The tooth hangs by a thread, flicking back and forth almost as easily and mindlessly as breathing in and out. If you ask him why he doesn’t just pull it out, the answer is quick and firm: “NO. I DON’T WANT TO.”

H is on the verge of losing his second tooth of the trip. All three boys are hitting growth spurts, including their mouths, and at times it seems their teeth are exploding right out of their bodies.

In Virginia, the Tooth Fairy usually brings $1 for a tooth, but right now we are in Malaysia where one Malaysian Ringgit is equal to about 30 cents. We have lost teeth in at least six different countries this year, some in a more favorable market than others. What is the Tooth Fairy to do about international exchange rates?

Here’s how it has shaken down.

W lost the first tooth of the trip at a restaurant while camping in Iceland. It bled a lot. He received 100 Icelandic Krona, about $0.79.

W lost another one in London. The British Pound is strong! He got £1, which then was about $1.41.

H successfully yanked one in the Lake District, UK, so he scored £1 too.

Then the next day during Art of Language class, W popped out a molar that wasn’t even loose. We were/are a little suspect that perhaps he was just wanting to take advantage of the favorable exchange rate while still in the UK — or he wanted to get out of his writing assignment. Another £1 for him.

Croatia?? Our memory is fuzzy about whether W lost a tooth in Croatia. It sounds familiar, but it seems like he wouldn’t have enough teeth left if this were true. I think he did and got 5 Croatian Kuna, about $.86. But then I borrowed it from him to make change at the grocery….

E worked and worked and worked on a loose tooth for most of December, through Morocco, Greece, and Turkey. At the Bultemas’ New Years Eve party, he had no less than 20 offers to “help” with its removal. It finally came out (on its own) on New Years Day. He received 2 Turkish Lira, which is $1.11.

Only one tooth came out in Africa — W lost an enormous molar in Kenya (see, he is really is exploding). It’s a shame he never bothered to put it under his pillow, so he missed out on 100 Kenyan Shillings, or $1.16.

The bottom line is that it just won’t always be fair — a life lesson worth learning. I tried to tell them they are lucky to have teeth to be losing in the first place, but that didn’t go over so well.

So H’s canine has been loose for quite some time. Rwanda, Kenya, now Malaysia. Will he go for the 3 Malaysian Ringitt ($.97), or will he hold out for 30 Thai Baht ($1.01) next week?

Stay tuned — just don’t offer to pull it out for him.

Boarding Chunnel, bound for France — so cool!

W just said: “Let’s play soccer ” …

I decided to solo pilot a wooden rowboat for the first time this week in the middle of a seasonal gale on Lake Windermere. As if there weren’t enough rainbursts, shallow water buoys, and expensive watercraft to look out for, I spiced up the maiden voyage by propping up my fancy digital camera on the passenger seat to shoot a video goodbye to the Lake District.

The rowing experience didn’t go well – and the story, for another time, involves the tragic loss of a new umbrella that fell overboard … to the delight of a packed tourist steamer, traveling quickly near to my aft, on its way to the other side of the lake.

Here is the goodbye that I’d hoped to say:

Lake Windermere has been crossed by humans for centuries. That’s at least what I read on a signpost along the lake that tourists have been passing for generations.

Two weeks ago, my family’s journey brought us to the Lakes. We were ready to cross through, too – unpack, hike the hills and dales, teach World School, see what Wordsworth once saw, build fires while it rained outside, repack, and move our adventure along to the next stop on our itinerary.

But something happened: we were INVITED IN.

A conversation with Lynn one afternoon on a hiking trail outside our rental home led to Sunday morning worship at a local church where people like Ian and Danielle and Chris and Robin and Michael and Mike introduced themselves to us which led to an evening of singing along with a gospel choir which led to a stairwell conversation and prayer with Mike about an upcoming surgery which led to a Tuesday morning of prayer in the church vestibule which led to dinner with Robin and Michael and Annie and Lucy and Sam (and Becks) which led to fellowship at Si and Di’s house with Shelly, Irm, Michael and Robin which led to S playing piano for the worship team practice Thursday night. That’s a span of just five days.

We have been embraced. We have been loved. We have been shared. We have been fed. We have been led. We have been supported. We have been served. We have been invited in to and ENTERED IN to the Lakes community. We let go. We were held up. And the experience has been deeply and sweetly freeing for our souls.

It’s the kind of feeling I think the boys expressed on a hike this week over the ridge of a mountain range. The five of us were alone. The path seemed infinite. And they let loose. They whooped and ran and laughed. They ENTERED IN to the beauty and the vastness and the power of the scene. (“Further up, further in!”) They let go. And – on a very powerful level – they were embraced, loved, shared, fed, supported, served … and held up.

