Fink Family Frolics

What’s Wrong with Candy Land?

In these trying times, sometimes it’s important to look at the deeper more fundamental questions of life… For example, Candy Land – blessing or curse?

Until this time of social isolation, I had not considered this question in any great depth. But now, after 137 rounds of this fine game, I resolve to write my true feelings.

Do you remember playing the card game War as a child? It’s a completely deterministic game with absolutely no strategy. Candy Land is exactly the same. I’ve considered pre-arranging the cards just to make the game more interesting. You may call this cheating, but when you play with a 3 year old, the objective of the game changes from winning to getting the “fun candy cards.” A gratifying victory, without several candy cards drawn is an utter failure.

Also, what health expert approved a candy game? (Talk about subliminal messaging.) The game is probably owned, through various shell companies, by Nestle or Hershey (possibly by Brazilian sugar farmers). Play Candy Land and increase your sugar intake by 10%, 20%,… 30%?

Thanks for listening to my rant. I’m sure many of you have similar feelings. At the end of the day, Candy Land is not about strategy or winning, it’s about seeing the excitement and delight on your child’s face, when they get that peppermint card, even when it takes them back. Or, it’s about them turning their ginger bread man around to talk to yours as they journey toward King Candy’s Castle. It’s about the connection – having fun with my worthy opponent.

Even so, after 3 games, I’ll do something else… anything… maybe even write another blog.

The Grocery Store

I have fond memories of going to the grocery store. For a “brief” period during my freshman year, that was one of the few places, my mother and I thrived together. There is a sense of purpose and artistry in grocery shopping that appeals to me. The food is arranged in aisles, showing off the artistry of colors, shapes, and sizes. Practical beauty — just my cup of tea!

So, fast forward to child number one and now grocery shopping becomes a mountain to be climbed, a hill to be conquered, a race to be won. Now, I have approximately one hour to get through the store, drive home, unload my groceries, and feed my baby before she starts yelling. My priorities change, but the challenge is still stressful…er, thrilling. Then comes child number two, and now the grocery shopping thing has really transformed. Now, returning from a trip feels like I’ve climbed Mount Everest! I want to shout from the produce aisle, “Did you see that!? I just calmed my fussy baby, while saving the apples from an avalanche started by my three year old, AND still managed to purchase some for our lunch! We may be leaving the store because of a melt down and an unexpected cluster feed after purchasing only three items, but I’ll be back Mount Everest! You can’t beat me grocery store! We need food! Still, during the first 6 months, it was time to call in the troops. Daddy/Oldest Daughter grocery shopping was initiated.

Fast forward to Oman and I decide this is a mountain I’d like to climb. A “hill worth dying on.” After several weeks with my mother-in-law helping, she returns to America, and we are now “on our own.” However, the kids are older, the grocery store is closer, and I’m in the honeymoon phase of culture shock. So, its time to grocery shop Mount Everest style!

We arrive at the grocery store only 20 minutes after the baby’s morning nap, and I’m patting myself on the back. Everyone went potty. The baby is fed. I remembered the baby carrier. The plan for three year old meltdowns is in place. As we enter the first floor to ride the escalator up to the grocery store floor, my three year old turns to me, “I have to go potty.” I know this is for real because we’re standing near her favorite part of the store, the escalators. She wouldn’t be asking unless she really had to go. So…across the first floor we trek to the bathroom. We enter the first stall and…its a squatty potty.

For those of you who haven’t experienced one of these, its basically a porcelain hole in the ground where you literally “squat” (get it?) to go. I check to see if all the stalls are squatty potties while trying to keep my voice light and excited for my three year old “lover of new things.” Hmm…every. single. stall. I don’t know where other bathrooms are, so I decide we’re going to do this! I’m wearing the baby the carrier in front, but this isn’t my first rodeo. I’ve used squatty potties in China! I squat and explain how to go. I’m pretty proud of myself for not tipping over and remaining calm, even slightly upbeat. I finish and am literally cheering on the inside when I turn and look down. I’ve missed. Yep. There’s now a small puddle of pee on the floor instead of inside the porcelain hole. But, I manage to appear like its a normal thing. I wipe up the pee and show my three year old where to stand. She squats over it like a professional, but as any curious three year old would be, leans over to look, unknowingly flipping her hair directly into the hastily wiped up “pee puddle” I just created. Cringing inwardly, I try to get her attention, but she is focused. Sadly there is nothing I can do. So, vowing to give her a thorough bath later, we escalator up to the grocery store floor.

