Kathy Floyd: Confessions of a REAL Desperate Housewife

DELIGHTFUL DISRUPTIONS

2010-12-02T01:59:00.000-06:00

Okay, I've sunk to a new depth. I have now let the ENTIRE month of November go by without a blog post. Long gone are the days of making sure I posted at least once a week. I let December sneak right up on me!  But I do have several excellent excuses . . . I DO!

I had a women's ministry event to get ready for last night. And we're in the middle of collecting recipes and getting a cookbook to the publisher. And there are Sunday School lessons to study for. And I had a couple of speaking engagements this month. And I went for four days on a trip with my sweetie and some great friends and spent some of it doing NOTHING. And work was really, really busy before AND after the trip. And occasionally I just stopped what I was doing and read a book for no useful purpose whatsoever. And Younger Son ran out of socks so I had to do laundry eventually.

I've been quite busy. Really.

Younger Son had football practice three nights a week, but then he played in the Super Bowl! (Okay, so it's the Pee Wee Super Bowl, but they did get to play at the new high school stadium! On turf!) And he competes for the Aikin Idol title tomorrow night, and he's got a lead part as the Angel Harpo in the kids' musical at church this weekend. And he's learning multiplication tables and I had to assist with the Sir Francis Drake cereal box project. And he started practice for the indoor soccer tournament. And he's insisted on going over his Christmas wish list with me several times now.

Younger Son has been busy, so I have too.

Sweetie has been really busy at work. And he wants to eat something EVERY night which disrupts the diet I'm sure I planned to begin that day. And he's tried to hunt whenever he can, which I'm happy for him to do, although it disrupts Bambi's happy existence.

Sweetie's busy-ness impacts my busy-ness.

So, let's talk about disruptions. Life is full of them, obviously. Have you ever had one? I know, stupid question.

As for me, getting ready for an event disrupts the flow of life, but then life disrupts the preparation too. The trip disrupted everything, although I spent those four days not caring. Younger Son's activities disrupt work, and work disrupts the ability to get him where he needs to be. Multiplication tables disrupt my brain. Laundry and chores disrupt a bunch of stuff, but then I just retreat and read which disrupts the chores. The Christmas list is trying to disrupt my bank account.

Oh yeah, forgot to mention one whopper of a disruption . . . Elder Son just spent ten days in a Dallas hospital with blood clot problems.

Can you say . . . dIsRupTEd?

Two pulmonary embolisms disrupted our peace of mind. Two trips to the operating room and two nights in ICU disrupted the normal Thanksgiving plans. Several hotel nights disrupted the budget.  Time in the big city without going to Target, not even once, disrupted my shopping philosophy. Sleeping in that chair/cot thing one night disrupted my spine.

Sometimes disruptions result in delight.

Because he lived. He got better. He got discharged yesterday. And we're delighted.

Plus I saved that money I might have spent at Target.

My Thanksgiving Day lunch was chicken salad with crackers and a side of mac and cheese in a hospital cafeteria. Not being a huge fan of turkey and dressing, I thought it was just fine. I got to share that meal with Younger Son, right after I left Sweetie and Elder Son enjoying traditional leftovers I had brought the night before from the Floyd family dinner. One of the joys was that the doctors put off a procedure until the next day so the boy could actually eat. Not even ICU could disrupt watching him enjoy some chocolate pie!

The trip we took earlier this month disrupted the routine. That's both the curse and the blessing, because it was a delightful disruption while it lasted! The chance to spend time with friends you love and have missed dearly is something not to be regretted. The opportunity to fellowship around a shared love for the Lord is precious. And the blueberry poppyseed salad dressing at my favorite restaurant in Branson is delightful too!

The chores got disrupted by the requests to listen to the ever-lengthening Christmas list. I think that's delightful enough to allow it to happen again.

A couple of thousand years ago, there were some poor shepherds hanging out on a hillside one night, just minding their own business, just doing their jobs. They probably hadn't experienced lots of delightful disruptions before. Shepherds didn't get to take vacations, because the sheep never took one. Sheep were their livelihood, and they demanded constant attention. These shepherds were probably accustomed to the same unchanging routine, day after day, night after night, over and over.

SUDDENLY . . . a delightful disruption!!! Scripture says in Luke 2 that an angel of the Lord appeared to them and they were surrounded by God's glory!!!!!

Surely, they were . . . delighted! Filled with joy! Excited, happy, full of celebration!!!

Nope. They were "sore afraid" . . . translated elsewhere as "terrified."

An angel? God's glory? Terrifying?

It's important to remember that delightful disruptions don't always look delightful at first.

We're no different two thousand years later.

God is the master of disruption. He loves us too much to let us just coast along in our comfortable little way. He's got business to conduct with us, and sometimes He has to shake things up to get it done! He hand-picked those shepherds to be the first to hear His good news! He didn't let them know through a letter or a news report . . . he disrupted their normal routine . . . it was that important!

How often are we terrified, or even angered, by God's disruptions, when all He really intends to do is deliver good news?

And what was that good news? Well, it was even more disrupting than that angel! And it was good news for more than just those shepherds! It was news of great JOY (delight) for ALL people! That's us, folks! And talk about a disruption!

Once we were sinners, condemned, deserving death. Jesus came to disrupt our sentencing, to take our punishment upon Himself, to set us free to live in that joy! He disrupted all of the enemy's plans . . . He shook everything up . . . He rocked our world!

A delightful disruption indeed.

Where in your life do you see only disruptions when God has plans for delight and joy? Post a comment below.

Christmas is a delightful disruption, a break in the routine, a chance to focus on the good, good news. Joy to the world!  The Lord has come . . . the most delightful disruption of all time!

Wasting Time Writing About Wasting Time

2010-10-31T22:21:00.000-05:00

I'm back. Just now realized that I've let ANOTHER month go by without writing. I miss it, I really do. But other things crowd in and take over and it just falls by the wayside. It's not the only thing.

That seems to be a pattern.

Some of the things that have jumped ahead of writing are just ridiculous wastes of time. Like picking up my house. A ridiculous waste of time, if you ask me. If I put up the dog's toys, he's going to get them out again, I promise you. He's a dog, after all. If I put something in the dirty clothes basket, it will just have to be washed, dried, folded and put away. Might as well leave it on the floor and be done with it, don't you think? Honestly, I could live out of my closet for some time while I let the dirty clothes pile up on the floor. I may have to try it.

For many years, my philosophy was "why make the bed if I'm just going to get back in it tonight and mess it up again?" My mother obviously had no appreciation for philosophy. But then I grew up and lived in rebellion for a few years. These days, I DO make the bed. It sort of neatens up the room, hopefully counteracting the pile of laundry on the floor.

I'm beginning to feel the same way about cooking and eating sometimes too, like it might be a waste of time. Why keep doing it? And I usually like to eat! But sometimes we spend a ridiculous amount of time on it. And money. And calories. I heard somebody say once that Asian cultures treat food more like fuel and medicine than entertainment. I wish I could do that. I guess I could think like Paula Deen, that butter can cure anything that ails you.

But seriously, don't you ever feel the same way? Buy it, cook it, eat it, clean it up. Over and over. Over and over. And we get to feeling like every meal should be some kind of experience. Sometimes, it might just need to be fuel and medicine. There are honestly only so many ways to cook a pot roast. You can tweak this seasoning or change that ingredient, but in the end, it's still just a piece of meat. And in a few hours, I'll want something else.

It's enough to make me consider an IV.

Of course, there are probably some of you superchicks out there who might say the housecleaning and cooking are getting crowded out rather than doing the crowding out. Well, stuff some dirty laundry in it.

To be honest, which I should be, I can't blame most of my not writing on cooking and housecleaning. Or at least that's what my husband would say. I've done the bare minimum of either.

Here's what I can blame it on, and I guess these are good enough excuses:

I've been to all but one of my kid's soccer and football games. And I've enjoyed myself too. And one day I was headed to Walmart while they headed to practice. And I got to thinking how I need sunshine worse than I needed groceries, so I turned around and went to practice and sat in the sunshine and even walked around the track some and watched my kid do football drills. Of course, then I still had to go to Walmart. But I wasted some time and it was fine.

I've had to study to teach Sunday School. It's pretty hard to call this wasting time. I've wasted a LOT of time on other things instead of doing this in the past. I studied before and read my Bible, but now I'm accountable. If I fail to do it, I fail. Can't teach what you don't know.

I've gotten in bed earlier some nights and snuggled up to my husband instead of snuggling up to my laptop. (Okay, okay . . . sometimes I take the laptop to bed. The glare of the screen doesn't bug him once he's asleep.)

