EACH.

I've been a part of a lot of memorable things in downtown Detroit. I've been to a block party in front of Michigan Central Station, I've seen a friend debut his art at a gallery showcase off of Michigan Ave., and I was one of thousands that cheered Justin Verlander on to his no hitter at Comerica Park in June of 2007. My heart swelled with pride when I walked the streets of Detroit in 2009 as NCAA fans from all over the country came for a visit to cheer on their teams in the Final Four at Ford Field, and I've been in awe of everyday people who've run marathons along the Detroit River.

You see, moments like that fill me with an energy that is unmatched by anything else. Moments where I get a glimpse of the potential of the city. Moments where streets are filled with people, and restaurants have waits to get in, and where life is pumped into the veins of a city that is too often dismissed as dead.

Saturday was a day that I'll add to that list of things that happen in Detroit that make me proud.

Aud eyed the skies as we drove down 75 to meet up with the other EACH walkers Saturday morning. "I wonder how many people are going to decide not to come because of the rain", I said. It was dark, cold, and windy. The wipers were on, the skies were grey, and we were both armed with rain jackets and umbrellas. Chances were it wasn't going to be comfortable, but we were committed to walking in prayer for the city and its people. And with the walk scheduled to go on at 9am, rain or shine, turning back wasn't really an option.

EACH (Everyone A Chance to Hear) is a movement taking part in the Detroit area. In a nutshell, it's a commitment from over 500 churches in Metro Detroit to spread the gospel, and to do our part to rebuild the city. The walk on Saturday was dedicated to prayer, but the full vision of the EACH mission goes far beyond that. In addition to prayer, believers in Metro Detroit are committing one million man hours to physically build up Detroit between Easter of this year and 2012. It's amazing.

Some might have shrugged it off to coincidence that by the start time of 9am the skies had cleared and the sun stretched its long rays all the way down to the parking lots in front of Comerica Park, but I know better. And as Audry and I waited to meet up with friends, we heard one elderly gentleman say to another, "look at the heavens opening!". Umbrellas were closed, and with a joke by one of the pastors about how it was helpful to have a local weatherman on the planning team for the walk, the events carried on as scheduled. And not one drop of rain fell on the group as we worshiped together.


There was a lot of representation from different churches, as pastors from all over the area stepped up to the mic to share greetings, scripture, and what their encouragement and vision was for EACH. It was powerful stuff, and mixed between the songs of worship were words of truth. Truths that reminded us of the following:

* The ground we were standing on was holy.

* There was healing happening in Detroit.

* Our city will rise. Because if Jesus is powerful enough to rise from a tomb, what makes you think He can't take a city like ours, and bring it to life?

As emotional and spiritual as it was to be worshiping with upwards of 20,000 believers in a parking lot in Detroit, my favorite part of that time probably had to do with a lone man in a red shirt. As voices were echoing the chorus of "How great is our God", I noticed a man standing in the window of an apartment, many stories up. He had the window open, and after taking a few pictures, was just standing there... watching. Watching because I'm sure it was the first time he must have been woken up on a Saturday morning, in the city of Detroit, to 20,000 voices singing praises to our creator. And trust me, it was an awesome sight. I had chills, I had watery eyes, and most of all, I was filled with thankfulness for all the people gathered, and their partnership in doing something positive, in the name of Jesus, for the city of Detroit.



Attorney Shannon Holmes, Director of Detroit's Human Resources Department shared the following scripture in the words she delivered to those gathered, "... if my people, who are called by my name, will humble themselves to pray and seek my face and turn from their wicked ways, then I will hear from heaven, and I will forgive them their sin and will heal their land" - 2 Chronicles 7:14. And so with that, the appointed thousands took to the streets, and prayed for our city to be healed.

The walk was 1.6 miles. It went from Comerica Park, down Woodward to Jefferson before turning around and back to where we started. There were praise bands from different churches on random corners, filling the route with music; and as far as the walkers went, the group included verbal praisers, scripture readers, singers, silent prayers, and more impressively, one body of believers.

