still no response. "Did you poop on the floor?" I ventured.  "Yeth," he said. "Where is it?" I asked fearfully. He looked up, "I picked it up and put in the potty, Mom,"

I guess he thought I was serious. "Did you get your hands dirty?" I asked him. "No, I used toilet paper." He answered. Explains the streaks on the floor.

He's pretty smart for a 3 year old.

Adventures That Must Be Had

The male species was born for adventure. And, when I say that, I mean it in the most dramatized voice I can muster - BORN......FOR.....AD...VEN...TURRRRE.

They were. It's ingrained from the moment they can start exploring. From my toddler wanting to ride his little car down the big hill in the street, to the boys digging up onions, to my grown man white water rafting. The sense of adventure is there - wanting to escape at every possible moment.

Two of my boys decided to take some manly adventure just this weekend. Last year Dan started telling Zack that he would like to take him on his first backpacking trip. They would hike into the woods with everything they needed on their backs. They would pick a remote camping spot in the wilderness, cook their food over a fire, and be engrossed in nature.

A year passed by. A few weeks ago the dreamed of camping trip came up again. "I really think you should take him this year," I told Dan, "He's really looking forward to the adventure, and he's almost 12." Before the words left my mouth, I wanted to take them back. "Almost 12." Old enough to go backpacking. I've got to stop blinking!

The weather this weekend was supposed to be perfect and we had no previous plans, so the backpacking trip planning went into high gear. Friday evening was spent cooking, packing, and excitedly discussing details. Dan crawled into the attic and dug out the dusty backpacking gear. We only have one "real" backpacking sleeping bag, so Dan did his best to roll an old army one into as small a roll as possible. As if "small" can be in the same sentence as "army sleeping bag."

"Zack," Dan said as they stuffed more and more stuff into the large backpacks, "What would you think about just setting up camp and then hiking into the wilderness instead of carrying everything in?" "Oh no," answered Zack, "We have to carry everything INTO the wilderness and camp there!" Dan looked over at me with a bit of anguish in his eyes. "It was your idea," I reminded him. "It was a moment of weakness!" Dan whispered desperately.

I laughed.

"Where are the matches?" Dan asked me. Zack cut in before I could reply, "We don't need matches, Dad. I have my magnesium fire starter! It will be a real wilderness experience!" "I'm throwing in the matches," Dan whispered to me again. "Just in case...." "Oh, I'm sure you won't need them," I teasingly replied, "You have the magnesium fire starter."

I laughed again.

The backpacks were packed and ready to be tried on. Zack put on his and acted like it would be nothing to haul it for miles on end. Dan put his on and made no bones about the fact that it would be way more than nothing (close to excruciating) to haul that huge monstrosity with the military sleeping bag swinging off of it for miles on end. He suggested the camping and then hiking option again.

I laughed.

The next day, with great anticipation of many adventures my men got in the car and headed off where cell phones don't work, fire is made without matches, and bears and mountain lions roam. I gave Dan a hug and told him to enjoy sleeping on the "soft" ground.

He laughed.

They arrived back home this afternoon with tales of heavy packs, fires that were actually started with magnesium fire starter, killer crows, rain, waterfalls, miles of hiking, and swimming in a cold creek in March.

Adventure. That's what they had. Real live, self made adventure. Memories. That's what they made. Memories that won't ever be forgotten.