The Farris Wheel

The Stuff of Nightmares

noreply@blogger.com (Jennifer Farris) — Mon, 15 Jun 2015 13:55:00 +0000

The first identifiable bad dream.

It happened during the day, a shrill cry slicing through the peace of afternoon nap time, sending me rushing to the bedside. Out of the catalog of cries, the ones that erupt out of slumber are the most alarming.

He was sitting up in his crib, chubby legs curled uncomfortably beneath his rear. "A whale!" he said through his pacifier, tears falling. "A whale!"

"Ooooh, did you have a bad dream?" I asked, hoisting him out of the crib and into the rocking chair. "There are no whales here, baby. It wasn't real."

My thoughts immediately turned to possible whale exposures he has had. Pinocchio? Because that is the scariest whale I've ever seen in my whole life. Nope. He hasn't seen that. Later on, I asked his big sister if there had been any whales in that mermaid show she likes to watch. Nope. When would this kid have ever even seen a whale? And why would it have been traumatic? I was racking my brain. All I could think of was our alphabet book...

Not exactly nightmare material.

I shushed him and blanketed him and stuffed animaled him and cuddled him. He rested his little head on my chest and within seconds returned to the land of nod, safe from the terror of the inexplicable whale invasion.

Little ones don't understand about dreams. It's so easy to tell them they aren't real, but the only thing my baby knew was that there was a whale. And he was frightened.

Then it came to me. We went to Panama City few weeks ago, and dotted along the strip are these lovely, attractive storefronts everywhere, one of which was right near our condo...

That's it! I found the culprit. That thing is most definitely the stuff of nightmares. To those of us who are mature, it's just a tourist gimmick. Walk through the whale's mouth and get your tacky T-shirts for $9.99! But to a toddler buckled into his car seat, riding past this monstrosity in the minivan, it must have been quite upsetting to see for the first time. And how would that jive with everybody else in the family exclaiming, "Oooo! Look at the WHALE!" His little subconscious was trying to figure it out.

I have the wisdom. I have the understanding. I see the big picture. But he can't. He's little. He's limited and immature. The power to soothe is an awesome power to wield, to know that I can wrap a little person up in my arms and he trusts me enough to give up the tangled emotions, whatever they may be, and be comforted - simply because I am there.

Pictures in the natural world often reflect deeper, spiritual truths. The changing of the seasons outside and the changing of the seasons of life. The union of Christ and the church pictured in a wedding ceremony. The way that days of calm follow days of storms. And everyone can understand about upset children because either we have comforted them...or we have been one ourselves. God set it up that way so that we can relate to what He's trying to say.

"Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest," Jesus says in Matthew 11:28. And then this one - "Oh Jerusalem..." he says, probably with deep emotion in Matthew 23:37, "How often I have longed to gather your children together as a hen protects her chicks under her wings, but you were not willing." He could not be clearer about His position on the matter. He has the tender heart of a parent, compassionate and strong. And His understanding of the bigger picture is infinite.

The open-mouthed whales of bad dreams are huge and scary, but gigantic real world problems have big teeth, too. Sometimes they threaten to swallow us. In my arms, though, the cement whale was rendered powerless. Mommy trumped the whale. When we allow ourselves to cuddle up in God's arms, to stop thrashing about like an upset toddler and instead are willing to be a chick under His wing, he shushes us. He blankets us and pacifies us.

Because no matter how big the cement whale is, He's bigger. The whale swims away. The waters are still. And peace comes.

Top 10 Take-Aways from Family Beach Trip 2015

noreply@blogger.com (Jennifer Farris) — Tue, 02 Jun 2015 02:36:00 +0000

Panama City Beach, Florida made headlines this year and in recent years past for its Spring Break scene that has devolved from simply underage drinking to much, much worse.

So when people asked us where we were going on vacation, I felt kind of sheepish telling them PCB. There's a snobbery against this place, and in some ways, I see why. But when it's the place you've known and loved your whole life long, you don't want to visit the alternatives. Away from Spring Break and away from the crowds, it's a lovely vacation spot, warts and all.

This is the first real vacation we've taken as a family of five, and the age spread of the Farris kids means that we're listening to both Taylor Swift and "This Old Man" on the 5-hour drive down south, dubbed the "Knick Knack Paddywack Beach Tour 2015." It also means that our respective beach experiences are as varied as flip flop styles at Target - my husband as the beast of burden who totes chairs and coolers and umbrellas and plastic buckets all at once, me as the condo supervisor who keeps track of everyone's earplugs and goggles and doodads and wet towels, and kids who wake us up at 6 a.m. like it's Christmas or something.

Here are the top 10 things we learned this year.

10. People will set up their umbrellas right next to you, even if they have a whole stretch of beach available. Some people insist on breaking the cardinal rule of beach etiquette. It never fails. Sir, you can set up your beach camp anywhere you like on this lovely beach. It's not crowded. It's not Spring Break, even. Marking your territory six feet away from ours is like taking the neighboring booth in a deserted restaurant. Or standing too close in an elevator. Or...other ways of marking territory. Ah, people can be so people-y.

9. Pier Park Amusements is not the same thing as Miracle Strip Amusement Park. Here's how it went. We saw rides. We parked the car. We walked in through the gate. We said, "Oh yay! This is that place where you can ride the old Miracle Strip rides! Let's go get our tickets!" Lots of money later, an employee informed us that Pier Park Amusements is "not at all affiliated with that park over there." Wait, WHAT? Are you kidding me?

The park she was referring to, the reboot of the old Miracle Strip, had the cool rides - the roller coaster and the ferris wheel. Alas, we fell for the bait-and-switch park that had shrewdly constructed itself right in front of the cool park to fool suckers like us.

The kids had fun, though - sliding down the big slide and such - and unlike their parents, didn't realize the full extent of the trickery.

8. The Homemade Ice Cream Shoppe is still going strong. Every trip, we visit the little ice cream shop on Front Beach Road. No frills, no gimmicks, just fantastic ice cream, scooped out into a small cup for $4.25. Every year, the line we stand in gets longer. This year, it was about 12 people deep, clear out the door. It seems they've been blessed in a Chick-Fil-A kind of way - there are framed group pictures on the wall of college students who participate in Beach Project, a ministry of Campus Outreach, going back 20 years or so. Our kids always like finding their uncle in the sea of faces in the photos.

7. No, we are not leaving this condo until everybody has sunblock on and it has soaked in, so sit your little greasy self down and wait on the rest of us. I recently heard my own parents fondly reminiscing about their childhoods and being told by the adults in their lives, "You can't go swimming until 30 minutes after you eat! Or you'll die!" Hardliner food-digestion enforcers have now been replaced by hardliner sunblock enforcers.

6. It's a small world after all. Odds are slim that we would go to another state and run into people we knew, but my husband, who is the ace at recognizing people and is undeterred by sunglasses and baseball caps, spotted a young couple from our former town walking the beach in front of our umbrella camp. (Emily - sorry for the blank look on my face at first!)

5. There are some folks who will walk up to you and say random, friendly things like, "Hey, y'all seen them deer down there at St. Andrews Park? They look like little dogs!" No, but your enthusiasm intrigues us.

4. Toddlers don't understand about sand. Bless them. If you fill up a bucket with sand and then dump it out toward you (as opposed to away from you), it's going to go all in your mouth and stick to the front of your wet T-shirt. And if you have sand on your hand and then you rub your eye, it's going to get in your eye. And that hurts. And then you're going to cry. These are the things I try to explain verbally, but at times like these, real life experience is the best tutor.

Also, if you've ever wondered why the Gulf Coast sand is so perfect:

"White sugar sands are made of ultrafine mineral sand with a significant percentage of organic granules. This forms fine silt that is often too light to support cars and trucks on the beach. The sand is made from pure white quartz crystal, which came from the Appalachian Mountains at the end of the last Ice Age and was deposited into the Gulf of Mexico. These quartz particles give the sand a different look and feel and distinguish it from the sands composed of heavier minerals, such as titanium, which can be found in beaches in the northern Atlantic. These minerals contribute to the northern Atlantic also having murkier waters than the turquoise ones found [in the Gulf]." - source

3. Hey little kid from the condo next door to ours, if you stick your nose up to our window one more time, I will fly-swat your face. Through the glass. In love.

2. Red flag means red flag. Rip currents are no joke. Respecting the color of the beach warning flags is like getting in your closet during a tornado warning - you just do it and you don't ask questions. When I see people swimming way out in the Gulf on red flag days, I put the fear into my kids about getting sucked into the ocean, and I don't feel bad about it at all. Good times.

1. The beach is God's playground. No swings, slides, monkey bars, or other hardware required. Red flag scariness aside, there's something about the combination of the breeze, the colors, the salty air, the laughter that gently reaches your ears, the crashing waves, the rhythm of the surf pushing in and receding - none of it can be duplicated anywhere else. It's all natural...no artificial colors or flavors.

