3 O'clock in the Morning

Monday mornings are generally not greeted with a great deal of elan. They are normally a day to reflect on the chores and obligations that another turn of the calendar page brings to the next new week.

But now, with a boy overseas, Monday also means that on this day off, I can instant message and email with him to see how life is treating my favorite missionary.

I realize that he isn't a child anymore. But I also realize that he will always and forever be MY child. It is a strange and precious thing to think that a tiny baby who entered the world at 8 pounds and some ounces is now on a voyage of discovery of self and sharing of personal testimony with people who prior to November 19th were strangers to him and he to them. And that baby is no longer a helpless baby wiggling on a pastel blanket but a self-assured man who is learning to take his place in the world while leaving room in the world for others, too.

Those few moments at an unseemly hour of the morning are precious moments indeed. A rare commodity lacking in the usual substance of life. It is a time where we just talk. Nothing is offbase or unworthy of the few moments of time where we can share the intersection of his life and mine.

I must admit to also being somewhat greedy in this particular form of communication. I do not awake my husband to share the moment. Perhaps I should, but the specter of his tired eyes trying to drive all over creation for various job related activities is just too much of a danger. And I am plain selfish.

Seeing the little postings is like a tiny reminder that I matter to him as much as he matters to me. Nothing can rob me of that special time and I would gladly sacrifice the sleep anytime just to be able to hear from him if only in this medium at this time.

While we did get to talk to him on the phone at what I am SURE will be an exorbitant cost for Christmas, our next opportunity to speak to him will not occur until May sometime around Mother's Day.

I can wait.

I get to chat with him on Monday mornings. Albeit at 3 a.m.

This week, I have to ask him if he has received word of a transfer. He might have the opportunity to stay in the town he currently serves in and continue the work that has been occupying his time to this point. Or, he may have been given the freshly minted adventure of moving to another port of call to share the teachings of Jesus Christ with an entirely new audience.

Either way, it is only through the voice of the Holy Spirit that those who listen are touched with the truth.

And as the conduit to invite that Spirit to come into the lives and homes of those whom he teaches, my son shares a kindred moment with the Savior, whom he represents. He is standing at their door and knocking, admitted by choice of the resident of the household, and sharing a message that they WANT to receive either in part or in full measure.

It is through this sharing of light, from one lamp to another and from one flickering candle to light the path as we spread the light behind carefully cupped hands, sheilding the tender flame from the winds of adversity that the message of the restoration of the fullness of the Gospel of Jesus Christ will fill the world with a light beyond measure.

I think that is why I like Monday the best. I get to hear about his light being spread to those who hold out their candle and wait in the darkness with only hope to help them keep their candle aloft.

Totally Committed

I read an excerpt about becoming totally committed to a course of action. This particular item was specific to the ideals of serving a worthy mission, but I think that it all applies across the board to life in general.

"I, the Lord am bound when ye do what I say; but when ye do not what I say, ye have no promise" (D&C 82:10).

What a breath of fresh air to meet a new missionary who does not have HIS OR HER OWN RULE BOOK. When you signed your acceptance letter, you told the Prophet in effect, "I WILL GO WHERE YOU WANT ME TO GO" and "I WILL DO WHAT YOU WANT ME TO DO". Don't go back on your commitment!

Every missionary who got off the plane seemed to be 100 percent committed to keeping the commandments and the mission rules. During their first day in the mission, they committed to continue to be "MTC obedient". The excitement level was high, and we felt that these were the ones who would conquer the world. During their first round of zone conferences, I interviewed each of them. They would express their commitment to TOTAL OBEDIENCE. I would commend and encourage them.

By the second month, they had discovered how difficult it is to obey all the rules, ESPECIALLY IF THEIR TRAINERS OR FELLOW MISSIONARIES WERE MORE RELAXED THAN THEY HAD COMMITTED TO BE. Many were still determined to set a record for obedience. By the third month, they had experienced their share of hard times: difficult areas, challenging companions, frustrating news from home, rejection by investigators, and the pressure of learning all they were required to learn.

AT THIS POINT, THE MEN WERE SEPARATED FROM THE BOYS, AND THE WOMEN FROM THE GIRLS.

THE TRUE MISSIONARIES OF CHRIST WERE DETERMINED ENOUGH AND STRONG ENOUGH TO REACH THEIR GOAL OF 100 PERCENT OBEDIENCE IN SPITE OF THE DIFFICULTY OF THE TASK.

The others started making excuses why they couldn't keep all the mission rules. "Nobody else is totally obedient" was one of the most frequently used rebuttals. "My companion and others tease me because I'm trying to obey all the rules, which bothers me. And I just don’t understand why this stupid rule is here. I'm not going to live these dumb rules" - these are two other weak attempts to justify disobedience.

I would remind these missionaries that the Lord NEVER said, " I, the Lord, am bound if ye do 80 percent of what I say"! IF FAITHFUL MISSIONARIES WANT THE LORD TO BLESS THEM AS PROMISED, THEY NEED TO BE 100 PERCENT OBEDIENT.

(Randy L. Bott - from the book "Serve With Honor: Helps for Missionaries)

When do we get to a point at which we come to realize that we have to choose and we have to be 100% in order to experience success in ANYTHING? It's hard.

Change and commitment require a willingness to realize that what you have been doing all along isn't getting you anywhere. And to make a difference, there must be changes that will have to be made permanent in order to experience success.

Just a few thoughts for today . . . must be time to make resolutions. . .

Electronic Mail

What a wonderful age in which we live that the bits and bytes of the minutia of our lives can be transported through the flotsam and jetsam of the air to someone miles and miles away.

Not only the minutia but also the love.

With family so far away during not only holidays but everyday, a certain poignant longing for a more personal touch makes all forms of modern communication all the more important. We can't always drop what we are doing to fly around the country or even around the world to see those whose faces we long to see, to hold the hands of the ones who hold our heart or to simply be near the ones who mean so much to our days and nights.

I believe God inspired someone to find a way to keep in touch. Even though we cannot touch physically at all times, we can, through the various forms of communications touch through our hearts and that is enough to sustain us until the next time that we meet.

During this time of the year when hearts are drawn to home and family, it makes all the more precious the opportunity to tell those whom we love that we do indeed love them and that they mean so much more to us than we normally allow ourselves to say. Well, unless you grew up in my family, where telling people exactly how you feel is the soup du jour. There is no such thing as a bad time or the wrong way to say how you feel and to tell the ones who pull the strings of your heart just how much they mean and how deep love can grow within for those who may have started as strangers but have chosen to grow as family.

God bless us that we may see beyond the close called kith and kin and draw to ourselves the family of man who most assuredly needs the love we can offer and the warmth of our heart.

Merry CHRISTmas!

Straight No Chaser

This is a fun holiday bit most of you may have already seen, but when it's good . . . it's worth a repeat.

12 DAYS OF CHRISTMAS:



CAROL OF THE BELLS:



SILENT NIGHT:

Butter side down

The warm tendrils of heat issued forth with their tiny desert-like apparition of bending the solid wall behind them. As if looking through a toast inspired mirage, I awaited the warm, buttery bread that would soon become part of me.

Just like that old saying "you are what you eat", I hoped to become warm and toasty. But not through direct heat.

I slicked on a thin coating of butter (you know, the yellow stuff that comes in a jumbo tub from your local market that isn't butter but we call it that anyway).

I patiently waited. (Okay, we all know that patience part was a lie.)

Then, rewarded for my diligent effort to stare down the toaster in order to force production of toast at a quicker pace, the rising bread, cradled in a hot pair of strange hands rose to the apex of it's duties and I took the toast.

So hot that my fingertips burned, I was blissfully looking forward in anticipation of that wonderful smelling oatmeal bread brushing back my tastebuds for something truly special.

Alas, tragedy struck. Through no fault of my own, the toast began its descent toward the floor.

It had a resounding smack as the butter temporarily compelled it to stick to the less than pristine floor by the dog bowls.

I didn't cry, I didn't waver and I didn't equivocate. THIS IS TOAST, PEOPLE!!! TOAST, I SAY!!!

So I picked it up. 30 Second rule, ya know?

Scraped off the butter and an epidermal layer of toasted bread.

Then, I re-applied the butter and awaited a joyous heaven of hot bread.

In the words of John Milton, it was "Paradise Lost", the toast had grown cold and no longer tasted anything like I had imagined.

The dog was grateful. She doesn't usually get toast with her Alpo.

I think she even smiled. A buttery, warm smile on a cold day.

Score?

Me - nothing, toast - 1, and resident canid - 99.

The trifecta of life complete, I consoled myself with a bit of scrambled egg omelette and hashbrowns. Nothing like a Denver consolation prize.

Merry Christmas, Darling!

The Meaning of CHRISTmas

Merry Grinchmas

This is for those of you who are LESS than thrilled about the holiday season.

Enjoy!

Swingin' Christmas

Merry Christmas!!