There are days when I get discouraged with what's happening in Detroit. Days when I'm disappointed, and am not sure what the answer to my question of, "what is going to make this better?" is. But shortly after the walk, the scripture from Matthew 9 came to mind, "the harvest is plentiful, but the workers are few"... And I thought, "20,000 people doesn't exactly sound like a few". I know the work to be done in spreading the gospel and building up a crumbling city isn't going to be easy. But, I also know that it does something for your confidence in movement actually happening when you know you've got at least 19,999 other people wanting the same thing. and showing up.

I was encouraged by the turnout, and for the most part found myself thinking, "I'm so glad this is how we're reflecting Jesus today". I can't tell you how proud I felt seeing person after person thank Detroit police officers for not only coming down that day, but for being willing to serve daily in our city. These were people I was proud to walk alongside on Saturday, and it left me inspired about the year of service to come. Detroit is going to be transformed.

I'm excited that I've been chosen to be a part of something like this. I'm excited for the events that are yet to come in the name of this movement. I'm excited to sign up to do my part in chipping away at those one million hours for our city, and I'm excited to see what it will look like to have us Christians bring more Heaven to Detroit in the coming year.

For more information on what's going on with EACH, check out their website @ eachtoday.com .

Remembering where I hid the baby.

It's common knowledge that Audry is the family baker. But when time got short on Tuesday night, I had to step in to help the baker finish her Mardi Gras masterpiece.

Aud: "you know, this is what it would be like if we had our own bakery."

Me: "slaving away over frosting and pounds of cream cheese at night?"

Aud: "yup."

And so there we stood. Opposite each other at the kitchen counter. While the neighbors were going to bed, and as the clock struck 11pm, we were only getting started.

Audry worked hard to kneed the dough, and I created the filling (that when looked at as a whole was rather excessive - 2 pounds of cream cheese?!!?). So work we did. I manned the hand mixer, casually wiping away any sugary cream cheese that propelled its way onto the counter, and Audry rolled and stretched the dough, occasionally asking, "does this look 36 inches yet?"

If you're wondering, Yes, there was meaning to our "burning the midnight oil: bakery edition" madness.

The reason is tradition. When my cousin Teri joined our family years ago, she brought with her stories of growing up in New Orleans. All over her house there are fleur de leis', she loves talking about NOLA's streetcars, and you can bet that when the Saints won the Superbowl, she was telling everyone about how much she wished she could have been down there for the celebrations.

Last year, to bring a bit of home to Teri during Mardi Gras, Audry made her a Kings Cake. It's a Louisiana tradition, that is basically a cake where the colors of New Orleans (in sprinkles!) are used to decorate it, and a tiny plastic baby is hidden inside. There's more to it, but for not.boring.you.with.the.details purposes, I'll keep moving on. What you need to know is that whoever finds the baby in their piece is supposed to make/bring the cake to the next celebration. See. It's a fun tradition!

watch out... baby on a mixer!

Anyway, last year you would have thought someone surprised Teri with a member of her family when Audry walked through the doorway with that cake in hand. Teri's face lit up, her mouth dropped open, and an exclamation of, "you made a Kings Cakeeeeee!" sounded from her mouth. She loved it.

To have a family tradition exist, someone has to start it. So with 2010 being the inaugural year, 2011 had expectations of a Kings Cake being at the first family dinner after Fat Tuesday. I love the thought of Teri bringing our family that tradition. It's doubtful we would have ever had it without her, and because she packed it away to bring with her when she moved North, my whole family gets to share in the fun of the Mardi Gras season! We love it.

and if you were wondering, my mom left Audry a message tonight, "don't worry about who got the baby. Last night when I was cutting a piece for Nic to take home, it fell out and i just squished it back in for them". So I guess another year worked out nicely. Looks like mama Moiseeff is off the hook, and Ms. New Orleans herself will be providing the cake next time ;)

Snow Day.

