Amusing Myself

I Don't Want a Clean House

2012-01-27T16:06:00.000-06:00

It looks like it's been about two years since my last blog post. A lot has happened in those two years - most notably, I gave birth to another precious baby girl named Parker Lane. Parker is sweet and social, spunky and fearless, and has the best sense of humor of any baby I've ever seen. That girl enjoys a good laugh! Marin has blossomed as a big sister, and nothing brings me greater joy than watching the two of them love on each other.

Clearly, life has changed in many ways since I last posted. One of the changes seems to be that maintaining a clean house is no longer within my grasp. I should birdwalk for a moment here to share something about myself - I LOVE to clean. I don't just love the end result, but I love the process itself. I'm not such a fan of picking up clutter, but once that's done and it's time to bust out the Comet, I'm a happy camper! There's something great about restoring order to places of disorder, and something soothing about working hard and seeing an immediate result. Often times in my life when too many things seem out of my control, I break out the cleaning supplies and exert control over my small sphere of influence. As I scrub, I am reenergized by the act of bringing order out of chaos. Come to think of it, maybe there's something holy about cleaning. Maybe being made in God's image, I too find joy in the creativity involved in bringing order out of chaos. While cleaning a bathroom sink isn't exactly akin to separating light from darkness or making the stars, I guess it's my own small way of participating in the pleasure God derives from bringing about order. Well, I think I've made my point here - I love to clean! And, of course, I love to sit on the couch at the end of the day and marvel at my spotless abode.

Well, those days are gone. Now everywhere I look, there is a job waiting to be done. Crumbs scattered on the floor from the last meal, a hamper full of laundry taunting me from every bedroom, a diaper to be changed, and the toys - oh, the toys! An endless trail of toys that reappears behind me as I make my way through the house trying to pick them up. Chaos.

The other day, standing in the midst of a disastrous kitchen, I exclaimed, "All I want is a clean house!!!"

And the moment the words escaped my lips, I knew it wasn't true.

Yes, a clean house would be great, and I will undoubtedly continue to dedicate much of each day vainly striving toward that end so that my family doesn't live in the midst of chaos. But that's not what I really want. The crumbs on the floor remind me that I have recently shared a meal with my children and that we are blessed with enough food to eat three meals (and two snacks!) a day. Although laundry is my nemesis, hampers full of clothes serve as a reminder that my girls are well cared for through surprise shopping sprees by grandparents and hand-me-downs from friends . The diapers to be changed mean that I am just at the beginning of a life-long relationship with two beautiful little people who have so many new discoveries ahead of them. The endless trail of toys means that I have two sweet little girls roaming my house, exploring their world and delighting in their developing imaginations. The mess around me is evidence that I am in the midst of a grand adventure as I work alongside the love of my life to raise precious babies into loving, Christ-like adults.

At the end of each day when I sit on [read: collapse onto] my couch, I don't want to marvel at how clean my house is. I want to know that my children went to bed feeling that they had been seen today, that I had truly listened to them, that they are fully known and loved exactly as they are. I want to marvel at the small miraculous moments that dotted my day like wildflowers on a Fredericksburg hillside.

And if my kitchen happens to be spotless, that's just a bonus.

A Life Lesson from the Ants

2009-12-27T15:45:00.003-06:00

As I feel about all animals in the animal kingdom, I believe there is a lot we can learn from our friends the ants. Of course, we've all heard tale of their great teamwork - how they work together to carry large objects much heavier than any one could carry alone or how they build elaborate mazes in their ant hills. I suppose there are all sorts of things we could learn from these creatures, but they taught me something brand new last week.

For the past several weeks, we have had an ant problem in our kitchen. Our wonderful landlords responded promptly, as always, and had the pest control folks out to our house the day after this unfortunate discovery took place. The pest control people left this sticky substance in the corners of our cabinets which supposedly works like this: the ants are attracted to it, they gather it up in their little ant fashion and take it back to share with the colony thinking it's a real treat, only it's poison and it kills off the whole colony. [Sort of sad, isn't it?] That's how it's supposed to work. Instead, it actually must have been a real treat, because weeks later the ants were still enjoying it and flocking in greater numbers than ever to come try this new substance. Our kitchen has become something of a hot spot for the neighborhood ants. Although this has been a bit annoying, I'm so relieved that it's ants and not something else. I am neither scared of nor grossed out by ants, so if there's going to be some sort of problem, I'd prefer it to be an ant problem! If it were roaches, spiders, or anything of that disturbing nature, we'd have a REAL problem on our hands. But I digress...

So the other morning, feeling Christmasy and cozy, I made a cup of hot tea and went to fetch the honey to sweeten it up a bit. To my dismay, when I picked up the honey, I found a little ant attempting to crawl into the lid. He wasn't having much success. I turned the honey bottle around to inspect it from another angle and found that all of his friends had the same goal in mind as well. These guys had managed to crawl down inside the crack of the lid and were dangerously close to their goal. I wasn't sure whether it were actually possible for them to reach the honey because of the screw-cap lid, but of course I wasn't going to proceed with using it in this state. Not knowing what else to do, I unscrewed the lid with plans to wash these poor suckers down the drain. That was, apparently, my fatal flaw. The second the lid came loose, those sugar scavengers had a green light into their honey wonderland. At this point, I was a bit grossed out, I must admit. No one wants little creatures making themselves at home in your honey. I quickly screwed the lid back on and set the whole thing down in the sink. My tea would have to be sweetened with sugar that day. I looked down at the bottle of honey sitting in the sink and saw the tiny ants, shriveled and floating in the sticky amber liquid. It suddenly struck me: This is a life lesson for us all! Those ants finally got exactly what they wanted and it killed them!

It's something to think about, really. What do you think you really want? What do I think I really want? If I get what I want, will I be happier? Will I be a better person? Or will I end up like the ants, who must have thought in their last seconds [on whatever level ants think], "We worked our whole lives for THIS?"

Does That Make Me Crazy?

2009-11-01T22:05:00.006-06:00

A friend of mine listens to a radio show every morning that has a segment called, "Does That Make Me Crazy?" Apparently people call in and tell about quirky things that they do. I don't listen to that show and don't feel like calling in, but I do have some quirky habits I would like to tell you about.

1) I attribute human characteristics (mainly, feelings) to inanimate objects. For example, I will never leave a fork alone in the silverware drawer. If I take the second to last fork, I will just move the remaining fork to be with one of it's cousins - the salad forks, for instance - until there are more forks to join it once again in its part of the silverware tray. Same thing for bowls, plates, etc. No dish left alone, that's my motto. Well, not a motto, really, but I just hate the thought of something being lonely. When I used to roll my hair in high school, I would rotate the rollers that got used each time so that none of them got left out or felt unimportant. If I accidentally drop a grape down the drain when I'm washing them in the sink, I'll pluck another one off the vine and throw it in there, too, so the dropped one will have company down there. If I'm eating pizza at a restaurant and there is one piece remaining (that, for some reason, doesn't get to come home in a to-go box), I cut it in half so that there will be two pieces and they can keep each other company. When I'm eating cereal - Cheerios, let's say - I make sure I never swallow just one piece by itself... you guessed it - so it won't be lonely. I wonder what this obsession with not leaving things alone says about me? Am I terrified at the thought of being alone? Probably so. I sure do love people, so why would I want to spend extended periods of time alone? It's just not how I'm wired. So, I assume that nothing in the world (inanimate objects included) wants to be alone, either. Does that make me crazy?

2) I engage in some superstitious behaviors even though I'm not superstitious. Growing up, my dad old us that as a kid, he and his siblings would raise their feet whenever someone drove over a railroad track. If you don't raise your feet, you're supposed to lose your girlfriend or boyfriend. Once I heard that, I started doing it just for fun. I still can't seem to drive over a railroad track without raising my feet. It's just a habit now, I guess. I don't even think about it.

When I'm eating cereal - Cheerios, let's say! - I pretend that the number of Cheerios in my last spoonful will predict the number of children I will have. Of course I don't believe this, but I like to play this little game with myself. The game is sort of rigged, though, because I often just make sure that my last bite contains three Cheerios - the number of children I hope to have. Does that make me crazy?

3) Whenever I am walking across a parking lot to my car and it is 1) raining 2) extra chilly and windy or 3) I am carrying something heavy, I always count in my head (and sometimes under my breath) to make the walk seem shorter. I say one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight; two, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight; three, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, etc. The goal is to reach my car by eight counts of eight. If I need to, I extend my stride and take giant steps in order to make it. I'm not quite sure when I started doing this, but it does seem to help. In my estimation, it makes the walk seem only one-eighth as long as it actually is, because I pretend that each set of eight counts is one step and/or one second. Does that make me crazy?

4) I microwave in prime numbers whenever possible. If a prime number just won't get it, I at least make sure that it's an odd number. Does that make me crazy?

Well, does it? More importantly, I'm interested to know about the quirks of others. I know I'm not the only one out there who does strange things like this. Let's hear it, folks - bring on the crazy!

Mother God

2009-08-26T15:27:00.013-05:00

My whole world has changed since my last post. The last time I posted, my stomach stuck out like an oversized basketball, my time was still my own, I rarely cried, and I thought I knew how much I was going to love my little girl.

Three months ago today, I gave birth to Marin Blake. She weighed 6 pounds 2 ounces (thank the Lord for that - I did a natural birth and am not sure I could have made it through had she been one ounce larger!) and was 19 inches long. She is perfect. I can't get over how much I love her! I get excited each time she wakes me up in the middle of the night wanting to eat - I miss her after even a few hours and just love to see that sweet little face looking up at me! My heart breaks when she cries (I cried with her as she got her first shot at her two-week appointment) and I can't imagine life without her after these twelve short weeks.

Life as a mother has reminded me (or maybe truly taught me for the first time) of some of the qualities of God. As I interact with my daughter and realize time and again how utterly dependent she is on me at this stage of her little life, I can't help but think of my relationship with God.

Forgetfulness:

Marin has a little timer in her tummy and can tell almost to the minute when three hours have passed and it's time for her next meal. She lets me know when it's time to eat and becomes upset quite quickly if I don't feed her immediately, even if I'm in the process of getting set up to feed her. She is not satisfied until she is eating (she's a lot like me in that way, actually!) If seeing her cry weren't so sad, it would be almost comical to see how worked up she gets when her meal is just seconds away. You would never know from her response to hunger that I have been feeding her every 3 hours her whole life. Her memory doesn't tell her to trust me - she just knows she is hungry. It is a perfect parallel to how I often respond when there are needs (and sometimes even wants) in my life. I get all panicky inside and worry that I won't be taken care of. It's as if I have forgotten ALL of the times God has come through for me in the past. I always imagine God responding to me in the same way I respond to Marin as I calmly tell her, "Don't worry, baby girl - I know just what you need. It's on the way..."

I Know Better Than You...

When Marin wakes up in the middle of the night to eat, I always check to see whether she has a dirty diaper before I feed her. If she does, I change it before she eats so that I won't reawaken her with this whole process after her meal. She often stops crying when I pick her up, as if to say, "What a relief! Someone is listening to me!" However, when she realizes I am changing her diaper rather than feeding her, she bursts into sobs, crying harder than she was before I picked her up. I picture her thinking, "But this isn't what I wanted, Mom! Aren't you listening? Can't you see that I'm starving?" As I reassure her that her meal is on the way, I think of how good it will feel to her to have a clean diaper and a full tummy when I lay her back down to sleep. Again, I can't help but see the parallel in my own life. God knows what I need, and he is consistently faithful in my life, but sometimes he is changing my diaper first when what I wanted was to eat. It's all very upsetting until I'm clean and fed and back in the crib...

How Deep the Mother's Love for Us...

