Well, technically, he’s on his way home…but here’s some info about where he was.  Another mile marker on our journey into the calling on our lives, and a hint of what’s to come for the McDowells…

“About 3,000 ministry leaders from more than 100 countries united in Hong Kong this week to strategize for the completion of the Great Commission. In what might be one of the most significant meetings of its kind, the Call2All Congress in Hong Kong will affect missions for years to come…”

“The evening featured a focus on prayer, the kind that transforms and changes the destinies of nations. The delegates were called to make their life, home and organization a house of prayer.”

“Later in the day, delegates were introduced to one of the largest maps in the world ever printed. All 3,000 in attendance were able to walk on the map and pray over 4,000 locations, committing to go wherever God would send them. Using posted notes they wrote their commitments and stuck them on the map.”

Click on the quotes above to view the entire articles…

“Powerful times with the Chinese Christians both last night and then again today.  Really something extraordinary happening with the church here.

Went into the evening session and sat on the side of the Chinese church and prayed over some of them and them over me.  Very powerful.

This morning was foot washing with the Chinese volunteer team and praying over each other.  Lots of tears shed.”

–from OJ’s email

I just need to remind myself as I read this that he is talking about CHINESE CHRISTIANS here.  The ones who are still under persecution in places, who have paid extraordinary costs for Jesus, and who have historically been isolated from the rest of God’s family by their government…and my husband is there with them, washing their feet.  The world is changing, friends.  Isn’t it interesting that a new economic superpower is rising to take over from a failing one?  Could it be a picture of what has already happened in the heavenlies with a rising, vibrant, believing church, trained in severe conditions?

What joy to be able to serve these believers even for a couple days!

But I’m gonna do it anyway.

This is the story about the time that Suz got her sister Lizzie embroiled in a classic “Come on, it’ll be fun” type of adventure involving sunburn, evangelism, multiple near car collisions, multiple real stroller-on-toe collisions, horse poop, post-partum (am I still allowed to classify myself as such?) sprints, and a whole lot of GREEN.  No, this has nothing to do with Al Gore, and I’m definitely not talking about money.  Ireland, baby!  St. Patty’s day!  Erinn go bragh! Am I the only one who looked up pics of the Old Country (Chicago) with the river dyed green today?

Let me just start by saying that I had gotten up at the bright and early hour of 3:15 a.m.  The reason for that was that I had been so tired the day before, that I had crashed while putting the kids to bed at 8 p.m.  So when Samuel cried at 3:15, my body thought that the 7 continuous hours of sleep was likened to a mighty angelic visitation, and would not go back to sleep.  One thing about me is that if I’ve had sleep, I get ideas.  Lots and lots of them.  And if I have several hours before the kids wake up to concoct these ideas, it just gets crazy.  You’ll know I haven’t had sleep if I don’t have about 3 x’s as many things planned for the day as are actually possible.

The International House of Prayer (IHOP), where we are fellowshipping here in KC, has an evangelistic outreach at the annual St. Patrick’s Day parade that everyone’s invited to join in, marching behind their float.  My sister Amy had challenged OJ and me to go, but I had scoffed at the time.  “If you’ll babysit!” was pretty much my response.   But I must have not had much sleep…for the last 5 months.  Because after my rich seven hour stretch, what did I wake up and think?  “Let’s go to the parade!  Lizzie and Glorie (my niece) can come with us!”

So, we loaded up the minivan, even transferring Glorie’s sacred carseat (I don’t think it had ever been transferred before, and she’s two!) to our car, and headed into town.  Neither of us had ever been to this `parade, and it’s been too many years since I did anything of note in Chi-town, so I forgot what events in a city of any size actually are like.  Only one word for it…fwam-packed.  Fwam-packed with cars coming from the highway, fwam-packed with pedestrians trying to get hit by cars, (Which makes sense.  If you’re going to get hit by a car, do it when they’re only going 3 mph.) and, of course, fwam-packed with the neighborhood folks wearing all sorts of insane getups that they can justify because they are green.

By the way, this neighborhood was no Sesame Street, people.  Think Boyz N the Hood.  Did I spell that wrong right?  Right wrong?  Anyway, we knew we were in for an adventure from the moment Lizzie pounded that auto-lock, and warned me to look out for the jacked-up Grand Marquis that was about to t-bone us.