In your shower

The average man has the following in his shower:

1 - bar of soap (the same brand he has used for 20 years)
1 - bottle of shampoo, unless he washes his hair with soap lather.
1 - washcloth that is NEVER used but left damp to fool the women in his life (who aren't fooled)
1 - extra large hairball circling the drain which is invisible to the average male.

The average woman has the following in her shower:

1 - loofah on a stick
1 - puffy soap applicator
1 - body brush or sponge on a stick
1 - washcloth, used in a VERY specific order so as not to 'contaminate' cleaned areas of the body
1 - razor with a gentle glide head
2 - 3 varieties of shaving gel or creme; use depending upon length and/or thickness of body hair
5 varieties of shampoo in various scents and purposes
2 - 3 varieties of conditioner to be used as day activities warrant (outdoor vs. indoor needs)
6 bottles of body wash in a bouquet of fragrances and cleansing strength capacities
pumice or foot bar
variety of scented bath oil beads or for the rare day when she gets a soak in the tub
multiple setting shower head with a hose for rinsing out the shower when done
squeegee for the shower walls

And that is just for the average woman. I know women whose showers are the epitome of toiletries shopping aisles at their best, almost as if Bed, Bath and Beyond vomited their contents into the one bathroom.

Truly girly girls and women have a veritable "Baskin-Robbins" of toiletries from which to chose. One friend and I recently laughed over her 2 complete closet shelf selection of day to day products she used to require for her to leave the house smelling more like a rose and less like the compost that fertilizes it.

Anyone sane woman knows that no two days will offer the same challenges! Hence the selection.
One day may require the subtle touch of warm vanilla. A tough day at the office may require a splash of musk or a hint of lavender. A date night will definitely need more than just a 'lick and a promise' at making her statement of a woman in control.

Those days when a woman is feeling a bit rowdy may need something flirty, sexy, fruity or just plain fun, or, in extreme cases, an entire product line from soap to perfume that can leave heads turning to catch the pleasant reminder she leaves in her passing wake.

Mix and match choices can enhance any repertoire and make the day go so much better. It's like empowerment, only on a small scale.

A woman can enter like a work stained jenny mule and exit as a sweepstakes winning thoroughbred filly. She can step into the fragrant arms of possibility included in her hot shower even totally soiled with the grime of daily living and, in short order, throw back the curtain as a pristine and beautiful as an English garden.

Every day is another day of possibilities.

Men don't consider this when they stand around dolefully and say impatient phrases to indicate their displeasure at being kept waiting. But, if they are candid, there is not a man alive who has been disappointed by the vision of beauty that is oh so worth the wait that he might have had to endure.

Besides which, I think they are just jealous.

They'd like to have the freedom to choose but stereotypes still persist in men's grooming products. Even the heralded 'metro sexual' male doesn't allow himself the range that a woman does when lining the side of the tub with product. It just isn't done.

Most men feel like soap, deodorant, aftershave and hair product is sufficient. And if they exfoliate or use moisturizer, they almost expect the 'Hallelujah Chorus' for their "effort" to be more than just 'a regular man'.

So today, I'd like every woman to feel free to liberate the bottles and bottles of product from their hidden locations. It's time to reveal our secret shame: WE WANT TO HAVE A PRETTY FRAGRANCE! And we want to chose which one suits our moods just as surely as we want to retain the God-given privilege of changing our minds.

Because one without the other isn't much stuff. I might be all wet in that shower, but I still want to be able to choose how I want to reveal my emotions to the world.

So, if tripping over bottles irks you, please feel free to shower in the locker room at the "Y". No one will stop you.

But consider this, which would you rather follow into the bathroom: another sweaty jock who will smell of Irish Spring or Dial in his hasty ablutions, or, the warm and inviting scent of a woman who cares enough to chose the very best for that moment in time?

Your call.

Notes and Music

We warmed up for the programs last night (we performed three times!) and had our photographs taken for the CD sleeve.

The wise sound engineers are going to take a 'best of' approach to our recording and have taped EVERY SINGLE SOUNDBYTE. They will take the best rendition of each number and put it onto the CD of our event.

That all sounds so very professional and so NOT like a church choir and orchestra of volunteers.

But surprisingly, with the noteable exception of the 5th concert in the series thus far, the musicians, singers and narrator have all risen to the occassion magnificently. Of course, that is just my perspective from where I sit.

However, apocryphal evidence and 4 standing ovations and a 'gee, I guess we oughta' should indicate that we have indeed born witness of that baby born in a manger who literally changed the world.

Funny thing is, I notice some of the folks around me reaching for handkerchiefs from time to time. They have talked about feeling so much of the spirit of the music and I realize that I haven't applied myself to the rehearsal at home process as much as I should have or could have. During the prayer before we started last night, one of the men asked that we be recognized and blessed by the Lord for all of our effort and hard work in preparing for this event.

I can't say honestly that I have 'burned the midnight oil' over my music. Nor can I honestly say I have knocked myself out burning the oil during the daylight, either.

To be sure, I have rehearsed my music, taking it walking and to the gym with me and singing along while pumping iron. (don't laugh - it keeps me in rhythm!)

But I wonder what the criteria for others in the choir is regarding daily rehearsal: how long each day do they rehearse? Are they constantly playing their rehearsal CD or listening to tracks downloaded to their mp3 players or iPods?

Is the frequency a matter of multiple short rehearsals all day long, or do they lay out specific amounts of time to rehearse indepth?

So the words in his prayer petitioning the Lord for His Divine blessings over our concerts has become an opportunity for me to assess just how vital I intend to be both in this particular setting and in my life as a whole.

Having been in the percussion section for a majority of my youth, I have come to a rather understated understanding: it doesn't matter how many notes you get to play. It only matters that you have practiced them, and, most importantly, that you come in at the right time and stop at the right time.

Without the proper time frame, no matter how lovely your part, it creates a jangling dissonance that is hard to ignore. And even the indulgence of a kind audience will not be forgiving of a program lacking in substance.

How hard it is to combine the vocal talents and musical skills of a roomfull of people! Everyone has internal metronomes that are set to a tempo only they can hear, or appreciate. When I was in school years ago, my band director said percussionists have only two tempos. Faster and stopped.

I have learned over my lifetime thus far that there is an element of truth in that statement. During these rehearsals, we have learned that a lot of people equate quiet volume with slow tempo. Needless to say, the practice sessions have been exciting from time to time as our patient and skilled director coaxes us along.

My prayer for tonight is that we will all be singing the right notes and from the same sheet of music.

And if that occurs, it will be enough.

Choir and orchestra

Gimme an "A"!

Okay all you people, it's time to tune up and it's time to do it now!

Line up in there Tenor section! Baritones, stand tall! All of you Altos turn slightly toward the center and Sopranos - we are not going to screech out the notes! Let's keep it nice, round tones - fish lips, if you please!

Bass, lets hear that passage in 'The First Nowell'. . .

Now, orchestra, can we tune the violins please . . .

No. Temporary insanity hasn't set in - yet.

This weekend is the Christmas Program which we have been rehearsing for months. It's time to share our testimony, thoughts and joy of the season in song. This is the first time I have been able to sing with the choir.

The first two years, they needed a percussionist, so I played the tympani and various auxiliary percussion pieces. Which is fine by me. I figure if we are truly exercising our talents this year as our gift to the Savior born in the manger so long ago, then we shouldn't care whether we are the lowly shepherd piping our tune on the quiet hillside to calm the sheep or the majestic king playing a lute as the firelight twinkles in the dunes as they seek to follow the star in their approach the newborn king in a manger.

Sometimes we forget that.

I don't recall the Holy Bible reading of Luke 2 telling how only the really cool or the impressive got the message of the Savior coming into the world. The prophecies of Isaiah and the other Messianic prophets told the world. But only those who were prepared to believe and who were willing to perform the effort were granted the glorious view of the new star and the miracle of Salvation which had come into the world. And that had nothing to do with their station in life. It had EVERYTHING to do with their heart.

When you have a willing heart, you truly believe that Christ was born in a humble stable to a pure and totally prepared virgin. Jesus came to a family that was both simple and complex. He was and is, simply, the Son of God. He was and is, to many a complex notion, just like us - mortal.

But in order for that babe in the manger to become the Anointed One who could indeed atone for us all, He had to grow beyond 'just a baby' and be totally and wholly our Savior. And that meant that he could WILLINGLY lay down his life and pour out his blood for us so that we could live.

I just hope while we sing, the people who come to the presentations over the next three days will feel the spirit of what we are trying to say.

Merry CHRISTmas. For without Christ there is not much to be merry about.

A really good movie

When was the last time you saw a really good movie?

Well, thanks to the recommendation and the generosity of my best friend who loaned me her copy of an absolutely FABULOUS movie, my husband and I had a GREAT evening together.

Look, we are simple country folks without much taste for fancy stuff. Ha ha.

And we have swamp land for sale in Floridy for a reeeeeealy good price.