There's an old hymn I love called "How Deep the Father's Love for Us." In our patriarchal society (and in the patriarchal society in which the Bible was written) we usually refer to God as Father. I have no problem with this and am not on some feminazi soapbox about the gender of God; however, as a mother myself (and having watched my mother take care of us growing up) it seems to me that the image of God as Mother is almost more fitting. I am extremely close to my own father and adore watching Krister dote over Marin, so I do not deny the deep connection fathers have with their children. But think of the mother's role with her children - of the deep physical connection present from birth, as her body changes in form and function to meet the needs of her baby, as mother and baby become codependent in the breast-feeding process, both needing the other for comfort and relief. Think of the endless selflessness that it takes to be a good mother. I am overwhelmed with love for Marin. I feel as though I have been given a small glimpse of God's love for me as this new relationship unfolds, as I gladly sacrifice to meet Marin's needs out of a deep and indescribable love. I understand for the first time in my life how greatly God rejoices in me, not because of anything I have done, but just because I am.

I am grateful for God the Father. I am grateful for God the Mother. I am so grateful to be a mother myself, and in this role to learn anew the love God has for me.

Baby Bump

2009-06-24T11:44:00.011-05:00

I have every intention of staying committed to the original intent of this blog, which was to amuse myself (and possibly someone happening by the site) by relating random and ridiculous thoughts and stories from my life; however, given that I am (hopefully!) days away from having my first child, this event is clearly taking precedence in my mind and will likely continue to for, I don't know, the next 18 years? Admittedly, I haven't been blogging anyway, so I'm sure no one would notice or care if my blog changed from the purpose of amusing myself to being amused and amazed by my new little girl. That being said, I know I will need a creative outlet of some sort in between diaper changes and feedings, so I do hope to maintain a sense of my pre-baby self even after little Marin transforms life as we know it around here. That's what we're naming her, by the way - Marin Blake! I can hardly wait to meet her, and that little trickster had us fooled into thinking she was hours away in the earlier part of the week. She was only kidding, apparently, so I have a few more days (and hopefully not weeks!) left on my hands before she arrives.

I just finished cleaning the kitchen sink (again!) and remembered that a friend had asked me to post some pregnancy pics to my blog since it's been a while since we've seen one another. So, here they are! Hopefully the next time you see me she will be in my arms and not in my big belly! (And, of course, hopefully my belly will be a little less big!) :)

These were taken by my parents last Thursday at Turtle Creek, right by the gazebo where Krister proposed and I had my bridal portraits made. Fun memories! We were saying I should go ahead and deliver in the gazebo to keep up the trend of big events in my life happening there - I know the Turtle Creek residents would love that!

This was taken at the Dallas Arboretum a couple of Saturdays ago. I drug poor Krister out there in the scorching heat and humidity to take pictures of flowers for the nursery. He got some great ones and they are now framed above the changing table!

Super-Sized Surprise

2009-02-24T21:38:00.003-06:00

I am currently 21 weeks pregnant, and today we had our big sonogram! We were actually supposed to find out yesterday, but due to a mix-up at our doctor's office, the big reveal had to be delayed for a painstaking 24 more hours! Poor little Baby Beluga was all hopped up on pre-sonogram Dr. Pepper for nothing yesterday!

Today we returned with great anticipation and the full expectation that we were in for the news, "It's a boy!" I must admit that, having had only brothers, I have always hoped to someday have a daughter. We both want at least one of each if we got to special-order our children, so of course we would have been thrilled with either gender. But, in the back of my mind I have always hoped to have a daughter first. Partly because I am the first-born in my family and I think big sisters are great! How else are you going to have someone convincing the other siblings that it would be wonderful to surprise Mom and Dad with a clean house when they get home? I just can't see a big brother organizing that, but I guess it depends on the brother! Also, as much as I want a son someday (and would have been thrilled to have a son first!) I had this nagging fear that if I didn't get a daughter right off the bat, I might never get one at all.

Growing up, I pictured myself as the mother of all boys. I simply adore boys and will let you in on the secret that I wished I were a boy myself through many of my growing up years. I used to write essays (I know, I'm a dork!) about how much easier it was to be a boy. The essays consisted of themes like: If you're a girl and you don't shave, it's considered to be gross... if you're a boy and you don't shave, you're thought of as manly because you grew a beard. If you're a boy you can run around with your shirt off and pee wherever you want (within reason, of course). If you're a girl you're expected to wear make-up and look great all of the time. And, of course, there was always the mention of the monthly "visitor" and all of the unfairness that entails. Plus, I always detested the drama of girls and the back-stabbing, gossiping nature of so many girl relationships. Boys do it the right way - they have a fist fight and then return to being buddies. Why can't girls be like that?

The general consensus among many of our friends and family was that I was going to have a boy. I believed it myself - I was having dreams about having a boy, I completely stopped searching for girls' names and instead pored over the boy names section of my baby names books. Even our midwife said that, based on the heartbeat, we were likely having a boy. So imagine our surprise when the stenographer announced, "Your baby isn't being cooperative, but I can get a peek and... you're having a little girl!" Krister was so shocked that he thought she was kidding at first. As she pointed out the evidence, tears streamed down my face in a steady flow that didn't stop until we left the office (only to resume in the form of happy sobs when I got to the car). I want a son someday. I love boys and all of the dirty, rambunctious fun that they bring with them. I want to have a little Krister running around the house and cheer for him at sporting events (or whatever events in which he chooses to participate! We can only hope he gets Krister's natural ability when it comes to sports!) I want a son. But today, my prayer for a daughter was answered. I am so grateful.

Go-Go Gadget

2008-08-02T17:34:00.005-05:00

Remember Inspector Gadget with all his handy little.... well, gadgets? I spend a lot of time on the road commuting to and from my job, so I inevitably end up spending a lot of time just sitting in traffic. All that time driving and sitting has given me some ideas about go-go gadget devices for cars.

1) Go-Go Gadget Lane Merger: About 98% of the time, I am a very calm driver. I don't feel that I am easily given over to "road rage"; however, there are exceptions. Like when there are signs for 2-3 miles warning everyone that we will be losing a lane of traffic due to construction and we're supposed to go ahead and MERGE into another lane. Being a bit of a rule follower, I immediately move to the proper lane when directed to do so. But then there are the few (and sometimes several) cars that think the rules do not apply to them. They just zoom up to the front as if nothing is happening and then cut in line at the last minute as they are forced to merge. This is where the Go-Go Gadget Lane Merger comes in handy. When lanes are merging, simply push the button and long metal poles shoot out from the sides of your car. They are not intended to injure anyone or anything; they are simply there to ensure that your car is not rudely passed by the front-of-the-line zoomers. The people who followed directions and merged when they were supposed to will be right behind you in their place (possibly with their Lane Merger poles out) and the people who failed to merge will just have to sit there and wait their turn like everyone else. I mean, if it weren't for these people, merging lanes wouldn't cause such a slow down.

2) Go-Go Gadget Periscope (AKA Go-Go Gadget Decision-Maker): This device comes in handy when you're stuck in a traffic jam and don't know why. It seems like the people on the radio are constantly reporting the traffic around the Metroplex, but every time I find myself sitting in traffic, all the stations seem to be in the middle of a no-commercial music stretch (which I would normally welcome but can't help but be annoyed by when I'm trying to find out if there is an accident up ahead). Traffic in front of you slowing down? Simply push the button and your periscope shoots out from the roof of your car to give you a peek at what's ahead. Once you can see above all of the traffic and up the road, you can decide whether to take the next exit or hang in there a few minutes until traffic picks up. Honestly, I wish all cars had these. It's like having your own personal helicopter to go ahead of you and scout out the situation.

On a different note, here's a tip for how to stay calm when you're stuck in a jam. Remember Princess Bride? Of course you do. Remember when Andre the Giant needs to get whats-her-face through to get medical treatment, but the road is packed with people? He shouts in his giant voice, "Everybody mooooooove" and the people immediately part to reveal a straight shot down the road? When I'm stuck in traffic I use my best giant voice to say, "Everybody mooooove" and I picture the cars parting in front of me. This may reveal how simple-minded I am, but it makes me laugh every single time. Instant stress-relief.

3) Go-Go Gadget Gas-Saver: You know those trucks that haul new (and sometimes used) cars on a multi-tiered trailer? Often times you'll see one go by that has an open spot in the bottom back side. Or those 18-wheelers with empty flatbeds. Well, whenever you see one of these things on the road, you pull behind them as you're driving. Then you simply push the button and a chain with a hook on it shoots out in front of you and hooks onto the truck. The chain quickly winds up as it pulls you closer to the trailer. When you arrive a the edge of the trailer, a small ramp extends ahead of you (at the same time that the hook and chain release) and you drive right up onto the trailer. Now you're riding along as if parked on a ferry. Simply reverse the process when you arrive at your desired highway exit. An instant gas-saver!

That's it for now. Happy Driving!

What's Up, Dog?

2008-07-27T23:36:00.010-05:00

I've never really been a big collector. I have a tendency to be a bit of a pack rat if I'm not careful, just because I'm super sentimental and can't bear to throw things (cards, letters) away when they say something special or are from someone I love (which, if you think about it, would encompass about all of the cards and letters I've ever been given). But apart from the inability to part with things of sentimental value, I am not a collector. I did try collecting can tabs in elementary school, but that was only because I had heard that if you save up a 3-liter worth of them, you were in for some serious cash. Five bucks or something. (I was quite the entrepreneur in elementary school, always trying to sell things I had made or devise new ways to make money.) Since my family never really drank soft drinks, I could only collect them by getting them from friends or neighbors who were finished with their sodas. Which means that I collected about 12 before I lost interest. (Typing that, I realize how pitiful that sounds, but I promise I wasn't a little ragamuffin!)

Krister and I have begun a tradition of going to a local baseball game as one of our activities when we go on vacation. I ADORE this tradition! Who doesn't love baseball games? Since he's smart and tricky, he buys them from season ticket holders and we wind up getting great seats (which I don't really care about because I'm just there for the atmosphere and the food). Although I do not eat hot dogs in my regular life, I make exceptions when I am camping, watching a big game on TV, or attending a baseball game. It has not been a successful baseball outing if I haven't had a hot dog. Since we take lots of pictures on vacation, I realized that I am accumulating pictures of myself eating hot dogs. For the first time in my life, I am a collector! Now I don't eat a hot dog without capturing the event on camera. Following is the beginning of what I hope will grow to be an enormous collection of hot dog eating sessions. Enjoy! :)

My first hot dog eating picture in Central Park. Okay, so it's not a baseball game or camping, but who can pass up a cute little hot dog vendor?

Giant's game on our first trip to San Francisco

By the river in Chicago. Hmmm... yet another time I'm eating a hot dog when neither baseball or camping is involved.

At the White Sox game in Chicago

At the Giant's game on our latest trip to SF

Abraham or Jonah?

2008-07-15T09:36:00.003-05:00

All my life, I've been a huge fan of the Old Testament stories. Specifically, I love the clear message woven throughout each story that people are dumb, frail, filled with doubts and fears, and incapable of maintaining consistent faithfulness to God... but God still used them and worked through them to accomplish His miraculous purposes, and better yet, stayed in relationship with them out of His great love for His creation. I especially love the stories in moments when I realize how dumb, frail, filled with doubts and fears, and incapable of maintaining consistent faithfulness I am. It's such a relief to know that God has a long history of loving, working through, and rescuing people just like me.

It's probably for this reason that I often see my life through the lens of the Old Testament characters. When I needed a big scholarship for college, I prayed something to the effect of, "God, you parted the Red Sea for Moses and stopped the sun in the sky for Joshua. I know it is nothing to you to hook me up with this scholarship, and that is what I am asking of you. Please step in and help this happen. This is my Red Sea." Each night I would lay in bed and recount the OT miracles to myself as I fell asleep, reminding myself of God's bigness and power and ability to overcome obstacles that seem insurmountable on my own.

Recently we've been faced with some big transitions as K finishes his residency year and searches for a staff position. For a while there, it was looking like we were going to be moving away to make that happen. Before I go on, you should know that I DO NOT want to move away right now. I LOVE where I live. I love my job. I love our church. I love living close to my family. I love our dear friends here. I don't expect to get to stay here forever, but with the hopes of starting a family soon, I did not want to up and leave our whole support system right now. I DO NOT want to leave.