We're home from the playground now, and I am unpacking and smelling beach odor on everything, and it's not altogether unpleasant. I will just go ahead and admit that I may be taking some long whiffs of those sunscreen-scented towels before I throw them in the laundry. It's a happy smell of some freshly-baked memories.

I'm ready to go back.

Lost in Ranburne

noreply@blogger.com (Jennifer Farris) — Wed, 06 May 2015 17:03:00 +0000

Here in the thick of ball season with two kids involved and games most every weeknight, we don't always know where we're supposed to be in the evenings.

(On a side note, I've got this great, low-tech wall calendar, though. Sandra Boynton Mom's Family Calendar. Columns for each family member. I recommend it for busy households. BUT it only works if you copy the ball schedules onto it correctly, which I don't always do.) ANYWAY...

Last night, my husband and I were making the drive to an away game in Ranburne, AL. My son and his teammate who needed a ride were in the backseat, and daughter and baby were in the middle seats. It was a noisy van. Music on the radio. Exuberant conversations going on, like, "If an elephant and a rhino got in a fight, who would win?" "The rhino! He could stab the elephant!" "Raise your hand if you like Mr. Pibb!" "Yessss!!! I LOVE Mr. Pibb!" And the baby chanting: "Bay-ball game! Bay-ball game! Buzzer!" Then the constant correction from his siblings: "No! Buzzers are at basketball games!"

Ooooo-kay. Let's just get there fast, please? I'm ready to get out now.

We'd been to Ranburne a few times before. Not somewhere we go every day. The drive over there is very pretty, especially around sunset, but most of it looks like this...

It looks like that for miles. We thought we kind of knew where we were going. We knew enough to think we could at least figure it out. Just a few turns here and there, and you can make it to the little town. But obviously, there's not a lot of landmarks. You just have to know the way.

"I think we need to turn right, here by these houses," said my husband.

"Oh yeah, this is it. Definitely. I remember," I said.

"No," said our daughter from the backseat. "I don't think we're supposed to go this way!"

"Yes we are," I said. "We know what we're doing."

Yeah, we thought we were so smart until we crossed into Georgia and got behind a chicken truck with no place to turn around. By that time, I was starting to feel the tightening of stress and irritation in my chest (A chicken truck? Really? Right now?!?), because the game was supposed to start in 10 minutes, and we had two little players in the backseat who needed us to get them there, and we had no idea where we were.

All we did know was that we were lost, stuck, going too slow in the wrong state, and on a deadline.

Have you ever felt that way? Lost and stuck - not understanding where you are, how you got there, or how you'll get back?

I have.

It's the worst feeling in the world. I've hated it ever since I was little. "Are we lost, daddy?" I'd ask in the car whenever we found ourselves off the beaten path. "Yes, Jennifer, we're lost," he'd answer me, honestly. "Lost?!? OH NOOO!" I'd wail. Then mom and dad would reassure me that we would get back to the main road, eventually.

I've felt lost in more serious ways, too. I've crossed over lines into the lostness of anxiety and despair before, and those places stink much worse than chicken trucks. They trick you into thinking that the path you need, the path you used to walk on, the path you long for, won't ever be found again. That you don't have any hope of getting out from behind the lumbering, stinking truck that's obstructing your view of the road ahead and impeding your life. An obstruction so large that you cannot see anything else around you - no signs, no landmarks, no help.

But you know what? I found that was a complete lie. We have a Shepherd who doesn't let us stay lost. Jesus said He would leave 99 sheep to go find the one who got away, the one in need, the one who is stuck on his back. Ninety-nine! You know who those 99 are? The "everybody else's" in your life. Everybody else seems happy. Everybody else has it together. Everybody else is pinning glorious crafts and posting perfection on Pinterest. Every other sheep is grazing in the field, and they seem to be happy, settled, and full.

But here I am, you think, I'm the one that's different, way out here on a ledge, in a difficult situation that the "everybody else's" could not possibly understand.

There's One who does. His staff is long enough to reach and to deliver. Isaiah 59:1 says, "Surely the arm of the Lord is not too short to save, nor his ear too dull to hear."

My husband was feeling the stress, too, in our roaming and lostness yesterday - because I heard him mutter one of those, "God please help us find this place," prayers under his breath.

Shortly thereafter, a gorgeous gas station loomed before us. I implored him to stop and ask directions, and I think we were about to get into the husband/wife conflict borne from time immemorial - until we noticed the "Alabama the Beautiful" state sign just to our left - and the Ranburne city limit sign just past it.

Hallelujah.

The swagger-wagon minivan came screeching into the Ranburne sports complex on two wheels, Farris-style. The little players arrived at their game with two minutes to spare.

We feel lost, but we get found.

There's always a way back.

5K Grace

noreply@blogger.com (Jennifer Farris) — Sat, 18 Apr 2015 19:31:00 +0000

This is a story about grace. Unexpected grace that somebody unexpected bestowed upon my unsuspecting children.

Late last night, I was beyond tired. My bed was beckoning me loudly. But a conflict was unfolding before my very own bloodshot eyes, and I was going to have to deal with it.

Our 11-year-old daughter was earnestly petitioning us for permission to run in the PTO 5K in the morning. We were reluctant to cave in. She had a softball game to play in the afternoon. Run a 5K and then play? No, we don't think so, honey. And we know best. You can run in the Kid Run. It's only a mile, but that one would be better for you.

"PLEASE mom and dad, PLEEEEEEASE!!!! I can do it! Really, I can!" Then the tears started up. They really got rolling.

Her dad and I were giving each other the "let's-be-firm" look behind her back. A united parental front.

The child was passionately desiring to run, and run big, and she had her reasons why - reasons I won't share here. We listened. We understood. The united parental front is usually pretty effective, but last night, it crumbled. It caved. It totally crashed to the ground with a resounding thud.

I crawled into bed analyzing everything about our parenting. Ok, so we said no...and then there was drama - and we caved? Did we really just cave? We're not supposed to cave! But there were things going on in her that needed to be respected and heard. Sometimes - yes, sometimes - caving is justified. Extenuating circumstances, you see.

So early this morning, set free with the welcome news of the cancellation of her softball game, she and her 8-year-old brother showed up at the race, raring to go like Kentucky Derby horses snorting and stomping in their pens. Because if she was going to do it, he sure enough was going to do it too. We warned them to pace themselves, not to expend all their energy at once, but they blasted out of the gate like rockets.

They're going to burn out, I thought. And burn out quickly.

So we waited at the finish line, eyes peering down the hill, watching for the first runners who would round the bend and begin the long climb to victory.

"Look, here they come!" someone said. Little figures chugging forth in fluorescent green shirts. They were so far away, we couldn't make out who they were.

Then..."Is that her?" my husband asked the air.

"Is that him?" I asked a second later, dumbfounded.

No way, I thought. How could they possibly be in the lead? And then I saw. There was a man steadily jogging closely behind them. He was a real runner, you could tell. One who could very easily blow past both of them and claim the trophy. I'm sure many competitive runners would have done just that. He was someone experienced, someone who deserved it, someone who no doubt had run in these things before - probably lots of them.

But my daughter crossed the finish line first, and my son followed her, and that kind, gracious runnerman finished in third place. He helped us the whole way, they gushed to us later. He told us how to let the momentum carry us when we go down hills! He told us how to breathe and how to use our arms!

It reminded me of Lightning McQueen, the Cars hero who helped someone else finish the race first because he saw a bigger picture - and because he looked beyond himself.

That guy gave my children a memory that they'll carry for their whole lives, one that could very well inspire them to run further, run harder, and run faster into their futures. And after I finished posting the proud, obligatory pictures of "my first and second place winners," I saw this...

Thank you so much, Mr. Runnerman, for your Lightning McQueen spirit - and for extending that grace to my kids. They won't ever forget it, and neither will I.

The Lovers, the Dreamers, and Me

noreply@blogger.com (Jennifer Farris) — Wed, 08 Apr 2015 15:27:00 +0000

The sweltering Alabama August was weighing heavily on my heavily pregnant body in 2006. The swirling thoughts and emotions common to every expectant mother about to pop were part of my daily existence. How? How was I going to do this? How much longer? I had done it before, but that didn't seem to matter right then. The fact was that I was going to have to do it again.

Hard to think about anything else.

I waddled on.

One Sunday evening, my almost 3-year-old daughter and I got out of the car in the church parking lot there in Opelika. She hopped out, I rolled out. We could smell the dampness on the pavement from the clearing rain. She grabbed my hand and we began to walk together. There, up in the sky before us, was a rainbow stretching down behind the steeple. She looked up and said to me, "God knew we needed a rainbow."

Oh yes! How He knew. The promise, the sign. The sign to all the world. And a sign to my own heart. I kept it and never forgot it.

The very next day, our first son was born.

Almost nine years later, my family and I stood in another wet-smelling parking lot, this time in Oxford, Alabama, this time with another little son in tow. We were celebrating my husband's birthday at a restaurant there, and we had walked out at sunset time, happy and full of steak and potatoes, with the clappy, embarrassing birthday song of the servers still ringing in our heads.