All joking aside, our hearts grew really heavy as we drove through the poverty closer to the parade.  My words were, “This is a wasteland.”  The IHOP-ers had carpooled in together hours before (not feasible for us with the kiddos)nd had to find some reserved parking.  Long story short, God’s favor was on us, and we scored a ridiculous spot right next to the action when a police officer lifted the police line to let us through.  So we all piled out, with that odd feeling you have when you’ve worked so hard to get somewhere that you feel that the whole ordeal should be over.  But no, it’s just beginning.

Our task was to find the IHOP float (#92) several blocks down behind the starting line.  The parade had already started and the streets were lined (fwam-packed) with people.  Crazy people, mostly.  Or maybe those were really the only clothes they owned that were green; I don’t know.  So Lizzie led with the Graco and I followed with Ariel and Judah in the double jogger and Samuel strapped to my chest in the Ergo.  Despite all efforts, we were neither subtle nor unobtrusive, and I heard the words “big a– stroller” more than once, my friends.  Or this comment, “That is a lot of kids.”  I tried to make reassuring remarks to the kids, who could not hear me anymore than I could hear them.  I said “Excuse me,” more times than I can count, and for the most part received friendly efforts at making way.  But there were exceptions.  There was one time that a lady with a rotund belly protruding into the tiny space stopped us cold.  The stroller itself rolled past under the belly, and I was concentrating so hard, it was not until the handle itself reached the height of the obstruction that I realized we were blocked.  I repeated, “excuse me,” but to no avail.  She just watched disinterestedly as I lifted, twisted, and pivoted the double jogger around her waist.  Other times, the oncoming flow of foot traffic just didn’t stop, and so I stood waiting while Lizzie got further and further away, completely unable to move and sardined in between way too many shades of green.

It was an intense battle, but eventually, we ended up walking away from the parade, two blocks down, to be able to move freely, and then down and back up to find our group.  They were a sight for sore eyes!  A huge float in the shape of a green mountain, with a young man dressed like St. Patrick at the top, and hundreds of green t-shirted IHOP-ers milling about.

We walked up to be warmly welcomed with this warning, “Don’t step in the horse poop!”  Apparently, the next float after us was not a vehicle, but an equine attraction.  Fortunately, as a mom of three, I am very comfortable around poop, so that was not problematic.  How to feed the baby his bottle, sunblock everyone, and take Ariel to the (port-a?)-potty, however, was.  But I assured Lizzie I had it all under control.

Lizzie and Suz sunblock the kids

Handing out the snacks, whipping Samuel out of his carrier for the bottle, and spraying everyone down was a piece of cake, but then came the potty trip.  Word on the street was that a block down there were actual flushing toilets, and I knew I couldn’t risk a potty accident in the middle of the parade, so Ariel and I made a run for it.  It seemed like there were still 20 or so floats to go ahead of us, so I left Lizzie with the strollers and a young friend holding Samuel, and ran off with Ariel on my hip.  When we returned to our waiting area, it looked really empty.  I thought maybe I had come to the wrong spot until I saw the telltale horse poop and the awful reality dawned on me.  So I grabbed Ariel and began to run wildly through the street to catch up.  Mind you, this is a parade, so, yes, there were hundreds of people along the road to see this, my first post-partum jog.  As we got closer, this is what we saw…

Here we go!

They were not moving slowly, either.  Lizzie was towards the back holding Samuel, with two friends pushing the two strollers.  Running alongside, I dropped Ariel in the jogger, and did an intricate dance with them all, involving exchanging strollers and babies and vice versa, until all three of my children were again with me.  And then…there we were.  In the parade.  “Wave to the people!” I yelled to the kids.

“What???”  they yelled back.

You’re probably picking up on how difficult this had been.  But here’s the good part.  Over the loudspeaker came St. Patty’s brogue, briefly presenting in the time span of a watcher’s hearing a warm greeting and clear appeal to repent and follow Jesus.  After his fifteen second speech, an awesome worship song would ring out, “HALLELUJAH!  Grace like rain pours down…Turn to Jesus…HALLELUJAH…all my stains are washed away!”  And there were several hundred of us, with streamers in our hands, getting to walk right straight through that wasteland, shining with jubilant joy.  The more times we heard those lines…HALLELUJAH!!!…the more fun it got.  People began jumping and skipping down the street, rejoicing and waving to the crowds.  HALLELUJAH!!!  There’s an answer.  There’s an answer!!!  You don’t have to live like you’re living or be who you’ve been or die in your sins…HALLELUJAH!!!  It was the most shining contrast imaginable to the mobile deejays and casino floats around us.  WOW!!!  I got too excited several times, losing Samuel’s hat and then almost overturning the jogger when I bent down to retrieve it.  That was another scene.