I've watched me some World Series! And I don't even LIKE baseball unless I'm watching one of my boys play. May never watch it again, but the Rangers in the World Series for the first time, plus hanging out with my husband and kid around the TV, make it an okay waste of time every now and then. And we obviously can't do it with the Cowboys these days. And the way the Rangers are playing right now, we might not be doing it much longer this week either.

I'm taking a short trip with my sweetie and some close friends. I've said I want to spend some time doing as little as possible, and can't seem to get away with that here. Absolutely do NOT have the time for a trip and don't need to spend the money. Doing it anyway. So there.

And here I am, wasting time by writing this blog post about wasting time. Shocker.

What's your favorite time-waster, the one you don't really care to apologize for?

Writing About Writing

2010-09-30T19:17:00.000-05:00

It's been, like, eons since I posted a blog article. I'm sorry . . . if you are. I happen to have several convenient excuses though . . . I've been too busy, I couldn't decide what to write about, I've been too busy, I've neglected to make time for it, I've been too busy and my heart just hasn't been in it. Not to mention that I've just been too busy.

I'm like an old computer with limited hard disk space and not enough working memory. I can only process so much at one time, and I run pretty slow. Too many programs open in the background or whatever. It gets all cluttered, and then it locks up.

I think I locked up. Maybe I have a virus. Yeah, that's good . . . blame it on a virus.

Anyway, I decided to write about writing . . . and about not writing. At least until I drift off onto some other topic.

I guess writing makes you a writer. But I'm not "a writer" in the sense that you think of writers. I like it when I write. Other people seem to like it. I think I have a little bit of talent for it. I've gotten some coaching in it. I have a few things to say, usually, and a couple of those things might occasionally be worth saying. But I don't have some burning passion to do it. Matter of fact, one of the reasons I started this blog was to make myself accountable to get some writing done. And look how THAT turned out. Four weeks between posts. Ridiculous.

I write like I talk. People have told me that since way back when I wrote a weekly newspaper article and later a newsletter for my job. Since I talk a lot, that explains why I write long. Real writers will preach that you need to be concise, that less is more, that you should ruthlessly edit out every unnecessary word, that you should use "strong verbs" such as "she flew down the track" rather than "she ran really fast" because strong verbs take up less space. And they are more interesting.

But since I'm not "a writer," do I have to obey the writing rules?

Nah.

I add more words, not edit them out. I'll say "Okay, then, you really just need to go." I could have said "you need to go." I use "just" and "really" a lot. I also use those little dot dot dot things . . . see? I just used them right there. I think they're called ellipses, correct? I could research that to be sure, but it would mean following the rules "real writers" follow, and that's just not me. So I'll guess at it and let one of you correct me if I'm wrong. Be gentle, please. I'm not a real writer and I have a virus.

People keep telling me I need to write a book. One of my graduate professors said I should seriously consider writing. I think that was after a major paper on some really fun topic like narcissistic personality disorder. My husband thinks I should get a doctorate and write a book, so that when I speak, they would say "speaker and author, Dr. Kathy Floyd." That just does not light me up at all, really. And a couple of things he's not considering . . . (there, those ellipses again!) . . . doctorates cost a LOT of money, "dissertation" does not go well with "honey, I'll have dinner on the table shortly," and I would have to talk about him in any book I write because he's part of my material. He hates that. It drives him crazy to go to work and have the girls there tell him they know what he had for supper last night because it was on Facebook. (By the way, tonight he's having fried chicken, roasted red potatoes, baked beans and iced tea.)

One of my reasons for entering a year-long speaker/author mentoring program with speaker and author Shannon Ethridge (www.shannonethridge.com/blast/ if you're interested . . . and you should be) was to find out if speakers need to write books in addition to speaking, and if I personally am supposed to write a book. Probably yes to both. Okay, well, so there ya got it. Get to writing, Kathy Jo.

Uhhh . . . no. Not so fast.

I've come to several conclusions.

(1) It takes a lot of time to write. You write a bunch, and then edit like crazy. I could edit infinitely past the time when I push the "post" button. At some point, you just have to stop and publish. But not before several hours have gone by in the pursuit of just a few hundred good words and phrases.

(2) I don't have a lot of time. I know many of you can play "Can You Top That?" and whup me really good on what I'm about to say, but please humor me. There's the husband, the boy-child, counseling, speaking, writing, football AND soccer, a Sunday School lesson every week (because Sunday happens every week), the church's women's ministry, a house, a dog, some seriously piled-up laundry and the need to maintain a few friendships for my own sanity, although I'm not doing so well at it lately. I also simply MUST read some every day. I will neglect important things to read.

(3) You can't find time to write . . . you have to make time to write. I actually didn't come to that conclusion on my own. It's what all "the" writers say.

I'm making time to write right this minute, although I need to be making time to make dinner pretty quickly. I also made time to write some of this last night . . . WAY after most of you were snoozing. That's because there was no other time to make time. I'm motivated by the fact that if I don't get this posted this evening, I will have only written one post this whole month. I intended to write at least one every week! But I haven't been able to find the time this month. And that's the point.

We make time for what's important. At least that's what some of those superspiritual, hypermommy, Proverbs 31 women say. (And they say it while bouncing a baby on one hip, whipping up a full country dinner and homeschooling six children, all at the same time. Okay! Okay! Ya topped me!) Writing is important and I intend to stick with it. But it's obviously not the most important thing. Which makes another point . . .

How blessed am I to be a part of so many other important things? Awesome family, a career I love, ministry I'm dedicated to . . .

So maybe now you'll understand better why I write . . . and why sometimes I don't write. Because sometimes I just don't have time.

I'm now going to the kitchen to cook (heat) the fried chicken (tenders frozen in a bag), the roasted red potatoes with sea salt and cracked black pepper (frozen in a bag) and the baked beans (don't ya just love that secret Bush family recipe!). And I'll have some iced tea with that (Red Diamond in a jug). It speaks well of me that I make the time to prepare meals for my loved ones, don't you think? Maybe if I'm not too tired after all that cooking, I can find more time to write.

Wheaties and Weedies

2010-09-05T20:58:00.000-05:00

Well, I wrote this days ago and have just realized I didn't post it. Such is my life these days.

First of all, a shout out to Gene Anderson who will now understand that the quickest way to get mentioned in one of my talks or on the blog is to say "as long as you don't mention me on your blog!!!!" Or you can do something really goofy and I'll talk about you then too. My best material comes from my friends who do and say goofy, hilarious stuff. They try not to do it in front of me because they know I'll put them in a presentation!

Heard a good sermon last Sunday (thank you, Dr. Steven Smith from Southwestern Baptist Theological Seminary) about Jesus's parable of the wheat and the tares in Matthew 13. Tares are weeds, a type of ryegrass called darnel. Roman law in Jesus's day prohibited someone sowing darnel in another person's field because it could destroy their crop. To do so was a terroristic act. The problem was that the tares would grow up right alongside the wheat, looking remarkably similar. If you wanted to pull out the tares, it was going to be nearly impossible to keep from pulling up the wheat as well, since wheat isn't planted in rows with walking paths between, and since the root systems of the wheat and tares would be intertwined. So what was a farmer to do? He was really left with no choice but to leave things alone for a while.

In this parable, the wheat was representing believers planted in the world by God. The weeds were evil and planted under cover of darkness by Satan, and Jesus states that He intends to let the two crops grow together for a time. When both are ready for harvest, the seed pods of the wheat will be distinguishable from those of the weeds, so the weeds can be gathered separately and burned while the wheat will be stored in the barns. In other words, the wheat will be bearing fruit and the weeds won't.

But it's that part about letting Wheaties and Weedies grow together that hangs a lot of us up. We want to be DONE with that. We say "Why, O Lord?" a lot and wonder what He's up to when he lets evil exist next to righteousness. We look at the plants springing up next to us and try to figure out if they're weeds and exactly what species they are. (Do weeds come in species? Can't remember that science class.) We may even feel the overwhelming desire to reach over and pluck them up ourselves. After all, they're not acting just like we believe they should. They voted for the wrong candidate or they like different worship music or they drink wine with dinner or the mommy works and doesn't homeschool the kids or whatever.