We gasped. A bright, enormous rainbow - stretching end to end all the way across the sky, right there over Target and TJ Maxx - said hello to us. With a double band of color at one end as a bonus. You had to gasp at its glory. People around us pointing up, strangers smiling at each other, everyone pointing camera phones upward (because that's just what you do now), everyone reveling together in those sunset-soaked moments of God's sky painting.

"Glory to God," I said quietly.

A woman standing nearby must have heard. "Amen," she said. "Thank you, Jesus." I turned to my right. She had beautiful black skin and was dressed in white.

"It's a sign," she said. "It's a sign we need to come together."

I looked right in this stranger's eyes. "Amen," I said, still quietly, holding her gaze. I knew exactly what she meant, and she saw my understanding and agreement. This is Alabama. These are trying days that our nation is experiencing. There's history, there's baggage - but look - there's a rainbow up there. There's the Lord. He did that for us. He's the Way.

Kermit sang it in The Rainbow Connection, "All of us under its spell...we know that it's probably magic." It really was the rainbow connection. How else could two strangers stand together in a parking lot, share very brief words, and just get it?

"Someday we'll find it, the rainbow connection, the lovers, the dreamers, and me..."

Rainbows only last for a little bit before they fade away like an ember. You have this bittersweet feeling that you wish it would just stay there plastered up in the sky forever, making TJ Maxx look infinitely more awesome, but you know it's going to be gone in minutes. A bubble that floats away and pops. Melting Alabama snow. A butterfly you can't catch.

God designed rainbows to be that way. I'm sure he has his own reasons for making them last moments rather than hours or days. Look up - this is special. Look up - this is important. Look up - pay attention. Pay attention right now, or you will miss it. Look up - this is my promise.

And he says it with loudly brilliant, silent, temporary color. A declaration that doesn't even have to say a word.

That's the rainbow connection.

A Hole in the Puzzle Part 2

noreply@blogger.com (Jennifer Farris) — Wed, 25 Jun 2014 23:45:00 +0000

Baby is pulling my shorts leg. He's learned how to make things happen. And we're walking, we're walking... to...where else? The pantry. Of course we are.

"Uhn," he grunts, gesturing for me to open the pantry door, and I oblige him. "Uhn," he grunts again, reaching toward the third shelf, where the gigantic box of Goldfish sits just out of his reach. For emphasis, he removes his pacifier and throws it down into the floor of the pantry along with his little blanket, making a bold statement that his mouth is not occupied by silicone anymore and is ready and able to receive morsels of goodness instead.

"OK, you can have some Goldfish," I tell him. "But pick up your paci and blanky, please."

Fixated on the Goldfish box, he does not oblige me. So I lean down to pick up the cast-off items myself, grab the Goldfish, and set everything on the kitchen counter.

I look back down at baby, and he's fiddling with something on the kitchen floor.

"What's that?" I say.

He picks it up and hands it to me.

Oh. My. Word.

If you read last week's post, you will understand why I stared slack-jawed at the puzzle piece in my hand.

I really don't know how the piece made it to the kitchen floor. I thought it was long gone. Possibly flushed. But apparently it may have been residing in the floor of the pantry for the past week alongside potatoes and onions, and my act of picking up blanky may have rescued it and brought it forth. The way bits and pieces of little objects and little nothings float around our house is always so mysterious.

All I know for sure is that my missing piece came back to me from the chubby, dimpled hand of my son. Thank God I had not dismantled the Wysocki yet. So I immediately went and did this...

And I relished punching the checkerboard into its place. Very lightly but very resolutely. That can't be anything but good.

Does this turn of events negate my earlier post? On the contrary.

Being made whole...in time...is part of the big picture.

A Hole in the Puzzle

noreply@blogger.com (Jennifer Farris) — Fri, 20 Jun 2014 01:48:00 +0000

Hunting all over for the right puzzle piece. The one with just a little bit of red sign on it, mostly green grass, and some yellow leaves from that tree behind the building. It needs to go in that hole. That hole right there. The hole that's been bugging me for a good while now, gaping wide in that area of the puzzle, taunting me. Everything else around it, done. Pretty. Smooth. Fitting. Complete.

Ah, I see it! There's that booger! The renegade piece.

Then that feeling of lightly punching the booger into its place. The feeling that makes you want to go, "BOOYAH! Behold. I am the conqueror."

I love puzzles. Not the stupid kind - the kind that are a gajillion pieces and are a low quality, boring photograph of a yellow puppy. On a blue background. So that means all your pieces are either yellow fur or sea of nothingness. Who would ever...? No way, man.

The Wysocki puzzles are the only ones worth any effort. Americana artwork. Colorful old-timey signs, storefronts, interesting antique things, horses and carriages, and cute little people on cobblestone streets. Most every piece gives you a clue to its home if you study it closely enough. And I always want to go there when I'm working on them. I want to jump in there and be the little happy people on the streets.

To be able to bring order out of chaos, to bring perfection out of brokenness, to make everything fit together like it should in the end. Oh, Wysocki puzzles, how I love thee...

But what happens when you spend hours on a 1000-piece Wysocki, and you're helped occasionally by children who like to work on the easy signage but nothing else, and when you're helped zero by your husband who would rather have a root canal, and when all the pieces at the end are falling into place - bam, bam, bam - and when all the positive chemicals are firing in your brain because you are SO almost there - and then...

...no.

Not THIS.

Don't even pretend like you don't see that gaping hole. The checkerboard piece is nowhere to be found in my house. Not under the table, the curtains, or the chairs. It could very well be in baby's digestive tract at this point. But it's definitely gone forever, marring the completed picture. So that really irks me. 999 pieces is nice, but 1000 would be extraordinarily better because the puzzle would be whole. Instead, the hole seemingly prevents wholeness.

Well, you know what?

FINE.

Yes, there's a hole in my puzzle, and I don't mind pointing it out. It's down there in the lower left corner. The picture isn't perfect. Not all of my i's are dotted, and not all of my t's are crossed. Maybe they used to be. Maybe I only thought they were. The metaphor looms large. Lots to learn about this. More to come.

Once Upon a Time

noreply@blogger.com (Jennifer Farris) — Thu, 22 May 2014 21:59:00 +0000

Today is our 15th wedding anniversary. And today's post is written by a guest, my own mom, Jane Cobb, who looked back through the scope of time and remembered a story about that day in 1999 that is worthy of telling. Here it is, in her own words...

Once upon a time, somebody decided to “donate” a full-sized house trailer to a picturesque little church. It could be used for additional Sunday school classroom space, they said. So the little church says, well, okay, that sounds fine, why not? So these benefactors took their tax write-off and hauled it over to the little church.

But it was too big to get over the picturesque little bridge that was the entrance to the picturesque little church! So they dumped it right there. And that was that.

Now what shall I tell you about that trailer? I think I best give it a name, for this story to proceed. HUGO. That stands for huge, ugly, tacky, dilapidated, way beyond reasonable repair, extremely difficult to move and did I mention Huge and Ugly? That was HUGO, and there he sat. A revolting, useless eyesore stuck right there at the side of the bridge. At the entrance. To the little church.

Then one day, people gathered to decorate the church. There was going to be a wedding! Flowers and tuille and ribbons and satin and all kinds of suchlike pretty stuff, inside and out. Why they even decorated the rails of the bridge!

And there sat HUGO. Glowering in his big gross-nastiness.

All the celebrants saw him and commiserated. “What a shame. There will be people coming from far and wide for this wedding. This may be the only time they’ll see our little church. But we are a happy church, and that’s all that REALLY matters.” Besides, they agreed, “The logistics of solving a problem like this are very involved, and time is very short. It’s understandable.”

So they went about their preparations for the next day.

Now there was a man named Henry. Henry was raised in Ohio. Call him a farm boy if you like. But Henry was nobody’s fool and a darn sight smarter than most men I have known. Anyway, Henry was a man of the land. Loved farming. Loved the land. He was a collector of farm equipment of all kinds and not just for a hobby because he actually used it. For clearing the spacious grounds of the picturesque little church, for one thing. Regularly he would harvest the grasses and hay that grew abundantly there, leaving the grounds in very lovely shape. Harvesting and recycling and conservation nothing new to Henry. He was a man of the Land. Sometimes he would give hayrides to the kiddies at the church. Sometimes he would build mazes out of hay bales for them. Sometimes he would help the poor who weren’t able to do their own harvesting. Sometimes you would see Henry on the road in one of his tractors going to and from his jobs. Had to drive around him. You know how that is. (Henry definitely knows how that is!)

Well….late that night, Henry got to thinking about that little bride who was going to be married the next day. That little bride, whose beloved grandmother had died the very day before! (pause/still. This still brings tears to my eyes.)

So in the dark of night, Henry went out and started up his Minneapolis Moline. Now if you don’t know what a Minneapolis Moline is, you really owe it to yourself to find out. I’ll just tell you, the farmers of the former soviet union would give their eyeteeth for one. In fact, many have wound up over there. This was one powerful American-made tractor! And amongst Henry’s collection, there was one. Yes! A Minneapolis Moline! Old, funny-looking, noisey and chug chug chug POWERFUL!