But it was exhilarating.

FOLLOW JESUS!!!

Now I’m really way too tired, but I’ll finish up with this.  We made our way back to the car beet red and blistered, and faced the intimidating traffic to make our way out again.  We gave the kids ridiculous amounts of treats to make up for the lack of naps and long waits, and headed home.  The end of the adventure was far from the parade, near Target, almost hitting a car that was turning right into our lane, honking loudly, and then realizing it was an IHOP-er…the envangelist in charge of the entire parade!  We laughed really hard, and said the same thing, “He must be EXHAUSTED!!!”

Hope your St. Patty’s Day was glorious, too. 

We had the pleasure of working with two of the most fantastic people on earth for most of this Euro-tour 2008, as we like to call it (actually, I just made that up).  Their names are Peter Mahoney and Erin O’Hagen.  You would think from the names that we stooped down in Dublin on our way in and picked them up at ye local pub, but they are Pacific Northwesterners, born and raised.  When we left Germany, we said goodbye to both of them and sent them back to the States.  We really could not have had a better team, and I’ve been considering the best way to honor them.  Here’s what I’ve come up with…

“Where’s Pete an’ Erin? ”

This was Judah’s constant question.  Pete and Erin became like uncle and aunt to Ariel and Judah, and so I thought the most appropriate “Ode to P&E” would be in the form of memories of the kids and all the bad habits they picked up from these rapscallion role models. 

“He rips the eyes!  Cauliflowers to the ears!”  This was a hand-me-down wrestling demonstration from Pete’s dad that he passed on to Judah with mock moves like a gentle swipe across the eyes and ear rub.  Judah picked it up and this is one of his favorite phrases…”Rips a eyes…fowers a ears!” 

“Rebuke chop!”  This is an OJ original, that has no pertinence to anything except an excuse to karate chop someone and use the word “rebuke” simultaneously.  He put Ariel up to it, and one morning Ariel motioned to Pete to bend over so she could tell him something, and then took the opportunity to chop him between the eyes and say “Rebuke chop!”  He continued to fall for that the whole trip.  Erin got her share, too.  The team took a break on an overnight trip to Edinburgh a few weeks ago, and Judah ended up in the “girls’” hotel room with Erin, me, and Ariel.  He was sleeping in the queen bed with Erin, or so she thought, when he rolled over and whacked her between the eyes, declaring, “Rebuke chop!” 

Ariel and Judah one night were having a classic sibling twilight moment as they drifted off to sleep, and OJ and I heard them going back and forth.  We cannot explain the conversation, because it makes no sense, but Judah was saying the word “clock” and Ariel would yell back, “No!”  Over and over again.  For 5-7 minutes.  We told Pete and Erin about it, and it became a classic team quote.  On the final day in Germany, Pete caught Judah on video by himself, replaying it.  “Clock!  No!  Clock!  NO!”  and so on and so forth, until he saw the camera focused on him, and said, “CHEESE!” 

“Don’t get me, Erin!” was Judah’s constant invitation to Erin to tickle him.  There are so many stories, but I’ll finish up with these fond memories.  Both Pete and Erin were amazing, putting in a bunch of hours of babysitting in moments when OJ and I were needed for ministry.  Particularly, the kids seemed to save the worst of their diaper issues for poor, under-experienced Pete, and it seemed like he could not babysit without Judah filling a doozy of a diaper.  I love to recall Pete reenacting for us when we returned home stifling his gag reflex over one particular masterpiece.  Sorry, Pete! 

We loved being with Pete and Erin for so many reasons.  We were so privileged to travel, live and work with two of the finest people we know.  We heard them preach and teach and, of course, pray their guts out, but this was the topper…the way they loved our kids.  There were several times that we just had to pray as a team for the kids’ freedom when spiritual attacks were strong, and they fought like they were parents.  Pete and Erin, WE LOVE YOU GUYS!

I don’t think Scotland believes in summer.  Spring, yes.  You know, April showers and May flowers and all that sort of thing.  They’re down with that.  But summer?  No.  Sunblock?  Air conditioning?  Swimming suits?  Who needs it?  Wasteful, very, very wasteful.  Leave all that to the Spanish.  We prefer sheep and all the wool that comes with them.