But I thought we were about to. To prepare myself for the transition, I began to reread the Exodus story. Probably not the parts you would think, though. One of the most helpful parts of the story for me is the part before Moses goes back to Egypt and the whole plague thing starts to happen. Back up to when Moses flees from Egypt after killing that man and finds himself in Midian. He shows up out of nowhere and before you know it, the priest's daughter Zipporah is given to be his bride. Not a bad gig for Zipporah - she marries this Moses fellow, gets to live at home with her family, starts a family of her own, her husband takes on the family business and starts tending flocks.... until that annoying day with the burning bush. The day that Moses returned from the flocks and broke the news to her over dinner that God had spoken to him and they were going to be leaving Midian and heading out to Egypt to save God's people from the hand of the most powerful dictator in the land. Great. Sounds easy, Moses. I'm on board. Let's load our children up on donkeys and head out into the desert. Let's take away all of Pharoah's slave labor - I'm sure he won't mind if his whole work force leaves Egypt. It's practically a family vacation.

Zipporah was probably a better wife than I am, because that's exactly what she did. She left her family, loaded her sons up on a donkey, and headed to an unknown land to face a frightening task with the faith that God would be behind them all the way. (Personally, I think her faith was even greater than Moses' - I mean, SHE didn't get a burning bush.) She went not knowing if Moses would get killed by Pharoah and leave her widowed in a foreign land. Not knowing if they would ever return to see her father and her family again. (Thank goodness she didn't know about the 40 years of wandering in the desert!) I've always admired Zipporah for that. Remember, she didn't have the Old Testament to help her recount all of God's miracles. Now that's a leap of faith. Her story put my own into perspective. Yes, I might be leaving my family and everyone I know and love. Yes, we might be heading off into the unknown. But we're not having to go up against a dictator, and I know I'll get to return to see my family whenever I want.

Fast forward a few months to the time we had to make our final decision. Unfortunately, we were STILL waiting to hear back about K's job because apparently the process is interminable. Because of my job, we needed to make a decision, and there was certainly no clear choice one way or the other. Should we stay or should we go now? Either decision was a leap of faith because either left a lot of unknowns. At the last possible second, we decided... to stay.

I'm thrilled to be staying. Thrilled! But I had come to feel so peaceful about leaving, it feels weird to be staying. Which character am I? Am I Abraham, spared from doing the unthinkable at the last moment? Faithful in following what I thought was God's plan until He said, "Just kidding! You don't have to do it. Just wanted to see if you would." Or am I Jonah, directed to go to Ninevah (or in this case, Houston) and I said, "No way, Jose!" Is it my fate to be swallowed by a whale?

I should point out that theologically, I don't think there's necessarily a right or a wrong decision in this case. I don't believe that God has our lives laid out like lilly pads on a pond and it's up to us to figure our which pad to hop to next, hoping we've found the "right" one.... but all my life, I've asked God to personally direct my steps because I know that He can and desires to. And He has done it faithfully every time. Things have been so clear and apparent that it confuses me when they're not. What do you do when there's no burning bush? There's a song on CMT right now called, "Still Learning How to Trust." I guess that's where I am right now.

Peace Walk

2008-06-13T10:31:00.004-05:00

No, I'm not out protesting or joining a demonstration, although there is plenty going on in the world right now that I'd like to protest. Krister's interview is happening right now, and I decided the best way I could pray him through the interview was to go on a walk. Usually I take my IPod with me, but today I ditched the devices and set out to take in the morning. I've recently discovered my favorite street in my favorite neighborhood - with towering trees and houses that are old and charming without being ostentatious. I turned on that street and began to pray. As I walked, the stillness of the morning, with the exception of the persistent breeze, wrapped itself around me. We are facing a big transition right now with decisions and timelines that are out of our control. On this walk, for the first time in weeks, the noise of my fears about the future was silenced by the singing of the birds in the trees. I looked up into the branches, reaching their arms to the sky, and I let myself hope. I didn't hope for a certain outcome, or for anything in particular, I just hoped. The hope welled up inside of me like a cool mountain stream and made me excited about what God has in store for us wherever we go and whatever we do.

On my way home, I passed an elementary school down a side street. The playground beckoned to me and I headed out in search of a swing set. To my delight, I turned the corner and there they were! I headed across the field and selected the perfect swing in the shade. As a child, I would spend hours swinging and singing outside our kitchen window. Hours. Maybe because it gives me the feeling that I can fly, with the wind rushing past my ears. I began to swing, higher and higher. At once I was six years old again, with the whole world open to me. I took my hair down from its ponytail and let it fly in the wind as I breezed through the air. I leaned back and closed my eyes, then opened them to watch the clouds sailing overhead. The gentle creak of the swing. The breeze. The sky. The childlike wonder. Peace.

Dumb Brunette

2008-06-04T22:34:00.004-05:00

I can't say that I buy into the whole "dumb blonde" thing, although I had a sweet friend in junior high that seemed determined to live into that stereotype. Not being blonde myself, I haven't had to deal with the blonde jokes and everything else that seems to go along with this hair color; however, I must say that I sometimes have some very blonde moments. I have noticed a pattern: every time I go in to get work of any kind done on my car, all of my intellect (including my common sense) seems to fly out the window. I can't figure out what the problem is. Perhaps it's because I'm a global learner - I need the big picture before I can understand the individual parts - and I have no frame of reference for what these mechanics are telling me since I know very little about the workings of a car. But it's got to be something more than that. Maybe it's the fact that I feel intimidated in a situation in which I could easily be taken advantage of due to my ignorance about cars. For whatever reason, my dumbest moments in life seem to take place at these repair shops.

Here are some snippets from my trip to Jiffy Lube yesterday to get my state inspection:

- I turn in to the parking lot and pull alongside the garage. I roll down my window and ask the man who comes over if he has time to do a state inspection. Yes, he can get to me in about ten minutes, I just need to pull around behind the car he's currently working on. Now, I don't know what part of "pull around behind" escaped me, but for some reason I backed up and realigned my car in front of the car he was working on. I was waiting in line, but I was on the wrong side of the line! Worse yet, I didn't even realize this until the guy came back over and said, "Maam, pull around the back, please." Pretty smart, huh?

- Another mechanic comes in after doing the inspection and tells me that one of my lug nuts is missing off my front right tire. I ask him, "Could it be in my glove box?" Not likely. Apparently there is a key to some of the lug nuts that is kept in my glove box, which must have been where I got the idea. Or maybe I thought there were extras?

- While I'm paying for the inspection, the two mechanics are talking with me about where to get lug nuts and what they would do about it if they were me. They also tried to brainstorm with me about when my lug nut could have come off. When was the last time I had work done on the car? I thought back to the various times I've had my car serviced over the past year or so. "I got my oil changed at Wal-Mart a few months ago. Could that be it?" I'm not joking. That's what I came up with. In no other situation am I even remotely this flaky.

I'm sure the mechanics like to laugh at me once I leave, and I would too if I were them. For all they know, I'm just a dumb brunette.

Junior Mints 101

2008-05-21T21:19:00.003-05:00

What could be more fun that going to the movies? That's easy - going to the movies with the perfect box of Junior Mints. You may think that all Junior Mints are created equal... but you would be wrong. The test of a really great Junior Mint is when you can set it on your tongue and press your tongue to the roof of your mouth. This action should cause the easy collapse of the Junior Mint and send the creamy freshness from inside the chocolatey coating out into your mouth. It should practically melt in your mouth. What you do NOT want is one that barely budges when you do this. If you have to sink your teeth into it, it's not a Junior Mint - it is a stale impostor, and it should be thrown out.

Now, every box of Junior Mints contains at least one or two impostors, but you're really in trouble if you run into more than that. How can you ensure that your experience with Junior Mints will be a good one? One way to test the box is to pick it up and shake it gently. Doing this should cause a light rattling sound within the box. If there are too many bad seeds, the box will feel heavy and the rattle will sound sluggish, as if they're all melted together into one gooey glob. The key to a fresh Junior Mint is that each one must me nicely encapsulated within the chocolate shell until that magical moment when you press it to the roof of your mouth. Sometimes you'll notice that there is a slight hemorrhage in the mint and the creamy filling has started to ooze out prematurely. When you see this, don't even bother putting it in your mouth. It's too late for that one, and it is assured to be gross and chewy.

Even if you have found the perfect box of fresh Junior Mints, there is still a risk that you will ruin them before the movie is over if you're not careful. Be sure not to hold the box for too long in your hands. That makes the mints snuggle together and melt into the dreaded gooey glob. Take out the mint and then set the box down in a cool place, preferably in the cup holder. This is one of the great things about Junior Mints in a movie - they don't make you thirsty, so you won't be needing a drink. I'm against drinking in movies because what if your bladder gets full? You'll either have to sit there miserable or get up and miss a part of the movie. Anyway, back to avoiding the gooey glob... I recommend giving the box a gentle shake every once in a while to make sure the mints aren't snuggling in there. I'm a fan of snuggling, but that should be left to people and baby animals, not Junior Mints.

One final thing you should know about Junior Mints is where to get them. Sure, you could fork over 4 bucks or so and get a box at the theater. The good thing about this is that you can almost be guaranteed that they will be fresh. But, that's a high price to pay. I used to just stop off at the closest convenient store on my way to the theater. Sadly, many convenient stores have stopped carrying Junior Mints (don't ask me why). Worse still, you won't be able to find them at Kroger anymore, either. For some crazy reason, Kroger carries Junior Caramels (?) but not Junior Mints. Really, I'm a bit speechless about this.

But there's hope! A sweet friend of mine knows of my obsession with Junior Mints and has located them for me at.... drum roll.... Office Depot! Now who would have thought to look there? I'm so excited about this discovery of hers! Thanks, Kellee!

If you have made it to the end of this post, you have earned your Junior Mints diploma. Congratulations! You are now ready for the perfect movie-going experience, with all the rights, privileges, and responsibilities hereto entrusted.

The Memory Keeper's Diet

2008-05-12T20:16:00.004-05:00

I have just created a new diet that, surprisingly enough, was inspired by a delicious piece of chocolate cake I had yesterday. It's called the Memory Keeper's Diet and here's how it works:

Day 1: Identify the 10 target foods that are likely to be your downfall while you try to stay on the straight and narrow at mealtime. Brainstorm the best places to eat those target foods. (e.g. French fries at Snuffer's, ice cream at Marble Slab, etc.)

Days 2-11: On each of these 10 critical days of the diet, you seek out those target foods you identified on Day 1, indulging in one target food each day. The key is that you must be fully present while you eat these foods. No talking. You must throw yourself into whatever you are eating, using all of your senses to take it all in.

Day 12 - ???: Now you are on your path to a new body and a new you! Want a piece of cake? Great! Sit down, close your eyes, and relive that delectable piece you enjoyed on Day 7. Got a hankering for cheese fondue? Go back in your memory to Day 3 when the melted goodness coated each bite of toasted bread. Delicious! (and calorie free!)

I will let you know how this goes. I actually skipped Days 2-11 because last week was Teacher Appreciation week and I was able to arrange my schedule to make sure I was always at the school that was having a luncheon that day. (Hey, you've got to take advantage of these things while you can.) That means I had two pieces of cake and a couple of cookies each day after lunch. (C'mon, how often do you have access to a dessert smorgasbord?) I'm thinking of those as my 10 days of indulgence even though it was more like 5 days of out of control sugar rush. So technically, today was Day 12.

It's been a good day. I got an excruciating headache at about 3:00 that I can only attribute to the sugar withdrawal. I sure do have a lot of respect for people who quit real addictions. I have thought of that piece of chocolate cake 7 times today, but I haven't had any sugar. Part of the Memory Keeper's Diet involves replacement behaviors. Yes, thinking of that cake was really great... but it was even better while I was eating a fresh mango. I wanted a glass of wine with dinner, but instead I had some skim milk. It's all about the memories. And the replacement foods.

Go make some memories!

Toe!

2008-05-04T21:37:00.002-05:00

That title is meant to be pronounced in the way that Homer says, "Doh!" It's all about the toe right now, ever since a can of bamboo shoots rolled off the counter today while I was unpacking groceries and landed right on my foot. My big toe, to be more specific. I must say, I did a great job of not screaming with the same amount of enthusiasm with which my toe was hurting. Enthusiasm is probably not the right word - more like absolute anguish.