They are the two words that held the power of instant bliss during my school age years. And today, those very words rang true for the first time as an adult. And I'm convinced I loved them just as much.

I love Winter. I really do. Sure, part of it was making a conscious decision to love it, but it worked, and now I embrace it. If it's going to snow, I want a huge blanket of it. I want every inch of nasty brown grass to be covered with fresh, white, crunchy snow! I want there to be shovels out and plows on the road. And if it so happens that every ten years I get a snow day... I'll take it.

The day has been full of things I daydream of when I'm at work. For starters, I actually got to watch the Today show. I sat on the couch in my PJ's with a hot cup of coffee, and watched Al Roker report from Chicago, 17" deep in what "Snowmagedon" left behind. I was snuggled up with the house blinds open, while the white flakes danced past the window. They blew left to right, and then in sudden gusts, plunged to piles of others just like them on the ground. It was pretty near perfect, and exactly what I like to see Winter looking like.

I had decided last night, that if given the day off, I would spend it in appreciation. So, when lounging time was over, Aud and I bundled up, put Walter in his dog sweater, and we went outside. The air was cold, but not bitter, and the feeling of snowglobe was all around! I just loved it. I loved the contrast of the intricate white flakes on my black sleeves, the quietness of outside as most people were still tucked away in, and the realization that Winter IS breathtaking.

The day has been lovely. It really has. And for now, it's time to focus on the movie we just started watching. Because this scene too, is a beautiful thing. All 3 of us at 2239 have the bonus of this snow day. So today, we're going to watch in the midst of each others company.

In the meantime, enjoy the day! Delight in the gift and beauty of snow, but most of all be safe! Including you, neighbor who is shoveling his snow as we speak... err... type/read.

Peace.Love.and Snowflakes.

Katy Perry and Zygotes.

I knew what I was getting myself into when I drove home from work yesterday. I got a call from my dad at 5:02pm, and he said that he still hadn't heard from my mom or uncle. Which in turn meant that they still hadn't spoke to a doctor regarding my granny, which meant Hannah would be waiting for me at home.

I walked in the door to find Audry making pizza sauce (yes, making), and Hannah asking her if "zig" was a real word. I stepped into the conversation, and as I washed my hands (re: the impending cold), I said, "I think it might be, but I'm not entirely sure I've ever heard it NOT paired with zag". So she got her dictionary, I got my laptop, and we sat down to find out.

I love my time with Hannah. I say it all the time, but it's true. Her face lights up upon every greeting, and she's such a fun, witty, well behaved girl. And who doesn't appreciate that in an eleven year old? She finished her homework before dinner, and as we ate, we discussed Hannah's love for learning about rocks, hypothesis' on why the cookies she and Aud made were mushy in the middle, and whether Katy Perry is actually a good singer (I voted no).

It's night like that, where it's cold and dark by 6, but inside, all is merry and bright, that I love the motions of life. day to day life. I didn't mind discussing scattered topics while Demi Lovato's newest song played for the 4th time, and I explained what I knew about zygotes. I didn't mind because I love her, and I want to be a part of her growth. I love seeing her get smarter, and funnier, and more beautiful.

Her time at the house ended in a way we both love. She let me snap a few pics of her in front of the Christmas tree, and then a few more of her with Walter the dog. And when I wasn't feeling up to dancing around like a lot of pre-teens do, she opted to dance by herself. And dance she did, with a "do you know the difference between the Jerk and the Reject?" and a "hey! I think I just made up a new dance move!" [don't worry. I didn't know there was a dance called the "reject" either]. Eventually, Audry joined in with her dancing. After all, they both have hair that is great for a good swing. And both of them put it to good use.