Before I go all weed-whacker here, I probably should consider a few first things first:

1. Am I a Wheatie or a Weedie? Thankfully I settled that at age 8 at church camp. I'm one of the Wheaties.

2. Are you a Wheatie? I sure do hope so! If you're not, God is in the weed-changing business.

3. Is it my job to pull up Weedies? Or those I perceive to be Weedies? Hmmm. Probably not. Well, shucky darn.

I'm not much of a gardener. My mother has a green thumb which she got from my grandfather. My father has a green thumb which he got from my grandmother. My thumbs are a gangrenous black color. I have killed cactus once and mint twice. Get it? I'm not much of a gardener.

But I could be a weed-puller, don't ya think? You need to be a little self-righteous to be a weed-puller, and I have been a little bit of that maybe once or twice. Maybe more. Except that I don't like that part of gardening either. Mostly, I just like to look at colorful flowerbeds and manicured lawns and enjoy the view, then go back inside where the air conditioning is. But weeds do need to be dealt with. People manufacture products to deal with pesky weeds. So maybe that's the answer . . . get out the Round-Up! I don't like to plant flowers or pull weeds, but I could have some fun spraying stuff around!

Nope, that won't work either, because if I go spraying Round-Up all over, I may kill a few weeds, but I may also kill . . . ME. And I like me too much for that.

You see, weeds really need to be targeted directly to be dealt with. There are some broader applications that may work well for prevention, but once the weed has sprung up, it needs a direct shot of something to eliminate it. And that's a task often best left to experts if the infestation is serious. If we get a little crazy Rounding-up those weeds ourselves, we may mess up whole crops / gardens / lawns at a time.

Kind of like when we Christians get to looking around ourselves and thinking that person over there looks a little weedy or this one over here isn't blooming to suit us. We want to go pulling them out by the roots or spraying a little poison around, thinking we'll be helping the Gardener out by ridding Him, and us, of the pesky little problem.

God takes a look at the weed next door and, for now, says, "Let it grow, let it grow, let it grow!" He might have a plan for that weed.

My Wheatie-self replies, "Well, what's up with that, Lord? I thought you wanted life to be easy and happy for me, and these weeds are pesky and are causing me some issues! Besides, their color of green doesn't match mine and they're distracting from me looking good. What are you trying to do here?" Well, maybe . . .

1. God knows that I need a little motivation. A weed growing alongside might help me get the fruit-bearing process kicked into action. After all, I wouldn't want to be outdone by a Weedie!

2. God knows I need a little humility, which can be gained by being exposed to the Weedies. After all, it probably really is NOT all about me.

3. God is in the weed-changing business and He's allowing time for supernatural transformations to happen. I once was lost (Weedie) but now am found (Wheatie).

4. God knows my judgment is faulty and that I might pluck up or Round-up the wrong plant. Someone might look weedy to me and I might look weedy to them and we both might actually be born-again Wheaties who just don't have the clear perspective of how things really are. After all, one could like beige carpet and one could like green carpet and both be Wheaties. One might wear a suit to the worship service and one might wear flip flops and both be Wheaties. One could like hymns and one could like praise choruses and both be Wheaties. Don't shoot me, but there are Republican Wheaties and Democrat Wheaties.

On the other hand, someone could attend every time the church doors are open, visit the sick, give to the poor, pray eloquently aloud and vote right-wing every time . . . and still be a weed.

While I fully believe that as Christians we should be engaged in our society as God leads, whether that be politics, education or public service, I confess I find myself getting a little impatient with Wheaties who spend copious amounts of energy pointing out weeds and trying to scream them into extinction. No wonder we can't get them to come to church. I wonder what would happen if more of that energy was spent on bearing fruit and looking like wheat? I don't mean to imply that we're to be doormats and not speak up where injustice and injury occur, but we so often get our spiritual knickers all wadded up and don't show our best side to the world. You know, the side that looks like Jesus.

A couple of examples:

Hellywood . . . umm, I mean Hollywood . . . makes a movie with themes that are not Christian. We can do one of several things:
1. We can raise a ruckus, boycott the movie and talk ugly about the producers and those who go see it. I'm not talking about a realistic critique of the movie. I'm talking about when we attack people directly and not just the issues. That'll win 'em over every time. Condemnation is such a good evangelistic tool.
2. We can, and often do, go see this movie ourselves. Because after all, we're Christian, but not fanatical or anything. And besides, everyone else is going to see it.
3. We could support the movies that have wholesome themes so that maybe somebody will see there is a market for these products and make more of them. Some pagans will watch The Chronicles of Narnia because they like good literature. How cool if they notice Aslan the lion is really Jesus in a fur coat?

Or, second example . . . we don't like the politics of this or that candidate or officeholder. So we vilify, castigate, call names and otherwise let our opinions be known, usually repeatedly. In conversation. On email. Facebook is great for this too. That'll win 'em over every time. And their followers too. Condemnation is such a good evangelistic tool.

One of two things could be happening.
1. We're calling it like it is . . . they're ungodly, unspiritual, unrighteous, unsaved and downright lost. But why do we expect the unrighteous to act righteous, especially when we don't act too righteous ourselves? Except for self-righteous, of course. That's different, right?
2. Or we're missing it altogether, and the ones we're vilifying, castigating and calling names are, in fact, brothers or sisters. And maybe to them, we look like the weeds. OUCH.

So who do we think we are to take on the weeding duties ourselves? Who died and made us God? Certainly not God! Jesus did, however, die to make us Wheaties. Only He knows for sure what needs to be nurtured and what needs to be whacked . . . what is suitable for gathering and what is suitable for burning. Wheaties should take care to look like wheat and act like wheat and be wheat, so that when the harvest comes, the harvesters know the difference from the weeds.

If the weeding was up to me, you'd be at the mercy of a black-thumbed crop murderer who has killed cactus and mint.

Praise Jesus, it's not up to me, but to a merciful God who is a Master Gardener.

Oh My!

2010-08-21T00:08:00.000-05:00

OH MY!

I've been aware in the rush of things that I was overdue posting to my blog. I'm horrified to see HOW overdue. So sorry. If you care.

That only makes it more appropriate that my topic for today is "relaxing." It's such a foreign concept to me anymore that I had to look up a definition to be sure I really knew what it meant. Dictionary.com defined "relax" as:

to become less tense, rigid, or firm; to become less strict or severe; grow milder; to reduce or stop work, effort, application, etc., esp. for the sake of rest or recreation; to release oneself from inhibition, worry, tension, etc.

Relaxation has been a struggle for me for quite some time. I teach it and preach it but I don't do it. I feel it's necessary for good health but then am able to justify neglecting this area of my own health. There's just so much to DO, right? And if I can't get it all done, I can't relax. The problem is it never all gets done. EVER. Or even anywhere close.

I used to read to relax. I love, love, love to read. Given the chance, I will neglect important things to read. Now I read, but it most often involves something I NEED to read.

Well, I set out on a trip this week intending to relax intentionally. I guess saying "intending" and "intentionally" in the same sentence would be a double something-or-other-I-should-remember-from-grammar-class. But I said it to "intentionally" point out that I needed a double portion of relaxation. That's because life has been inTENSE, not necessarily intentionally. Becoming less tense is something anyone who's been hanging around me would say was needed, for sure.

Actually, this is a work trip for a speaking engagement with a couple of intentional relaxation / making-memories-with-my-kid days tacked on the front end, lest you think I was slacking too much in my intentional relaxation efforts. And it has made it more difficult to relax knowing that my husband, who couldn't get off work to join us, has been putting in extra-long hours in the 100+ degree heat. But I managed to do it anyway for short periods of time. Of course, I prayed for him and felt appropriately guilty.

I started our little road trip saying I was going to let my hair down and get a little crazy. Look back up at that definition to see that to relax can mean to release oneself from inhibition. Well, don't let that worry you too much. For me, that has meant yelling "wooooooh!" a couple of times while cruising down the highway. Also listening to a Houston 80's rock station cranked up a bit while singing my old favorites really loud and enjoying watching my kid roll his eyes. That's the extent of living uninhibited in my world these days.

I can tell you precisely four times in the past four years that I have been totally relaxed and still awake. One was a massage, four years ago this week. I think that massage therapist moved away and I have been unable to replicate the experience to quite that degree since then. I had asked her to spend the whole hour (and she went long) working on my back and neck, so I had laid on my belly with my face in that donut-thingy and my head slightly lower than my feet for the entire time. This resulted in her massaging all the muscle tightness and extra fluid right into the bags under my eyes. I was meeting my husband and son afterward for lunch, and I walked into the restaurant only to hear my husband exclaim, "Honey! What happened to you??!?!?!?!!!!!?" I looked like a less-than-victorious prizefighter with puffed up eyes, but I felt like a wonderfully limp noodle. I honestly shouldn't have even been driving.