HUGO was about to meet his match! Yes, Henry and the MM did it. Dragged that monster way off to the side out of sight. In the middle of the night. And the next morning, the wedding took place. HUGO-free! Henry was not interested in getting credit for doing a good deed. In fact, most people have no idea about this story. He just did it. Period.

Did you like this story? It’s a true story.

The little bride was my daughter. And Henry is my forever friend.

Moral of the story: The world could use more men like Henry Pratte.

Flushing It

noreply@blogger.com (Jennifer Farris) — Thu, 15 May 2014 16:54:00 +0000

So meanwhile, even in the midst of great trials, life continues, and I have to deal with it somehow.

1977. Baby Jennifer toddles into the bathroom, drops in the shampoo bottle, and flushes, resulting in a $75 plumber's bill that my parents coughed up. Probably would be twice as much now. The story is often referenced in my growing up years and beyond.

2014. I'm sitting in the living room on the phone with my mom this morning, home alone with my baby. And I hear the GLOOSH of a flushing toilet. "Oh gosh mom, the toilet just flushed." I run.

Baby had toddled into the bathroom, lifted the toilet lid, dropped in the shampoo bottle, and pulled the lever. He looks up at me with big, innocent eyes, working the pacifier in his mouth anxiously.

My mom, naturally, is laughing on the phone in my ear while I am trying to firmly correct baby with, "No, no, no!" and fish out the bottle that thankfully hasn't quite made it down the hole yet.

The little mini-me, repeating history in identical fashion. Just like his mom. It seems he got the shampoo-flushing gene. I sigh.

It's okay. I'd rather be thinking about real toilets than the toilet-like thoughts, fears, loops, worries and junk I have dealt with for months. Those are what really need to go down the hole. And I really don't even mind saying it.

Viva la flushing! GLOOSH.

Safe

noreply@blogger.com (Jennifer Farris) — Tue, 13 May 2014 00:50:00 +0000

Grandpa sits in the black leather recliner smoking his cigars, watching the Kansas City Royals with grandma and mom and dad. I sit off to the side in my little kid desk, coloring and half listening to the grown-ups talk about base hits and outs and errors.

Sometimes I look up at the TV when the bat cracks, and the player throws the bat down and starts to run, but then things happen so fast, I lose what is going on. Wham, everybody scrambles, balls fly, umpire does something weird with his hands, and what the heck just happened? Safe? Out? Something?

Back to coloring. I was not an athletic child.

But now my kids play. I have to understand it better. And to my surprise, I like it. I like the Braves, and I like Craig Kimbrel and his unusual, glaring chicken stance that precedes every pitch. I like how he leans over and sticks out his elbows like the Karate Kid, just before burning up an almost 100 mph strike into the catcher's glove before the batter blinks.

I love watching my son step up to the plate, wiggling and strutting and tapping the bat on the plate, anticipating whatever is coming at him.

I love seeing my daughter's arm rotate 360 degrees before she releases the ball and steps forward, ballet-like in one smooth motion.

The pitches fly, the batters swing, the runners sprint for their lives, the game is in motion. The game is always in motion.

Wild, unexpected, twisty, screwy, hard, fast, and sometimes nasty pitches flying through the air, and I'm at the plate, holding the bat. No idea what kind of pitch I'm going to get. Not in control of that.

Oh how well I know.

I can't explain here the pitches that I've faced since last August. I don't know if I ever will. They've been complicated and shattering, and I imagine everybody in town wonders what is going on with the preacher's wife, but even the preacher's wife doesn't fully understand. I have not breathed easy since last summer. And it's May. I haven't posted anything here since December.

To someone who has always been in control of her life, who's always had everything just so, the straight-A student with all ducks firmly planted in a row, it has been nothing less than a tsunami of darkness that has debilitated me physically, mentally, emotionally, spiritually.

These posts come out of my heart and out of my life. I can't write anything at all that's not me and not real. Most of what I have posted here was written with the goal of building others up. And because I shudder at the thought of opening up, and because I have not been in any position to build up, I haven't written anything at all. I am not being vague for the sake of being vague because it's so irritating when people do that with obtuse one-liners on Facebook. It's just that the story has too many moving parts. And I cannot pretend to blog frivolously about life as if everything is fine when everything is not fine at all, and it hasn't been for a long time now.

But friends have lifted me, have pulled in next to me in a grocery store parking lot and crawled into my vehicle to offer a shoulder to weep on, have listened on the phone to my heart breaking out of confusion and fear, have come over with no hidden agendas but just to bring meals when I haven't been able to make them, have held my hands and prayed with me while I was falling to pieces in the middle school parking lot, have kindly chattered nonstop at my kitchen sink washing my dishes to keep my mind off things, have taken care of our children at moment's notice, and have not made me feel embarrassed. Our dear church family, oh how could I ever begin to thank you? You've loved us, you've understood somehow, you are standing by your pastor's family in a time of great need, and I am overwhelmed even as I write this with tears of gratitude for all that you are and all you've done. God put us here for a reason, not just to bring us to you, but to bring you to us. How dearly we love you.

But none of this changes the fact that I'm still at the plate. I have to stand there, poised and ready with the bat every day when I wake up whether I want to or not. We don't get to choose the pitches we get. They just come. I hope that one day, I'll look back on this season of life like I did as a kid watching the Royals - crack, bam, scrambling, chaos, a big shake-up on the field, what just happened, Grandpa? What was that? Did that guy make it to first?

The name of the Lord is a strong tower. The righteous run to it and are safe. - Proverbs 18:10

I am not righteous, certainly not with all that has happened, these burdens, this mess. On the contrary, I am broken to pieces. But somehow, in a way that I do not understand, I am qualified to run because of Jesus, because He and He alone carried my griefs and sorrows and my mess and your mess - that means I can run to him and be safe. RUN, burn up the dirt, all the way to the base. To the strong tower. Safe.

Safe.

Thank you, God. I see your arms open wide.

Splintered

noreply@blogger.com (Jennifer Farris) — Sun, 29 Dec 2013 04:24:00 +0000

My daughter bursts into the house shriek-crying.

I feel that familiar stomach-heart drop, the drop that all parents know. Her little brother, who had also just entered the house, passes by me on the way to his bedroom. Alarmed, I ask him what's wrong with her.

"Oh, she's got wood in her foot," he answers, looking for his Nintendo DS.

"I've got a SPLINTER!!" my 10-year-old sobs. Severe distress.

I know I thing or two about splinters. I've been doing splinter surgery for the past 10 years on little people that live with me, and I must say I'm pretty good at it at this point. But lawdy, it's always so dramatic.

She has thankfully reached the point where she trusts me now when I wield a sterilized needle at her. It wasn't always that way. We've been through many battles together - me soothing, bribing, threatening, and her jerking her extremities away from me in utter fear.

I examine the offending foreign object, a gigantic splinter embedded in her heel. It had sliced through her sock while she was playing on a neighbor's hardwood floor.

"OK, sweetie," I tell her, trying the soothing tactic first. "We've been here lots of times before. You know I'm good at this. You know I can get this out. You gotta trust me, though. Nothing would make me happier than to get this thing out for you."

Her face is red and puffy, her nose running, tears rolling. But she puts her heel up in my lap. Willingly.

I begin the tedious procedure. Pick, pick, pick with the needle. Ever so gently. I can tell from experience that this is not one of those that is just going to pop right out. This is one of those that's going to take a lot of time. Like, for-EV-er. Pick, pick, pick. Prod, prod. Pick, Pick.

"Have you almost got it?" she asks after a while, leaning forward awkwardly to try to get a peek.

Not even close.

I tell her so. She doesn't seem to mind. She knows I've got a proven track record.

Finally, glory hallelujah, the tip of the splinter emerges from the tiny hole in her skin that I've made, and I yank that sucker out with tweezers. We both stare at the thing for a minute, the tiny piece of wood that was causing her so much pain, and then she wraps her arms around me.

"Thank you, Mommy! Thank you so much for getting my splinter out!"

She did some happy dancing and kept thanking me all evening, even when I tucked her in.

And I realized this - what happened in the bedroom with the splinter - that's a picture of my life right now.

I am facing a severe problem myself - one that I agonize over, lose sleep over, and cry over. One that, like the insidious splinter, reminds me of its presence constantly. I am all splintered up inside.

But I go to my Father, and He says the same things I was saying to my own little girl - I know this is hard for you, I know you are in dire straits. But I have a track record of faithfulness. You've got to trust me. This is one of those things that is going to take some time. A lot of time. Like your sterilized needle gently working over your daughter's heel. Pick, pick, pick. Prod, prod. Let me work.

We'll get there.

What the Iron Bowl Meant to Me

noreply@blogger.com (Jennifer Farris) — Tue, 03 Dec 2013 02:57:00 +0000

I went for a walk at halftime. A walk I was forcing myself to take around the yard. I had been taking walks like that on purpose in recent weeks - the kind I didn't feel like taking at all but I made myself anyway.