I apologize if that sounded harsh or judgemental in any way.  It’s actually so lovely here, I just don’t want to make anybody jealous by describing it, especially any of you who might be currently experiencing the kind of humid heat that only American midwesterners understand…  It really is lovely, but it’s just not hot.  Nor does it intend to be.  The beach is here, the tank tops are in stores, the people are poised for fun and games, it’s just not hot.  And for intensely pregnant people, that’s a good thing.  Those aforementioned pregnant people should learn not to complain, eh? 

Actually, we just returned from two weeks in Germany, and it was quite hot.  We were just outside of a town called Herrnhut  in Eastern Germany, and to get to town we had to climb a hill nicknamed “Slow Death” in honor of all the farmers who died pulling their wares up it.  That’ll teach pregnant people not to complain.  Or to complain.  One or the other.  

There’s so much to say about our trip to Herrnhut, many long and intensely insightful blogs are in order.  But me and my belly are still at the stage of falling asleep every time I get near any piece of furniture soft and larger than me, so instead of those nice, inspirational blogs, for now I’m just holding off the “blog-guilt” (a term I just stole from my sister) with some comedy at the expense of pregnant people and Scots.  My apologies if you fall into either of those categories. 

Speaking of the belly, an update is in order.  “Angel baby,” who is due some attention, is currently almost 25 weeks old, and according to extensive research on the web, about a foot long and weighing about 1 1/2 lbs.  She (maybe?) is kicking up a storm, and is moving all over the place.  She has an aversion to doctors, and so we haven’t been able to convince her to go yet.  She says she wants to wait til she’s in America, where the price is right, and I quite agree.  On a serious note, a healthy pregnancy is not something to take for granted, as I’ve seen how very hard it is when friends have had difficult ones.  I am so, so thankful to God for the health of this pregnancy that allows me to be so relaxed about it.  It really is a gift, and all those related to Angel Baby can rest assured that if there were any concerns, it would be very easy to address them immediately.  So…there’s the update.  We don’t know if baby’s a boy or girl, and we don’t have a name yet either way.  All reasonable suggestions welcome!

After a short stay in Scotland to recuperate and repack, we set off to…you thought I was going to say Holland, but no!  The natives set us right with kind consistency.  It’s not Holland, folks, it’s The Netherlands.  Turns out North Holland and South Holland are provinces in The Netherlands that include the major cities of trade, so calling The Netherlands “Holland” is a bit like calling the USA “New England.”  Anyway, we set off for The Netherlands and were again in for a huge surprise and blessing.  I am afraid I’ll sound repetitive if I tell you how warm the people were, how hungry, how wonderful the community is…all those things are true, and yet the base is so unique and unlike anything we had yet experienced. 

First of all, Dutch people are delightful!  They are warm and generous.  They have definitively Dutch ways, which they will unabashedly describe to you, but without any sense of imposing them on you.  You feel free to be different.  The base we went to is called Heidebeek, and it’s remote, if anything can be remote in a country that small.  It was a couple hours from Amsterdam, created as a place where the young people getting saved in masses in the 70’s could be discipled away from the temptations of the city.  As we drove through the country from the airport, I kept having flashbacks of driving through Michigan and parts of Indiana.  Large Dutch populations settled around Chicago (where I grew up) and around Lake Michigan, and now I know why.  Flat farmland giving way to friendly, leafy, green forests, and expanses between homes.  But not too big!  Nobody seems to need too much space, just enough. 

There wasn’t room for us to stay on the base itself, so we stayed a couple minutes down the road at some base housing, an old stables with thatched roof, restored into housing.  The next day, the base gave us our transportation for the week, three sturdy bicycles, two bearing little seats for the kids.  The first time we road “home” from a day of ministry on our bikes, I rode behind Pete and OJ.  Judah was in a seat nestled on Pete’s handlebars, and Ariel was behind OJ’s seat.  The weather was perfect, the kids were squealing, and the surrounding was gorgeous.  Our base liason brought us a road map…for bike paths.  There are more bike racks than parking spaces, and it is how everybody gets around, even (or maybe especially) the older folks. 