The next time was in my living room. I remember we came home from somewhere, my men went off to the back of the house and I sat in the recliner. For an hour. And looked out the window at the sky. I kept thinking I should get up and do something, but I didn't. Oh well. And guess what? The world continued to revolve on its axis anyway.

The third time was last summer in Destin, Florida. One day we went to the beach late and remained there while others packed up their stuff and departed at dusk. My guys had brought flashlights and a bucket so they could chase little crabs across the sand after dark. I hollowed out a place in the sand close to the water's edge, pillowed my head on our float and let the sound of the ocean roar in my ears. It was just THE best worship time. I laid there singing "God of Wonders" and hoped nobody walking by would think I was drunk. I would look down the beach and see little beams of light approaching and pray it wasn't quite time for them to be done with the crab-hunting yet. I think I had about 45 minutes of total chill-out time. Somewhere in the Bible it mentions somebody "refreshing himself in the Lord." That's exactly what happened with me and I've never forgotten it.

The last time was two days ago, again on a beach. I couldn't quite make it match last year, but it was good enough for a little while. My kid played in the water in front of me. I had my rear settled in one chair and my feet in another. I had left my watch behind on purpose. I had my cell phone, but it was too much trouble to dig it out and look at the time. And I had no plans whatsoever until the next day, so who cared what time it was? It was overcast and not too hot, and there was that great sea breeze keeping me comfortable. It lasted until my kid wanted to go shopping. Shopping???? When you could be at the beach????? For once, shopping didn't even sound fun. Definitely not relaxing. And it wasn't really. Remember, it involved a 9-year-old boy who was really only interested in Academy Sports.

On a side note, while we were at the beach there were fins spotted out where we had been swimming just a little while before. People were moving back up to the shallower water and somebody was looking for a lifeguard. Then . . . I spotted . . . TWO fins.

Duh-duh.

Duh-duh.

Duh-duh, duh-duh, duh-duh, duh-duh. (I'm trying to make you hear shark music.)

All of a sudden, right behind those two fins, a dolphin leaped out of the water! We got to watch them jump and play for a couple of minutes. A special blessing.

Today was another day with very little to do until dinner time. It involved sleeping late in a great, dark, cold hotel room with some awesome feather pillows, a super cool swimming pool, my kid, my dear friend and some UV rays resulting in just the right amount of "glow" on my pale complexion. It's so pale because I've taken no time this summer to relax and expose it to any rays. I'm ashamed to say this is August and I've been swimming exactly ONE time all summer until this week. Ridiculous!

I actually finished a novel this week too. I'm quite proud of myself. I haven't been allowing myself to have fiction books laying around because I might relax and read. This week I broke my rule. Living dangerously again.

Anyway, there were some good, although, brief, periods of relaxation this week. The question is whether my couple of days of relaxation will last. Will I go home chilled-out? Will I stay that way once I get there? Or will "life" take over and kill the mood? We'll see. I have a feeling I know the answer. But it was good while it lasted.

So why don't I do this relaxing business more often? And why do I feel guilty when I do?

Maybe it's not just me. There's a book written by a guy named Tim Hansel entitled "When I Relax, I Feel Guilty." I should read it, just a soon as I get everything done and find some time to relax.

Maybe next year, on a beach somewhere.

Life is Like a Garbage Truck

2010-08-02T01:03:00.000-05:00

Here's a paraphrase of a great quote I once heard:

Life doesn't cease to be funny in the bad times, any more than it ceases to be serious in the good times.

How true, how true. Life has had several serious happenings or circumstances this summer for me and mine. Add all of it to 105 degrees and the fact that there's no vacation to provide some relief, and I can get plumb cranky about it. And I have. And I will.

But I was thinking about how funny things happen in the middle of serious stuff, and since most of my posts lately have been about serious stuff (except a couple of weeks ago about dancing, although some would think that was serious), I wanted to share about something funny for a change.

I just hate it that "funny" and "for a change" are in the same sentence right now. That's serious!

Anyway, six years ago, I had a serious illness. It wasn't funny! I was in the hospital for a month and in therapy for most of a year after that. (Physical therapy, that is . . . not my kind of therapy!) I tried to keep life as normal as possible. That was not such an easy task, since just about everything changed. I wasn't working and never got to go back to the job I loved. I could barely walk. I didn't drive for six months. I couldn't do normal tasks like mop the floor or scrub the bathtub (oh, shucky darn about that one).

One thing I could do was get the bed made every day. It took a while, but I could look at it and feel I had accomplished something that day. I could lay in the recliner with my computer keyboard in my lap and work on my master's degree. I intended to teach myself sign language and go through my recipes, but that never happened.

And I could do a little bit of grocery shopping. We got into a routine whereby my husband would take me to Walmart, go inside and get the motorized scooter, bring it to me at the car and leave me for an hour. I'd do the shopping, he'd come back and find me, get us checked out and loaded into the car, and then he'd drive the scooter back inside.

When I rode the scooter, I got curious looks from people that seemed to say, "What's she doing on a scooter? Doesn't she know they're reserved for the people who need them?" My friend's little girl asked me one day why I was on it, and I told her my legs weren't working very well these days. She later told her mom, "I don't think her legs are broke. I just think she wants to ride."

Uh, no. Trust me. And why did it bother me so much what a five-year-old thought?

One day my husband got me a scooter and left me there, just like the usual routine, and I embarked on my shopping. I got about six aisles back in the grocery section when there was a departure from the routine. My scooter quit going forward.

I always checked at the beginning of my shopping to be sure my scooter was fully charged. If it had half a charge, it would go, but really slow. Well, I thought slow scooters were fine for older people, but I was young, and if I was going to have to ride the thing, I wanted to be a little zippy.

Well, on this day, I was charged all the way up and there was no zip at all in the forward direction. Hmmm. So now what?

I sat there a few minutes trying to decide what to do. I didn't have my walker or cane, because there wasn't room for them in the scooter basket. I did have my cell phone, but I felt it was a little ridiculous to call my husband from inside Walmart just because my scooter wouldn't advance. A nice lady asked if I needed help, and my pride forced me to tell her that I was just thinking through my grocery list for a minute. But eventually I decided I had to do what a girl's gotta do:

I backed up.

All the way to the front of the store.

About six aisles.

That looked goofy enough, and drew some stares all on its own. But there's more.

In reverse, the scooter goes, "BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!"

It sounds exactly like the garbage truck.

All the way to the front of the store.

When I got there (they could hear me coming early), the customer service people were very nice, got me another scooter and moved my groceries into it.

I looked up and a man I knew was standing over by the lettuce just laughing his head off. Seriously! I said, "You coulda helped." He said, "What do you think I was supposed to do?" Well, I don't know . . . but something!

Of course, I usually throw in a moral to the story, so here goes: Sometimes, just when you think you're moving ahead, and even when you think you're fully charged up to go, you end up going backwards. Hopefully there's a way to make a shift and you can get to going forward again. Sometimes you'll attract some stares and sound really loud, maybe even obnoxious like the garbage truck. Sometimes people will be willing to help. Sometimes they'll just stand by and laugh at you. There may be some that are even a little ticked that you got on the scooter to begin with.

But sometimes you've just gotta do what you've just gotta do. So beep away, baby!

Dangerous Grace

2010-07-28T16:28:00.000-05:00

We sing a lot about "grace." Amazing grace . . . marvelous, infinite, matchless grace . . . grace that is greater than all our sin.

We read about it too . . . it is by grace that we are saved, called, justified. We say grace before we eat. We name baby girls Grace . . . it's such a pretty name! We receive it, wear it, walk in it. We can administer it to others.

We can also twist it into something it was never intended to be. We can fall away from it. We can miss it.

Grace is good. Not something you want to miss.

Grace was not always ours. Before grace, there was the law. God gave the law. Those Ten Commandments have some pretty clear instructions for how we are to live. They are good. But even good things, like grace and commandments, can be twisted into something they were never intended to be, such as when we add our own rules to God's law or change grace into a license to sin. And that twisting occurs because we forget about the original intent of the gift. The law was given so that we could see our inability to live inside of it. The Word says if we break one part of the law, it's as if we have broken the whole blooming thing. (The Word doesn't say "blooming" . . . that was mine.) We broke it early on . . . real good too! So then what . . . we're doomed? Yeah, we were doomed.

But God (I just LOVE that phrase) . . . sent grace. While we were still sinners, Christ (grace) died for us. We no longer live under the law. We dwell inside a white robe of righteousness now.