Somehow, these Lakes weeks have affirmed for us that there is a Plan for our journey.

And – that surprising things sometimes come out of failed rowboat voyages.

Shploock. Shlup.  I cringe just a little as the mud closes over the top of my shoe.  It is a slightly delicious, and slightly disgusting, noise as I pull my foot out for my next step.  I try not to guesstimate the varieties of bacteria and feces mixed in there, so I look up and around. The rain that leaves the ground soggy and saturated also leaves the pastures and the air green and thick.  It is stunning.  And it is muddy.

The mud is unavoidable.  From a distance it is not obvious, blending in with the grass and contours.  But once you are even just steps onto a Lake District footpath, you know that anyone who has ever warned you that the Lakes can be muddy wasn’t joking.  There is no way around — there is only through. If you are Out There, you are In It. It’s not a big leap to consider the goo of the world, the runoff, the leftovers, the byproduct of a well-worn path.  The mud of conflict, mistrust, a hurtful word, cancer, my pride, a strained relationship.

There is a small temptation to stick to the road, to the pavement and gravel of easy walking on the higher road.  It is safe there — mapped out, smooth terrain, and pretty scenic too.  But to try to avoid the mud would be at great cost of missing such richness!  The view from over the fence is only a fraction of the depth in color, sound, smell — not to mention the difference in perspective.

And so I find that the best defense against the mud is a good pair of shoes.   Not necessarily expensive or nice shoes — just the kind that don’t mind the mud. Shoes of courage.  Shoes of compassion.  Shoes of forgiveness.  Of humility and grace.  Tie them on tightly so they don’t get sucked off when the world’s muck gets deeper than expected.

The dog walkers, the hikers, the families, the strollers, and I — we are all out here slogging through the mud together, no one is immune.  I look longingly at the tall rubber wellie boots others wear passing by, thinking those would really solve my problems.  But my stay here in the Lakes is short, and my long term needs are different from theirs.  I try not to compare myself, or my shoes, to other people sharing the path.

By the time I get back to our door, my shoes are nearly unrecognizable, but they have shielded my feet beyond what I expected.  I peel them off without untying them and line them up with the others on the porch.

My shoes dry out overnight, and they sit waiting the next day to take me Out There In It.  The cakes of mud fall away easily and the laces are no longer knotted and swollen with water. My shoes are not the same color they used to be, but like the Lord’s mercies, they are new every morning.  They are a visible reminder of God’s daily mercy to me — Creator, Redeemer, Scrubber of My Muddy Shoes.

Two days ago we went to a Manchester United game. It was so fun! They played a team called Wigan Athletic. I had never heard of wigan athletic before and by the end of the game I knew why: Manchester United Beat them 4-0.Nobody scored in the first half but in the second half Manchester scored 4 goals. We had the last 5 seats in a row. We were at the very top of the stadium with our backs against the wall. The stadium was huge! There were more than 75,000 people in the stadium! There were 3 brothers sitting near us that were huge Manchester United fans. They knew all the songs and they knew all the players names even from a distance. They said a lot of funny comments.It was really fun!

The first picture is the view from our seats.

The second picture is of the 3 brothers. 

This afternoon I was poking at one of my molars and it popped right out! It wasn’t even loose!!!  There was a lot of blood!!  10x as more as on the napkin!!!

This tooth makes three this trip!! One in Iceland, and one in Chilton, England!

I got 100 Krona in Iceland, a pound here and Chilton. By the time we get back, I’ll be rich!!!

The highlight of this week for me has been time spent on just a fraction of the hundreds of miles of public footpaths that stripe the Lake District.  Yellow arrows on wooden posts declare public right-of-way, down roads, along fences, across fields, through pastures, up and down fells and knolls — much of this across privately owned property. We have been walking these paths (the boys prefer the term “hiking”) every day, sometimes following a planned route, and sometimes maplessly winding through the network by whichever way looks interesting or feels right.  These paths cross pastures, meadows, woodlands, creeks.  Through gates, over walls, around fences.  Fences here are used for hemming animals in, not keeping people out.  The sheep, cows and horses we share space with have become familiar friends to us — we stare at them, they stare at us, and we all keep our distance.

It took me a while to get used to this notion, traipsing across someone else’s land sheltering someone else’s animals.  Are we really supposed to be here?  Are you sure this is ok?  Where in the US have we ever found ourselves (on purpose) in a pasture with someone else’s livestock?  Even at our open visit farms at home, the fence separates us from the cows or sheep or horses.  How would this concept go over in our fenced-off suburbia?  At home, we are careful not to cut the corner on the way to the bus stop.  We are mindful to stay on the road as we walk so as not to mat down our neighbor’s grass, feeling self-conscious and apologetic if we have to fetch a stray ball from a neighbor’s bush.