To clear my head. To restore some sense of normalcy. To reduce depression, maybe.

It had been a 4-month long struggle for me. Vertigo, dizziness, medical tests, specialists, no real answers. Just misery and medications and reactions to them that had sent me into a tailspin of more dizziness and fear and despair. A downward spiral that left me at my lowest point - hanging on to faith like a piece of driftwood in the ocean.

My Auburn Tigers were playing the Alabama Crimson Tide. The Comeback Kids versus the Reigning Kings of Everything. I was thinking about the tigers during my halftime walk in the yard that day. While they were in the locker room at Jordan-Hare Stadium, down however many points they were down at halftime, looking at a hill to climb, I was tromping around in circles in the November leaves, contemplating my own deficits, my own trials. I was lifting up mine eyes to the hills, and they looked way bigger than an Alabama lineman. I think I would have rather faced one of them on the gridiron than to feel like this.

Oh, don't be silly, I told myself. Don't compare your problem to football. To this game. Because if you do, then the other team may win and then you'll be even more discouraged not just because of the loss but because your analogy burned you. Alabama is supposed to win anyway. Everybody already knows.

But what if they don't?

What if underdog Auburn pulls this off somehow? What would that mean to the world? Or for that matter - to me? A toppled dynasty. A fulfilled destiny. Oh, how I needed inspiration - a visual picture of the status quo giving way to something new and beautiful. Unlikely? Yes. Impossible? Maybe. But it is in unlikelihood and impossibility that the greatest triumphs are forged.

The clock was ticking down in the 4th quarter. Overtime seemed an inevitability. Please, no. No overtime. At that moment, the collective stomach acid of everyone in the state of Alabama could power a nuclear plant.

And then it happened. The last second play that must be the greatest play ever in the history of all sports since the beginning of time. Alabama's field goal was short, and there was Auburn's Chris Davis, waiting for that ball in the end zone with open arms, running the length of the field, past all the big lunkers on the field who couldn't catch him, into the end zone for a glorious, unexpected, redemptive, inspiring, undeniable winning touchdown.

I screamed and yelled and cried a little bit. And I don't cry at sporting events.

Not just because my team won. But because they were the underdogs, the ones who had the bigger hill to climb, like me. The ones who had suffered many months the previous year of lost games and despair. The ones who faced a seemingly impenetrable wall and scaled it. The ones who believed.

Well, you see, that's me.

I am the girl who is going to catch that ball and run it back.

I am the girl who is not giving up the face of imposing opposition.

I am the girl who believes.

As the Auburn nation can now testify, that's no small thing.

War Eagle.

Patience, Come to the Front

noreply@blogger.com (Jennifer Farris) — Mon, 17 Jun 2013 02:20:00 +0000

The checkout cashier in Lane 3 cranes her neck and looks past me to Lane 2 as I dig in my purse for my wallet. The lines that day are several shopping carts deep. Her co-worker over in the neighboring lane is busy scanning frozen foods on the conveyor belt, but the Lane 3 cashier calls out to her and manages to get her attention.

"Hey," says Lane 3, seeking to alleviate the demands of accumulating shoppers ready to check out, "is Patience back there?"

Patience. An interesting name you don't hear much these days.

"I think so," the Lane 2 cashier answers, distractedly.

Lane 3 picks up the store-wide intercom and steadily intones in her most professional-sounding intercom voice, "Patience, come to the front, please. Patience, please come to the front."

I almost told my Lane 3 girl at that moment that I wanted to go home and write about what she just said, but I refrained. Too much profundity to explore in the time it would take to swipe my card and grab my groceries from the plastic-bag carousel.

If only I had an intercom to summon patience to the front, in the very literal sense, in those times when it eludes me.

When the kids are fighting and the baby is crying. When homework is tough and I can't find the words to explain it for the twentieth time. When I am ready to go out the door but nobody else is. When harsh words want to fly out of my lips. When a new life chapter needs to start but the page just won't turn.

Patience, please come to the front. Come to the front in me. Don't hang back when you're most needed, when the line of shopping carts in my life that hold all my stresses and responsibilities is backed up. Patience, come to the front so that you are clearly evident, so that the ones I love the most can recognize you in me - the ones who really, really notice when you're absent, more than anyone else. Come to the front on those evenings at 6:00 p.m. when everybody is tired, and everybody's blood sugar has dropped, and everybody is all prickly and cranky with each other. Come to the front when I burn dinner and have to start over. When I pick up shoes from the kitchen floor for the 5,000th time. And while you're at it, just go ahead and send Exasperation and Irritation to the BACK. The way-back. Out with the trash. They're fired.

Just get up here. Front and center.

And to the real Patience, who must have made her way to the front that day, who probably lives in my little town, and who may even see this post - I like your name.

Conversation in an Elevator

noreply@blogger.com (Jennifer Farris) — Sat, 11 May 2013 00:15:00 +0000

The elevator doors opened and they walked in - a young couple with brand new baby in tow. She looked haggard, he looked flustered, and the baby in blue with thick black hair was ruling their world from his carrier in that moment, tiny fists flailing, tiny lungs working, powerful infant screams filling the enclosed area.

The gray-haired lady and I shifted to make room, watching them as they desperately glanced to make sure that "P" for parking level had already been pressed, anxious to escape the stares of strangers who could not help but stare under the circumstances.

"Awww," I said to the mother. Because that is what you say when you're standing right next to someone with a baby in a carrier. "How old?"

"One week," she answered, as the father gripped the carrier in one hand and awkwardly tried to shush baby with the other, glasses precariously sliding to the tip of his nose.

"He's precious," I said, the standard compliment bestowed upon new mothers.

She thanked me quietly, staring straight ahead. Because that is what you do in elevators.

"Your first?" I asked. She nodded.

I decided to go a step further. "I have a 9-weeker at home," I said. "Number three."

There. Connection made. I know. I understand. I've been there.

With the establishment of the connection, she was then free to break elevator protocol and turn to face me. Pale with pleading, bloodshot eyes, hair a complete mess, she posed a question that spoke volumes.

“Does it get better?”

Here is what she really meant -

Please, stranger. Tell me that I'm going to survive. Tell me that sleep deprivation won't kill me. Tell me that this screaming little general will morph into something I can handle, something I can cope with. Tell me that I'll enjoy it. I don't know you and you don't know me, but you've been where I am, and you're still standing, and I need to hear it from you. Will he ever stop crying? Will I get to hold him without wondering, what is WRONG with you and why aren't you happy? Is there a way out of this tunnel? Aren't I supposed to be in maternal bliss right now? Tell me I will find it one day. In the 10 seconds we have left before these doors open, tell me. I beg of you.

Here is what I wanted to reply -

Nine years ago I went through colic-land and lived to tell about it. I was right where you were, toting an infant in a carrier to a pediatrician after many sleepless nights in a row, demanding to know why the child wouldn't stop crying, needing a remedy and finding none. I remember the tiny fists, the furious eyes in little narrowed slits like diamonds, the toes that never unclenched. I remember the fits of baby rage and the bleak feeling of helplessness. I remember trying the reflux meds, trying white noise, trying rides in the car, trying swinging and bouncing and flying her around, trying 80 million different kinds of pacifiers. I remember the futility of my husband saying, "This has GOT to stop."

And then one day, it did. The sun came out from behind the clouds on her face. She became a gurgling, cooing, pleasant little Gerber baby. A Gerber baby who turned into a toddler who turned into a preschooler who turned into a kindergartener who turned into a pre-tween. Oh, she still had her moments. But it got better.

In the 10 remaining seconds, all I could say was, "Yes. It gets better. You'll make it. You're in baby boot camp right now, but you'll make it through."

She exhaled loudly as the doors opened. "Good," she said, allowing a bit of relief to show on her face. And then the rambling wreck of new parenthood made its way off the elevator.

It gets better.

Not long ago I was on the receiving end of those words. A fellow pastor's wife spoke them to me on the heels of our move to a new town. She had been in my position many times before, and somehow, those words were a consolation to me. She kindly let me know that I wasn't the first person in the world to have the oh-my-gosh-I-am-leaving-everything-behind experience. And that it would not always feel so foreign. In fact, one day it would become home. Actually, she was right.

"Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves receive from God." 2 Corinthians 1:3-4

No life experiences are worthless. No matter how difficult, we hold them carefully in our portfolio of memory, knowing that if and when the moment is right, they can be taken out and shared for a purpose. God comforts us, we comfort others with the comfort we've gotten from Him. One day down the line, that frazzled new mother in the elevator is going to be telling another poor haggard soul that the crying will stop one day. And maybe by now, I'm equipped to talk to someone who has uprooted everything to start anew somewhere else.

Remember the power of It gets better – both the giving of it and the receiving. Those three words might just be the wind in the sails that we need.

Tinkerbell and Social Land Mines

noreply@blogger.com (Jennifer Farris) — Sat, 09 Feb 2013 18:34:00 +0000

“Tinkerbell lunchboxes are for babies."