Or do we?

Where do you dwell . . . in grace? Or under the law?

I heard of a sermon which talked about the law as our old lover. We loved the law. It was safe. It helped us know the rules so we wouldn't break them . . . if we didn't want to, that is. And of course, we could earn our way into God's favor by keeping the law, right? Isn't that how it works? If I follow the rules, I'm accepted. If I don't, I'm thrown out. Following the rules = heaven. Not = hell. Well, no argument there . . . I guess I'll be keeping the rules!

Except that I can't.

Just a few of the rules I've broken: I wore pants to church. I danced. I drank wine at weddings. I played games involving dice, including Monopoly, Candyland and Bunko. (I played cards too. Recently.) I participated in mixed bathing, something I usually call swimming. (I do not bathe in mixed company.) I wore flip-flops in the sanctuary. I wore a two-piece bathing suit (but NOT in the sanctuary). I trick-or-treated as a kid (although at least it wasn't in a devil suit like my little brother.) I skipped night church when I was 11 or 12 to watch the Dallas Cowboys win the Super Bowl. I married a man who would also skip night church to watch the Dallas Cowboys win the Super Bowl. Or even lose it.  I spoke in a church before men. (Does it count that the pastor and piano player sat down in the back to listen and I couldn't help it? Does it condemn me that I didn't mind, or ask them to leave?) I prayed with my eyes open and my hands unfolded. I looked around during the invitation. I listened to Christian rock music. I ate bacon. I don't cover my head with a veil during the worship service.

Oh, that it only took a veil to be righteous. If I wore one long enough, it might cover my wicked heart. I could wear a really pretty veil to distract from what is underneath. I could wear a thick veil so no gaze could penetrate it. I could wear a prickly veil so I couldn't be examined too closely. A veil would be so easy. All my earthly garments might be left behind in the Rapture, but surely I could keep my veil!

Back to rules . . . a few lesser ones I've broken: I've cussed, lied, cheated, stolen, dishonored my parents (although not often because they didn't let that slide), put idols ahead of God, failed to keep His day holy and murdered another person with my mouth. I've gossiped, slandered, caused division and been unsubmissive to my husband (you can ask him if you have any trouble believing that). I have let the fruit of the Spirit rot on the vine. I have not counted it all joy when I have fallen into various trials. I have neglected to hate evil and cling to what is good.

It's interesting how we categorize the rules, just like we categorize sin. That first group consisted of rules made by humans. They are surely the worst of the worst to break . . . much worse than failing to keep those lesser standards in the second group, correct?

Oh yeah, I almost forgot to mention . . . I've been adulterous. (Please continue reading lest you get the wrong idea.)

The truth is . . . I'm married to Jesus now. I live in grace with Him. I live in Him. Grace lives in me.

But I keep going back and cheating on Him with my former lover, the law. Why? Because I lived with the law for so long! It's familiar! Because the law lures me back! Because there are people I love, religious people, in relationship with the law too, so it must be a good thing, right? Because the law is safe.

Grace is not safe. Grace is dangerous.

Many years ago, my grandmother was dying out-of-town. I kissed her for the last time and came home to await the phone call. I tried to drive fast enough to make it in time for Wednesday night church (not breaking the speed limit, of course, because that is a rule). Back then, I attended a small church full of precious Godly people. Who didn't wear pants in church. Well, the men did of course, but not the ladies. Ever. I arrived at five minutes past the service time, wearing pants, not having time to go home and change first. My grandmother was dying. I needed to be in God's house, surrounded by God's people . . . that's why I drove fast (not breaking the rule, of course). I had on pants. I thought about it for a while in the parking lot. Law, or grace? I fought the law, and the law won. My veil wasn't long enough to cover my pants. I drove home.

I've heard it said that law is about WHAT WE DO, while grace is about WHAT HE HAS DONE. Gee, so what's the question? (Add that one to my list of broken rules . . . I said "gee." I've said "gosh" before too. So stone me.)

I apologize for that slightly sarcastic comment, but not enough to remove it. Not that we should ever sin more so that grace may abound . . . but what if we were to just LET grace abound?  Are you in the mood to talk to me about that sarcastic comment? Not that you shouldn't, if I need it and you do it in love, extending grace. But don't we tend to try to stomp out grace sometimes? Or at least put it back in its place? That's because grace is dangerous, and we want to play it safe.

I heard a story once of a young man, a new Christian, eager to be in God's house, who entered wearing a ballcap. An older gentleman came over, pulled it off his head, and rebuked him, saying, "Don't you know better than to wear a cap in church?" Keeping the law was safer somehow than extending grace.

The religious crowd dragged a woman before Jesus who had been caught in adultery. (Did you ever wonder why they didn't drag her lover in as well?)  They wanted Jesus to abide by the law. He extended great grace instead. That was very dangerous, not nearly as safe as keeping the law.

Which way would you rather do it? Which way do we want the Lord to do it? If the God wanted to do it by the law, that's very dangerous for us, because we deserve judgment under the law, not mercy under the system of grace. Put God's law in the hands of people to be twisted, and it becomes hazardous indeed. So ultimately the law isn't all that safe, and I'd much prefer a dangerous grace than a dangerous law.

In The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe (The Chronicles of Narnia) by C.S. Lewis, one of the characters asks if Aslan, the lion who is a picture of Jesus, is safe. Mr. Beaver replies, "Who said anything about safe? ‘Course he isn’t safe. But he’s good.”

Grace isn't safe . . . it's dangerous. But it's good.

Normally, I'd end with a little verse of Scripture here that applies to the topic. There are too many to list. Go to www.biblegateway.org, type in "grace" as a keyword and search. You'll be amazed.

Haha . . . amazing grace. No pun intended. Maybe.

Thanks and blessings to KH and JH for the great discussion which led to this blog post.

What Time is It?

2010-07-19T00:23:00.000-05:00

To everything there is a season, a time for every purpose under heaven:
  A time to weep,
And a time to laugh;
  A time to mourn,
And a time to dance. (Ecclesiastes 3:1 & 4)

If you know me, you know I'm ALL about laughing! Life is way more fun when lived funny! And for a Church-of-Christ girl-eventually-turned-Baptist, I'm a surprisingly big fan of dancing!

There. I said it. Let the excommunication begin.

No, seriously, I think dancing can be misused just like a million other things, but it's not on my personal list of The Top Ten Sins. Mainly, that's because I can't find it on God's top ten list.

I tell a joke about dancing as it relates to the various denominations I've been a part of. Growing up in the Church of Christ, you weren't supposed to dance. Now I'm in the Baptist church, and you probably aren't supposed to dance, but you can get by with it if you're out of town. When I was in the Christian Church as a teenager, they actually held a dance at our youth conference every summer. When I went to a more charismatic church, there might have even been a little dancing in church!

My Church of Christ pastor-friend (except that I think I'm supposed to call him a "minister" instead of pastor) said, "Kathy, we never talk about that anymore." I said, "Are you kidding? Because dancing was ALL we talked about back then!"

I remember being a rebellious 4th-grader in Sunday School and finally asking the question nobody ever voiced out loud: "What's wrong with dancing?" After a sharp intake of breath, they said, "It's wrong for one man to hold another man's wife." I said, "What's wrong with dancing with your own wife?" They didn't, or couldn't, answer that. I think I damaged my prior reputation as a good little quiet deacon's kid that day. Oh well.

Yesterday, I was with two of my Girlfriends in Grace on the way home from a Baptist mission trip to Branson where we ministered in several stores and were ministered to at the Presley's Country Jubilee (www.presleys.com . . . it's got to be the best show in Branson). We fellowshipped around the table a lot too. And on the journey back, we three girlfriends rocked out in a musical sort of way.

I guess it might not be considered dancing since we were sitting in our seats in a vehicle. Maybe religious people would call it "interpretive movement." If it's mostly from the waist up, it's probably okay. I might have tapped my foot too, but hopefully not at the same time I was waving my hands in the air. I also played some air guitar and piano. That's legal now that I'm Baptist, I think.

But anyway, we cranked up the stereo and switched between 70's and 80's rock (not the kind that's of the devil) and contemporary Christian praise music, depending on whether we knew the song playing at the moment. That's because we didn't want to take any breaks from singing at the tops of our lungs, accompanied by some "interpretive movement." If you'd tagged along, you'd have heard everything from "Dust in the Wind" by Kansas to Chris Tomlin's "Sing, Sing, Sing!" Nobody else could hear us, but our other girlfriends in the car behind us were witnesses to our spontaneous choreography!