It's been a long time since I've hurt myself that badly, which is saying a lot because I'm quite clumsy and am often running into things. Just a couple of weeks ago I got the crazy idea that I could jump like a track star. Krister was reading in bed and I said, "Hold still and don't be scared, I'm going to jump over you." I proceeded to run at the bed and attempted to clear Krister's legs - vertically. Like Kobe Bryant jumps over the moving car in that commercial. Sometimes I overestimate my own abilities. I still have the bruise on my knee to prove it.

Anyway, so it's always impressive to me how such a small part of the body can cause such an enormous amount of pain. Even though I iced it and limped about the house like a total wuss, it is so swollen than when I hold both feet up next to one another and bend both big toes with the same amount of effort, the good toe disappears from view as it bends and the other one doesn't really go anywhere. It just sits there, fat and red. Not only red - the bottom of my toenail has taken on a deep purple hue. It's beautiful, like a sunset. The big bummer is I've been waiting all weekend to get out in this beautiful weather and go for a run, and I really WAS about to finally do it when this happened. So instead I had a beer and some cookies because I felt sorry for myself.

Toe long, friends!

Bitterness for Breakfast and Meatball Karma

2008-04-20T21:36:00.004-05:00

Last week I had the honor of presenting at a statewide conference. I was the only one from my district to attend the conference. Luckily, I ran into an old classmate of mine and the group from her district adopted me and let me tag along with them to meals and conference get-togethers so I wouldn't be a total loner. I was thrilled, as I'm not much of an introvert and don't enjoy spending days on end with only my own company (although I did enjoy my alone time at the hotel and found that I could do a wonderful kickline routine in the bathroom with the help of the many mirrors - not even the Rockettes could have done it with more precision!) Anyway, because I had procrastinated in reserving my hotel, the rooms were booked by the time I got around to it and I was thus staying at a Residence Inn by Marriott down the street from the conference hotel. Have any of you ever stayed in one? It was my first time, and it felt a bit like I had invaded a senior citizen's apartment. I kept expecting that at any moment a sweet elderly person would come through the door and stand bewildered wondering who I was and why I was there. Anyway...this is all background information for the two stories I want to tell about my time at the conference. As they often do, these stories both happen to revolve around food.

Story #1: Bitterness for Breakfast
So there I was, the morning of my presentation. I was all dressed up and looking pretty sharp if I do say so myself. I got my materials and headed downstairs in hopes of enjoying a healthful breakfast. (A brief plug for Residence Inn: they have a free breakfast buffet every morning and it is the bee's knees! Waffles, oatmeal, eggs, hash browns, yogurt, fruit, muffins... you get the idea) As I strode into the dining area I glanced down at my watch to discover that it was only 7 minutes 'till 8:00 - the time I had agreed to meet my professor to review our material for the presentation that afternoon. I stood for a moment in a quandary, stuck between my desire for a good breakfast (the conference was to provide breakfast and it promised to be a plethora of stale pastries) and my desire to be punctual. Food vs. punctuality. Two of the things I'm biggest on. Hmmm.... since I was feeling extra professional that day, punctuality won out. I arrived at the agreed upon meeting spot at exactly 8:00, feeling proud of myself for making a good choice. I glanced around the lobby looking for my professor. No sight of him. Knowing that I can't make it without breakfast, I headed over the the stale pastries and waited my turn in line for my empty calories. I settled on a bagel (at least they had cream cheese - everything was going to be okay) and headed back to wait for my professor. There were no utensils provided, so I ended up tearing off a bit of the top part of the bagel to use as a makeshift spreader for the cream cheese. Here's the thing about me: I'm not a picky eater, but I love food too much to not enjoy every bite. Bagels are fine when they're toasted (I would even venture to say that they could be delicious given the right circumstances). But this bagel was untoasted. And DENSE. I glanced down at my watch again. 8:09. Maybe he's waiting for me in a different lobby? I called to make sure I was waiting in the right spot and discovered that he was still getting dressed upstairs in his room. Here's where the bitterness comes in. I did not mind sacrificing my eggs and oatmeal to be on time. I did mind, however, missing my yummy breakfast for no good reason. As I sat gnawing on my bagel and the clock ticked on, I grew more and more agitated. I began to chew to a rhythm, "Could've had oatmeal, could've had oatmeal, could've had oatmeal." I realize oatmeal isn't that exciting, but they had all these special toppings for it - raisins, brown sugar, chopped pecans. It was going to be really cozy. At 8:20 I looked up to see my professor headed my way. Yep - could've had oatmeal. And fruit, and scrambled eggs with syrup, and a glass of milk. But instead I just had bitterness for breakfast.

Story #2: Meatball Karma (don't worry - this one will be shorter!)
So the night before my presentation the officers of the organization hosting the conference threw a meet-and-greet type party in the hotel rooms on the 11th floor. I went with the aforementioned conference friends and made my way around the room. A little wine, a little cheese, a meatball, some 'Lil Smokies from a crockpot - I was livin' it up! Soon I found myself in a conversation with the aforementioned professor. He, too, had indulged in the meatballs and now had meatball sauce spread across his cheek. Not the corner of his mouth - his actual cheek. He kept wiping his mouth with his napkin, but there was no way he was going to fix the cheek smear. I tried to concentrate on what he was saying while debating whether to tell him about the stray sauce. I settled on ignoring it and did my best to focus on his eyes while he spoke.

The next day, I joined my professor for the formal sit-down lunch with several other colleagues from different cities around the state, none of whom I knew. I made small talk while I ate my potatoes and my buttered roll - yay for starchy foods! - and attempted to make my way through a pile of what were, at one time, vegetables. They now resembled something closer to rubber, but with enough salt I was able to get some down. I attempted to be charming and made sure to smile a lot even though I wasn't exactly entertained by the whole event. On my way back to my hotel after lunch, I glanced in the rear view mirror to reapply my lipstick. It was then that I noticed it - a long, skinny piece of very green lettuce stuck to my gums and hanging down over my top teeth. Lettuce from the FIRST course of the very long meal. All that smiling and being charming, and I had been flashing a leafy smile the whole time! Why didn't anyone tell me about this? Why didn't my professor say something? Oh, yeah. Meatball karma.

Sugar Coma

2008-04-13T21:39:00.002-05:00

Lately I've been on a personal quest for the perfect chocolate chip cookie, with the help of my dear friend, Allrecipes.com. I cannot even explain the excitement that this website stirs in me (no pun intended!) each time I log on - millions of recipes waiting to be tried and enjoyed, ruined and perfected...a world of possibilities!

There are so many things that can go wrong with a chocolate chip cookie.

When Krister and I were first married I decided to make a batch and somehow I got confused by the butter measurements and used a POUND of butter rather than a cup. When they came out of the oven they were laid flat like roadkill and, when pressed with a fingertip, would actually leave little pools of butter behind, filling the holes like rain fills fossilized dinosaur footprints in the ground. It was tragic. I cried and cried, partly because I felt like an idiot and partly because butter is so darn expensive and I had just wasted a whole box of it for nothing. Sweet Krister didn't want the night to end in defeat, so he whisked me away to the store to get more ingredients and try, try again.

Ever since that butter-laden disaster I have had a personal vendetta against the chocolate chip cookie. I picture the ingredients laughing at me, taunting me, laying in wait to sabotage my efforts. And so I search. I try out recipe after recipe, dedicated to finding that one that will have just the right texture, the right flavor, the one that will be truly worthy of accompanying a big glass of cold milk. Thanks to allrecipes.com, I feel closer than ever to attaining my goal, to claiming the victory over the ever elusive chocolate chip cookie of my dreams. I'm not there yet, but I am making a valiant effort.

My quest continued this afternoon as I tried my hand at a new recipe. Unfortunately I was left unsupervised in the kitchen with a whole bowl of cookie dough. You would think there was heroin in the stuff the way I was downing it. [Disclaimer: I have never even been in the same room with heroin, nor would I recognize it if I were, but I hear it's quite addictive and thus it works well to give you a picture of my inability to exercise self-control in this situation. Don't do drugs, kids.] What is it about cookie dough that is so irresistible? Part of the problem may be the fact that I have no way of measuring how much I've eaten. It's not like cake where I can see a receding line that marks the damage I've done, or like Junior Mints where I can see the delightful morsels disappearing one by one. Cookie dough just sits there innocently, begging you to sneak just one more spoonful, a pinch here, another pinch there.

But like all good things it is not so innocent once you've gone completely overboard. It's not good to feel sick before the first batch of cookies pops out of the oven. It's not good to see your finger swooping toward the bowl to grab another pinch of dough while your thighs are yelling, "Enough already! You're not even giving us a chance!" It's not good to wonder if you'll be able to eat dinner later after all that cookie bingeing. And, it's not good to eat dinner anyway, then follow it up with a couple more cookies and a few scoops of homemade ice cream. That, my friends, is what you call a sugar coma.

Innocent

2008-04-06T20:23:00.004-05:00

Yesterday was one of the best Saturdays I've had in a long time. Krister and I had planned ahead to make it a day of sabbath - we did laundry and cleaned on Friday evening so our weekly chores wouldn't get in the way of our restful day on Saturday. The next morning we slept in, drank hot tea and read in our pajamas (okay, only I did this part - Krister hates hanging out in his pajamas, as he's more of a get-up-and-go type guy), made cinnamon rolls (the easy kind), then got ready and headed to White Rock Lake for a walk and some more reading. We laid out our picnic blanket by the water and lounged with our books in the beautiful spring sunshine while the breeze played with the trees and the ducks flitted across the water before settling on its glassy surface. It was the kind of spring day that makes you feel that all is right with the world. I closed my eyes to drink in the moment - the pace, the air, the sounds of nature swelling around us. Bikers rode past on their morning excursions. A young couple cradled their newborn against the base of a tree nearby. It was lovely.

It wasn't long before more families joined us by the water and the lovely sounds of springtime were replaced by screaming children and raucous noises of every kind. It made me chuckle, as the noise level grew like some practical joke come to ruin our peaceful outing. My romantic Jane Austen notions of spending the morning reading in the sunshine came to a quick close, but I was determined not to let the harried scene steal away my former peacefulness. After all, sabbath is as much a state of mind as it is a circumstance.

We spent the rest of the day enjoying various relaxing activities and then finally turned on the television for some good 'ole basketball. It may be the sabbath, but it's also the Final Four, and something not to be missed in our household. We debated about what do to for dinner and finally settled on some Red, Hot, and Blue. (On a side note, if you've never been there, you really must go and order their sweet tea - your glass is an actual pitcher - it's the real deal.) We decided to forego the sweet tea and get take-out so we could enjoy our ribs in front of the game. On our way back to our house, potato salad in tow, we had an incident that did what the noise at the park had failed to do - rob us of that sabbath feeling.

We were less than a mile away from our house when a truck in the lane next to us began to swerve into our lane, nearly causing an accident. Krister honked at the truck, as I would have (even though I'm not a big honker) and the driver proceeded to gesture at us out his window and yell obscenities. I was a bit taken aback, as he was the one who was swerving around. He sped off in front of us and soon ended up on our left side, still shaking his arm in the air and yelling. It was quickly growing uncomfortable. Anyone who's had a mishap with someone on the road knows that the goal is not to see this person again after the initial encounter. No such luck. By the time we reached the light the truck had crossed back over to the far right hand lane and, as luck would have it, we ended up stopped right next to one another. This is the part that really pushed me over the edge and stole the last ounce of peace I had accumulated from the day's restfulness. The man began leaning out his window and yelling at us. He decided to raise the bar a bit on the obscenities and was now yelling words I've only heard in the worst parts of the worst movies. My body went into fight or flight mode, adrenaline rushing down through my arms, my pulse quickening. Krister and I stared straight ahead in an attempt to ignore him. This proved to be a difficult task, as I desperately wanted to peek to my right and make sure we weren't in any immediate danger. I fully expected that at any moment he would get out of his truck and try to drag me out of the car, or more likely would pull a rifle out from under his seat and aim it straight at us. Not looking was scary. I realize that probably sounds dramatic, but you were not there. You did not feel the rage, the unreasonable anger coming from this man in the old white truck. I think that was what made it so scary - the fact that this man was acting like a crazy person, unpredictable and irrational.