We are standing in the frozen food section only three items into my shopping list when Ruth tugs at me urgently again. “I have to go potty!” This time, I’m not nearly as calm. “Are you serious Ruth?? You went at home AND downstairs just five minutes ago? Oh, this is so frustrating! Why do you have to go again??” And thankfully, she tells me exactly what I need to hear, “Because I’m learning to go potty.” Sigh. Grit teeth. Look for a checkout. Grab two more items. Try to smile and keep three year old distracted as the line moves at a glacial pace.

Once through the line, we race off. Picture a running mama, wearing a baby, pushing a cart sideways with a three year old hanging on the other side of the cart. (Here, if you try to push the cart using the actual cart handle, it pulls to the right so much it looks like you’re trying to knock over the person next to you.) We manage to find restrooms. A reprieve, the second floor potties are American style! (I internally cheer!).

After our second…no third trek to the potty, I am bushed! We find a spot to sit and munch on some local cheese bread. We finish our shopping and head home. Wow, climbing mount Everest, er grocery shopping was tough today! Did lunch appetites get ruined? Yep. Did naps get pushed back? Yep. Was it worth it today? Maybe. Will it be worth it next week? Ask me after I’ve had my nap!

Fixed by the Washer

We arrive at 2am, sleep for a few hours, and wake in the haze which is jet lag. But, we only brought enough towels and clothes for a few days. So, it’s time to master that modern convenience, the washing machine.

For those who don’t know me, I mastered the washer at a young age, doing my own laundry in high school, while of course maintaining my single-load jeans and T-shirt fashion statement.

Marriage changes you, or at least your laundry techniques… And fashion.

Back to Oman… The washer is… utterly normal – a few knobs, a start button, and of course the water temperature dial. Sarah starts the first load and quickly discovers that the cold cycle is quite hot. That’s a problem, if you like the color of your clothes.

Like an overzealous engineer on jetlag, I suspect that the water hoses in the back need swapped. I feel the cold hose. It is indeed warm- simple fix; proceed with repair. However, there’s a problem. One of the water shut off valves is partially blocked. Attaching a hose to a running (half running) spiquet shouldn’t be too difficult, right?

Now, let’s take a step back. For you system engineers and project managers, consider the risk profile. Probability of risk realization is low in my assessment. However, what happens if I can’t get the hose back on? The floor floods – high Impact!! By the way, the washer is on the top floor, and I don’t have many towels, even less if I want to shower that day.

Back to the present… I can do this! Off comes the active water hose. I’m soaked, getting more soaked, and quickly becoming desperate to attach the hose. I do! And, the story should end here…

However, in Oman it’s hot enough to heat the cold water in the pipes. So, apparently the hoses were correctly connected from the start. So, can I switch them back? Well, my confidence is high now. I did it once, albeit traumatically. What’s one more time?

And once again… Off comes the active water hose. I’m soaked, getting more soaked, and quickly becoming desperate to attach the hose. I struggle for several minutes. There’s a large quickly expanding puddle on the floor, and the water continues to run.

Moral of the story: if you move overseas, give it a few days before doing any plumbing work.

In the end, I yanked the blocked water shut off valve until the flood stopped, and then reconnected the hose. Other lessons learned: Ask the locals, it will all come out in the wash, or just send your wife ahead.