It was a time to laugh and to dance!  We desperately needed it . . . a few hours set aside in the middle of much weeping and mourning. You know, it IS possible to weep and laugh and mourn and dance interchangeably, and maybe even at the same time.

I think that's why God gave us the ability to laugh and dance, because there's lots to weep and mourn about, and if we did that all the time, we'd explode from the pain. So we danced and laughed and sang and got some endorphins flowing through our brains.

In case you didn't know, those are chemicals in our bodies, manufactured by a marvelous Creator and similar in molecular composition to morphine, that help to relieve our pain and lift our moods naturally. I'm big time in favor of using something that God has given me for my good!

Yesterday's endorphins have worn off today, so I'm considering some healthy ways to make more. And I pretty much think laughing and dancing and singing are WAY healthier than smoking crack or something, so you'll probably catch me going that route again. Kinda reminds me how Lamentations says God's mercies are new every morning . . . fresh manna for the day . . . a new supply of brain chemicals. Other alternatives I'm considering are floating peacefully in a swimming pool and breathing deeply a lot. *sigh*

Now, if you're offended in any way by my laughing out loud and singing at the top of my lungs and dancing in my seat, I just want to tell you that the driver of the vehicle was in total control of the radio and the song choices, and any movement seen out of me was probably just me being tossed around in my seat by her wild driving. (I'm lying on that, but IF you're offended, you probably don't think lying is as big a sin as the dancing.)

"And David danced before the Lord with all his might." 2 Samuel 6:14

The fact remains that there is much to weep and mourn about. Healing can be facilitated, but it can't be rushed. We should cry when we need to cry, and laugh when we're able to laugh. There is a time for each. The hope and promise comes in Psalm 30:5 (MSG): "The nights of crying your eyes out give way to days of laughter."

Amen and amen.

I Could Learn a Lot from a Coffee Bean

2010-07-13T22:55:00.001-05:00

I was reminded this weekend at my BLAST class (www.shannonethridge.com/blast if you're curious) of a story about some hot water. Hot water is usually a good thing. Think lobster. Showers. Cocoa. Steaming your pores.

Sometimes I really like me some hot water. Other times not so much.

I greatly enjoy a good hot bath. REALLY hot. Especially in winter, I love to let the hot water run over my hands and feet while the tub fills up. If I'm cold and nothing else seems to help, a hot bath will warm me right up. Putting something fragrant in my hot water just makes the whole experience rich. Give me some Bath and Body Works Eucalyptus Spearmint products (body wash, foaming bath AND sugar scrub, thank you) and I can turn into a happy, happy girl . . . at least until the water gets cold. (I like the Arbonne Sea Source scent too, just so you know. Shameless plug for my sis-in-law's stuff.)

I (and the other grownup I reside with) like a hot bath so much that one of the things on our house's bucket list is a tankless water heater. Those pricey little appliances give you the ability to have all the hot water you want instantly. No more running the tank dry and then having to wait for it to manufacture more. Trust me, I can run a hot water tank dry all by myself, no assistance required. If you want a bath at my house, you better get yours before I get mine. (That sounded funny . . . I'm hoping none of y'all want a bath at my house. It was a figure of speech.) It's great for doing laundry and dishes too . . . like I care.

Hot water can also refer to something that's not so soothing. It's called Trouble. As in "that girl done gone and got herself in some hot water." I've done that before . . . gotten myself in a spot of hot water. You don't really need to know more than that. It's enough to confess that I can understand how lobsters feel.

Of course, like with lobsters, sometimes we don't crawl into the hot pot ourselves. We get thrown in. Or it gets thrown on us. Guess what? It's still awfully hot either way.

I guess that's a lot of what makes the difference between hot water that is tolerable and the kind that is not. Did I choose it for myself? Okay then. Or did I get subjected to it against my will? I'm still cooked, and that's just flat-out not fair.

On a side note, there are those who choose the hot water for themselves, and then get irritated about the consequences and think you did it to them. Shame on you, you lobster-killer, you! But that would be a whole 'nuther post for a whole 'nuther day.

Anyway, here's the story I was reminded of this weekend (thanks Debbie Heatwole):

A man was trying to teach his daughter about responding correctly to stressful situations in life. To illustrate his lesson, he brought three pots of water to a boil on top of the stove. Into one, he put some carrots. Into the second, he put an egg. Into the third, he put ground coffee beans.

A little while later, he turned off the burners and let the pots cools down somewhat. Then he continued his instruction by pulling the carrots out of the first pot. He asked his daughter, "Can you tell me what happened to these carrots when they were cooked?" She replied, "Well, they were firm, but the hot water made them all soft, kind of mushy, actually." "That's right," the father replied. "Sometimes people who are subjected to stress and trouble get mushy and weak. They're no longer able to stand firm."

He then asked her to take the egg from the second pot and describe what she found. "I know the egg was soft and liquid on the inside before," she said, "but when I crack the shell, I find that it has gotten hard." "And that's what some people do in hot water," said the dad. "They were tender before, but they let the hard circumstances of life make them hard on the inside. Now, go ahead and tell me what you see in the third pot."

The daughter looked into the pot. "It's coffee," she said. "Strong coffee. Hmm . . . so you're saying that some people let hot water make them stronger? Like, the stress actually changes them into something good?" "You've got it!" the father exclaimed! "The people who are like the coffee beans may not enjoy the experience of being boiled, but when the process is complete, they have become something that is useful, even delicious."

"I see now what you're trying to tell me," said the girl. "I need to always be careful to be like the coffee beans and let difficult times make me strong, not hard-hearted like the egg, and not weak like the carrots. But hey, Dad, do you see something more in that third pot?" The father looked at it for a minute and then said, "Tell me what you mean."

The daughter replied, "Dad, not only did the boiling water transform the coffee beans into something good . . . the coffee beans transformed the hot water."

So here's what I have to ask myself . . . when life gets tough, do I get mushy? (Yes. I've been a cooked carrot mushball lately, and not for the first time in my life.) Or do I get hard-hearted? (Yes. Either I look for somebody or something to be mad at, or I throw up a wall to keep from getting hurt by all that heated liquid you're slinging around. Of course, it IS you slinging it around.) Or do I get strong? (Well. Hmm. Maybe sometimes? On good days? If everything else goes my way?)

Okay . . . so sometimes, on occasion, every now and then, I can let the hot water of life make me into something usable. If I'm in the mood and it's not too much trouble. Like a lobster who stays put in the cookpot. I'm such a good girl if I can do that, right? Like, three cheers for that lobster!!!!

Whatever. But am I satisfied with being a good little crustacean just sometimes, on occasion, every now and then? Not really. Do I ever go a step beyond letting trouble transform me to where I actually transform my troubles, maybe even making them more tolerable for others? Not usually.

I could learn a lot from a coffee bean. Uuggghhh! Did I mention I hate the taste of coffee?

I leave you with a loose paraphrase from the book of James for your consideration . . .

"Count it all joy when you fall into hot water . . . "

What is your current hot water doing to you, or what are you doing to it?

Life is a Series of Fireworks

2010-07-04T22:39:00.000-05:00

Beautiful but dangerous . . . some gorgeous displays and a few duds and several loud, scary bangs . . . a variety of brilliant colors . . .

FIREWORKS!

Last night was the annual fireworks display sponsored by our local Rotary Clubs. I think somebody said this was their 25th year . . . that adds up to a lot of explosions! It was really enjoyable and pretty, and the rain ended just in time!

Life is like a series of fireworks.

Mostly, there are beautiful moments. I love how the white hot missle arcs up into the sky and the little shell explodes and a ball of silver sparks dissolves into a perfect sphere of pink flickers. How no two bursts are alike. How some of the blasts are huge and brilliant and seem to come straight toward you, while others are smaller, more delicate, designed to provide the backdrop for the big ones. When we go to see the fireworks, this is the part we expect to experience.

Then there are the duds. They make a lot of noise but never really go anywhere. They're irritating. I've seen a dud or two in my time.

If you're like a little kid, the good times come more from setting off the fireworks than from watching the results. It's exciting and a little dangerous and gets the adrenaline flowing! Woo hoo! Let's blow something up! It's a good day if you get to blow something up!

The most exciting place to be is in the middle of things. Oh, it's nice to be a spectator sometimes . . . you can say "ooh" and "ahh" and relax and enjoy. But it's the folks standing in the center of the setup that get the real thrills. They can yell "fire in the hole!" and "waaaaaaggghhhhh!" and "whoa, that was the coolest thing I've ever seen!"