Our schedule was intense, especially since Erin had gone back to Tacoma.  We were down to one prayer team for the week, and trying to pray for everyone on the base at least once.  We had a few chances to teach the staff in the mornings and one evening, and the rest of the days were spent in prayer, rotating OJ, Pete and me through as the team.  The hardest part for me to relinquish to the Lord is always the kids, as I have so little control in these weeks over their experience.  I have had to trust Him that He’s going before us to prepare good things for them, over which I have no say.   And He’s blown my mind with His faithfulness to them.  This week in the Netherlands was so filled with sweet experiences and gifts from God to the kids, it overwhelmed me.  Heidebeek is nestled on some fields with a centre, a dining hall, and some bungalows for the base’s families.  Across from the family bungalows is a playground, big sandbox, and pigpen with two furry fat pigs in it.  In the bungalows are a whole community of toddlers and preschoolers who are free to play in the sunshine in front of their homes in total safety.  The base also has a preschool with ladies who love kids taking care of them for a few hours every morning.  They welcomed Ariel and Judah and allowed them to join the other kids for excursions to the playground, stories, games, etc.  By Wednesday Ariel was singing a little song in Dutch.  In the afternoons, Judah could nap in the crib in the empty preschool room.  I know I’m writing as a Mom right now, but as we have watched the Lord do miracles for person after person in the prayer room, these are the miracles He’s done for me, filling my heart. 

Ariel, Judah, and I walked down the lane for a walk one day (walks with a one year old and three year old are best when there’s no destination and you’re willing to lose a race with a snail), when a little buggy behind a dwarf horse came clopping up the road.  The kids were thrilled just to see it, when the driver pulled to a stop in front of us and asked, “Are you from the Tacoma team?”  I had no idea who she was, but affirmed that we were, and she immediately offered to pull the kids up for ride, right behind the little horse’s rump.  It was a huge treat for them, one that we could never have planned for.  Their days were filled with things like this, and all my ability to plan out good things for my kids were thoroughly trumped by God’s design for the week.  I’ll never forget riding a bicycle with Judah on the handlebars between my elbows, shouting, “Good morning, birdies!  Good morning, chickens!  Whoa…dat’s a big one, mama!  Big one!  Whoa, mama…we go fast!” 

I’ll put the stories of ministry in another blog, as this is getting so long.  One final story of Judah and his interactions with the animals…OJ took him over to look at the pigs in the pen one day, and after glaring at them for a moment, he began to address them with authority.  “You go over there, pig!  Get away, pig!  You go away, pig, right now!”  We had a good laugh over that.  That Judah…he’s one biblical baby.

At the last minute, we were thrilled to find out that a trip we thought had been cancelled was still on, so we jumped online and bought tickets to Norway.  Pretty fun, eh?  “Hey, kids, we’re going to Norway this weekend!”  Pete (who’d left for a little time in the states) and Erin (who’d been on a short trip to Germany) were both going to come join us at a base called Grimerud.  Our Swedish friend drove us to the airport, and we asked him loads of questions about this country that we knew hardly anything about.  We asked him because Norway is right next to Sweden.  He said:

• It was like Sweden, but more beautiful
• It was on the coast with lots of fjords
• they could understand each other’s languages

Needless to say, that is not a ton of information, and we were in for a huge surprise.  I’m actually writing this from the train that is taking us to the airport for our departure, so I’m looking back over an incredible week.  I will save the best part (what the Lord did during this week) for another blog and just tell you about this nation. 

I’ll just say this, I’m glad Norwegians aren’t Americans, although many Americans are Norwegian.  See, Americans are sort of known for thinking that they’re better than everyone else, but Norway could actually make a case for it.  Fortunately, that’s not their attitude.  Unless you can count the long dark tunnel our train took us through, I have not yet seen a landscape (city or country) that is less than lovely, and many that are stunningly gorgeous.  It’s early spring, but there are not so many flowers as slender trees with new leaves, rolling fields, blue lakes, and hills.  And, as the natives have told us, this is just the eastern side; the west is much more beautiful. 

Most of the countryside is made up of perfectly proportioned and manicured small farms. Our train ride lasted three hours, and I didn’t see a sloppy yard or broken down fence, or even a farm house with faded paint.  You really have to see it to believe it.  Not only is illiteracy basically unheard of, just about everyone speaks English well.  When I asked a friend if there was any poverty, he mentioned that there are some pensioners who struggle due to high rent, and some addicts who are homeless, because their state welfare doesn’t provide enough both for their addiction and rent.   I gaped out the window at what he had mentioned was one of the poorest districts in Norway, struggling to comprehend the concept of a nation with no poverty. 

