My Hippie Parents Surprise Me Again

My upbringing was pretty unorthodox compared to today’s standards. I would have rather spent time at home, with my brothers and parents than anywhere else.

My parent’s had no health insurance, no credit cards, occasionally a t.v. set, one car (with a one car garage), and all our dinners were made from scratch-which we had together every night.

On top of that, my dad left a “stable” career being active duty military to pursue what God had asked him to pursue. My dad is not a fan of change-so this was not a flippant decision. Let’s just say the man duct-taped his flip flops when the broke, because the new ones probably were “too different”.

So, for several years, they left every weekend to preach and sing at tiny churches all over the midwest. They barely made anything, but they made enough.

Eventually, my little brother and I joined them-Daniel was on the juice harp and piano, while I sang duets with dad or the occasional solo when I could muster up the courage.

No matter what back road we were on, there was always time to pick sunflowers and explore barns.

While in college, my parents moved to El Paso for a few years to teach at a christian school just north of the border and then on to St. Louis to be with my Grandma (my dad’s dad).

And that’s where I thought they would land-forever. The had put down roots for almost 15 years, teaching at another christian school, opening a business and remodeling Grandma’s house.

But when you seek God as my parents do, you never know where He’s going to take you.

In two weeks, they are moving to Mississippi (which is awesome because I love to type all those “s’s”) to live and work here-The Baddour Center.

It’s a Non-Profit center that offers those with intellectual disabilities a safe place to live and work. It’s a cool program: they play intramural sports together, perform dramas, offer continuing education and music programs and even have a beautiful garden center.

(Photo Source: Baddour’s Website)
My dad has taken the job of Choral Director for the Center’s choir called, “The Miracles”. The group’s goal is “to glorify God, demonstrate the abilities of persons with intellectual disabilities, and tell the story of The Baddour Center.”

This job is going to fit my dad like a glove. He gets to put to good use his music and touring skills, taking the group to 90 different concerts throughout the year.

Just when I think I’ve got their future all figured out for them, God shakes things up and moves my hippie parents to another state.

Throughout all these changes in their lives, one thing has been certain. Their hearts seek after God-over comfort and familiarity. And they will go where He leads-no matter what.

What more could a girl ask for?

Grant’s Farm in St. Louis, Mo

Every once in awhile it works out that while we are on tour, we get to stop by to see friends and family. These moments of normalcy bring a balance to the late nights where weird people are left meandering outside the club after a show hoping to catch a glimpse of what I lovingly refer to as the dirty, stinky boys (or girls in some cases).

On this particular day of normalcy, I was able to visit my beautiful, fun and awesome mother. She took me to Grant’s farm-just a short drive away from their home in a suburb of St. Louis.

 

If you aren’t familiar with Grant’s farm, then let me tell you a little bit about it. It’s weird-but in a good way. Named after our President Grant who farmed the land way back when, it eventually was bought up by the Busch family (yeah, that Busch family who makes the beer). Grant’s farm is FREE to get into, it’s right in the middle of sprawling St. Louis suburbia, and espouses a crazy amount of weird animals, live shows, food, train rides and…yes, free beer.

 

We walked around the main portion of the farm, before hopping on the train. This guy received a lot of attention from these here mid-westerners. I couldn’t help but think about the time my Grandma asked Biceps, “One hump, or two?”, about the camel he had ridden at a state fair.

 

This guy was giving me the shy treatment. But later, he came out of his shell.

 

I don’t even know what to say to this. I should have been wearing Bicep’s lederhosen and traversing the side of a steep mountain while herding him back to the stable, followed by several ducks.

 

This proud little bird busily protected his female companions, squawking anytime we got too close.

 

I cannot resist a baby version of any animal. This cute little buffalo plodding along next to his momma just nearly broke my heart. I know he could still kill me if he so desired, but I instead pictured him curled up at my feet in front of the fireplace, with the two kitties asleep on his back.

 

After all of this walking around and riding on of trains, I needed some refreshment. We headed over to a beer garden which felt like I was back in Dusseldorf or Munich or Heidelberg…to taste the Busch beer and rest our own little hooves. In the back of my mind, I knew somewhere a stinky bus awaited me, but I was in heaven-sitting next to my mom, with a cold glass of free beer and the sites and sounds of my homeland, Germany. You can’t beat that.

My Fairly Normal Parents and the Christmas Tree

I have fairly normal parents.
If they were more normal, then I might have had a better chance at not being so weird.
Alas, those are the cards that I have been dealt.
And so, I am weird.

I’m pretty happy with those cards-I like my fairly normal parents.
On a recent tour, Biceps and I were in my parent’s hometown.

Once again, they exhibited signs of weirdness; confirming my suspicions as to why I am so weird.

From across the park, Biceps and I watched as my fairly normal parents investigated the structure of the downtown Christmas tree.

My fairly normal mother realized she was being watched, inviting us over to join them.

Of course, we obliged.
Let’s be honest-Biceps and I were just as curious as my ‘fairly normal parents’ about the tree. We just like to watch from afar and tease a bit first. It’s what we do.
We love you, Mom and Dad. Even if you are weird.