Fact is, sometimes it is just more fun to turn off the lights, sit real close and watch a movie that doesn't require being dressed up to attend. My ability to perceive the finer points of Hollywood's gems isn't limited by watching their offerings in my socks.

I think that I feel closer to the programs I see without the trappings of a theater sometimes. I am NOT knocking going out, but sometimes, I just want to see a movie without the hassle of ticket lines or cellphone conversation in the next seat over from some boor who believes they are 'too important' to turn the thing off.

So I can enjoy a wonderful evening and a great program in the company of my longsuffering husband and do it all in my socks. Find me a multi-mega-giganto-plex that allows all of that.

Plus, my popcorn is better. mmmmm!

Time

Shopping.

The usual stuff gets tossed into the shopping cart with the groceries. I sometimes call the carts buggies. That is apparently something worth the scornful laughter of people who believe Southern speech is an evil to be stamped out.

Whatever.

Regardless of what you call that three wheeled menace (so named because one wheel is on its own little planet and it isn't ours), the grocery shopping must be done.

I was astounded to come around the corner and discover a rack filled with giftcards for virtually everything you could imagine and a few things I'd never heard of.

Yeah, I need to get out more.

But the wonderful options made me consider something.

When I was a kid, it seemed like Christmas and birthdays were a million miles away and that the joy of opening whatever had been given was a kind of kiddie euphoria that made life seem wonderful.

Now, I think that we have become so 'complex' in our thinking that the joys of simply being in the present with one another's lives are filtering away. We want to be part of what goes on, but only conditionally.

I want to give my family and friends something this year but am unsure how to package it.

I want to give them my time.

Time that is undiluted, where my mind isn't wandering off onto my reply or the pot roast in the crock pot.

Time that is unfettered by whatever my concerns are and, instead, is directed solely to what they need, they want and they feel.

Time that we can use to laugh and cry and share the minutia of THEIR life and times.

Time is the one missing ingredient in most relationships. We talk about nations and people, the most frequent casualty of the day is the time to build something lasting by spending real, one to one, face to face time that builds friends, families and nations into something greater and stronger than they were before.

While I can't possibly cough up the money to feed all the starving children or clothe every naked soul, I can give up the time to feed my friends and family with the time that they are starving for. I can clothe them in the attention and care that lets them know just how very important they are to me every single day.

And that doesn't require a gift card or a floating balance.

Christmas time is here . . .

Explain to me why normally sane people do this to themselves?

Not content to give the ones you love something nice for Christmas, we beat ourselves into a froth trying to find Nirvana - the PERFECT Christmas gift ! (note the nice mixture of religious traditions there - and you thought I was dumb!)

Endless pacing down miles and miles of store aisles searching through "nice but not good enough" items that on any other day would have been delightful offerings to the people who mean the most to us.

But face it. You cannot personally stand to think that the beat in your heart, the twinkle in your eye and the very breath in your lungs will be stilled by the dreaded words 'What's this for?'.

As if those aren't bad enough, the sequel is even worse . . . 'I already have one of these. I bought it LAST WEEK.'

Clairvoyance should be offered with the candy canes this holiday season.

That, or a family sized bottle of 'Milk of Amnesia' that renders stupid remarks like that inert.

I was once given a sweater that for the life of me I would never have bought for myself, my personal love affair for Holsteins notwithstanding. Everyone was poised on 'go' to see my reaction for their gag gift.

Frankly, it was hilarity! That they remembered my passion for all things bovine with such a truly tacky sweater made it beautiful that day.

I loved the look on one lady's face at church. You do know you HAVE to wear you new clothes to church, right? (where were you raised? did wolves handle the job? PUT ON THOSE CLOTHES!)

So, this sweater, paired up with a smart and classy black skirt looked pretty good to the cow eyes in the room. I had on my cowboy boots too, so I was good to go.

I loved it so much, that I wore the sweater until it rotted. And I was sad to see it go. It had become a symbol of what Christmas is all about - giving someone a GIFT OF LOVE, not perfection.

Remember the story of the Littlest Angel . . .?

He was certainly no angel in the interpretation of impatient hosts of heaven. But he was most certainly an angel of great magnitude and generosity in the sight of God. And why? Because this little angel totally grasped the concept that when we give something with all of the love in our heart, whatever we have given is rendered beautiful and perfection becomes the gift that comes in due time as our memories recall the love that has been extended to us in the gift itself and from the giver.

So, I would like to offer a remedy that falls somewhere between the two extremes of beginning Christmas shopping before the paper from this year's gifts hits the floor and doing it all at the Wavaho Truck Stop and Gas Plaza in 5 minutes on Christmas Eve. . .


Shop for what LOVE leads you to instead of commercialism, fear and panic.

It just might make it the best Christmas ever!

Anonymity, a bargain at twice the price

Anonymity.

Blogs, boards and call-in radio depend on it.

No one willingly puts their real name out there for fear of identity theft.

In my case, it isn't theft I am concerned about. It's laughter.

Few people know that this is "me" on this page. Fewer still care.

But that isn't the point.

REALLY. As a society and as individuals, we have become WAY too comfortable with the idea that we can hide behind our online lives.

Because we HAVE become comfortable with our electronic communication, that face to face stuff has suffered. The ad on tv where the family all emails and text messages each other for dinner time used to be funny.

It isn't anymore.

I actually emailed a picture to my hubby who was 5 feet away from me with his laptop whirring away.

Nothing remotely anonymous about it, but there I was flinging this photograph OF OUR SON, no less, to him as he sat there absorbed in whatever he was doing.

When did this descent into madness happen?

Then, there are the public manners, private behavior issues that the internet and all of the digital friends it has bring into our lives.

We would never think of walking up to someone and spitting directly into their face while we looked at them.

So, how did we get an easy familiarity with doing it online?

I have to believe that it all comes down to that secrecy that we stupidly believe we have when we are online. We are about as invisible as a 3 year old who covers THEIR eyes and says "You can't see me!"

I can become anonymous by simply closing my blinds and picking up a book. I can be anonymous by letting the dude in traffic get in the line in front of me instead of showing him my skills in finger gestures. I can be anonymous by just letting go of the disconnected part of my life that is the digital divide.

My only concern is how long it will take me to do ANY of the above . . .

The Devil made me do it

You know you have done it.

So don't EVEN try to deny it.

Even you 'holy' people out there on the front row. Sanctimonious piety will not help you now.

You provoke someone just to see how they will react. And then you poke at them just enough to keep them stirred up.

Well, today has been one of those days.

The 64 dollar question for today is:
How creative can you be in helping someone come up with ideas to keep their "holiday guest" busy, whom they really do not want to spend time with, but whom they are COMPELLED by circumstance to have to entertain or be considered a 'Scrooge'?

Or, at least, more of a Scrooge than you and they already unashamedly are.

First, you check the community calendar. . .of every single community within a days' driving distance.

And a few that are outside that limit.

And you pray that there is ANYTHING that you can take in that will fill the time that you are compelled to spend with someone with whom you have absolutely nothing in common. There is only so much smiling and nodding you can do without your lips sticking to your dry teeth and your neck going out of joint.

But worse yet, you plan ways to "ditch" them and not make it seem totally and transparently obvious to even the most dull witted kindergartner.

Does the police station still take in strays? Will anyone notice if you come home WITHOUT them? If you prop up the pillows in the bed just right, will everyone else assume they are STILL napping?

Then, because you are so full of it, flush with the plans you have in mind, you look for ways to twist the knife in online forums, chat rooms and blogs. Simply because shooting holes in the overinflated egos of people who are the 'deciders' of public policy is dang good fun. KA-POW!!

Finally, exhaustion sets in and the fun and games must come to an end.

There are no more pins left to burst the bubbles of insanity carried aloft by other people's expectations. And, frankly, you have no more strength left to pop the bubbles anyway. Whew!

You lull yourself to sleep thinking about how an allegedly mature adult can allow themselves to run so thoroughly amok and still sleep well at night. . . the answer for all of those who are just now catching up is simple.

With a SMILE.

Nyquil and Yahtzee

I own a handheld Yahtzee game.

Normally, I consider it an amusing diversion for one or two rounds. But, when compelled, I have been forced to admit that I have played for several rounds before realizing that today is NOT the day in which I will beat my high score of 561.

Don't laugh. Yours isn't much better.

Sadly, I have a confession to make.

After repeated doses (at the appropriate time distance) of Nyquil, I can't put the stupid game down.

No matter that my score hasn't ever even broken 300, I am thoroughly convinced in my night-night cold medicine fog that this will be the one, the game in which I will break the bank and roll and electronically simulated perfect game.

I can't stop.

I want to. My eyes twitch from the repetive cycle of watching the spots appear and disappear in rapid succession from the little dice shapes on the readout panel of the game.

But I can't stop.

This might be the winning hand.

Finally compelled only by dizziness to put the stupid thing down, I leave somehow faintly depressed that I couldn't manage to top my old score.