And so I snapped away. And I captured the moment. And when her dad called to say he'd be there to pick her up in 15 minutes, she stopped abruptly and asked if that was enough time to get a double French braid. Because apparently, the kids in her class love talking about her hair when it's wavy. And what female doesn't just love a good hair day? So I put my braiding skills to work, and knocked out the cutest of French braids on my favorite model. And took a picture of it, of course.

honey... oh, sugar sugar.

It started around 2 o'clock.

you never really think about your throat until it hurts. And it just crept up on me. It always does. all the sudden, it was there.

At first I thought that it could be cured with a peppermint. That's the optimist in me. The optimist that thought, "it could just be dry. I could just need a drink of water... or a peppermint". and then, after the second one, I started to panic. not a lot, just a little. Because that's what you do when you realize that no matter how deep you dig your heels, you're going to get pushed off the edge into sickness. what a drag.

Getting sick is never convenient.

My brain starts wandering. What if I go to bed, wake up, and feel worse? What if it's so bad that I have to call in. I can't call in. I have patients tomorrow. I can't. I mean, I could. I just shouldn't. and how did I even get sick? and why do I think that I'm more important at work then I really am? but how did I get sick??!? great. I had a massage yesterday. I bet they didn't change the sheets before me. that's nasty. No... I know. great. I was in a hospital yesterday. I probably picked it up from some germ infested visitor. Either that, or it's my roommate that's sick with a URI. great. that's not what I have... is it? it's not. I may be sick, but starting now, I choose NOT to be a hypochondriac. It's probably just a cold. or bird flu.

The real issue is that it's my throat. That's kinda the worst, and I just wanted to complain. I mean, "the worst" until I have the stomach flu or a migraine that won't quit. Then I'll redefine, I'm sure.

And as I sit here on the couch, in a warm house with a glowing Christmas tree, I've decided to take it easy tonight. Relaxing, while I send up selfish little prayers of "please make me better before Friday" between additional prayers for Granny and all the while, catching up on Glee.

I'm going to stay here for now, while I recover and continue to drink tea with my head tilted to the right. This way, the honey can coat the spot that aches when I swallow.

Hopefully filling my sick quota early... that's a real thing, right?

you guys...

Grandpa Ivan.

There's a unique feeling you get when you hear someone has died. For me, it feels like my insides have been flushed. My heart goes to my stomach, and starts searching for a way to get back.

It's an entirely different feeling to be told someone has died, then that they haven't... then that they did. A true roller coaster of emotions.

That's where I spent Monday night, with the news of my grandpas passing. My grandpa had been battling bladder cancer for years, and when he noticed a new pain in his hip last week, my dad took him to the hospital to get it checked out. Come to find out, his hip hurt because there was a fracture. There was a fracture because cancer had spread, and made his hip weak. The doctors were optimistic, and they started treatment. The plan was to stay 14 days at a step down facility while he had chemo, then go home. He was used to this routine, as it was the norm, but this time he didn't make it. But go figure that man didn't go down without a fight. My dad found him dead, then paramedics got a pulse, and for 45 minutes we felt relief. Relief because for a brief time we weren't sure if "grandpa died" actually meant he was dead. We didn't know if our grieving was premature. Because that man had always been a tough Ruski, and to be honest, my family couldn't be too surprised if he opted to fight death with a resurrection. And I found myself thinking, "that man would try to come back from the dead".

But ultimately, his time was up.

His heart couldn't do it anymore.

His fight was over.

I didn't have a "crawl up on my lap" or "sneak you some candy" grandpa. I had a grandpa who lived in the ghetto, let me and my sisters ride in the back of his van with no seat belts (let alone seats), and encouraged me to shoot guns. He started off rough around the edges, but was softened by sugar and spice, and everything else 3 granddaughters bring into a mans life.