The day before we left, we had to take Ariel to the emergency room to check for an ear infection after business hours.  The whole process took about fifteen minutes, and the bill was FREE.  There was no one else there, and the doctor herself grabbed us from the waiting room, conducted the examination (briefly), spoke to us in English, and sent us on.  The receptionist informed us that anyone under 12 was totally free.  I know, I know, you’re wondering if this is heaven.  But the downside was that while she did diagnose Ariel with an ear infection (she supposed, she couldn’t see all the way into the ear), she simply responded with the same prescription the moms on base had given me, a nasal spray, drops of oil in the ear, and pain killers.  She was adamant that they would not prescribe antibiotics until several days of natural treatment and severe pain.  So…most Americans would not feel too heavenly about that.  We’re used to getting antibiotics the moment the cold becomes an ear infection.  Probably their way is better, but it takes some fortitude.  When I asked her if there was a danger of Ariel’s ear drum bursting on the flight, she shrugged and said, “It’s always a chance.”  The Lord’s peace kept me.  Ariel had been really sick an hour before, crying with pain, and we had prayed over her.  Seeing a picture of the Lord touching her ear, I still felt we should visit the doctor to make sure we should fly.  By the time we were at the doctor, Ariel had no pain, and was chatting up a storm with her new Norwegian friend in the white coat. 

Our friends at the base were trying to convince us to come back, informing us that in addition to a free birth, the government would give us $6,000 for having a baby (as long as I was not working).  Diaper money?  Things are different in the richest country in the western world…or according to the Norwegians, the highest income per capita in the world.  I have to check that stat, but they’re definitely up there. 

So…if you’re not bored yet, here’s a little explanation as to why they are so rich.  Even historians and sociologists agree, it is because of the Bible.  In the 1850’s a young farmer was set on flame for God, and was convinced that everyone should preach the gospel and so set out on foot and skis to tell the whole country so.  At the time, only clergy of the state church were allowed to preach, and so this upstart ushered in revival.  The whole country was affected, and the church was filled with true believers.  Over the next hundred years, there were many movements of God, with periodic revivals.  At this point, 98% of the nationals are members of the state church, and our friends tell us that most of the clergy are actually believers (unlike many European countries).  The top leadership of the church, though, is of course political, so that is not true all the way up to the top.  One statistic I read said that only 2-3% of Norwegians actually regularly attend church, making it one of the least “religious” countries in Europe.  So while it is currently becoming quite secular, the heritage of godliness and devotion is so complete and widespread, affecting every tradition and basically producing the foundations of the current culture, Norway is incredibly blessed.  The next generation is like the rest of the world, though.  Empty and looking for something real.  Which brings us to the point of the trip!  And the next blog!

Shortly after arriving in England, we took a couple days to visit my dear roommate from college and meet her dashing new husband, David. We toured a bit around Nottingham, laughed a lot, totally took to the new hubby, and remembered why we love Eb. Oh, and, of course, we prayed. The kids got to see a real, old castle (from the outside), and we ate at a pub that claims to be the oldest inn in England. It was a fabulous visit. Here’s pic of the kiddos, with the real Robin Hood, whom they recognize thanks to classic Disney. “I thought Robin Hood was a fox, not a man!”

The Kids in Nottingham

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We spent our last days in Tacoma with sweet intentionality, visiting favorite places, taking long walks, remembering the spot where Ariel had sung nursery rhymes, Judah had first kicked a soccer ball (excuse me, a football), and OJ and I had frolicked in fields of flowers.  We shared our hearts for hours with soon to be missed friends over lattes and macchiatos (oh, for a decent cup of coffee!!!), hugged each other tightly, and journalled our feelings in preparation for our long journey.  Oh, wait, I haven’t done any of those things since I was an unemployed young adult.  Let me think back…it would have been in college, and probably most of those conversations with friends would have revolved around complaining about being too busy. 

No, actually, our last few days were manic, with a thousand details that had not or could not have been addressed previously.  Wow, moving overseas with two toddlers is a trip.  In the psychotic drug sense.  We moved (mostly) out of the condo the weekend before.  (In case you’re wondering, “the condo” refers to our abode for the past 8 mos, a place that was graciously provided by some dear friends since we sold our house.)  In another more removed graciously provided abode, we took a couple days to sleep, and then continued on with the preparations.  What preparations, you ask?  Mud masks?  Theology courses?  More like painting over the spots where the kids had drawn on the condo’s walls, throwing away thousands of dollars of we can’t remember what (man, I thought we purged after we sold the house!), trying to figure out how to pack me approximately four wardrobes to cover the many climates and growing-baby belly sizes we would encounter on the trip, handing over our business to be run by a cat called “Rusty,” selling furniture on craigslist, and not writing this blog.  Suffice it to say, I only just now cancelled the DSL online.  Well, sent them an email asking them to, anyway.  We’ll see how it works out. 