Deep down I am convinced that I HAVE indeed beaten the score and that the game is lying to me with Nyquil breath and an evil laugh.

I re-read the label. 10% alcohol by volume. Does this mean per dose or for the whole container? And will I spontaneously burst into flames when I tuck in under my electric blanket?

Do my eyes resemble nothing more than Ned the Wino's after a weekend spent on a bottle of ripple?

And what is that annoying beating noise?

Oh, wait. Scratch that last one. That would be my heartbeat which I can actually hear along with the ringing in my ears.

Someone, anyone, please help me find my bed.

Thanksgiving and Iron Bowl

Somehow, the Thanksgiving season just is better with the addition of a good weekend of football.

I'll admit it.

I'm an addict.

And isn't that half of the battle?

So having admitted my affliction, does that mean a prescription of ESPN 1 & 2 can help me through my withdrawals from society, activity and life itself for an infusion of team spirit and yellow flags?

I'd love to have a wonderful set up like they have at the electronics stores. Multiple screens, sound systems that rival a theater and a remote control to command everything into action at the touch of a button.

I feel the testosterone level in the room rising.

Sure, I'm female but I totally get the gladiatorial competition and the need for conquest. It's a total turf war waged for a pigskin that doesn't even matter when all is said and done.

Except that it does.

Church congregations have actually split over the Iron Bowl bragging rights in this state. Everyone has an opinion and unless you are wearing the right team colors, your opinion is wrong. And it has nothing to do with which pew your family has sat in for decades.

Sadly, there are those in even good families who stray. For reasons known only to themselves, these benighted souls root for the opposition.

Perhaps it is a genetic anomoly? Some kind of DNA quirk that prevents brain receptors from seeing and hearing the same things that the rest of the family does?

Or is it sheer perversity that drives some to seek out a rival host to support their ego in an alternate universe from the one the rest of the family inhabits?

Whatever the cause, the civil war is still being fought in the homes that dot our nations when the rival colleges within our fair state toss the ball into the air on a crisp fall day and try to outlast each other until the final tick of the clock.

If you don't understand, I'm truly sorry. You are missing out on the spice of life.

Happy Thanksgiving

With all of the politically correct trying to revise history all over the place without regard for the truth, let's take today and be thankful for our freedoms.



Without the freedom of this nation, all of our women might very well be wearing burkas and not be educated at all.



Without the freedom of this nation, all of our young men might be killed in senseless acts of violence proclaimed necessary by a despot.



Without the blessings we have under God, we would have no choice of how, where or what we worship or even if we worship at all.



We have food, shelter, clothing and friends who make our lives pleasant.



And I am not unaware of those who suffer. We share our bounty each month to help those who are less fortunate.



Everyone should do so.



After all, if we are blessed to be here, we can surely pay it forward to those who aren't so fortunate today.



God bless America and pass the turkey and gravy!

Little things

So, the day has stroked by in a fog.



I stayed up all night and watched the little digital representation of the plane my son was flying to his new home in Germany.



For those who are differently attached to their offspring, watching the visual tracking doesn't sound like something that particularly sane people spend all night doing or admitting.

But to me, it was a comfort. The tiny plane wasn't just a plane going to foreign soil for strangers.

That tiny plane on my screen carried a piece of my heart to another place, far outside of my chest and taking that little boy now grown to man into a future that I can only hear about from a distance.

Being a mother is not for wimps.

Rotten, stinkin' cold & rambling

yeah.

I doomed myself.

I spoke evilly about the wonders of modern medicine only to wake up feeling like my head weighed roughly 235 pounds and my ears filled with sloshing sounds as if I had suddenly put out to sea during a moment of sleepwalking.

An enemy agent caught my complacency and sent for the reinforcements that held an invasion that would have made the infantry at Normandy Beach proud. . . except for the niggling little fact that the ENEMY took the beachhead, or in this case, MY head.

What is it about having a cold that makes everything seem just a bit too shrill? Sounds are more piercing and everything is just on the edge of annoying. And all of that is before we get to the real annoyances of daily living that make me wonder what was so great about leaving the hunter-gatherer time of our existence where NO ONE was concerned about having a shirt pressed before leaving for work!

Cave men, as it turns out, didn't think about pressing their mastodon skins for a night out with the missus. Fast facts garnered in the Smithsonian also indicate that they didn't really consider bathing and grooming essentials either.

Now, while I am perfectly willing to abandon ALL ironing for the good of all mankind, I TOTALLY draw the line on the bathing and grooming gig. After spending a great deal of time trying to encourage a child that a bath was a GOOD idea if they planned on living inside the house and seeing that battle become aimed in a different direction as he grew older (namely the 'get OUT of the bathroom now because OTHER PEOPLE NEED HOT WATER, TOO!' skirmish), I cannot begin to imagine just how funky fresh the cave was after a cold spell in the primitive winter of their discontent.

My father sagely pointed out that when everyone in your circle of friends smells like woodsmoke and cream of chipped antelope, no one really notices if you are a bit tangy. At that point I had to excuse myself and gag in another room, but the point was certainly made.

I have to wonder who the bright little bulb was who decided that a spritz of something floral or fruity was better than the smell of 'Fireplace in a Cave'. Did she think to herself 'hmmm, ooh aah goobah boo bah' (which translates to mean 'this smells so much sexier than antelope haunch')?

Or did the cold and flu season finally pass and they had an epiphany of sorts when they could finally breathe again?

We may never know.

But one thing is certain. While the way to a man's heart may have a pathway through his stomach, baby had better have a little sumpin' sumpin' on the back burner when the mastodon mixed grill is all gone. While our cavemen may bathe more, dress better and certainly smell nicer than the cavemen of yore, they are still susceptible to the olfactory attention grabbing skill of a female who can use her wiles judiciously added to a spritz of something more floral than firewood.

Well, I guess that's all for the moment. My headache is settling back in and I think it's just about time for another serving of that delightful cough and cold elixir that makes me wonder just how much alcohol is in that little dosage cup. . .and why on earth it has to taste so NASTY?

Aaaaah - chooo!

Vaccinations

Some words SHOULD be four lettered.

The title to this episode is one of them. Vaccinations are both our friend and a painful little enemy.

Flu season compels us to at least consider the possibility of rolling up our sleeve, dropping our trousers or flaring our nostrils to receive the life saving medicine that is available for $15 at a drugstore near you. Shots hurt, but the spray thingy up the nose can strangle you.

Either way, someone is likely to be assessing the readiness of your life insurance policy - just in case the vaccine doesn't keep you from the banana peel on the edge of your grave.

It amazes me that we don't ever quite get the latest mutation included. And despite the discomfort of any of the above procedures, we all sniffle our way through the fall and winter hoping to prevent ourselves from becoming a statistic.

One must consider that with every passing day, germs and the creeping crud around us is adapting. Yes, people. ADAPTING.

Borg-like in their little collective of filth and poison, the germs enter our systems as gently as a baby sucking on Gerbers. Then, like a punch drunk parasite on Percoset, they CHANGE. This is not good.

There are so many ways to infiltrate our body systems. Eyes - check. Ears - check. Nostrils - runway #1 at your service. Mouth - red carpet to the body. Pun totally intended.

So, in this season of trying to keep healthy and well, try to keep warm, drink plenty of fluids and stay out of drafts. And please, if you must sneeze, do so in another direction. I haven't had my flu shot yet.

Tango, Rumba, Cha, cha, cha

While I totally missed out on the opportunity to dance with Fred Astaire or Gene Kelly, I did get in a few steps with some reasonably good dancers in college.

Dancing is such an expressive form of sensual communication. There is nothing so romantic as a perfectly crafted Viennese Waltz nor is there anything quite as compelling as a well performed Cha Cha.

There is something harmonious in the visual chemistry of lines and movement that flow seamlessly from one set to the next.

Sadly, unless the "Grace Fairy" shows up sometime soon, I am now and forever will be the girl who has more than two left feet and less finesse than a bull moose in the showroom for Royal Doulton.

I wanted to be lithe and lively on my feet, but generally I spent time treading carefully on the toes of longsuffering gentlemen who recognized that dancing was not my forte but were nice enough to take me out on the floor for my conversational skills instead. ("Gee, that girl moves like an elephant on the march, but she can sure hold up her end of a conversation and then some!)

After being totally enmeshed in the weekly offerings of 'Dancing With the Stars", I must admit that secretly I'd LOVE to get some dancing lessons in. Preferably with my husband. But he rolls his eyes in that specific way that speaks volumes about how much he would prefer torture by waterboarding or a week in prison to taking a few lessons with good old Arthur Murray.

The appeal isn't just being able to do more than shuffle around the floor in a circle. Without exception, these celebrities have gushed about how much weight they have lost and the delightful muscle tone they have gained as they have learned to perform a passable Paso Doble or a fast moving Quickstep.