The footpaths in this particular area also seem to serve as an intersection of community.  Dog-walkers, runners, families, serious hikers, evening strollers, children on their way to a friend’s farm. Visitors, vacationers, new neighbors, generational landowners.  Just yesterday, we met a homeschooling family and a woman who sings in the gospel choir of a nearby church. Most of the people I come across in the evening have a look about them, like they are thinking, “I’ve been looking forward to this all day.”  I feel so blessed to have shared in their secret.

Public footpath rules are simple:  Stay to the path.  Don’t bother the livestock.  Close the gate behind you.  The system surely can only work with landowners’ trust and visitors’ respect.

Simple concepts — Trust and Respect — that go a long way.

Hundreds of miles, in fact.

W and H recently paraded around our apartment dressed as mom and dad — wearing our footwear, speaking our expressions, and sporting accurate hairstyles. They even asked everyone to leave the room so they could have a private conversation.

It’s true that we’ve chosen to pursue this year away to nurture family moments just like their comic parade. It’s also true that our marriage — the actual one — needs a healthy dose of nurturing, too.

S and I started a DVD series last night to force ourselves to think (only) about our marriage. (It comes highly recommended and can be found here.) Participants are occasionally asked to talk through some questions, starting with this:

“Tell each other your strongest memory of the first time you met and what first attracted you to one another.”

Sure, it was hilarious that both S and I started the DVD a little too late last night … and we were yawning and yawning as we gamely launched in to memories of our first meeting. The question, though, did help us go back to those early days at William and Mary.

Turns out — just hours later — I just happened to read this poem about the very same topic, entitled “The First Day” by Christina Georgina Rosetti:

I wish I could remember the first day,

first hour, first moments of your meeting me;

if bright or dim the season, it might be.

Summer or Winter for aught I can say.

so unrecorded did it slip away.

So blind was I to see and to forsee,

so dull to mark the budding of my tree,

that would not blossom for many a May.

If only I could recollect it!

Such a day of days!

Let it come and go

as traceless as a thaw of bygone snow.

It seemed to mean so little, meant so much!

If only now I could recall that touch,

first touch of hand in hand! — Did one but know!

Reading that poem, I realized S and I had left out a simple, deeply important bit of narrative when recalling our relationship’s earliest days: If only now I could recall that touch, first touch of hand in hand!

We’d forgotten how powerful a simple, reciprocated TOUCH had been — on the arm, on a hand. Remember? We’re falling in love. We’re spending a lot of time with each other. I touch your hand. And you touch back! I’m falling in love all over again! Kaboom!

I was reflecting on the last two lines of Rosetti’s poem during a walk through town today. I thought: Perhaps simple touches are ingredients to nurturing a marriage during a round-the-clock round-the-world adventure with three boys? A touch on the arm? A lingered glance in to S’s eyes? A quick kiss in the kitchen? Then … I noticed an elderly couple walking ahead of me on the sidewalk.

They leaned in to each other. He had his right hand on the back of her left arm.

They were carrying some heavy bags, and she appeared to be struggling.

Upon reaching them, I said hello and offered to carry her bags because we seemed to be headed in the same direction. He smiled, said they were fine … then explained that he was blind. She mouthed “I’m deaf.” (For real.)

She was his eyes. He was her ears. And they were headed somewhere together. Touching.

I wished them a good journey … then walked on, still reflecting on my own.

Today we took down a barbed wire fence!  We used this crazy tool called a “wee-beastie”  to cut, bend, hammer the wire and to pry out the gigantic staples that fastened the fence to the fence poles (E posted about the “wee-beastie” HERE).  When we got the  barbed wire of the fence we had to roll it up, same with the actual wire fence!

The funny thing was that there were horses that grazed in the field we were working in and they happened to be very curious horses!  So they came over to us and started looking into our back packs!! ( H posted about it HERE)

We did all this work for an organization called “Friends of the Lake District” and they ask for volunteers to repair stone walls, (they’re everywhere in the UK) or paint someone’s walls or in our case take down a fence ;).

All in all, it was a pretty nice experience for us to do some work that we needed!!

Today we volunteered for a group called Friends of the Lake District. We took down a barbed wire fence. We took it down because it had fallen down and the ponies and cows could have gotten tangled up in the barbed wire. The ponies were very curious and they came up to us and they let us pet them and licked our backpacks. They were so nosy that they got into the Friends of the Lake District worker’s backpack.