During the few heart-pounding moments that we sat helplessly stopped at the light under a constant barrage of verbal abuse, I suddenly thought of Christ on the day of his crucifixion. Let me immediately state that I am in no way comparing this experience with that of Jesus' last day. It's just that, I have never been in a situation in which I was completely innocent and yet had someone hating me from the depths of their being. The man in the white truck was clearly drunk, he clearly had issues, and he clearly goes through life (or at least that day) angry at the world for whatever reason. I knew that we were not the source of his anger, but simply the latest victims to cross his path. I felt transported in that moment to the scenes at Golgotha, to the angry mobs who mocked Christ, who spat at him and hated him with their ugly, seething anger. Never has one been more innocent and more hated at the same time. What must he have felt during his last hours, watching from his shameful perch as the vile cruelty of sin took on life in his mockers at the foot of the cross? Mercy. "Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do." I think Jesus knew that he was not the true source of the anger that day. There are throngs of people out there who are hurting, who feel kicked in the teeth by life and who lash out in anger at a world they can't understand and can't control, a world that hurts too much and loves too little. But Jesus was able to love them even when the pain of sin turned to burning anger in their bellies. I don't know how he did it. My first instinct at that light wasn't to love the man in the white truck. I just wanted to run away. I wanted to sneak around to the passenger side of his truck and let the woman next to him escape, to tell her "you don't have to live like this anymore." I wanted to go back in time and tell his mother to love him a little stronger. But in the next moment, the truck took a right turn and we continued straight ahead, his voice still ringing in my ears.

The other thing ringing in my ears was the voice of the angry mob yelling "Crucify him! Crucify him!" What an awesome savior we have. One who was loving enough to look down on the hatred and feel mercy, one who was powerful enough to crush the grave, to put sin in its place once and for all, to announce to the whole world that the curtain's been torn, the barriers are down, the captives are set free, that grace and mercy have the last word. I'm so thankful that Jesus was brave enough to come around to the passenger side of the truck, to open the door and tell me, "You don't have to live like this anymore."

Ode to an Old Friend

2008-03-21T21:14:00.001-05:00

I do not know from whence you came, or of your short-lived past
You searched for a way out in vain, your prison - walls of glass.
You did not find your way to freedom, water, and fresh air
Instead you lay upon my dash and drew your last breath there.

And when at last I noticed you, I was too lazy, far
Too dust you off, dispose of you (I never clean my car).
And so the days turned into months, and months to nigh a year
And always you accompanied me, a constant presence here.

Some days I thought of you as George, and other times as Gus
My withered mascot on the dash all covered up in dust.
I’d think of all your ancestors caught in an amber trap
Their fate much prettier than yours, preserved in golden sap.

Your death was not illustrious; your life, a fragile state
You flew in never knowing that the door would seal your fate.
But in a twist of irony your death preserved you, see?
For how many mosquitoes dwell a year in one’s memory?

We’d never have been friends if you had tried to suck my blood
I surely would have swatted you and washed you off at once
But since you suffocated and your needle ne’er took root
You got to keep me company each day on my commute

And then at last, on this spring day, it finally was time
To clean my car, inside and out, get rid of all the grime.
I did not take it lightly as I held the vacuum up,
And saw you, fragile mascot, disappear with just one suck.

And then my car was clean at last, at least for a small while
But when I looked to where you lay I quickly lost my smile
I know that I will miss your presence laying on my dash
So goodbye, George, goodbye sweet Gus, you’re gone for good – alas!

A Series of Unfortunate Events

2008-01-22T16:44:00.000-06:00

If my life were a movie, that would be the title of it today. This day started like most other days, except a few minutes later than normal, as I had trouble rolling out of the warm bed. When I went to pick out my outfit I decided to wear pants so that I would be warm on this frosty day and so that I could wear my most comfortable flats to work. No such luck. Turns out it's that lovely time of the month when my stomach is inhabited by a giant beach ball. I looked like Santa Claus in my pants and couldn't even imagine trying to sit down in them all day. I was forced to wear a skirt because it was the only thing I could zip up and still breathe in... so the comfy shoes were out. Heels again - no big deal.

The clock ticked on, as clocks tend to do, and I soon realized I had better get a move on if I were going to be on time to work. Was there time for breakfast? Just barely, and then I would grab my yoga clothes and head out the door. I ran into the kitchen to grab some cereal and felt something wet come through my tights as I stepped onto the kitchen rug. I looked down to discover that the whole rug was soaking wet. The cabinet doors beneath the sink were opened to reveal the source of this mess, and I found that everything was soaking wet under there as well. Oh goodie. So much for the cereal. I glanced around the house at the mess I'd left behind... ironing board still out, dirty clothes on the floor, a few dishes in the sink... nothing major but still things I wanted out of the way before anyone came to fix the leaky sink. I proceeded to run around the house straightening things up. Yep, that's good enough. That will have to do.

I glanced at my water bottle on my way out the door and paused for a moment to weigh my options. I've kept this thing for so long that the plastic lid has actually cracked around the rim, which was really a thrill last week when it dumped over on my lap while I was driving. Hmmm... I could fill it half way up, bring it with me, and hope for the best... I could go without water for the day... what to do, what to do. The remembrance of last week's spillage and a lack of time won out and I left with no breakfast, no lunch in hand, and no water bottle. And did I mention I forgot my yoga clothes? It's just as well, I thought to myself as I drove away with a stomach the size of a beach ball.

Luckily, I still had a balance left on a Starbucks gift card a coworker gave me for Christmas. Yay - there would be breakfast after all! I victoriously pulled away from the drive-through with a fresh slice of pumpkin loaf and a tall nonfat chai latte. Mmmm-mmm! I got to the school and hopped out of the car to gather my things for the day. My purse, my folders, my latte, my test kits (which are like small suitcases), I was good to go. I was, however, a bit chilly. My tights just weren't cutting it in the 34 degree air and my legs were freezing! And did I mention that I was without a coat? Yep, left it at a friend's house last weekend. I set my latte on the roof and ran in circles around the car gathering everything I needed. Brrrr!!! Then came the trouble of locking the car. Did I mention that my keychain broke last week and I have all of my individual keys in a really inconvenient side pocket of my purse? I gathered everything in my arms, grabbed the latte (thankful for its warmth on my hands - at least one part of me would be warm) and made one more circle around the car to lock it from the driver's side with my single little key.

Yes! I'm here! I've made it! A little late, but I have arrived!!! I walked through the doors and - SLOSH! - my latte spilled all over my hand and went running down the back of the folders. Oh goodie. Nothing too terrible, but still, a series of unfortunate events.

Baby On Board

2008-01-17T20:38:00.000-06:00

No, this is not my strange way of announcing to the blog world that we're expecting. It's just that I was driving to work the other day and I saw a little 4-door sedan drive past with one of those yellow "Baby On Board" signs hanging proudly in the back window. At first it seemed like a flash-back to the 90's because I don't think I've seen one of those in a while. But maybe I haven't been paying attention and those things are still cool. Wait, were those things ever cool? (My apologies to any of you sign hangers out there who may be reading this.) Even in the 90's when those things were everywhere, I remember thinking to myself that I would never hang one of those in my car window because I feel like it makes me more likely to be the victim of a car-jacking. My thought process was that if they know there's a baby "on board" they may want to steal the car, and the baby, in order to try for some ransom money. (I know, I'm really morbid, but this is how I think.) I certainly don't want anyone holding my baby for ransom, and once the car-jacker discovered how much is in our bank account they would probably just return the car and the baby and maybe bring us dinner. But, on the flip side, maybe it makes you less likely to be car-jacked. Probably they just want the car, right? They don't want a baby crying in the back seat while they're trying to be on the run or come up with a master plan for their life of mischief.

Most likely, I'll never be the victim of a car-jacking, but I spend an inordinate amount of time thinking about worst-case scenarios and what my best plan of action would be should I ever end up in one. For instance, I have this fear that when I'm sitting on the passenger side of the car and Krister is outside gassing it up, someone is going to run over, jump in the car and drive off with me still inside. (I'm guessing ending up with me in the car would be even worse for a thief than having to listen to a crying baby.) I try to think of the swiftest thing I could do to get to safety. If I were really fast and James Bond-like, I would reach over and pull the key from the ignition in one swift move and then hurl the keys across the parking lot. This would buy me time to at least get out of the car, and it's a good idea to get the keys away from yourself rather than hanging on to them because you don't want to get attacked for the keys.

Or what if you're walking along a crowded street and someone comes up behind you with a gun and tries to force you to walk somewhere with them? According to my dad, the best thing to do in this situation is to pretend to faint and just collapse to the ground. This is a good move for a couple of reasons. First, it comes as a total surprise to the gunman, really catches him off guard (or her, I guess, though what are the chances?) Second, it kind of ends the conflict before it ever begins. No one is going to then shoot the person who's lying on the ground passed out. And they can't just try to drag you along behind them as dead weight because that would draw all sorts of attention. See what a great plan this is? I remember my dad telling me about this tactic one day just in case it ever happened to me. Hmmm... maybe I come by this morbidity thing honestly...

Also when I'm in a room I often mentally rehearse the best escape route in case an attacker comes in. (I promise I don't feel like the world is crawling with terrible people who are out to get me!) It's always smart to go somewhere with a window. There's a window in our bedroom closet (weird, I know) and I love it because if someone broke into the house we could shut ourselves in the closet and just climb out the window. This would also be handy in case of a fire. I guess if I'm going to worry about escaping, I should probably devote more time to worrying about getting out of burning buildings, as I'm sure that's more likely than having an intruder in the house. But, then again, if you only go by what you hear on the local news, you would think that there's a pretty even chance of either situation happening and that there's a pretty darn good chance it's going to happen to you next. It's probably not even healthy for someone with my imagination to be watching the news at all. Especially once I have a baby on board...

Good-Bye

2008-01-03T12:34:00.000-06:00

Tomorrow night at 9:15 it will be two weeks exactly since I got the call that my grandfather, my dad's dad, had taken his final breath. He took it with all of his children and his wife gathered around him. He took it after three solid days of being surrounded by loved ones - sang to, prayed over, and loved on. I have written about Grandaddy before in a previous post (Leave Something Beautiful) and, though he lived an amazing, inspiring life, it is not his life that I want to write about today. It is the way in which he left by which I have been so touched and given such a sense of peace since his passing.

It was a Tuesday night when my parents got the call that Grandaddy had taken a turn for the worse. Hospice had been called in in the weeks prior, and it appeared to Nana, a former nurse, that this would be the end. All of their children and their children's spouses drove to my grandparents' ranch and arrived around midnight. Grandaddy had been placed on oxygen and was given a prognosis of just hours to live. The next morning, however, Grandaddy announced that he wanted to get up. The announcement in itself was amazing, as he had barely uttered any words the previous day. My father dressed him and brought him into the living room to sit with his family. Everyone was amazed by this, as they thought he would never again rise from the confines of the hospital bed set up in his bedroom.

Mom and Dad called me that evening to tell me of the day they shared with Grandaddy. He experienced an inexplicable amount of alertness and vitality that day, which apparently often happens when someone is about to die. (In fact, my dad remembers Grandaddy, who was a doctor, telling loved ones of dying patients that it is common for someone to rally strength to say good-bye just prior to their death.) A woman from their church brought communion and the whole family shared in Grandaddy's last communion service. Their Episcopal priest came out and did a Last Rites service for Grandaddy. These events were deep with meaning for the whole family and were fitting ceremonies for my grandparents, who have spent the last several years pausing each day at 5:00 for their evening prayers and scripture readings.

Grandaddy was able to sit up for most of the day and respond to his children as they took turns blessing his life and thanking him for the qualities he had so faithfully instilled in them over the years. They reminisced about stories from their childhood and all of the adventures they had been on with this fearless adventurer. They sang his favorite hymns to him (and even a rousing rendition of the Aggie Fight Song). My father gave him his last bath, his last shave. They shared with him in his last cup of coffee.