Uncultured Philistine that I am, I confess that I secretly hear the high pitched falsetto voices of the Bee Gees in my head singing "J -J-J- Jive Talkin'" everytime they announce that someone will be dancing the jive with their professional choreographer. And yes, I TOTALLY realize they aren't related, but that's just how my mind works.

Then when the couples face the dreaded night of elimination, and we see the strained smiles from people who are totally poised in their respective fields of endeavor away from the Capezio's and Spandex, I can feel a drop or two of perspiration gathering on my own forehead as we breathlessly await 'the cut'.

More cruel than anything, the masquerade of 'it's no big deal that we have been eliminated' just kills me. There are only a couple of people I haven't felt too bad to see depart. The rest of them deserved to stay and keep dancing.

But then, that is not what this competition is all about. It's about taking someone out of their comfort zone and teaching them to be more than the name and the face that we usually see. It's about making someone who is already at the top of their game and their fame become far better through the sweat equity of the dance.

I have truly enjoyed seeing the show this season and I wish we would find more good things to show on television. Things that can bring so much happiness to the voters must be doing something right.

Now, if you will excuse me, I must find my dancing shoes. There has to be at least one move from basic ballroom class that I can remember.

Rice Krispy Treats

It's time to break forth into singing and let the rejoicing begin! After an arduous and protracted day spent over a hot stove in the kitchen, I have made toffee bit and cocoa rice krispie treats!
(no, really, applause isn't necessary - although it IS gratifying after all I have gone through to make these treats!)

Okay, okay. I'll wipe off the water I flicked onto my face and quit posturing. But either way, you want half a pan of these little goodies for yourself, and you know it.

After carefully getting them set, I packaged them up for our soon to be far flung missionary. Those little home vacuum sealing machines are so much fun! Since his presents have to leave American soil before he actually does in order to make it to Germany in time, we are on a deadline here. Chop, chop!

I only have the contributions of one more set of family members to get together in the boxes and then we ship it all away into the arms of the air freight folks who will see it safely overseas. We repose our trust in the kind people to make sure my boy has a Merry Christmas.

If only beaming technology were possible. . .

Oh well. Patience is a virtue I have yet to acquire, although I am working on it.

Funny stuff

I recall being about 5th grade age and learning some of the names of the bones in the body. Big whoop, right? But then we got to the 'humerus' and discovered it had nothing to do with Topo Gigio and Ed Sullivan and everything to do with that prominent knob we call an elbow.

Walking through the house and smacking my elbow on some immovable object (like a marble countertop), my arm immediately reacted to the assault by doing what it does best. . .cutting and running like the coward that it is.

Tingly and strange nerve impulses raced along in a slalom of who gets to jangle her nerve endings first and I found myself wondering just why we call this episode with our elbow 'hitting our funny bone'.

Seldom is this actually amusing. And if you can remember laughing about it, then it had to have been someone else's arm that was tingly.

Having thought about that during the duration of my absent nerve responses, I wondered why it is that we laugh at misfortune unless it happens to us. Car wrecks, people breaking their trampolines mid-jump, diving boards snapping during a spring and people being hit in sensitive areas by projectiles seem to bring out the juvenile laughter in us all - again, unless it is us that is suffering. Then the people who are laughing are just being cruel.

What classifies funny?

Who gets to decide?

A classic line from Henny Youngman, a comedian of bygone days, was "Take my wife . . . please!", to which the audience would laugh both knowingly and appreciatively. Try saying that the next time you are MC'ing some seventh grade beauty walk or Cub Scout bake sale. I promise the crickets you hear chirping along in the silence won't even laugh. It's just too stale and too corny for our 'sophisticated palate'.

But some things never grow old. The commonalities of humor as it involves personal actions seems to be a neverending wellspring of humor that outlasts time. After all, stupid people exist in every generation. Who knows? You just might be one of them.

For several years, Redneck Humor was, by far, the number one source of fresh material. Everyone laughed along because we all could picture someone we knew who fit the bill. Madison Avenue couldn't even prevent a snicker, because even in their world was someone who was a Bubba. The only distinction between their Bubba and the ones around here was the fact that the ones hereabouts are actually willing to laugh at themselves. Yankee Bubbas get all defensive and mad like no one should point out their redneckiness to anyone else.

Some kinds of jokes are only funny in context. I can't imagine kids in this day and age thinking humor from the 1950's to be all that funny. They can't relate to it personally.

I guess that is why we tend to take our humor whereever we can find it. Everyone can relate to some element of our personal journey and we just have to find that common thread . . . and pull it.

By the way, did you hear the one about . . .

Gentlemen, start your engines!

Our house sits near an elementary school. The road to said school passes directly in front of our home and we get to watch the daily parade of harried Moms and Dads dropping off their progeny at the doors of learning then rush off to their own day of fun filled dragon slaying. And all of this is accomplished at 15 miles per hour.

Normally, the people who go up and down this particular street are here for specific reasons that are decent and respectable. Kids to school, visiting Grandma at the old folks home across the street, attending the nice church across the street or because they live in one of the neighborhoods that connects via side streets to the 'main drag' running in front of my mailbox.
Decent and respectable. And well under the speed limit.

However, there are others. . .

One of the principle others is a teenage boy, who, if he isn't careful won't make it past his teens. He gets off work at the Taco Bell around 11 or so and comes home with his extra rumbly muffler and the heavy boom boom boom of his stereo system (which is worth more than the car and it's fuzzy dice are combined!).

We FEEL his approach. It's like getting a zap from the defibrillator as his car comes down the road. You can feel the heavy bass tingle of the boom boom boom vibrating right up through your...well, you get the idea.

By the time he reaches the first driveway to the old folks home, he meets up with boom boom #2, who equals both the volume and intensity of boom boom #1. There is some middle of the road chit chat. Then apparently invisible to the naked adult eye, the gauntlet is thrown down and the race begins.

Tires spin, smoke pours from the burning rubber and the peel out leaves dark and obvious marks on the asphalt as they careen westward toward the usually deserted stretch of our road that heads out into the county (a road which, for some inexplicable reason, has been given a DIFFERENT NAME once it passes out of the intersection!).

I have called the police - not because I am a spoilsport (I have been known to peel out and lay some rubber myself) but because at that hour of the night, I have no desire to be ringside at Talledega for the speed trials. And it happens right in front of my house!!! Vroom, vroom.

Trust me. The thrill is gone.

Nightly repetitions of this event during the summer months in particular are a bit jarring since they invite friends. Especially jarring when you are trying to compel a teenage boy to GO TO BED! Even those who aren't able to do so desire to express their 'need for speed'. It's a testosterone thing.

As built in and hardwired as being male is to their anatomy, the testosterone rush of slipping past an adversary while behind the wheel of a muscle car is a powereful rush that cannot be denied. While some would say that it's all in good fun, my worry is not just tonight, but all those nights potentially to come . . .

Can they keep this just a surface game? Will they be able to just have fun and walk away?

Because I am a mother now, the thoughts that race past the pace car in my mind have more to do with injury, insurance and inability to negotiate a sharp turn at high speeds. Those things NEVER crossed my mind when I was a kid or even when I was in my 20's.

They cross it now.

And they make regularly scheduled command performances as well as fabulous vacation pitstops better known as guilt trips.

But I remember well slamming the hammer down, watching the needle climb into the red zone and grinning like a possum when I left someone in the dust.

While I know that maturity and wisdom do not come to everyone at the same time or to everyone period, I know that some things never seem to lose their appeal. That's why NASCAR is such a big hairy deal in the South.

Even grandmas with beehive hairdo's want to blow past some geezer straddling the center line on their way to Piggly Wiggly. The most tame and gentle Deacon at the Baptist church secretly wishes that he could be the one to turn pretty boy Jeff Gordon into a pile of goo at the finish line when he roars past to claim the checkered flag for himself.

I get it.

That's why I try to let the good times roll... right up till midnight. After that, just call me 'Marion the Librarian'.

Even the most die hard race fan needs some sleep. In my dreams I can actually win at Talledega Superspeedway. Even if I'm a girl.

Take that Danica Patrick!

Got bread, milk & eggs?

With the announcement that the grocery stores and gasoline quick marts have been anticipating, the panic stricken and ill-prepared are hitting the road in droves to pick up bread, milk and eggs.

The local purveyor of panic (better known as Dan the Weatherman) is feeding the masses the horrible news that the temperatures will be rolling down below freezing and setting the balmy South into a frenzy of shopping and unnecessary purchases.

Why is it that people clean out the milk, bread and eggs? Will they be dining on a steady diet of French Toast during a power outage to remind them of the good old days of the French Revolution when Marie Antoinette shouted 'let them eat toast!"?

Or do they plan on making poached eggs on toast covered with a delicate Hollandaise sauce (better known to my brother as 'yellow scum')?

Egg nog? With toast?

Toast points in milk with a soft served egg?

While I see that there are lots of choices for these basic items, I have to tell you point blank that there are so many other foods that can be set aside for a chilly day that don't require a gourmet kitchen.