It's also dangerous in the middle of things. You can get hurt there in the middle of things. Stand close to the fireworks and there's the chance of being singed by something exploding in your face, even if it's on its way to create a glorious display up above.

But didn't we choose to be close to the heat? To help set things up, to light the fuses, to be a part of the thrill? Yeah, we did. We want to be in the middle of that thrill, until it burns.

Life burns sometimes.

When that happens, we tend to roll around on the ground, crying and holding onto our wounded selves. And for a while, that's all we can do. It hurts, and pain is very demanding of our attention.

But if we do that too long and forget to look up, we'll miss the glory. When we're hurt and distracted and feeling pitiful, we forget there's more glory to come. The enemy wants us to forget about the glory to come.

In this life, there are no beautiful fireworks without fiery explosions and scary loud noises and the chance of getting wounded in the process. And life is like a series of fireworks.

My Baby Goes to Camp

2010-06-26T22:23:00.001-05:00

My baby boy is going to camp. He's been to day camp before, but this is REAL camp. Church camp. Overnight. Without his mommy and daddy. For five whole days. Without cell phones. Or his mommy and daddy. Did I say that already?

I love it. I hate it. I love it.

I think my husband kinda hates it. At the moment.

I think my kid will love it. At least in the daytime.

He hasn't been gone from home all that much. I've traveled some and been away from him. His daddy has been away sometimes. We've taken not-near-enough couple-only trips without him. He's spent the occasional night with a grandparent and rarely with a friend. He even went for a week with my parents and nephews to Kansas over spring break a couple of years ago when PJC went to play in the national championship basketball tournament. Seven whole nights. He was all tied up with basketball games and getting to hobnob with "the team," so he barely even missed us and didn't want to stay on the phone all that long when we called.

That was different. He was with grandparents. He had a cell phone and we could call him anytime. No grandparents at church camp. Just a couple of his friends and a bunch of strangers.

I'm afraid he'll be homesick. I've felt that before. It's pretty darn miserable. The last thing you want is somebody thinking you're a sissy and just need to suck it up.

I'm afraid he'll forget to hang up his wet swimsuits and towels and they'll be cold and damp and stinky the next day. I've preached about this several times today while we packed.

I'm afraid he won't take a shower all week. Or wet his cowlick down in the morning and he'll go around all day with those little horns and that hump thing.

I'm afraid of snakes. Uh . . . I mean, I'm afraid he'll be too close to snakes. That's what I mean.

I'm afraid a dozen t-shirts and three pairs of shoes isn't enough for six days in close proximity to a creek.

Church camp was some of the best days of my life. I went the first time the summer after third grade, just like my kid. I got baptized there, at Pettijohn Springs (Church of Christ). That was cool. The rest of it was really hot, because we could only wear jeans . . . no shorts . . . "mixed bathing" was taboo too. It was in Oklahoma, and I've wondered since if I should be rebaptized in Texas in case Heaven won't recognize a Texan baptized in Oklahoma.

I went to Rocking L Ranch Camp for two whole weeks the next summer. I didn't like it so much. I was with my two cousins and they ganged up on me all week. I'm positive they don't remember that now, and thankfully they're much nicer. And I got the horse that either went at a trot or a dead run, so we trotted a lot and soreness became my constant companion. Because we could only trot, we held up the line sometimes and others got irritated. Like my cousins. I've forgiven them.

Another summer it was a girls' camp on the lakeshore. About ten girls stayed in an open-air pavilion (concrete slab with corrugated roof and bunk beds) and the night breeze coming off that lake was quite perfect. One day the boys' camp from across the lake came for the day and my friend and I went tubing with a group. She made the mistake of wearing a two-piece bathing suit, the southern half of which worked its way down as she bounced across the waves. She eventually had it stretched between her ankles just trying to hang on to it. Let's just say you could see her tan lines. And the moon. But she couldn't turn loose because then she might lose the 'kini part of her bikini in the deep waters of Possum Kingdom Lake. I finally got the immature teenage male counselor to slow things down and save her.

The church camp years in high school were the best . . . CYF Camp (the Christian Church) in Athens, Texas. I still think about those friends fairly often. Back then I decided I would marry a youth minister so I could always go to church camp every summer. Somehow, I don't think it would have worked out quite like I expected.

I still think about those games and pranks and great camp traditions, like Seranade and the Hour of Silence and the Seniors Banquet where those who were graduating "willed" things to younger campers. I willed that my little brother had to carry my stuffed Snoopy dog to camp with him every summer until he graduated. He loved me for that. He did not comply. I have forgiven him.

I still think about the songs . . . "Have you seen Jesus my Lord; He's here in plain view." The kids from Plainview always liked that one. And "Pass It On" and "Lord of the Dance" . . . obviously that was after the Church of Christ days because they probably wouldn't be singing about dancing at camp. And I am sending my kid to Church of Christ camp, so I'll probably have to teach him that one later myself.

I remember a few service projects we did while there. We took a field trip to Terrell State Hospital one year. I watched a mentally ill man walk up to the chaplain and present him a gift. The chaplain held out his hand and the man laid a big fat cockroach in it. The chaplain thanked him so graciously for the gift and quietly disposed of it after the man left.

I remember some awesome object lessons. One morning at breakfast, only three people at every table of eight got served a plate of pancakes and sausage. We had to decide what to do. Some wanted to eat the plate in front of them and leave the rest to fend for themselves. Some were mad that they had paid the full price for camp and they expected to be served full meals three times a day. Some wanted to share. I hope I was part of that group . . . I can't remember for sure. Funny thing was, we ended up sharing three plates between eight people and we all got full.

I still think about those worship services. The best one was always Thursday night, with the Hour of Silence in the middle. We'd always end up crying and people would hug other people and it was a good time to apologize to anyone you'd been mean to that week. Yes, people are mean at church camp sometimes. But the Holy Spirit would show up and it was great.

That's the part I love about sending my kid to church camp. You get away from the "real world" and meet friends and have a lot of fun and give the Holy Spirit a chance to talk to you without the school and sports and schedules and cell phones getting in the way. It probably helps that the parents aren't around either. We parents have been known to quench the Holy Spirit in our kids' lives every now and then, you know.

So . . . off he goes. And here we wait. We'll send him to Baptist camp with our own church for several days next month too. It's good to be well-rounded, ya know. And maybe we grownups will get a few days away from the "real world" of parenting and the Holy Spirit will get a chance to show up and talk to us without us being so distracted.

I'll leave you with one of those church camp songs, "The Ballad of Johnny Appleseed," which we sang for grace before meals:

Oh, the Lord's been good to me,
And so I thank the Lord
For giving me the things I need,
The sun and the rain and the appleseed!
The Lord's been good to me!

A Mother's Thoughts on Father's Day

2010-06-20T18:37:00.000-05:00

God has a pretty high opinion of fathers, I think. After all, He is one . . . the best one! But I think it was pretty nice of Him to give us fathers here on Earth, and when you have a father who is a real daddy, that's a special blessing. I've had several great daddies in my life . . . my Daddy, my Grandaddy, my Stepdaddy and my Baby Daddy. (That would be my husband in case anybody is wondering. I may be in trouble for saying that, but I thought it was cute.)

My Daddy has been around since before I was born . . . that's the way it works. And he's always been around since . . . it's supposed to work that way too. He's been the best daddy a girl could have, except for those few years when I was a teenager and he obviously didn't know anything about anything. He told me that about the time I turned 21, he would suddenly get much more intelligent, and at the time he was right about that one thing. Nowadays, I think he's fairly brilliant. I'm glad he wised up.

Before I became a stepmom, I asked him how he'd been a successful stepdad. He said when he married my stepmom and her two sons, he just decided he now had four kids. He has six grandchildren, only one of which is biologically his grandchild. You'd never know the difference.

Daddy always took shortcuts that were way longer than the usual route. Funny how that never worked as an excuse for me if I came in after my curfew. Daddy wore a suit every day and on Sundays too, but made sure I knew that God was just fine with the man who wore overalls to church. Daddy was never lazy, which I didn't appreciate much on Saturdays when I wanted to sleep late. I'm glad he's being slightly lazier in his retirement years and staying in bed until 6:30 or so. Daddy always tried to learn all he could about whatever he was involved in, so he could do it really well. He spent untold hours crafting Sunday School lessons that could be published as commentary as good as that put out by any theologian. When home computers first came out, he became the local expert on WordPerfect, so much that the local computer business would refer their clients to him with questions.