Thanking the Lord for a safe trip (Part 1)

We arrived at the opulent Oman airport. There were perhaps 40 cab drivers lining our route as we stepped outside, each with a sign, and each dressed in long shirts – down to their ankles – and caps. Our host and one other gentlemen drove two vehicles fully packed with suitcases, stroller, backpacks, etc. along the coast and past several mosques to Joel and Sarah’s new home. It looks like something out of a Humphrey Bogart movie – maybe Casablanca. You drive into the courtyard and the gate closes. The entry is imposing as you look up a winding marble stairway to the third floor. The house echoes. It is huge! Marble floors throughout. High ceilings with crown moulding. The walls are all white, and the furniture is dark, walnut or cherry, and the chairs are upholstered. There is a formal dining room that seats ten. The US Ambassador to Oman is a neighbor.

There are 4 bedrooms upstairs – two of which have balconies with white columns. The fifth bedroom on the third floor also has a balcony. From it you can see the Sea Of Oman and, looking the other way, see the mountains. A highway threads its way along the base of the mountains, and the sun reflects its brilliance from walls and turrets of marble… none of which I know or can identify, but all of which are rich and imposing. It also looks like there might be a concrete riverbed for the torrent of water that might come with rain.

Ruth and I played hide and seek up on the third floor when we discovered that the heavy drapes made a perfect hiding place. The giggles I heard from the drapes gave her away. My hiding place behind the door she found pretty quickly. Caveat: The opulence of the house is currently interrupted by the Marc’s bags on the door handles for trash and a few suitcases here and there, but it’s a reminder that flesh and blood people live here and we’re in a settling in mode.

As I crawled into bed that night, the coldness of the house and the strangeness of the culture, settled in, but Joel and Sarah brought warmth and light again as they knocked on my door to give me a hug and say goodnight.

The Rock

A little explanation as a part of the “first” blog post. We (Joel, Myself, and whoever is visiting at the moment (aka, Carolyn Dunbar. 😉 are beginning this blog to catalogue the hilarious, sentimental, and life altering moments of our time in Muscat, Oman. The first post is a rather serious one from Sarah a few weeks before we left. (Stay tuned for a delightful read tomorrow from Carolyn about the first night of our arrival and an entertaining post the following day involving Joel and a washing machine…)

September 21st, 2019: Its 7am and miraculously, no one else is awake yet. I’m sitting here pondering our move to Muscat, Oman in a few short weeks. Despite months of planning, the move feels real now. The house feels empty. The walls are bare. The chest freezer is open. The fridge down to the last dregs of food. I feel empty inside too. Physically. Emotionally. Relationally. Empty is too sterile of a word, I feel drained. Like all the air that puffed up our house to its real size has been let out and now its floppy…now I’m floppy…and flat. All that hot air that represents the striving and the lying, the smiling and the trying. All that hot air, the blown up image that I’ve carefully crafted – it doesn’t have substance. It was built on lies. The lie that I must “do” in order to be worth “being.” The lie that it all depends on me. The lie that If I just try hard enough, they…no I’ll be satisfied. The lie that if I “just get it right” the outcome will be positive.

And the pump, the pump that filled the puffed up house I thought insulated me – it was fueled by fear. With each pump fear helped keep it inflated. Fear of exposure. Fear of rejection. Fear of pain. Fear that those lies were true.

It feels as though I’m at the beach and I’m the foolish man who just built his house on the sand. I’ve always loved the end of that song, “…and the house on the sand went SMASH.” There is something so satisfying about a smash. It implies Imperfection. Messiness. Exposure. Surrender.

So now I’m staring out at the empty sea, the sand, and my inflated house at my feet. The pump of fear has been smashed by the slow constant beating of the waves of love. The love that says, “I’ve got you.” The love that says, “Its safe to trust Me.” The love that says “I delight in you.” The love that says, “Its gonna be ok. You’re gonna be ok.” I feel the wind on my face mingled with the spray of salt water – I actually feel it. The puffed up house no longer shuts out the love. I feel…real. Exposed. Messy. Drained. Surrendered. Loved. The irony is, my first instinct is to start looking for rocks to build with – but then I realize, they’d still be built on sand. I stand there wondering what to do. I feel the spray on my cheeks and the wind in my hair and I sense an invitation to sit. An invitation to weep.

An invitation to “be.”

An invitation to rest.

So I sit… still at last. And as I glance down,

I discover I’m sitting on a beautiful, large rock.