All of the south knows that those little barbecued beans with sliced hot dogs comes in little pop top cans that you just dive in and eat them up.

And you don't have to worry about your milk if you put chocolate in it and warm it up. Actually, it is a well known fact that hot chocolate can make even the coldest temperatures feel far removed.

Really good hot chocolate is a science. Any idiot (okay MOST idiots) can open the little packet of hot chocolate mix with the nice little yodeling girl on the box. But crafting a creamy, delicious little sip of heaven requires real effort.

From choosing the proper fat content of the milk, decision of whether to add a touch of cream or to use dry creamer, the amount of cocoa powder versus chocolate drink mix and the variables of added nuttiness, vanillin, or other aromatic and flavorful options proves that hot chocolate, REAL hot chocolate, is best left to the professionals.

Finding the balance between flavor and temperature is a course in and of itself, as is the debate about whether adding marshmallows to your mug is a little slice of heaven or bordering on blasphemy. Either way, I believe that the weathermen of the world have sorely missed an opportunity to boost the sales of cocoa products worldwide.

Sure, we may need the milk and bread and eggs that the reckless purchase from store shelves like wildebeests on the savannah, but what we WANT is the chocolate.

Next time your local newscaster is spreading the tale of woe as temperatures fall into the wintertime of life, remind yourself that while you have needs that must be fulfilled, you also have a chocolate want that makes being shut inside on those unnecessarily cold days and nights a pleasure instead of a drugery.

I think I'll slip into the kitchen and make some rich and creamy hot chocolate right now. Mmmmm!

Catching up

There is nothing so nice as finding a friend who has wandered out of your life and by a miraculous circumstance wanders back in.

This has been such a weekend for me.

Often, people are well meaning in saying they will keep in touch, but the reality is that they don't have an emotional investment anymore. That's called life. We tend to be seasonal visitors in the gardens of one another's hearts.

Most of the time that is a fairly satisfactory arrangement. A long phone call, exchanged email addresses and a time to catch up on the who, what, when, where and why of life is sufficient to make things good.

But, we all need a friend and confidant who is more than just an occassional guest in our lives. Whether that need for the companionship and easy familiarity of one another's company is found in a logical way or by letting your heart lead you, there are special times in which you find someone who can own a piece of your heart and it doesn't even hurt when they take ownership over that special place.

Carefully cultivating a relationship that is built of both commonalities and differences requires the sowing of seeds. Our seeds of thought and action that make each day a time to grow more and learn more in the friendship.

I had the opportunity to attend a women's conference this weekend with my best friend. We had a blast! Coming away from the event with a well of understanding and love from God was a wonderful gift in and of itself.

But having that cherished time spent not only with God, but with one of his most special children made it even that much more cherished.

We tend to be a disposable society most of the time. I can literally count on a few fingers the women who own a piece of my heart. Each is for a reason as individual as they are. And no two of them are alike in most things. But they all have one quality that makes them special to me.

They have shown themselves to be all-weather friends. Anybody can come to the summer garden and have a nice time. Real friends are the ones who make a bleak winter bright as a July picnic day.

If you have a few friends who mean the world to you, TELL THEM.

NOW.

I MEAN IT - STOP READING AND TELL THEM! You can always see what insanity is going on for them and it somehow makes whatever you are dealing with a bit lighter by just sharing with each other.

Frustrations of Life

Have you ever tried to log in unsuccessfully after repeated and frustrating attempts only to realize that the "e" was before the "n"? Or that you plugged in your OTHER password instead of the one you currently use the most?

Life is a continuing series of moments like this. It isn't that we have erred but what we do WHEN we err. Because eventually, be it great or small, we ALL err. We all make mistakes. We all screw up. We all fall short and we are ALL sinners. Point blank.

I remember hearing someone talking about how shocked they had been to see a particularly sinful person they knew from their town "actually have the gall to come in and to be sitting in a pew in one of God's houses of worship".

The level of downright moral outrage in her tone of voice let me know that this woman believed that the man in question would have had to be elevated by the angels of God himself in order to reach just to the level of scum in her mind. "How dare he come into this holy place with his filth! Everyone knows what kind of person he is!"

Do they, now?

Because she stalked off to share her outrage with anyone willing to be bitten by the viper of her cruelty, I didn't get a chance to find out, as Paul Harvey says, what was "The Rest of the Story".

I would have also like to ask her a few questions about her own personal relationship to the Savior but considered it imprudent, being a sinner myself.

But, what I didn't get the chance to ask, and really wish now that I had done so, was: how did this other person look at HER when he noticed her warming the family pew at that house of God? Maybe his jaw hit the floor at the same time hers did... was he as shocked to see her there as she was to see him?

I, for one, simply cannot imagine God, the Father, saying "Gee, what a surprise to see YOU here! Are you sure you belong?" to any one of His precious children. I think on those days His tears are ones of joy, for at least in that one moment, that prodigal child has returned home. And with the love and support of the rest of the family of God, they may decide to stay!

Who gets to be the arbiter of which ones of us are 'worthy' to come into church to hope and pray for grace? That's not a job I'd like to have at all. I know that in my current state that I cannot possibly be counted on to act in the capacity or love that God has. I am simply too imperfect.

And just like the woman who wondered 'how he had the nerve to show up here', I have all too often wondered how the people around me manage to get by in this life with all of their 'oh so visible' problems. I know they can see most of mine. And I feel the weight of them on a daily basis. I hate that I do judge others. And I work on it and repent of it when the thoughts cross my mind.

Do I care that others question my worthiness to kneel before the very Throne of Grace and beg to be forgiven, cleansed and made whole through the Blood of the Lamb?

Not much.

My microscope can so accurately see the failings and foibles of another. Yet, while in reverse aim toward my own issues, that same microscope requires greater magnification and scope than the Hubble Space Telescope could provide for a view into my own soul. It is a horrible thought and a worse feeling.

Realizing this brings me no sense of comfort. Rather, it brings a deep sense of shame that I have been imperfect, yet I have expected perfection from those who simply cannot provide nor sustain it. I think that qualifies as idol worship on my part. Sort of a 'put them up on a pedestal and dare them to slip off' test of worthiness in my eyes. Totally not fair.

Sometimes, we are all so enmeshed in the day to day that we are required to slog through, that we miss the moment to moment opportunities to celebrate the wonderful things that God has done in our lives for us and for those who's names we don't know.

I'm glad the disreputable attend church. Without them, I am quite sure our houses of worship would lie dormant, because even the preachers and teachers have not achieved Godhood. And that includes us all.

From listener to nursery child to door greeter, we are all important and we all have issues and frustrations that we are compelled by circumstance to wade through in order to return home, and above all else, we are sinners trying to reconcile our self, through Christ, to God.

I just think we need to deal with our own issues fully before we deal with those ever present "warts and moles" we see so readily on others.

One of my favorite hymns is "Truth Reflects Upon Our Senses" and it really speaks volumes in a few short verses.

And, for the record, the mote in the song is a speck of dust and the beam in the song is a splinter of wood.

Ouch! Please don't sign me up for either one, thank you.

The message is clear, what we perceive as a problem in someone else is probably not nearly as big a deal as our own mess that we are trying to NOT clean up.

To quote Sheri Dew about charity, "Charity . . . isn't about bringing a casserole, this is about the pure love of Christ." Again, ouch. There is seldom anything pure about our love. We have motives and agendas both hidden and seen. We have ideas of how it should be and how we can make it all happen.

Unless we apply the grace and mercy of the Atonement of Jesus Christ to ourselves AND to everyone else, we lose out on everything. We can't just expect to have mercy for ourselves and justice for everyone else. It doesn't work that way!

When we believe it does, we refuse to open the door to The One who stands and knocks and awaits admission into our tiny, Grinch-like hearts. Without the Light of Christ and His all encompassing love and mercy in our behalf, we can't even begin to remove the mote we see in the eyes of another. Without Jesus Christ, there is no hope of grace. In other words, we get to keep that beam in our eye and just hope for the best alone.

No thanks.

I think I'll ask help from the Master Carpenter. He will know how to get rid of the splinter for me. He can bind up my wounds and comfort me as well. And, then in a miracle beyond anything that we can ever totally understand, He can heal me. He already took upon himself my cowardly and selfish behavior and paid for it all.

TRUTH REFLECTS UPON OUR SENSES

1.
Truth reflects upon our senses;
Gospel light reveals to some.
If there still should be offenses,
Woe to them by whom they come!
Judge not, that ye be not judged,
Was the counsel Jesus gave;
Measure given, large or grudged;
Just the same you must receive.

CHORUS:
Blessed Savior, thou wilt guide us,
Till we reach that blissful shore
Where the angels wait to join us
In thy praise forevermore.

2.
Jesus said, "Be meek and lowly",
For 'tis high to be a judge;
If I would be pure and holy,
I must love without a grudge.
It requires a constant labor
All his precepts to obey.
If I truly love my neighbor,
I am in the narrow way.