To the last, Grandaddy hung on to his spark and his sense of humor that had always been such a significant part of who he was. He pretended to try to trip people as they walked past, he squirted my father with the shower hose when taking his bath (Grandaddy always did love a good water fight), he was fully present with his family as they said their good-byes to this man we all loved so dearly. It was a beautiful day and the perfect way to honor his beautiful life.

Even though I wasn't there, I feel a deep sense of peace about the last days of Grandaddy's life. I feel thankful to have known his so well and for so long. I feel honored to be a part of his family and of his great legacy of love. Grandaddy lived a full life with no regrets, and he shared of himself with others so fully that those who know him are left with no regrets in his passing. His death was a good-bye in the truest sense of the word.

Good-bye, Grandaddy. I can still hear your hearty laughter ringing through the house; I can still feel your scratchy mustache when you'd greet me with a kiss; I can still see your strong hands working on the ranch, teaching me to build tree-houses and rafts, but more importantly, teaching me the value of a strong work ethic and what I am capable of when I try my hardest; I can still smell the thousands of pine trees we would plant together to make this world a greener place; I can still remember the encouragement I felt in your presence, the way you listened to people with your whole being. Thank you for who you were, for it has made me who I am. Thank you for leaving me with so many wonderful memories. I will hold tightly to them until we meet again...

If You Are What You Eat...

2007-11-26T20:02:00.001-06:00

If you are what you eat:

- I am three slices of apple pie a day for the past 5 days
- I am enough cranberry sauce shaped like a can to equal the amount of sugar in 24 donuts
- I am the dressing that's being stealth-fully eaten out of the tupperware in the kitchen when no one is looking
- I am the bottle of wine that's been finished off singlehandedly over the past few days
- I am the apples that slid out when the apple pie was being sliced that were quickly rescued from their lonely place on the pie plate
- I am the half gallon of milk to accompany all the pie
- I am the sweet potato casserole that tastes even better as a leftover
- I am full.

Fragile

2007-10-29T21:27:00.000-05:00

Lately I've been reading a book, by one of my favorite authors, called Nineteen Minutes. Jodi Picoult is, in my opinion, a brilliant author, a master of character development, an artist of phrasing and storytelling. My favorite thing about her books is that she always takes a topic that we think of as black and white and she opens the curtains to shed a different light on the subject, a light that reveals the many shades of gray that we seldom stop to ponder. (Disclaimer: Any readers who have a weak stomach for harsh language will want to look elsewhere for your next read.) In this particular book, Picoult takes a school shooting, much like Columbine, and tells the story from all the possible angles, turns it around in her hand as one might examine an old toy for the first time, looking at it with new eyes.

The author, without excusing the actions of the shooter, lays out for the reader the tapestry of Peter's life, and we find that humiliation and degredation have been woven throughout. From his first day on the school bus in Kindergarten to his atrocious acts his Junior year of high school, we see the tearing down of his pride, the slow erosion of his self-worth brought on by the constant barrage of bullying Peter endures as he goes through his everyday routines, trying to become invisible.

Particularly striking to me is the relationship that is depicted between Peter (the shooter) and his mother. Thinking about becoming a mother myself somewhere down the road, the story has softened my heart in an almost uncomfortable way. My sensitivity is heightened, my eyes opened to the smallest actions and interactions that shape the course of our lives, that slowly but surely form us into the people we become.

This weekend while babysitting I took one of the girls to her volleyball game. It was her turn to serve and, after the ball sailed over the net and landed safely on the other side, she looked to me and caught my eye for approval. I smiled and nodded - a silent message, "I see you. I am proud of you." Something about that interchange sent a bittersweet pang through my heart. This particular girl has been through a lot for her young age and I was struck in that moment by her thirst for affirmation, humbled that I had the opportunity to offer it to her in that one small instance. I thought of the children who look to the stands for a nod of approval and don't catch the eye of a loved one, who see instead an empty seat where a busy parent should be sitting, who see a parent who is physically present but distracted by other things, too busy to see, to acknowledge. Thanks to Picoult, I was swept away in that moment as I realized how all of the small, seemingly insignificant things are the essence of the bigger things, the slight winds that alter our course and lead us in a very different direction, the small streams that steadily work to form a canyon where there once was none.

I thought of Peter and his mother, of all of the people in the world and all of the mothers who love them. I thought of how fragile we all are, of how vulnerable we are to the people around us, the way we are treated, the events that shape our lives. I prayed for my future children, for all of the things I will be helpless to protect them against, for all of the things I can do to be the wind that steers them in the right direction, the whisper of hope in a world of setbacks and disappointments. We are so fragile. All we can do is strive to tip the balance, to be fully present in each moment and offer our truest selves to each other, to listen and give a voice to those who speak, to be the ones who heal instead of hurt, who bless instead of curse. The rest is trust.

The Wonders of Soap

2007-10-08T19:06:00.000-05:00

Have you ever thought about soap? I mean, really stopped and thought about it? For some reason, it's one of those strange things I think about a lot.

First of all, what is it? Sure, now we can get it at Bath and Body Works and pump it out in liquid form from a dispenser that assures us of its antibacterial properties (which I feel confused about because I think I've read that if you use antibacterial soap too often, your body won't build up an immunity to germs and bacteria. Anybody medical know the real story behind this?) But what did it used to be made of? Animal fat or something? Honestly, I can't understand how rubbing a block of animal fat on your hands is supposed to make them clean. Maybe it wasn't animal fat - I may just be revealing my ignorance about all things "soap." I know glycerin is or was at one time a component in soap. But then again, I don't have a clue what glycerin is (apart from a Bush song that I've never really liked). No matter what it's made of, it leads me to my second big point about soap:

Why do we trust soap more than anything else in the world? Think about it. A mom changes a poopie diaper and only minutes later is cutting up the veggies for dinner. How can that be? Soap. A surgeon pumps gas in his car and then drives to work and holds someone's heart in his hands. Soap. (Yes, and latex gloves, but still...) A Papa John's employee takes a bathroom break and then returns to the kitchen to toss our dough in the air. Soap. (We can only hope.) We will do the most disgusting things and then touch things that we (or other people) will be putting into their mouths, and we never give it a second thought because of soap.

The level of trust we put in this stuff simply amazes me! We never go around worrying that the soap didn't get the job done (except for those of us that are OCD). We just scrub-a-dub-dub and go along our merry way. I can't think of anything we trust as much. And yet I don't know how it works. I don't know how God works, either, and yet I find that I often trust him less than a bar of soap. A brick of something with glycerin (perhaps) and who knows what else? How embarrassing, really. I guess one big difference is that soap is pretty predictable. It's always supposed to do the same thing (and if it's not doing it's job, none of us will really know the difference since bacteria are microscopic). So maybe that's why it's easier to trust soap than the Creator of the Universe.

I'll get off my soap box now...

Planning My Own Funeral

2007-09-03T15:12:00.000-05:00

For some unknown reason, I have recently been strangely fascinated by my impending death. Not that I'm wanting my life to end any time soon, but I just spend an inordinate amount of time thinking about things like this. I think it may stem from my utter lack of imagination when it comes to my future. Growing up, I couldn't imagine leaving my family and going off to college. I became convinced that, since I couldn't picture it, Christ was simply going to come back before I reached that point in my life. In fact, my brothers and I would wish each other goodnight each evening by saying, "Sleep well - maybe Jesus will come tonight!" Well, high school came and went, and no sign of Jesus' return. Eventually, getting married replaced leaving for college as the thing I couldn't envision for myself. Surely Jesus will come back before I get married - I just can't picture it!

As you're all aware, the last trumpet call has not yet sounded and here I am, happily married for almost six years. Up until this point I never thought about my death - I just thought that the world would end before major events could happen in my life. I guess I've become a little less egocentric in my thinking since then, because I have abandoned this notion of the armageddon fitting any timeline related to me. However, my imagination about the future hasn't improved at all - instead of thinking Christ will return before (fill in the blank) I think, "Surely I will die before (fill in the blank)" I can't imagine having children and getting to be a mother - I wonder if I will make it that long or if I'll be taken out in some freak accident?

A few weeks ago, disturbed by my preoccupation with my own death, I tried to determine what it is that leaves me so convinced that things that happen to everyone else around the world couldn't be experienced by me. I think it all comes down to a sense I have that my life is too good to be true. I don't even believe in "too good to be true," but there's some sick part of my subconscious that tells me to be careful about getting too comfortable because it could all be taken from me in an instant. Meeting and marrying the love of my life was too good to be true, but it happened nonetheless. Having children with this man seems WAY too good to be true, which may be why I just can't imagine it. I can't believe that something so completely wonderful would happen to me, even though wonderful things have been happening my whole life. It just seems crazy that any one person should get to be so blessed.

ALL THAT TO SAY...

Since I've spent so much time thinking about my eventual death, I have of course considered what I would want for my funeral. Following are two versions - the dramatic version and the realistic one.

Dramatic Version:

It's my 100th birthday. All of my friends and family (which consists of beautiful children and many, many grandchildren, as well as a few greatgrandchildren) have come into town to celebrate the occasion. I am confined to my bed but am still sprightly and in my right mind - there's nothing sickly about me, but I'm just old - I'm 100 years old for goodness sake! We have a wonderful visit together and there's lots of singing going on as everyone is gathered around my bed in the sunny spacious room. Finally, they bring in the birthday cake (I haven't yet decided on the flavor, but I have about 72 more years to come up with something...) and I blow out the candles. I eat each delectable bite with all of the enjoyment of my younger years. After the cake, I set my plate down and gather everyone around me. I take turns looking my loved ones in the eyes as I make a grand speech about life and love and all things important - with all of the wisdom afforded me by my 100 years on this earth. After I have shared my heart with everyone, I lean back, breathe a deep sigh, and die with a smile on my face.

My family takes me down to the shoreline (the ocean would be preferable, but I'd settle for a large lake) and lays me on a wooden raft. They say a prayer over my frail body and place a bouquet of flowers in my hands. I am wearing a dress of a color that brings a glow to my cheeks, even as my life has left me. A small symphony (maybe a string quartet or something) plays on the beach as they shove the raft off into the water. The music soars as the setting sun illuminates the water, my body becoming smaller and smaller as it drifts into the distance. An archer takes an arrow and, lighting it on fire, releases it from the bow. It soars over the water and sinks into the wood of my funeral pyre. My loved ones watch from the shoreline, tears in their eyes, rejoicing at the thought of my spirit ascending to be with the Lord at last.

Realistic Version:

I have changed my mind about this. The dramatic version sounds so darn wonderful, I'm just going to imagine that as the way it's going to go. If for some reason it doesn't go down exactly like that, what will I care? I'll be in heaven...

Make it a Great Day

2007-08-27T20:04:00.000-05:00

So I started my new job two weeks ago today. For the first few days I felt like I was the brunt of some sick joke, where there's lots to do and everyone knows the rules but me. I do NOT like being uninformed, nor do I like wasting time (at work, anyway), so I can hardly stand the combination of the two that leaves me feel ineffectual and ignorant. Each day of the first two weeks, I would wake up and give myself a pep talk that went something like this, "I am going to learn so much today. I will only get better at this. I will never again be as unqualified for this as I am in this moment." Thankfully, I believed myself each day, and the thought that the only place to go is up really inspired me and helped me reconcile myself to the ugly truth that I am not yet an expert at what I am doing. I suppose it's a good thing, because how pathetic would it be if I went and got my master's to prepare me for this job and then I figured out everything there is to know in the first ten days? That would be sad. Thank goodness that is far from the case.

Amidst a few late nights of working and the crazy busyness (for the first week, I spent most of my time just making lists of all of the things I needed to accomplish - forget about actually accomplishing anything) I must admit that there have been some moments of sheer desperation. Moments when I thought, I am not smart enough for this job, I am not qualified, I am NEVER going to knock out this to-do list. I hate feeling like that (as I'm sure everyone does!) and when those storm-cloud thoughts came on, I tried to quickly rein in my thinking and cast it in a more positive light, because I'm one of those corny people who strongly believes that, "Whether you think you can or think you can't, you're right." (I don't know who said that and I'm much too tired to look it up, but I wholeheartedly agree!) I think our perceptions of ourselves significantly shape our possibilities, which is probably the reason optimism is so dear to my heart.