So my third-grader was told by a peer in the lunchroom this week. I may have told her to tell the classmate that she happened to have an extra knuckle-sandwich in her Tinkerbell lunchbox that day, and would she like one?

That was me half-joking with my daughter, half-growling, hackles up.

Third grade. Tinkerbell has evidently fallen out of favor with that age group, unbeknownst to me. I suppose all the Disney princesses are on the outs now, too. Not cool enough, it seems. One would think that pretty dresses and fairy dust would be enough to ensure a spot in the in-crowd forever, but not so for poor Tink and her socially-scorned group of gorgeous girls whose dreams always come true. They've been traded in for the Disney channel and Taylor Swift, notoriously serial dater with broken dreams that she is “never ever ever getting back together” with her exes.

And then, back at school this week, came this comment from a classmate, upon my kid's disclosure of her 20-Cinderella-valentines-in-box-plus-a-sticker-tattoo planned course of action for V-Day: "No way are you gonna give ME a Cinderella valentine."

That interchange prompted a hasty switch to a much-safer "puppies and kittens" theme. Why puppies and kittens are more acceptable than big C, I still don't understand. But whatever.

I remember playing with dolls until age 11. Maybe that was late by today's standards, but I felt no shame and have no regrets. Then middle school happened, and with it came the force of change in tastes and interests that is expected and natural. But I sure don't remember anybody telling me in third grade that Barbie and the likes of her were not okay.

If I were in a situation where I needed a lunchbox every day, I would like to pack up a Disney princess one and carry it myself in full view of my daughter and the world, so she could see that at age 36, even I can like the Disney girls, and I don't care who knows it. I want her to be free to like what she wants to like in third grade, without having her tastes dictated to her by peers who are in an awful big hurry to grow up. Those little kids don't realize that once they get all grown, they can't go back. As I read on Jon Acuff's blog recently, you can always fast-forward childhood, but you can't rewind it. When she's ready to put away childish things, I will be there to pack them away, like the Toy Story mom. But I want it to be on her terms.

Someone commented to me the other day that adults are relentlessly plundering children's stories these days for their own purposes - Tim Burton's Alice in Wonderland, the new Wizard of Oz coming this summer, the Once Upon a Time series on TV, and others. We'd sure like to go back to childhood, but the only way we can go there is to go through a veneer that is still decidedly adult in nature. Because that is what we are.

Do you remember what it was like to be caught between wanting to be little and wanting to be big? It's a tightrope that children walk from the time they are toddlers until the time they graduate, and they have to walk it themselves. We can call out to them and talk to them while they're up there on it, offering whatever advice and encouragement we can from below, but they are the ones who are shakily making their way across - Tinkerbell at one end, adulthood at the other, and a whole bunch of land mines in between. They need sympathy and understanding. They need wise words in their ears. They need earnest prayers going up for them.

And they need extra knuckle-sandwiches in their lunchboxes. Pack them carefully.

Or-nee-ment

noreply@blogger.com (Jennifer Farris) — Sat, 22 Dec 2012 19:31:00 +0000

There are ornaments. And then there are ornements.

Most of the English-speaking world would say that they hang ornaments (noun - lovely, decorative adornments) on their Christmas trees. But not all of them. The following label ripped from a recent dollar store purchase proves the point --

The Chinese manufacturers of this lovely, decorative adornment could not have known that they were actually referencing the down-home version of the word ornament that is used here in the southern United States, as in:

"VERN! Git up 'ere and hang them ORNEYMENTS up high on the tree!"

But then, things could always be worse --

Please Write on Our House

noreply@blogger.com (Jennifer Farris) — Thu, 13 Dec 2012 20:21:00 +0000

Last weekend we invited our friends to come out on Sunday afternoon to write on our house.

Permissible graffiti. We were asking for it – everywhere. On the floors, on the walls, on the ceilings, and over the doors. We brought the sharpies, cookies, and drinks. Our friends brought their graffiti A-games.

It is all soon to go away from sight, because the sheet rock will soon go up, the flooring will soon go down, and fresh paint will forever hide the precious autographs that were once there.

But maybe someday, decades from now, another family living in our 2012-era home will decide to strip everything out to make way for the latest and greatest trends in Extreme Home Makeover style, and will find – maybe to their puzzlement - sharpie-scrawled God-promises all over the wood frames.

Nothing superstitious about it. Not even a little bit stitious as Michael on The Office would say. No magical abracadabra pixie dust being sprinkled. Just an affirmation of the faith in our hearts as we wrote, and affirmations from friends and loved ones who blessed us as they penned for us the reminders of ancient words.

“Write them [these commandments] on the doorframes of your houses and on your gates,” said God in Deuteronomy 6.

So why not?

Even when the sheet rock goes up, we will remember what is underneath. And thanks to these pictures, we will even remember where. That old hymn “Standing on the Promises of God” doesn’t have to be just figurative anymore.

The ten feet that are soon to inhabit this place will be standing on them for real.

Punkin Muffins for Remedial Cooks

noreply@blogger.com (Jennifer Farris) — Sat, 17 Nov 2012 15:24:00 +0000

I cook to live. To provide sustenance for my family. Not for the sheer love of it. I wish I could stir up in my heart a great love for mixing, sauteeing, roasting, grilling, and baking, but alas, it’s just not there. Sometimes the things we eat to live are righteously good. Sometimes marginal. Sometimes fit for the garbage disposal.

But just like the next person, I like to make people think I’m a super good cook. My husband got a phone call recently from a family friend who needed my phone number because she wanted the recipe for my deliciously moist and perfect chocolate brownies. He chuckled on the inside, since he knew the truth, but gave the lady my number anyway so that I could be the one to sheepishly explain to her that she could find the Duncan Hines Dark Chocolate Fudge Brownie Mix in a box on aisle 5 at the Winn Dixie.

These are the reasons that this is not a cooking blog.

But today, for the first time ever, I’m posting a recipe because it’s so easy and yummy that even a remedial cook could do it. It came to me by way of my friend Amy Dorsey, and it came to her by way of someone else, so therefore I do not claim to have authored these instructions of pure autumn goodness.

Here’s what you need to buy for Perfect Pumpkin Spice Muffins.

This -
And this -

That’s it! Just a can of pumpkin and some spice cake mix!
Then, you mix them up like so:

Looks a little thick and muddy, but not to worry. I do recommend doing a better job than I did of getting those little white clumps of cake mix smoothed out.

Spoon into greased muffin cups and bake at 350 for 30 minutes, then presto! Punkin muffins that your friends won’t know had only two ingredients! Unless you sheepishly explain.

Pure. Autumn. Goodness.

No Longer a Four-Letter Word

noreply@blogger.com (Jennifer Farris) — Tue, 13 Nov 2012 21:46:00 +0000

When is a door not a door?

When it’s ajar?

No, silly!

When it’s a decorative entry system.

The door catalog that I’ve been studying today, in preparation for the intimidating front door selection decision that must be made soon for our new house, replaces that tired old word door with some delightfully fancy, frilly terminology. Today, we need to give some credit to the person who came up with the immensely descriptive phrase decorative entry systems.

I imagine the door people sitting around a conference table brainstorming names for their catalog, and one poor schmuck says, “How about just “Doors?”

His door colleagues shake their heads. “No, no, no, Jim!” another guy says. “That’s so 2011. We need something with sparkle. Something flashy. Like, Gateways to Happiness. Or, wait! Wait! It’s coming to me. Yes! Decorative Entry Systems!” he says, with a faraway look in his eyes.

“Decorative. Entry. Systems!” he says again, pausing between the words for emphasis, and punctuating each one with hand gestures that practically christen them with glitter dust.

And so, the following is born.

You’re on the phone with a friend and you hear a knock. “Oh, excuse me! I have to go. There’s someone at the decorative entry system. Call you later.”

Your husband comes in late from work. “Hi honey, welcome home! Remember to lock the decorative entry system behind you, please.”

Political correctness is has already consumed us. But no longer are simply concerned for women, minorities, and certain religious groups. Now we also need to protect our front entryways from disparaging talk. So remember that next time you cross the threshold to your humble abode.

Dignify with its proper title that thing you have to open to get inside. It is no longer a four-letter word.

One Hundred and Fifty-Nine

noreply@blogger.com (Jennifer Farris) — Wed, 31 Oct 2012 19:02:00 +0000

Serendipity.

Such a fun word. It means happy accident or pleasant surprise.

I got a serendipitous phone call this morning from 911. It’s interesting when you say hello and find out that 911 is calling you, as it’s especially nice that it’s not the other way around.

They were calling to give me the address for our new home that we are building. “It’s 159 (street name),” the lady said. I told her that sounded good to me, thanked her, and hung up.