3.
Once I said unto another,
"In thine eye there is a mote;
If thou art a friend, a brother,
Hold, and let me pull it out
But I could not see it fairly
For my sight was very dim
When I came to search more clearly
In mine eye, there was a beam.

4.
If I love my brother dearer,
And his mote I would erase,
Then the light should shine the clearer,
For the eye's a tender place.
Others I have oft reproved
For an object like a mote,
Now I wish this beam removed,
Oh, that tears would wash it out!

5.
Charity and love are healing;
These will give the clearest sight.
When I saw my brother's failing,
I was not exactly right.
Now, I'll take no further trouble
Jesus' love is all my theme;
Little motes are but a bubble
When I think upon the beam.

The words to this hymn were written by a woman named Eliza R. Snow back in the late 1800's with the chorus for the verses being penned by M.E. Abbey.

If people in those times we consider 'more simple' had trouble with being snarky and worrying about how righteous everyone else was being, then compound the issue by the last 150 years or so.

I want to grow up and be like the old man who saw an obvious 'sinner' coming into their wonderful sanctuary. The story follows:

His name is Bill. He has wild hair, wears a T-shirt with holes in it, jeans, and no shoes This was literally his wardrobe for his entire four years of college. He is brilliant. Kind of profound and very, very bright. He became a Christian while attending college. Across the street from the campus is a well-dressed, very conservative church. They want to develop a ministry to the students but are not sure how to go about it.

One day Bill decides to go there. He walks in with no shoes, jeans, his T-shirt, and wild hair. The service has already started and so Bill starts down the aisle looking for a seat. The church is completely packed and he can't find a seat. By now, people are really looking a bit uncomfortable, but no one says anything. Bill gets closer and closer and closer to the pulpit, and when he realizes there are no seats, he just squats down right on the carpet.

By now the people are really uptight, and the tension in the air is thick. About this time, the minister realizes that from way at the back of the church, a deacon is slowly making his way toward Bill. Now the deacon is in his eighties, have silver-gray hair, and a three-piece suit. A godly man, very elegant, very dignified, very courtly. He walks with a cane and, as he starts walking toward this boy, everyone is saying to themselves that you can't blame him for what he's going to do.

How can you expect a man of his age and of his background to understand some college kid on the floor? It takes a long time for the man to reach the boy. The church is utterly silent except for the clicking of the man's cane.

All eyes are focused on him. You can't even hear anyone breathing. The minister can't even preach the sermon until the deacon does what he has to do. And now they see this elderly man drop his cane on the floor.

With great difficulty, he lowers himself and sits down next to Bill so he won't be alone. Everyone chokes up with emotion.

When the minister gains control, he says, "What I'm about to preach, you might never remember. But, what you have just seen, you will never forget."

Attack of the killer puppy

The Assassin dog and I were virtually done with our morning romp toward insanity when this little cute puppy lunged from his porch and attempted a coup right there at the end of his driveway.

It would have been cute except for the fact that this puppy was a rottweiler in training and we were usurpers on HIS turf. Except it wasn't his turf he was defending. It was the ROAD.

Because there are no sidewalks in the older neighborhood at the end of our trail, we walk on the roadway in the government sanctioned, drivers test approved location with the assassin firmly walking in the 'heel' mode. That is, until HE leaped from the porch and came at us with all of the enthusiasm of an ICBM but none of the guidance.

Gypsy (aka: the Assassin) knows nothing but her own little plans of walking and running me into various obstacles along our path. This hairball was nothing more than an obstacle in her mind.
Issuing a few deep growls and showing this little cannibal her teeth, she sent the hound into full retreat mode.

Feeling exceptionally full of herself by this point, the Assassin carefully wove between a power pole and its' guy wire to try and decapitate me. Only a swift yank and sidestep prevented her from calling the lawyers office for the settlement hearing.

She pouted all the way home.

If you haven't ever seen a dog pout, you are missing out on one of life's greatest moments.

Although we have kissed and made up, I know our truce will only last until the leash is snapped into place for our next walk. Those tender brown eyes don't fool me one lick. Behind that gentle facade lies the heart of a killer. Merciless and tough. Afraid of nothing and no one.

That might explain the number of squirrels in our yard.

Yeah, they aren't snacks for her - they are her accomplices.

Can you smell the gravy?

It is cold outside.

Taking the furry assassin out for the morning walk was an exercise in how to get cold and still get through the whole route without pushing myself so hard that I faint.

This time of year makes my bear-like soul think of warm hibernation near a stack of good books and a fireplace that perpetually refills itself and a nice hot mug of spiced cider or hot chocolate. Of course, I have no real proof that is what bears do when they hibernate but I have my suspicions.

We are starting the 'who is hosting the dinner' conversations that typically surround this time of year. While it seems like Thanksgiving is far away, only men truly believe that 23 days is sufficient time to plan, prepare for and carry out a humongous family dinner with a perfect turkey and gravy like on tv.

Women, however, know the truth. Twenty-three days is crunch time. Both for the abs and for the meal planning. In order to justify the day off, the dinner rolls and the gravy, a woman must exercise 73 hours a day and make practice batches of gravy for which the resident canine will be slavishly and eternally grateful.

Dogs don't care, they just love gravy. Unless it is black and on fire. I believe even their claw draws a line in the sand at that point.

Then there is the eternal struggle of how much turkey is just too much turkey. We aren't talking consumption yet, we are talking purchasing. Although the attendees have dwindled in number over the last few years with the realities of life setting in and moving people ever further from the dinner table, we still buy a turkey big enough to virtually guarantee that turkey will be part of every lunch and dinner for at least 3 full days.

I voraciously search for the menu items which will add just the perfect touch to our traditional fare of turkey and dressing, fried okra, green bean casserole, homemade mashed potatoes and the added blessing of the most wonderful gravy mankind has ever eaten at the hands of woman kind. This is the kind of creamy, fluid and smooth gravy that I am quite sure was what Adam REALLY ate in the Garden of Eden. (ladies, one word here: MIXER)

Just think about that hot, fragrant elixer of holiday joy cascading down over the mountain of mashed potatoes and pooling at the edge of your dinner roll like hot and giblety lava. Think about it. What man gets really gets that excited and worked up about eating a piece of FRUIT no matter how forbidden it has been declared. Then again, perhaps the apple had caramel gravy on top? I can see that attracting attention...

The carnivores at our mealtimes are salivating so much before the blessing on the food that 'sneaking' from the kitchen has already been declared an official sport in our household. Only when the women decide that enough encroachment over the line of scrimmage has occured, and the cries of 'foul' begin, are the starving men are ushered from the kitchen in full pout mode to rot in front of the bowl games and instant replays until halftime and the blessing are declared.

Then, there are the hot dinner rolls that become guided missiles during the meal as hapless guests, unfamiliar with traditional behavior, struggle to understand why bread is flying, normally sane people are wearing olives on their fingertips and someone is desperately trying to prevent choking while laughing with a mouthful of food at the latest 'naughty' holiday humor that has been shared under the breath of an adult who really should know better but told the joke anyway.

Mostly, the holidays are about reveling in each others' company in a familiar and easy way that bypasses the angst of life and returns us to a time where we can all just be ourselves without the expectations of the world rushing the play before the whistle sounds.

Every family is different and every family creates their own traditions. Some are a hodge-podge of the things that each spouse brings from their home life as a child. Others are hand crafted from the bits and pieces of observational moments that are lifted from the lives of people we wish we'd been related to, but weren't.

Either way, homespun from years of hand-me-down practices or fashioned from all new components, family gatherings have a way of bringing out elements of your personality that can be good or bad, depending upon how you were raised.

All I know is, there is a sort of easy familiarity in sitting down to the table with hot yeast rolls made from Sister Raveston's recipe, even though only a couple of people there even know who she was, eating the casserole that is more taco than turkey, sharing the life-stories we have all heard a hundred times but want to hear all over again simply because it means 'home'.

May your upcoming thanksgiving be filled with remembrances of all things good in your life.

And, I hope you have plenty of gravy.

World Series and Crying towels

An avid baseball fan (and to be fair, a fan of any sporting event that gets me out of the laundry room), I have to admit I watched the all too brief World Series.

I found myself angry, happy, sad, disappointed and most of all, I felt cheated.

The people and the team as a whole in Boston are dancing in the streets and pouring all sorts of adult beverages over the heads of people whom they barely know. They are hugging and kissing strangers like the end of a war had come and general peace had been declared.

But, in my heart of hearts, I cannot feel anything but cheated - cheated for the series that could have been and should have been. Seven full games of pulse pounding action and tight play at the bags amidst a cloud of dust and gesturing by the ump at home on the plays that only God can call from His vantage point.

Sadly, what we got was a 4 game blowout that left me wondering if they sent the cheerleaders to play because the Rockies were all passed out in the locker room filled with cheap bear and drunk on the division championship.

As if that were somehow the goal.