Yesterday I was calling a parent to set up a meeting and her voicemail message ended with, "Make it a great day." I hung up and thought about that for a few seconds before getting back to the frantic pace that is my new job. I'd heard it before, of course, but in light of my recent struggle to remain sane (and positive) it took on a new meaning. We can't just wake up and sail through each day expecting things to fall perfectly in place, throwing tantrums each time we don't get our way. Our moods cannot be shaped only by our circumstances, or you'd rarely see people smile at one another. No, we have to wake up each day and decide to MAKE it a great day. For me, that means taking a deep breath and a different perspective when I hit a snag at my new job. It means I take time to enjoy the sunrise for a moment when I get caught at a long light. It means I can take comfort in the underlying peace and hope that pervades my life even when the monotony of day-to-day life buzzes around my spirit like a fly circling round a picnic table.

I'm glad I didn't get a hold of that mother so I could hear that message. Now all I have to do is spend the rest of my life making each day truly great.

Things I Wish I'd Never (A Miniseries)

2007-08-12T14:25:00.001-05:00

Things I Wish I'd Never Done:

While this particular post topic could take me ages to cover, I have narrowed all of the things I wish I'd never done down to one thing: the one worst thing I have ever done. It is with deep regret that I recount this story, as it grieves me to relive it in my mind and it reveals to the world (or at least the handful of people who actually read this) what a terrible person I truly am.

To tell this sad story, I must first set the stage. My family had worked together to build a house on a hilltop in Fredericksburg, Texas (this has nothing to do with the story except for the fact that we lived on a hill.) I was a Junior in high school and was the head drum major of the marching band, "The Pride of the Texas Hill Country". Although in some places this might qualify me as a nerd, this position was rather revered in this quaint Texas town (at least by the band geeks!) and I believed myself to have some sort of special social status (or at least the power to blow my whistle and start 150 some odd people marching across a football field...) My brother Garrett, the poor victim in this harrowing tale, was a Freshman at the time. He was into shopping at thrift stores and was a lowly trumpet in the marching band. Each morning I left extra early for school in order to unlock the band hall and make sure everything was right with the world before the school day began. Plus, it was the "cool" thing to do to hang out with your friends in the band hall until first period, and I was into all things cool at the time. My father was a teacher at our high school and always came to school in his car about 20 minutes behind me. So that's the background. Now my tale of woe shall begin...

It was a morning just like any other. I was ready for the day and was about to head out the door with Garrett, who always rode to school with me so that he, too, could hang out in the band hall. I called up to him from the foot of the stairs to let him know his ride was leaving. And that's when it happened. He tromped down the stairs in an outfit that was unacceptable to my preppy high school eyes. I looked him over: dark blue T-shirt with the word SPAM printed in bright yellow on the front, light blue thrift store slacks, and finally, black army boots. It was then that I was possessed by the evil spirit of teenage sisterhood. "Is THAT what you're wearing?!" Garrett did not see my point of view and he headed back up to his room. I would like to say that, vain as it sounds, I was looking out for my little brother's best interest by keeping him from wearing what I considered to be a fashion abomination, but that would be a lie. What I really cared about was not having to show up at school and walk into the band hall with a fashion abomination trailing behind me. Well, maybe it was a bit of both, but at any rate I was not going to wait around any longer to give this walking fashion faux pas a ride to school.

I headed to the car and took off down the hill. (Remember, I wasn't leaving him without a ride, because Dad would be leaving shortly with the second shuttle.)

It was later that day when I saw Garrett in band that I found out how sad this story really was, how horribly black and evil my heart was, that I was the WORST sister in the world. Garrett entered the band hall and - gasp! - he was NOT wearing the SPAM outfit!!!

He walked over and, still in an understandably sour mood, said, "Why'd you leave me?"
"I left you because you were taking too long and it was time for me to leave."
"The reason it took me so long was that I went upstairs to change. I came running down the hill after you but you just left me."

It still sends daggers through my heart to think of that moment of revelation. The revelation that this poor guy had actually LISTENED to his snotty sister and was trying to appease her (even though looking back he had a MUCH better fashion sense and was actually able to pull off what he wore by his sheer coolness). The revelation that I had gone off and LEFT him, my first friend in life and one of my best friends in the world. The revelation that I was a shallow mess with no hope of being truly cool - a wannabe - and that I had wounded my brother with my hurtful words and judgmental attitude. I have never felt so low, so worthless, so much like a fraud, as in that moment.

Years later, Garrett and I laugh together about this event. But even if I can laugh about it, there's still a part of me that cries inside as I picture what I would have seen had I looked in the rearview mirror - the sweetest boy, in different clothes, running down the hill after the car, wondering why I'm leaving him when he did all that I asked him to, even though it wasn't my place to ask.

I wish I could go back to the foot of the stairs. I wish I could have applauded him for being different and daring rather than taunted him for refusing to be a clone like myself, like so many teenagers just trying to fit in.

I'm sorry, Garrett. I wish I'd never...

Things I Wish I'd Never... (a miniseries)

2007-07-30T09:19:00.000-05:00

Things I Wish I'd Never Eaten:

1) On the way back from my grandparent's ranch near College Station, my family stopped at Texas Burger for a meal. (They might have these things other places, but in case not, Texas Burger is exactly what it sounds like it would be - a burger joint that's a few steps up from Burger King but not quite as exciting as Fuddruckers - if you consider Fuddruckers to be exciting, which I don't.) Anyway, after the burgers we decided to treat ourselves to some ice cream before hitting the road. I was quite thrilled because they serve Blue Bell at Texas Burger and in my way of thinking, it doesn't get much better than that. I strolled up and down the ice cream counter carefully weighing my options and finally decided on Strawberry Cheesecake, the "special of the day." It was just as delicious as it sounds and I gobbled it right up in my sugar cone, glad I had branched out a bit from Homemade Vanilla and tried a new flavor. My brother Garrett had also ordered Strawberry Cheesecake. (Here's a tidbit to know - to this day, any time I'm eating somewhere with Garrett I HAVE to order the same thing he does, or I'm inevitably jealous of what he ordered. It makes things really simple because I don't have to decide what to get, and since he is a consistently good orderer, I'm rarely disappointed. So, come to think of it, maybe I didn't decide on Strawberry Cheesecake and simply took his lead like the lemming I am...)

Anyway, we had a delightful car trip and got home just in time to hit the sack. Or so we thought. Instead, Garrett and I stayed up most of the night puking our guts out. Yes, the "daily special" was apparently not so special after all, but rather was the culprit of our distress. Since that day, a spoonful of Strawberry Cheesecake ice cream has never darkened the door of my mouth. And I'm extremely suspicious of restaurants trying to unload their soon-to-be-expired/oops - we should have thrown this out yesterday dairy products onto unsuspecting customers under the guise of a "special." There ain't nothin' special about that.

2) About a year ago, K and I decided to go out to lunch at a new Thai place in town. We love Thai food and were very excited as we entered the restaurant and discovered a surprisingly beautiful atmosphere. I say surprising because this place is smack-dab in the middle of a strip mall, so I guess I was expecting something more along the lines of a hole-in-the-wall than the lavish decor we discovered when we stepped from the bright afternoon sun into the dimly lit elegance of the large room. We were the only customers, but since it was 2:00 on a Saturday afternoon I didn't find that very unusual. Surely no one had discovered this jewel of a restaurant... We were escorted to a lovely little table and the first thing that came out was our water. As often happens in town around this time of year, the water reeked of - well, I don't quite know what it is, but it reminds me of lake water. (I picture the boaters out on the lakes enjoying the summer, churning up the murky bottom and somehow getting silt into our drinking supply. I know this doesn't make sense scientifically, and I've since heard that it's due to some sort of algae bloom, but you get the point - this water is NASTY.) I asked for a bowl of lemons, as I often do at restaurants, and found myself squeezing each slice down to a pulp in an attempt to make this water taste a bit more like lemons and a bit less like lake. When I commented to the waitress about the water (in attempt to make friendly conversation about what happens to the city's water this time of year) she seemed to have no idea what I was talking about. I thought: either she doesn't speak enough English to know what I just said, she hasn't been in town for a year yet and doesn't know that this happens every summer, or she thinks this water is acceptably tasty. I hoped it was one of the first two assumptions.

When they brought out the menus, it really drove the point home that this was NOT a hole-in-the-wall. Yikes-a-moley!!! I instantly wanted to get up and leave, not wanting to spend our eating-out budget for the whole weekend on this one meal, but K would never be that rude, so we stayed. We ordered Pad Thai, a standard menu item at most Thai restaurants and one we had become fond of at some of our favorite haunts. When it came out, I caught the first whiff and my nostrils flared. (In actuality, my nostrils cannot flare, but if they could have, they would have.) My first thought - dog food. Oh my gosh, this smells just like dog food. How am I going to eat this? Surely this will not taste like it smells. Bravely, I spun a few noodles onto my fork and lifted this pungent pile to my mouth for the first bite. The moment it hit my tongue, I knew things were not going to turn out well. Embarassingly, my gag reflex took over. I sat for a few horrifying seconds trying to decide what to do with this mound of manure in my mouth. Would my body allow me to swallow? As it turns out, it would not. I leaned over and, with an effort to be graceful, spit it out onto my plate.

Since I'm not three years old, this was extremely humiliating. I am about the least picky eater I know, and I have never been known to spit anything out other than the occasional gristle in my meat. Gristle, yes - but noodles? How can anyone ruin noodles? K apparently has the ability to put mind over matter, because he had somehow managed to swallow his first bite. He even took a couple more bites, trying to be polite while commenting the whole time on how grotesque this meal was. I just sat there breathing through my mouth, unable to take in the dog food odor while I stared at my pile of noodles and the smaller pile of rejected food sitting on my plate. I wanted to send it back to the kitchen, tell them it was gross and I couldn't eat it, get my money back and go out to eat elsewhere for dinner. But K is entirely too nice for that. We asked for our check and tried not to notice the confused looks on the faces of the staff (all attention was focused on us, mind you, as we were the only customers dining) as we turned down their offer for a to-go box and left nearly all of our noodles (and literally all, in my case) sitting on our plates.

The most painful part, aside from the gagging, was the knowledge that we had just turned over good money for nothing. We were still hungry, only we couldn't go out to eat anywhere else. We ended up at home eating sandwiches or something equally disappointing. Yep, that's got to be at the top of my list of things I wish I'd never eaten.

What Are the Chances?

2007-07-28T17:42:00.001-05:00

So last Wednesday K and I were at the park where our church was holding this family function. We had signed up to help out and had been put in charge of the tug of war event. Sadly, this was set up over the rock-hard patches of dirt that make up most of the park grounds, so the few kiddos that braved this event inevitably walked away holding their bruised arms and bemoaning their newly inflicted injuries under their breaths.

Before the event started, we headed across to the pavilion to get some water. I had been at school all day and was sick of sitting down, so as we walked I said, "I'm so glad to be standing." K got a funny look on his face and, once we were on the other side of the pavilion, took me aside and said, "You have rather unfortunate timing." I, of course, had no clue what he was talking about. Apparently while I was remarking on how joyous it was to be standing, I was walking right past a woman with one leg sitting in a wheelchair.

What are the chances?

What I Wish

2007-07-26T23:07:00.000-05:00

I wish I could shrink down to the size of a grasshopper (but still be me) and...

...climb into a warm peach cobbler. I'd roll around in the warm cobbler juices and take in the aroma of fresh peaches and brown sugar. I'd perch on a peach slice and alternate between bites of spongy cobbler crust and soft peaches until I was full and sleepy, my eyelids growing heavy - that delightful Sunday afternoon feeling. Then I'd take a peach slice in my arms and cradle it like a warm pillow. I'd drift off to sleep and dream of orchards and sunshine. I'd awake to the sound of fresh cream being poured over my luscious bed and I'd take a swim, enjoying the cool cream on my face as it contrasts the warmth of the peaches.