Then (BAM!) I had an honest-and-true flashback, no lie. Just like in the movies when somebody remembers something and they see it replayed. It was a couple years ago, and we had a (then) 3 or 4 year old son who was learning about numbers – how to say them, what they mean, how they can combine together in hundreds, tens, and ones. We had a little family joke back then because Little C somehow developed a fondness for a particular number. He enjoyed saying it frequently because he knew it would make his parents and his sister giggle a little, since it was always a funny answer. If you asked him how many cookies he wanted, how old his mommy was, how many miles we had to drive, how many fingers and toes he had, it was always the same…

“One hundred and fifty-nine.”

hee hee hee, giggle, snort, chuckle. It was the funniest joke ever invented, to him. And by extension, to the rest of us.

And then, this morning, 911 calls to tell me that, of all possible numerical combinations we could receive, it’s our future house number! The most hilarious number ever invented! The punch line of endless jokes! 159!

No, I’m definitely not superstitious or numero-stitious or anything like that. I just love serendipity, which, when you get right down to it, is a little wink from God.

159! I can’t believe it! I’m still cracking up.

And winking back.

The Right Kind of Toys

noreply@blogger.com (Jennifer Farris) — Sat, 29 Sep 2012 22:48:00 +0000

One of the reasons that children have been put on the earth is to teach adults. I get schooled frequently by mine. They don’t know it.
Last Saturday, my six-year-old son arrived home from a full day of playing at his friend’s house. He flopped on the couch in a funk, sat there for a second, then headed off to his room. I assumed the funk was occurring because he would rather still be at his buddy’s house. That was only partially true.
Several minutes later, he returned to the living room, bottom lip jutting out.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“I don’t have the right kind of toys!” he moaned. “We played Army all day, and I don’t have any army stuff!”
Never mind 10,658 soldiers…

Two Hummer/Jeep things…

A pretty cool camo plane…

This black-ops guy from a Burger King kids’ meal…

And the all-purpose Nerf gun weaponry…

At that moment, I was obligated to fulfill my parental duty of launching into a monologue of “yes-you-do-have-toys-you-have-a-million-and-some-kids-in-the-world-have-none,” which is basically a variation on the classic theme, “there-are-starving-people-in-the-world-so-eat-your-peas.” The monologue usually includes a contrasting reference to Veruca Salt, the “I Want it Now” brat from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, who has served as a convenient object lesson for children over the decades. She, above all, is the kid you do not want to be. Be instead the anti-Veruca.
He considered my logic for a minute, and it sufficiently silenced him enough to begin a foray into some other activity besides Army. I shook my head, mentally adding up all the Christmas and birthday detritus accumulated over six years that currently litters my house. The wrong kind of detritus?
And then I got schooled.
Because this little thought entered my head: Do I ever complain that I don’t have the “right kind of toys”? Who, me? Why, no! Of course not. I don’t play with toys!
But, I will just confess, I may have been known to open my closet and hear the words, “I don’t have anything to wear!” escape my lips, as racks of clothes stretch out before me. Which is pretty much the same thing.
We of the sophisticated adult world may not play with army toys, but we do like - Stuff. I like to window shop - and real shop - and gaze longingly at Pinterest. In fact, I had to quit Pinterest because, unlike the folks who actually use it for ideas, I found myself using it to create pin boards of stuff I wished I had or did or made - but knew I would never actually have or do or make. In essence, I was constantly reminding myself that I did not have the right kind of toys.
It is the goal of marketing to remind us that our current “toys” are not good enough, not convenient enough, not stylish enough, and not functional enough. To create some gap between the status quo and the much more attractive idea of what could be. In other words, why are you playing with matchbox cars when you could be playing ARMY? Why are you using an iPhone 4 when you could be using an iPhone5? You need better toys!
But the law of nature is this, and it’s true for children and adults: when you finally do get the toy you want, the thing’s status then shifts from desired item to status quo item. The novelty inevitably wears off. And without thinking about it, you’re looking for the next toy. Lather, rinse, repeat.
If I’m launching into parental monologues about being happy with what you have, then I guess I better make darn sure that I am living it myself.
It’s not all about the toys, anyway.

Ghosts in the Sanctuary

noreply@blogger.com (Jennifer Farris) — Wed, 05 Sep 2012 15:41:00 +0000

“Hey! There’s ghosts up there. Upstairs.”
“Nuh-uh. No there’s not.”
“Yeah! For real! Up in the sanctuary.”
It was an evening church fellowship dinner in the basement of my grandma’s little country church. Bright and happy checkered tablecloths, adults chattering, forks clattering, kids running around through the downstairs Sunday school rooms. I was little. And some mean older kids were taking the opportunity to fill my head with some horribly unsettling claims.
I knew that nobody was up there. No humans, at least. I also knew all the lights were off, and that meant the stained glass windows and the organ and the pulpit and everything would be…scary. Way scarier than in the daytime. I could picture it. And now, thanks to these jokers, I could picture transparent figures walking the aisles, too.
It was more than I could take. Lip quivering, brow furrowed, I ran to my sweet grandma, who was sitting with the adults and finishing off a slice of whatever delicious pie had been brought for the occasion. The words came tumbling forth – the ghosts up there, the dark, the sanctuary, the punk kids who said it all.
And with a gentleness that grandmas everywhere have somehow copyrighted, she smiled and shook her head. “There are no ghosts up there, Jennifer. Let’s go. I’ll show you.”
I was shaking in my Mary-Janes. But if grandma was brave enough to go, then I would be, too. So I took her hand, reluctantly, and we climbed the steep, winding staircase up from the basement, away from the bright checkered tablecloths, and into the terrifyingly dark upstairs.
When we reached the top, she turned on the light in the foyer and the hallway just outside the sanctuary, which created just enough indirect light to flood through the doorways of the big room without turning on the heavy fluorescents. We walked into the big room. I gripped her hand with white knuckles.
“This is God’s house, Jennifer. He is here. Just Him. No ghosts. You don’t have to be afraid.”
Against all that I had expected, she was right. There were no transparent figures, no bumps in the night.
We walked around on the platform. “Here is the organ where Ms. Juanita plays,” she said. I ran my hand over the plastic keys and the bench. “And here’s where the preacher preaches,” she said. “See his big black Bible? These are the offering plates. Here is where the choir sings. Now let’s walk around down there.”
We ventured past the pews, past the stained glass windows, all the way to the front door of the church and back. Looking fear in the eye with a hand to hold, I saw that it had no power. And when I was calm and satisfied, we went back downstairs and had more pie.
As an adult, I must still recognize the powerlessness of fear. To pay no attention to those fears behind the curtain. Especially those irrational, falsely manufactured flim-flam fears. The Lord is the one who says, “Look, now. See? I am here. I am with you. Put those away now. Hold my hand, and we can face this.”
And then, once again, I’m a child peering into the sanctuary, filled with the peace that there are no ghosts. And there never were.
Pass the pie.

Psalm 56:3: “When I am afraid, I will trust in You.”

Noodles from On High

noreply@blogger.com (Jennifer Farris) — Mon, 03 Sep 2012 01:37:00 +0000

After playing blog hooky for two months, I’m suddenly intimidated by this blinking cursor. Blink, blink, blink. Relentlessly compelling me to peck out something. Does it have to blink like that? I wonder if it’s one second between blinks. Can you adjust that setting somewhere? It should be longer so that the thing isn’t so insistent.

What, you think I’m stalling? Maybe. It’s been a while. I’ve got to warm up.

Most of you know by now, we are joyfully expecting another little Farris, Number Three, to enter our family in 2013. Three months down, six to go. With the advent of pregnancy came a heavy case of writer’s block like none I had ever known. All my fun thoughts and ideas got swept into the current of More Important Things – things that I might share, one day, but for now am treasuring up in my heart.

And floating around in the current of More Important Things were two of my old companions from the first two times around the block, Nausea and Fatigue. I hope to bid them goodbye soon, but they don’t seem to want to leave just yet. The return of Nausea forced me to recall Pregnancy Number One back in 2003, when a particular episode happened that I figured I would include in my memoirs one day. And I figure this is it.

This is gross, just so you know. Rated PG from here on out. But you’re big boys and girls, I think you can handle it.

In ‘03, my husband and I were living in a little 3rd-floor seminary apartment in Louisville, KY. The morning sickness was worse than I had feared, and the terrible part about it was that I had absolutely no control. Smells would hit me the wrong way – loaf bread in the bag, a candle, hamburger meat frying, the AIR in general – and I would just toss my cookies right there, wherever I was. Forget running to the bathroom. Garbage can? Only if I was lucky. Obviously, we didn’t get out much.

I KNOW, that’s gross, but I warned you. I’m hoping I can make it through the end of this post, myself. (Hey, this is kind of like The Monster at the End of this Book! Remember that?)

So anyway, one evening, early on, I choked down some Campbell’s Chicken Noodle Soup for dinner in front of the TV. And not surprisingly, I start to feel green shortly thereafter.

Cade, noticing my expression, begins to offer me lemon slices, lime popsicles, and saltine crackers in a gentle manner, with alarm lurking just below the surface. I shake my head no. He then encourages me to get to the bathroom. Pronto.