As if the division was the pinnacle instead of just another plateau towards a greater goal.

Daddy used to say "Any given team on any given day . . ." and I accepted those words as an axiom that somehow defended the underdog and made glorious the conquest in the moment of victory.

But right now, it sounds a bit trite. Especially since any given team didn't even show the power we had rightly expected. They didn't show the pitching we had hoped to see. The crisp play at the bags and in the outfield was as ephemeral as the specters who haunt the graveyard on All Hallows Eve.

Perhaps this is sour grapes. And to anyone who rooted for the Sox, it is sure to sound like a bit of whiny baby, cry in your beer, pout to anyone who will listen talk from a loser.

But I do have to wonder what happened. There is no such animal as fair when it comes to sporting events. There is winning, and there is losing, and then, there is losing ugly.

I'd have to say this was definitely under the category of 'losing ugly'.

No matter how I feel about it personally, I have no dog (or in this case, Rocky) in this fight.

I do want to meditate on how my hero Rocky Marciano might have dealt with the whole ordeal. I believe that even if he were on the ropes, he would have fought until there was simply nothing left in him to fight with. Then, he would have fought on sheer nerve and guts alone.

Although each game is more than the sum of the parts that go into its' makeup, there is a herculean battle for every strike and every out. Even the best of teams can find a way to lose and the underdog can find a way to win.

This time, I believe it all came down to a concept that most people discount like dime store junk. The Sox had something to prove. And the Rockies thought they were already done proving it.

There is always next season. That's what the mature fans say.

But right now, I think I need my crying towel and a few moments to be by myself.

Live Action Heroes

I am a sucker for sports movies and movies where the good guys triumph over insurmountable odds to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat.

Within each of these movies is a message that is as heaven sent as a newborn baby. We aren't alone and we can achieve.

Life wasn't meant to be an exercise in perfection. Instead, it was meant to be raw and gritty and cause people to rise above their circumstances to reach just a little higher and draw from their inner reserves just a bit deeper. Life requires a broad wingspan and the willingness to deploy those wings in a gale force wind.

Movies where the dogs rescue the people, or themselves, are certainly on my watch list.

Within the genre of hero movies, anything that requires us to suspend our disbelief is worth my time. Our lives are so filled with the 'have to's' and 'must accomplish before nightfall' that the energy and pleasure I get from seeing a program that brings the battered hero home is heart warming and emotional in ways that other things simply aren't.

Teddy Roosevelt once said, "The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strikes valiantly; who errs and comes short again and again, who knows the great enthusiasms, the great devotions, and spends himself in a worthy cause; who at best, knows the triumph of high achievement; and who, at the worst, if he fails, at least he fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who know neither victory nor defeat."

I believe that to be a truth of the highest caliber. That is why we rejoice with the hero when he wins and cry when the struggle makes the hero wonder if he can achieve that moment of triumph.

We need more of the heroes in our world and a whole lot less of the saturation of that which neither lifts nor encourages. Instead, we need a steady diet of what we can do both when the chips are up and when they are totally down.

Your prescription for the day: Go watch a movie about a hero and bask in the warm glow of knowing that no matter how long it takes, or the obstacles and sacrifices required to do it, eventually good will triumph over evil, right will defeat wrong, and the good guy will come out on the top of the heap.

Junk Drawer

I know why it is called a junk drawer.

Because that is all you can ever find in it. The idea is to have a place that all of the miscellany of our lives can be put 'so you know where to find it'.

Reality however. . . welcome to another planet.

Opening the drawer to retrieve the camera patch cord that sucks the photos off of the internal memory as well as the card, I find about a half dozen various cords. Sadly, they don't belong to the camera.

NOT ONE OF THEM! #*&!#*!&#^!

Okay. I pull the card out of the camera only to discover that while it does indeed go into the special little 'we paid boocoo bucks for this slot', the card is as empty as Mother Hubbard's cupboard after a raid.

GRRRRR.

That means the only option I have left is to find the ticky tacky little patch cord and effect the transfer. Searching and swearing begins. Okay, I'm not a paragon of virtue when it comes to the words that come out of my mouth - I'm working on it!

Besides which, it's the only reason I haven't been translated yet. ;-)

Apparently aliens came and collected only the camera patch cord. Sorry to all those people who are still out there waiting to be experimented upon by the friendly little bald headed people with the giant eyes.

Days passed.

Aggravation grew to new levels of angst. Despair set in and most especially since I had wanted to send the pictures to our son for his amusement since he is away from home. The GRRRR factor was off the charts.

My long suffering and generous husband bought me a replacement along with a bouquet of flowers.

"See if this will work." He smiled as he said it, knowing full well that it would indeed work. Marrying a man of technical skills who looks cute in corduroy pants is a good combination.

My pictures were saved and perhaps a giblet of sanity. At least until the next crisis.

You May Already Be A Winner

Winning is everything.

At least, that is the accepted axiom for life in the fast lane. The concept here being that if you aren't a winner, then by default, you are most assuredly a loser.

Most of us bristle at the notion of being a loser. It seems so 'high school' to consider ourselves on such shallow terms and classify everyone into one of two categories with a broad brush.

What really occurs is that people who are popular, noticed, part of the 'in crowd' and generally well accepted grow up enjoying the same rarefied air and light. That is until the realities of life crowd in around them.

I remember reading an article several years ago about one woman's journey back to the small midwestern town of her birth, childhood and youth. Being more 'bookish' than 'lookish', this gal had spent a great deal of her time defending her brains and intellect from all invaders, both foreign and domestic. Moving away from her small town, she bravely entered the college scene and delved into opportunity that she had only dreamed of during those nights back on the farm. She was accomplished academically and professionally. She had married well and brought children into the world who were not little hellions.

All of that screeched to a halt when she attended her 25th high school reunion.

Successes and failures are measured all too often by the microcosm of high school. We can be instantly transformed back into the awkward teen we once were by simply entering the halls of our Alma mater. Time has no meaning and attainment of job skills and life skills disappear under the harsh light of the popularity contest that has no end.

In her own eyes and estimation, none of these people would ever see her as anything more than a bookworm who was shy and retiring. Neither of those things had been true for more than 20 years, but by default she became both under the crushing weight of high school expectations.

As the reunion drew to a close, she was jolted back to her senses by her wonderful husband who reminded her that all she had done that night was to retreat from a memory of her former self that was no longer true and likely had never been truthful about her at all. She had, he skillfully shared with her, become a swan. It wasn't that she was ever an ugly duckling. Far from it, he assured her. The fact was, she was in a small pond which was inhabited by a gaggle of geese that were intent on making noise for the sake of noise and a migrating flock of ducks that were only looking for the best places to feed and move on. Because she was different by nature, her skills and talents didn't match those of the crowd that, for a time, filled the little pond.

It wasn't until l that moment on that reunion night that this woman realized just how right her husband truly was. He had, in a very clear way, demonstrated a truth that too many of us miss entirely.

Who we are is totally up to us and not to our circumstances, social strata or the ideas of another.
We have a world of opportunity and learning at our feet. The wealth of knowledge is available to us. And, she had grown beyond the boundaries of her small town to embrace the whole world in her heart and mind.

She mentally retraced the evening and realized that for far too many of those whom she attended classes with that life had never left the city limits of the small community in which she drew her first breath. They were happy and secure in the small town fame and success that hadn't required the leap of faith to leave town and grow under uncertain conditions.

This wasn't to say that they were somehow less, but rather, that she had become something more. Over the course of her life experience, she had become a winner in a way that had nothing to do with games and competitions with little envelopes and scratch off cards.

She had, in fact, become a winner at life. She had learned to define herself by her own barometer of successes and failures by living life as it came. Those who had once been people of influence or targets for her youthful admiration were now clearly seen as the flawed and imperfect people they had been all along. And knowing that made her realize the best way to becoming a winner is to just keep trying.

That was something that many of her friends had missed, just like she did. It wasn't about winning and losing. Because the truth is, during the course of our lifetime, there will be far more losing that winning going on. That is the nature of life and how we learn. Instead, it was all about getting up just one more time when there was no more strength to go on. It was about making one more attempt to do the job, even when the odds were stacked against her. Life was about living, not about looking back at what was or what might have been.

In the years that have passed in my own life since reading that article, I have come to realize that the business of becoming adults is hard work. There are days I would cheerfully surrender unconditionally and run back into the the halcyon days of my youth, until I remember that some of them weren't all that great either.

But, even knowing that things are not always perfect doesn't dampen my elan for the adventure that is life.

So, I look at the promised prizes on the label of the sweepstakes I have been offered. No, this one didn't come in the mail. Instead, this is that mental sweepstakes that we all have deep inside us. It doesn't require us to fill out the silly little forms or remember a complicated series of questions and answers.

All we have to do is pay the price to be all that we can dream. It won't come without effort, but it will most assuredly be worth it.

Who knows?

You may already be a winner, whether you realize it yet, or not.