...tear open a warm Sister Schubert dinner roll. It would take all my effort to pry it apart, but the feel of the dough tearing, giving way between my struggling arms, would make me that good kind of tired. I'd climb inside and wrap myself in the warmth, let it close on me as if I were a pat of melting butter. Of course, this would make me sleepy, so I'd take a nap. When I woke up, I would tear off a giant mound from the very center of the roll - the softest part of all - and it would fill my arms as if I were carrying a giant cloud. I'd stroll down the hill and sit beside the Butter River, setting my yeasty load down beside me on the cool grass. Bit by bit, I'd tear pieces from the roll and dip them into the river, not caring about the melted butter dribbling down my chin as I indulged in my after-nap snack. I'd spend the whole afternoon there, listening to the birds chirp, closing my eyes to relish the cool spring breeze as it lifts my hair from my shoulders.

Yes, that's what I wish.

Like an Elephant

2007-07-15T22:18:00.000-05:00

Has everyone heard of that new reality show "The Singing Bee?" I have yet to see it, but this thing is right up my alley. I have always prided myself in knowing all of the words to every song on the radio. Lyrics just make the song for me, so it's important for me to know them ALL. Of course, there is the occasional exception - Sweet Home Alabama is one of my all-time favorites and not only do I not know all the words, I don't even care what they are because I feel confident that they are not profound... I just love to belt out the chorus and enjoy the great guitar riffs. But I digress...

The other day while driving I started daydreaming about myself being on the show. My heart actually started pounding as I pictured myself standing on the stage in front of millions, putting my lyrical expertise on the line for the big bucks. I realized that more than winning the cash, I just want to prove that I know all of the lyrics. What if they played a song I didn't know? I'd be so humiliated! I blew a huge lead in the 800m run at my 8th grade district track meet and sometimes I still lay in bed thinking about what I could have done differently to win. (I shouldn't have run that 1st lap at quarter speed!!!) I realize that this is a personal problem and I need to just let it go. This is why I can never enter a contest like this. I'm simply too competitive. But just for kicks, I'm driving down the road rehearsing for The Singing Bee - just in case. I quickly recall several songs with tricky lyrics and rattle them off to make sure I would be ready when the music stopped. Yep, I know that one, that one, that one. Boy, am I good.

And then I begin to think of some songs I did not have the correct lyrics to. The first that comes to mind:

"I get knocked down
Like an elephant
You're never gonna keep me down..."

Of course, these guys weren't singing "like an elephant." Any who remember this jazzy hit probably know the true lyrics, and there is no mention of an elephant in this song.

Then there's the classic song Kyrie Elaison. Don't remember it?

Kyrie Elaison down the road that I must travel
Kyrie Elaison through the darkness of the niiiight...

Come on, now, did ANYBODY know these were the lyrics? I always sung it:

Carrying a laser down the road that I must travel...

The guy is on a mission. It's dark, it's scary, he's carrying a laser. Carrying a laser down the road that he must travel - I mean, you never know when a light saber is going to come in handy.

And then, for you Church of Christers out there, there are always the hymns gone wrong. I don't have any personal stories about mondegreens (I just learned that this is the official word for misheard lyrics in songs) when it comes to church songs, but here are some of my favorites I've heard through the years:

Now let us have a little chocolate Jesus
Let us tell him all about our troubles...

Low in the gravy lay
Jesus my savior...

Well, you get the point. I'm sleepy now, so I'm going to stop this ceaseless rambling. If any of you out there would like to share your own mondegreens, I'd LOVE to hear them! Goodnight, and be careful out there. I don't want anyone getting knocked down like an elephant (especially if you're not carrying a laser)...

Why I'm Glad I'm Not a Pioneer

2007-07-14T00:02:00.000-05:00

Tonight while I was getting ready for bed and adjusting the faucet to just the right temperature for washing my face, I thought of the pioneers for some reason. Probably because I was obsessed with Little House on the Prairie as a child, but every now and then it occurs to me how amazingly easy we have it, how convenient everything is for us these days. I mean, not only did the early settlers not have a faucet for getting their water to the perfect temperature, they didn't even have running water in the house. They had to go to the creek or the well or something and then haul it up to the house. And then I'm guessing they had to brace themselves to wash their faces with cold water, or heat it on the stove and then wait until just the right moment in the cooling process in hopes that it would be warm. Probably lots of them just gave up and didn't bother washing their faces before they went to bed.

This got me thinking about outhouses and what a pain it was just to go to the bathroom (just thinking of the unsanitary conditions makes me want to run for the Clorox!) Yesterday I went to flush the toilet and the handle did that thing where it just gives up and slumps down like a kid who's in trouble. I took the lid off immediately, proud of myself for understanding the simple workings of a toilet, prepared to reach down into that water and reconnect the chain that had become disconnected from the flusher dealie (see my extensive knowledge about toilets?). Only, when I lifted the lid, I discovered that that plastic piece that connects the chain to the flusher dealie had snapped in half! This was, of course, disappointing, because now I would have to go in search of a new flusher-dealie connector piece. humph. K and I meant to get around to getting this piece today, but the day got away from us and here we are a whole day later, lifting the lid off the toilet each time we need to flush. The logical part of my brain reminds me that this water has never actually come in contact with the toilet bowl. "Go ahead, reach into it!" it tells me. "It's clean, it's clean, it's clean!" However, the OCD part of my brain says, "You are now reaching into toilet water. Water on the inside of a toilet. Do NOT let your wrist enter this water. Unclean! Unclean!!!" My brain seems to have worked out a compromise: the logical part coaches me through the reaching into the water to grab the chain part, and the OCD part insists that I wash my hands at least twice in quick succession after completing this task.

Tomorrow we will track down a new plastic piece, and in a couple of days, this disgusting little routine will be a distant memory. My brain will go back to thinking about more important things. Until then, I'll pretend that I'm a pioneer, braving the elements. I always thought I would have made a great pioneer. I would like to go on thinking that, but I must admit that my standards for bravery are quite a bit lower than they would need to be if I had to head out into the night and risk running into a rattlesnake on my way to the outhouse...

What I Learned in Class Yesterday

2007-07-11T18:11:00.000-05:00

So I spend most of my days sitting in class now, whittling the hours away. The first day of my July short course was Monday and I was almost bored to tears (or sleep, rather). I wanted to get something from the vending machine during the break, but all I had was a fifty dollar bill and a five dollar bill that I got from selling two books back - yippee! I don't know that I've ever had a fifty dollar bill in my purse before...

Anyway, in hopes of waking myself up I went into the stairwell and walked down and back up 5 flights of stairs. Apart from being the only exercise I've gotten this month it didn't do much good. I was still on the verge of a boredom-induced coma the entire 3 and a half hours of the class.

On Tuesday I came prepared. Well, not really, but I just kind of lucked out. On my lunch break in between classes I ran into the vending machine restocking guy in the break room. He was nice and we had some good times while I ate my turkey sandwich and he made sure there were plenty of animal crackers in the machines. Then I had a wonderful thought - this guy can break my five!!! Sure enough, he had a handy-dandy little pouch of ones. So we traded and I had five wonderful little dollar bills that promised to save me from my afternoon stupor.

I excitedly purchased some Skittles and headed up to the 5th floor for another fun-filled afternoon of Special Ed. Law. While others were frantically taking notes and attending to the power points, I was strategizing about the best way to make use of this treat. Now I don't normally eat Skittles, but I had selected them because I thought they had the best staying power. If I ate them slowly and one at a time, I could make them last through at least half of the class and then I could stay awake from the sugar rush for the second half.

I carefully tore open the package at the seams so that there was a little wrapper plate for my Skittles to sit on while giving me easy access and a full view of all of the colors. Since it's been awhile since I had Skittles, I sampled the flavors that probably tied for last place: lemon, lime, and orange. Grape and cherry are always top dog when it comes to likeability in Skittles, so I knew they'd be eaten last. After the taste test I decided that lemon Skittles are the worst, so I began. One yellow Skittle after the other until all the little sunny pieces were gone from the rainbow. Next, on to the green ones. When I got to the orange ones I was surprised at how much I loved them. How could I have thought they could tie for last? In the future, they may even be contenders with the red and purple ones. I gained a whole new respect for the orange Skittles that day. Finally, I finished up by alternating the grape and cherry flavors until I was down to one last grape and one last cherry. Grape won and was eaten as the last Skittle of the pack.

What I learned in class yesterday:
1. Eating Skittles is a great deal more interesting than power point presentations.
2. No one really gives the orange Skittles enough credit. They really are bursting with flavor.
3. Eating a whole package of Skittles makes my tongue sore.

Leave Something Beautiful

2007-07-09T21:09:00.001-05:00

Today while I was driving to school I saw a butterfly flying across the road. It was beautiful in the morning sunlight. And then a split second later, it was dead - smashed by the force of my windshield as I flew down the highway. I momentarily mourned its loss and then my mind wandered to other things as I drove.

A few minutes later, as the road turned and the sunlight fell across my windshield, I saw something glistening on the glass. I realized it was the smudge left behind by the butterfly. As I stared at the beautiful iridescence, I was struck by the thought that this animal, while beautiful in life, even left something beautiful behind in its death.

My mind went instantly to my grandfather, my dad's dad, who has Alzheimer's disease and is slowly slipping away from us even as he lives. I thought of the care he provided for hundreds in his work as a doctor, of the children that he raised and the way he has made family a priority in his life. I thought of the legacy of love he is leaving to me and to all of those he has known in his amazing life. I choked back tears as it occurred to me that Grandaddy will leave something beautiful behind when he dies. He will leave a family full of people who know their worth, because Grandaddy always made people feel valuable. He always encouraged, always supported, always believed in us and let us know it. It would be impossible in the confines of a paragraph to communicate all of the beauty my Grandaddy will leave behind him, but I can feel it now. I can already anticipate the heart pangs I will feel each time I think of how he loved, the way my throat will close up even as I laugh to think of the wonderful times we shared.

I want to live my life like that butterfly. I want to live my life like Grandaddy. I want to live so that whenever my life is over, there will be a beautiful iridescence on the glass, imprints of love and hope on the hearts of those I knew. I want to leave something beautiful.

Think by Numbers

2007-07-08T21:22:00.000-05:00

The following is a brief list of associations I have between numbers and random things in life:

3 - the number of bathroom stalls you have to check at the movie theater before you find one that's acceptably clean (or almost acceptable, at least). An exception is the dollar theater bathroom where, well, you're just lucky to make it out alive...

10 - the number of consistent runs it takes before I don't feel like I'm jogging with a sack of potatoes tied to my butt. Not that I've experienced this potato-free feeling any time in the recent past, but I know it's out there waiting for me whenever I can finally get my act together. I'll let you know how that goes, as I'm hoping to be potato-free within the month...

52 - the number of minutes it takes me to drive to school to get my master's degree. These gas prices are killing us, but I must admit it makes for some great singing time. Usually K can't handle me belting it out in the car for extended periods of time, so I get it out of my system on these long drives. I might actually miss them when I'm finished with the whole thing, but there's always my commute to work...

7 - the number of times in the last week I've thought how liberating it would be to cut my hair off super short again. I just can't get used to this fixing my hair routine, but there's a little voice inside my head reminding me that it's taken me two long years of growing it out to get to this point. And then there are all of the insulting nicknames K has for me as I'm in those weird in-between stages of growing it out: Hall and Oates (this is a reference I still don't understand, but I feel confident that it's not flattering), English school-boy, the Beatles, and my all-time favorite: Christopher Robin. Notice that they're all references to men. hmmm... maybe I should rethink this...

5 - the number of years its been since I graduated from college. This is hard to believe... and not hard to believe. On the one hand, I can't believe that time is going by and I'm actually aging.. You would think I would be used to this fact of life by now since it's been happening for the past 27 years, but honestly I still feel like a kid in many respects (anyone who knows me can probably attest to this). On the other hand, it feels like FOREVER since I darkened the doors of ACU. This fall is my 5-year reunion. Which is why I need to get on that sack of potatoes thing...