My grandpa was always a fighter. Born in communist Russia in 1920, he grew up in an era I'm thankful is history. He fled Russia after refusing to serve in Stalin's army, changed his birthday by 4 years, and successfully covered the tracks that could have led to his instant execution. Upon leaving his homeland, he found refuge, and a wife in Belgium. Within a few years, and 2 small boys later, my Grandpa became hell-bent on getting to Hollywood, CA. It was a land of palm trees, sunshine, and streets paved in gold (so he heard). He wanted a part of it. And when the US wouldn't let Europeans in, they went to Canada first, and entered the states from the North. And they made it. They had the dream, the family, the 1955 Pontiac Star Chief convertible, and an address right off of Sunset Strip. But it seems like my grandpa never had to wait long before it was time to fight again. Times got hard, and when word got out of jobs available for auto mechanics in Detroit, they sold the car (in 1 day), and headed East.

Detroit had a lot of ups and downs. It was a long move, but there was work. It was the place where my grandparents ultimately divorced, but also the place where my dad was given the opportunity to meet his high school sweetheart. my mom. The furthest I've ever moved from home is 60 miles. and it was for the most part, painless, convenient, and low stress. My grandpa had to fight with every one of his. From moving across the world, to being set on staying put in Detroit while the neighborhood around him lost families and gained drug dealers and neglect.

My grandpa wasn't always a good Father or Grandpa or Father-in-Law. There was reason he was called "Ivan the terrible" at times. There was a time I walked away from him in a courtroom in Detroit, when I thought that I would literally never speak to, listen to, or see him again. I had decided that I would remember my childhood memories of stomping grapes in his backyard, ice fishing, playing with the litters of Lab puppies that came around every few years, and package that up as who my Grandpa Ivan was.

A few years later my Dad showed by example (the way only the best dads do) what forgiveness and redemption in action looks like. Day by day he and my grandpa repaired, and rebuilt. And out of that came a new relationship I thought would never exist. When my dad lost his job in March of '09, a new one came up right away. But the new job didn't pay a dime, and yet he didn't turn it down. The job was tending to his ailing Father. And almost every day for the past two years, my dad made the trip from Farmington Hills to Detroit to spend time and care for his dad. Or "Pops", as he called him.

Thanks to Gods gracious intervention, Audry and I went to see our Grandpa the day before he died. He was sleeping when we got there, but popped up with a smile on his face when he saw it was us. In the midst of conversation, he shared with us about how our dad saved his life. And as much as in a lot of ways I knew that was true, I also knew that he wasn't just talking about the days added to his life, but the life added to his years as well.

Life can be a mess. In a lot of ways, it feels that way today. But I'm always thankful for seasons. I'm thankful for joy and for sadness, and for the peace I have knowing that God always knows what He's doing in timing.

An old roommate from college emailed me tonight and said that maybe the whole job loss thing with my dad was what needed to happen in order for the two of them to really be able to spend significant time together. And as hard as the last few years have been financially for my parents, I know that when my dad came home Monday night with tears falling down his face, it was because he lost the man he had grown to know and care for in the last two years.

So tonight, I sign off in peace. The last conversation I had with my grandpa was a deal for me to bring him some bright orange mums, and a friendly argument of who loved who more. I still plan to buy him the mums, but I've found it hard to put into words in this post about the freedom in forgiveness and choosing love. I've found myself taking a lot of deep breaths the last few days. Deep breaths that are filled with realizing I'm not sure what step to take next, but exhaled knowing that I got the chance to close this chapter in a way that was done right. With love.

With the heart of a thankful granddaughter,

E.M.

240love.

There were 7 of you in 1 house?

I think that's the question we get asked most often. Usually followed by a pause... a pause of people waiting to hear about the time so n' so stole the others boyfriend, when what's her name said she hated someone, or when everyone didn't talk for weeks because there is NO way that so many woman could live together under one roof, and not leave hating each other.

But that was never 240.

I was excited for this week because it meant that almost all of us (6/7) would be together again on behalf of our most recent 240 bride, Lindsay. She flew up to Michigan for a mere 36 hours to find a wedding dress, and invited the 240 entourage along. And everyone managed to make that Tuesday afternoon work. Even upon leaving the bridal salon, the manager complimented our group. Admitting he cringed a bit when he saw all these woman walk in for 1 bride, seeing as usually it turns out to be an opinionated mess. But we were an exception.