“I just need to get some AIR!” I say, adamant that the foregone conclusion will NOT happen this time. I step outside on our front balcony. The stairs and balconies in our apartment complex, formerly comprised of rotting wood, had recently been replaced by steel grates. So you could look down and see people right under your feet.

I am pacing back and forth on the balcony, taking deep breaths, fighting it…fighting it…regretting my decision to distance myself that much further from garbage cans and bathrooms. And on a balcony, of all places. Stupid! Stupid! I’ll never make it back inside in time! No control…

And there it went. Through the floor of the 3rd-floor balcony and on to our 2nd-floor Korean neighbors’ doormat. Noooooo!!! Why did I not stay inside?

There are only three things one can do in such a situation.

1. Walk downstairs, knock on the neighbors’ door, and explain that I just threw up on their doormat. So sorry, don’t mind me, I’ll get you a new one. Promise. How embarrassing!

2. Just get them a new one. Never explain. But they would wonder why! They might even ask us! How embarrassing!

3. Clean it up yourself.

And number three, my friends, is what my husband – armed with latex gloves, a bucket, and a vast array of chemicals – did in the dead of night for me in Louisville, KY.

I have not touched Campbell’s Chicken Noodle Soup since. Come to think of it, I don’t think he has, either.

When Pocket-Dialing Gets Creepy

noreply@blogger.com (Jennifer Farris) — Sun, 01 Jul 2012 18:53:00 +0000

What are the odds? WHAT ARE THE ODDS, I ask you?

My dear friend from my old town was coming to visit me, along with two 8-year-olds – her son and a friend. I was thrilled.

The Sunday night before their visit, the interior of our house looked like it had been bombed. It always does on Sundays. It is what happens to the house of a preacher’s family, without fail. I can’t figure out exactly why. I mean, other families go to church on Sundays, too. And I’m sure their houses look pristine and all, but ours becomes absolutely covered in household detritus.

Detritus - noun - 1. accumulated material or debris, 2. disintegrated or eroded matter.
(We have both kinds.)
No single category of detritus takes over, other than just the general type. Various THINGS strewn EVERYWHERE. Just be aware of that, dear people, if you ever stop by to bring us a pound cake or such. (Hi, Mr. Kicker!)

On that night, the night of possibly the most extensive Sunday detritus explosion ever, I remember having a conversation with my daughter that went something like this:

Her: “Mommy, I am soooooooo excited that they are coming tomorrow!!!”

Me (tired and fatigued after an extraordinarily long Sunday): “I know, me too, but look at our house, honey. (loud, long sigh) We have got so much to clean up. This is awful! You guys need to start picking up your junk. Get out the clutter buckets. No, I’m not doing it for you! This is your mess! You clean it up. I still have to do the kitchen. See all those dishes piled up? That’s where I’ll be. I’m setting the timer. See how much y’all can do in 15 minutes." (blah, blah, blah)

Fast-forward to the following day. Our guests arrive, bearing Little Debbies, Cheez-Its, and other snacks aplenty, and I am ushering them in to the kitchen where my friend is setting the Little Debbies on the counter.
She turns to me, laughing, and tells me that I pocket-dialed her number 4 times in a row yesterday.

A pocket dial (also called pocket-call or butt-dial, keepin’ it real, folks) is a slang term used to mean an unintentional call placed from a mobile phone because the send button was accidentally pressed while carrying the phone in one’s pocket. Pocket-dialing is an epidemic that is both hilarious and disturbing. Here is some perspective: in 2010, New York City was flooded with 4 million inadvertent calls to 911. That is 38% of all the 911 calls they received, an average of 10,700 false calls a day.

My friend’s name is AMY. With an A. Her name is the first name in the contacts list in my cell phone. Therefore, out of all my cell phone contacts, she has the dubious honor of being the friend who is most frequently pocket-dialed (or purse-dialed), usually once a week at the minimum. I expect her to block my number any day now.

So Amy tells me that she answered my persistent pocket-dialing, and in the background, she heard a little voice saying, “Mommy, I am sooooo excited that they are coming tomorrow!”

My jaw dropped, and I slapped my forehead. I knew what she was about to say she heard next. She heard my whole lecture about how awful the house looked, and she even heard me barking out the marching orders. And then she said this: “Jennifer, you know you don’t have to clean up for us.” To really freak me out, she should have called me right after she heard the Sunday night conversation to encourage me to leave everything AS IS. I would have been flabbergasted by the timeliness of her sweet, mind-reading phone call.

The bottom line is this: I was talking in the privacy of my own home about my friend’s upcoming visit, and she heard it!

It leads me to this provocative question - what if every time we talked about somebody, they heard it? Every time we uttered their name, they got a little “notification?” A cell phone call? Like the little red box on Facebook. Or your @-mentions on Twitter. Isn’t that uber-creepy?

Not that it could ever really happen like that.

But word to the wise: you never know when your cell phone might be calling someone when you least expect it.

I’m proof.

Have you ever had a cell phone mishap? Share your comments here!

Preacher’s Wife Unplugged: Can You Keep it Real Without Being a Jerk?

noreply@blogger.com (Jennifer Farris) — Sun, 24 Jun 2012 22:21:00 +0000

Fake is out. Authenticity is in. And to prove it, there’s a popular catchphrase floating around: “I’m just keepin’ it real.”

It usually comes on the heels of statements that are shocking, gross, offensive, or extremely personal. But if you tack “keepin’ it real” on the end, you get a free pass to say it anyway!

Here are some examples of its usage:
“Sorry, I can’t make it to your Tupperware party. I’d rather have a root canal. Just keepin’ it real!”

“Ooooo, hey buddy! 1989 called. It wants those shorts back. Just keepin’ it real!”

“Man, my hemorrhoids are really acting up! Just keepin’ it real!”

So now that we have such a useful phrase at our disposal, we can over-share, say what we really think, and eliminate all vestiges of tactfulness without remorse!

Because nobody likes fakers. And nobody wants to be one. So let’s make sure that everyone knows we are the real deal by employing “JKIR” at every opportunity!

But I’m a preacher’s wife in a small southern town. Can you imagine what would happen if I were to “keep it real” around here on that kind of level? Oh, the calamity that would befall us all! I won't go into the possibilities here. That would be a little too…real.

Is that to say I’m faking it?

I hope not. In all seriousness, I do want to be real here in this town. Not necessarily in a “JKIR” kind of way. A better word is transparent, although “just keepin’ it transparent” does not have the same ring to it. My new friends sometimes make good-natured apologies to me for their own “realness” around me, their preacher’s wife, and I chide them for it. I don’t want them to put on an act because I don’t want to put on one, either.

But being yourself can be risky.

Over the past several weeks, I have been fascinated by the PBS series Downton Abbey. It’s the off-season right now, but I have caught up by watching all the previous episodes online. It’s the story of a family of World War I era aristocrats in England who live in a palatial home, wear fabulous clothes, and are served by innumerable valets and maids and chauffeurs. Most British dramas are suffocatingly boring and plodding, but this one is captivating.

It was an era of such civility and respectfulness - something to be admired, considering that it is no more. But it is so evident that the Downton crowd is so stuffy, so polite, so right-acting all the time, they experience all kinds of conflicts because of their constraints. The Downtonians, for the most part, do not keep it real or transparent at ALL.

So here are the top 10 ways I’m keepin’ it real on my blog today:

10. Playing the piano on Sundays is kind of fun. When my palms aren’t sweating so badly from nerves that my fingers slip off the keys. Just keepin’ it real.

9. No, my husband does not practice his sermons on me. That would be super weird and awkward. You’ve all asked me that, so now I’m keepin’ it real.

8. Sitting on the front pew every week feels pretty exposed. Kids beside me, choir in front of me, everybody else behind me. Another good reason to play the piano. Just keepin’ it real.

7. I have no idea about a lot of the church goings-on. Some things I do, but not all things. Maybe I should, but I don’t always. Sometimes folks think I know stuff, so if a question comes up and all heads swivel to me, I frequently shrug, smile, and shake my head. “Now, when is that church picnic again?” Uhhhhh…dunno! (Smile.) Just keepin’ it real.

6. There’s a good chance I know your face, but I don’t know your name. I want to. I really do. But I’m not nearly as good with names as you-know-who. Help me. Please. Just keepin’ it real.

5. I was on Facebook, then I deleted Facebook, then I was on Pinterest, then I deleted Pinterest, then I deleted my old twitter, then I started a new twitter, then I got back on Facebook. It’s all very complicated. We can discuss over coffee. Just keepin’ it real.

4. Yes, I really would love to have coffee with you. Decaf. I've got that mitral valve thing. Just keepin’ it real.

3. Yes, the rumor that I went on a cruise with the New Kids on the Block is true. I would be glad to discuss that too, although you might not be. Just keepin’ it real.

2. I am really bad at making tablescapes. Just keepin’ it real.

1. I did not grow up here like everybody else. But I am grateful to those who have welcomed an outsider with open arms. Even one who’s an Auburn fan. Just keepin’ it real…until next time.