During that time, Ariel and Judah subsisted on chicken nuggets (I believe these have been mentioned in previous posts), cheeseburgers, and daily servings of Veggie Tales.  Those poor kiddos were champs, coaching semi-insane parents through the ups and downs and reminding us to eat fast food regularly. 

It was a marathon to the end, Monday, March 24, the day our plane would take off at 10 in the evening.  OJ and I put the kids in the tender care of some good friends, and danced the day away in a delicate tango of phone calls, packing, and twisting our ankles.  No, I’m not kidding!  Both of us!  So when Brian Moberg (aka B Mobes) dropped us off at the airport that evening, Ariel was pushing Judah in the stroller, and OJ and I were both limping behind smart carts loaded with more luggage than we could see over.  We winced and pushed our way over to the desk, and prayed that our bags would not be too heavy.  The attendant had mercy and pretended that the airline didn’t charge for overweight bags, and so we hobbled through security and began to pray for our ankles.  By that point, we were just laughing.  Laughing at how many balls we had dropped, how badly we had failed all our own standards, how decidedly unglamorous we were, how rediculous our state, and the fact that in our exit we may have let everyone down we knew in one way or another, but we had managed to obey the Lord.  And that was all we could say on our own behalf.  And it was good.   Getting here was a birth, with all that entails, but as we got on the plane, there was such a relief.  “Here comes the good part.”

  And so we flew through the night, loving the British Airways hospitality, stretching the kids out on the empty seats next to us (thank you for empty seats, Jesus!), and feeling the post-partum high.  To Heathrow, England!

They always say that God will come through in the eleventh hour!  If you were to put the timeline of our leaving Tacoma for this trip onto the face of a clock, and we sold our house in the first hour, I’d say this miracle came at 11:59.  We planned for it somewhere around 7, and sweated through our shirts about it until 10:30, when things got so hairy that we didn’t even have time to think about it.  You see, there were about five million things to do to extract ourselves from our American lives and execute a McDowell migration, but the facilitator of it all was the money that we’d need to come from the sale of our car, in order to cover the expenses of the trip.  We tried to sell it for a couple of months.  It’s a comical thing to try to sell a car that you use to transport toddlers.  After multiple chicken nugget vaccuumings, amateur detailing, paint touch ups (we know a guy who does that), and car washes, we had sold a whole lot of nada.  Only one test drive.  So the time came for move out of the condo and pack the bags we’d put on the plane, and we still didn’t have money for the trip.  We did, however, have a sweet ride, which would have helped if the bridge to England were finished.  (Personally, I’m hoping for one to Hawaii first.) 

 So on the Wednesday before our plane departed, we received a mysterious voice mail.  According to this voice mail, our little crossover was eagerly desired by and locally unobtainable to a certain gentleman in the Ukraine, and he would like to buy it and put it on a transport ship to be the only Outlander in Kiev.  Or somewhere.  We were suspicious.  Experience with craiglist will do that to you.  Tentatively, we began negotiations, really having no choice. 

Long story short, on the very last business day before we left the country with a possibly empty bank account, we met our potential buyer (who was dealing on behalf of his friend overseas) at 8:30 am at 72nd street Starbucks, where, as we all know, many a shady deal has gone down.  The tall friendly redheaded guy we met there was about the least shady character yet to visit that Starbucks, and within 2 hours, we had signed every legal paper necessary, transferred the title at the DOL, authorized release of the lien, and tanked the bank account with necessary funds for eating in Europe for the next couple months.  I couldn’t believe the grace of God. 

Right before he drove away, I asked our new friend Yaroslav if he had ever been part of a miracle before.  He told us that right before he was to move to the USA from the Ukraine, he had no money for the trip and needed to sell his car.  He said that he had prayed, and 2 days before his departure date, his car had sold.  He was happy to have passed on the miracle.  We said farewell to the Outlander, and wished it a Bon Voyage.  Hopefully it is getting to experience 110 mph once in a while, and bringing something fresh to a faraway place, a place where the likes of it hasn’t been seen before.  Hmmm…wonder if there’s a deeper meaning there…