An exception because there's a reason why we call it 240love.

Because we weren't just your run-of-the-mill college roommates. We had our moments of not seeing eye to eye, but even those times were seasoned with love. We were unique because even though we were all figuring it out, the tie that bound us was being rooted in Christ. We grew from that, together. And when it came time to move out of our great little house with mushrooms by the toilet in the bathroom and cracks on the ceiling, we cried. I never remember feeling as low as I did the days after graduation, when 1 by 1, 6 of my closest friends moved out, and wouldn't be returning the following Sunday night as I was used to.

These days, I feel blessed to be able to look back on those years together with fondness, and full of nostalgia. I had a unique college experience, and woven intricately into the fabric of it, were the women of 240. We laughed together, cooked together, rode to class together, danced together, and even raised a puppy together. There's a reason we'll always love hearing about "science projects", and always have a soft heart for the maintenance man that called Dasha, "hotshot".

Those memories from college keep getting further away, but we just value them more and more. And when we have to plan months in advance for reunions these days, it's an automatic priority. When we thought about the location of the 240, 2010 reunion last month, Cincinnati made sense. It's just about halfway between Detroit and Nashville (our two furthest points). And it wasn't until we were back home that Sunday that it was brought to my attention how good we have it. We went to pick up Walter from one of Kristen's friends homes, and when we were telling her husband about the trip, he said, "so 5 of you drove all the way to Cincinnati because 1 person is in Nashville?.... you're good friends". And I thought to myself, we literally never gave a second thought to where we would meet because the important part was to have everyone together. and when you have great friends, it's easy to be a good friend.

So that weekend, every member of 240 found ourselves in Cincinnati late Friday night, and with cupcakes and wine in hand, enjoyed being in our PJ's, under one roof again. Krista tapped into her hospitality roots, and scored us an awesome suite, so we could literally spend every minute of the weekend in each others company. Saturday found us walking in a park, going to the Cincinnati Art Museum, and wine tasting. When that walk we started got too hot to continue, we found retreat in the AC of the art museum. And when we realized that we were not great at appreciating fine art, the culinary type was right up our alley, and we dined in the museums courtyard. Wine tasting turned out to be the dark horse of the trip. Our little known thing, that emerged to prominence. We walked into Cincinnati's, "Wine Merchant", and walked out about an hour later having had some great wine and even better laughs. Our return to the hotel met us with a serious case of the giggles, and when we got around to finally toning it down a bit, engaged in conversation with depth, thanks to Kelsey's good game planning. We made it downtown for a late dinner at Cincinnati's "Nada" restaurant, and when we were told of a long wait, we simply enjoyed margarita's outside and the warm air of an Indian Summer. Since one of the ties that binds us all together is our love for {the only colors} green and white, it wasn't too shocking that when mocked by wolverines at the restaurant, our natural defense was to bust out our fight song. voice volume, high. obviously. and we laughed. Because as inappropriate as it was, at the same time, it seemed very appropriate. We finished the night at a bar called, "Cattle Ranch". It was just as fun, and random as I thought it would be. The 7 of us played the nonexistent bachelorette party card, and got in free. And without consuming one ounce of alcohol there, managed to dance it up, crack up, and get thrown off a bull.



I've said it once, and I'll say it again. I love us. I love how we got dealt the best cabbies in the city, I love the mix of conversations, and I love how we've got a past, and security in the future.

I'm thankful to have friends that ask how my family is doing, who let me know how they miss sharing shoes with me, and who constantly show me how to be generous, by the way they live.

And when we parted ways on Sunday, after eating ice cream instead of lunch, we all looked spent. But those faces told a story of what we packed into one weekend. A weekend of great new memories, lots of laughing, and both good and tough love alike. These women gave structure to the roots I have today, and I love my/our story because of it.

240love.