Daddy didn't put a whole lot of stock in what other people thought. He always wanted to know if I'd jump off that proverbial bridge if the other kids did it. Well, yes I probably would have, but he wasn't going to let me. He hung with me when I was a brat and acts now like he doesn't ever remember me being bratty in the least. When I say I'm his daughter, nobody ever says, "Oh honey, I'm sorry." They might say it's interesting that he plants vegetables right in the front yard or that they saw him and my stepmom feeding each other a banana split in Braum's (that was when they were younger but they might still do it). But they'll always say something like, "Oh he's the nicest man!" . . . I knew that . . . or "I just love him!" So do I, more than he knows. And he loves me.

My Daddy's dad died the year before I was born so I never knew him. But I had Gran, my mother's dad. He was around before I was born too, because that's the way it works. He was an Aggie engineer and there's a cute picture of him in his boots and jodhpurs in the Corps at Texas A&M. There's also a cute picture of him as a baby in a long white gown, but he didn't like anybody to see that. He was pretty quiet, but when he spoke it was very wise, and sometimes surprisingly funny. He always wondered why his mother would name him Ernest Leslie. When we finally convinced him that getting hearing aids would benefit him and us, I would catch him turning them up and down, depending on who was talking and whether he wanted to hear it. I remember him being sick about twice in my whole life. He worked fulltime as a civil engineer until he was 78 years old, after a short attempt at retirement, which was just too boring for him.

In his free time, he was either gardening or tinkering. He built me a 6-room dollhouse when I was little. He had enough screws and nails to rival Swaim Hardware, all separated into individual fruit jars and coffee cans. He ate the same things for breakfast and lunch every day. He had raisins or peanuts at bedtime, and he could throw them up in the air and catch most of them in his mouth, except for the occasional one my grandmother would find in his pajama pocket when she did the laundry. He read his Bible every day and took care of his business. I loved him more than he knew, and he loved me.

When I was 18, I got my stepdad, Gayle, otherwise known as Pop, and got to keep him for 24 years. I never had a cross word with that man. Maybe I was past my bratty stage then, or maybe he overlooked some of it. I even worked part-time for him for several years and we didn't fuss. He was a great cook and always made a big deal out of meals when we were around. He loved to fish and we didn't mind him combining that with his cooking abilities. He always had lots of friends, and he was a good friend to them. We shared a love of books.

I cannot believe it's been 4-1/2 years since he died very suddenly. Life was forever changed that day, but I was more aware than ever of the blessing of having him in my life. God's like that, to take a nasty little situation called divorce and make good come out of it, like extra parents and siblings and nieces and nephews. Pop was a good thing, and I loved him more than he knew. And he loved me.

Almost 17 years ago, I was smart enough to marry a man who was already a great daddy. I didn't have to wonder about it or hope he'd be a good parent because he already was one. He's one of those daddies who is in love with his boys. I do wonder how whupped he'd have been by a little girl, but he knows boys, so I'm probably glad we didn't chance it.

This is the daddy who turns the master bedroom into a kung fu platform (just last night) or a wrestling arena or the set of Clash of the Titans if that's what a little boy wants to play . . . who slathers frozen waffles with butter and cooks them slow in the oven instead of popping them in the toaster like the mommy . . . who will carry aforementioned formerly-frozen, now-buttered hot waffles to his boy (who was at his own mom's house) at 10pm with extra syrup, just because . . .

. . . who will go out into the million-degree heat this evening and the next three evenings to teach Sidewalk Sunday School VBS to other men's sons about the Father who will never leave them. And it's not just something he teaches in public. He talks to our kids daily about God, even when he's talking to the oldest one long-distance. Besides "Go Cowboys!" his favorite phrases are "You better pray about that, son," and, "You just need to do what God wants." His boys love him a lot, and he loves them. I love him too, more than he knows.

He's one of those people that makes you see God's heart for His children . . . how He doesn't want us to have to hurt or suffer the consequences of our mistakes . . . how He wants to make sure we learn what we need to know . . . how He wants us to act right because that's the best for us . . . how He wants to give us every good gift.

Among God's best gifts to me have been Paul Gene Roden and E.L. Kuykendall and Gayle Foster and Randy Floyd. They present some stiff competition in the quest to be the best parent, but they also present some terrific role models for this mother to live by. And this mother is grateful for these fathers.

Love you guys so much. Happy Father's Day to you and to my Father above.

Questions and Perspective

2010-06-09T22:36:00.000-05:00

I have so many questions. I feel like I search a lot for answers and knowledge and wisdom and perspective, and I'm blessed to have resources and people in my life that enable me to find some. Often the problem with getting them is that I get distracted and find myself studying some totally different thing instead of what I was searching for. I'm reading or looking up something on the internet and . . . oooooh, look at the birdie!

Anyway, here are some random questions which run through my head at times, plus a few new ones that have just come up. Certainly it's not just me and these same concerns resonate throughout the universe as well . . . right? Okay, here goes. If you have any of these answers, please comment below.

What is Spam really?
Why does it have to be food that makes you fat? Why not ironing or scrubbing toilets?
If my kitchen floor is ever that dirty again, could my child be taken away from me?
Do I really trust God?
Why was there a dead pig in the street in front of the Watson's house this morning, and did he really drink the can of beer that was in his mouth?
Am I EVER going to get caught up?
Why do things like Tupperware lids seem to multiply like rabbits while pairs of socks divide?
Where do all those missing socks go to live anyway?
Am I good enough at what I do?
How come I can't get over loving Wintergreen Lifesavers so much?
Is there anything worth watching on TV anymore?
What are 10 practical steps so that I can really count it all joy when I fall into various trials?
Can we believe everything that's posted on Facebook?
How come everybody can't just suck it up and love each other and get along?
Where is the Ark of the Covenant hidden?
When you're dieting, why do the experts think it's as simple as substituting mustard for mayonnaise on a sandwich or salsa for sour cream on a potato? Mustard tastes nothing like mayonnaise and salsa tastes nothing like sour cream. It's stupid. (Sorry . . . that turned into more of a rant than a question.)
How come I can't just like mustard and salsa better than mayonnaise and sour cream?
Why do some people actually enjoy healthy things like exercise and housecleaning and I don't?
Will I ever get to read all the books I want to?
Why is my dog so smart on some things and so dumb on others?
Why did I ever think I wanted a dog?
How did we ever live without this cute little dog?
Will life turn out good for my kids?
How will I die, and will it hurt?
Does anybody else think Madea is as funny as I do?
What was really going on in the Bermuda Triangle and how come we never hear about it anymore?
Will there be pets in Heaven?
Does anybody actually care if they come over and my house is messy?
Is there anything that smells better than Bath & Body Works Eucalyptus Spearmint stuff? And why do they make less products with that fragrance than before?
Why didn't God leave snakes and mosquitoes off the ark?
Why was my son's life spared two days ago?
Why did someone else's young daughter have to die today?

Do the unanswered, or unanswerable, questions ever drive you crazy? Good. Me too.

Is there sometimes comfort in NOT knowing all the details? Me too. I think.

The Bible is clear that we don't know it all and aren't going to in this life. It says that God's ways are higher than our ways, so I guess He had a good reason for preserving snakes and mosquitoes in the flood. Had He consulted me though, I would have shared a different opinion. Not argued, just shared.

The Bible says that right now we see things as if in a cloudy mirror, but one day we'll see them more clearly. Kind of like when I was a kid and my Mom got contacts. We were at a football game and I asked, "Can you read the sign on the bottom of the scoreboard now?" She answered, "I didn't even know there WAS a sign on the bottom of the scoreboard before now." Sometimes it takes new lenses to change our perspective.

One day four and half years ago, my mom and I spent the day at Canton, which usually makes for a pretty good day! She dropped me off that evening and went home to find my stepdad had very unexpectedly died. In that instant, everything was different. It actually changed sometime earlier in the day, but we didn't know until evening. The day started one way and ended another, altering our perspective.

On Monday of this week, my day was motoring right along. Then I got a phone call. My grown stepson was in an ambulance on his way to the hospital . . . AGAIN . . . and it looked serious. My husband got home, packed and left. I continued to motor along through the evening, but with a little more anxiety and a lot more prayer, assisted by a couple of girlfriends and two slices of hamburger pizza.

Then I got a text from my husband. It was VERY serious . . . life-threatening. All of a sudden, things looked WAY different than they had before. They're better now, but still different. And he's still hospitalized. Life isn't any longer like it was Monday morning. We got new lenses on that day.

I started writing this post this morning. It wasn't headed in quite this direction. The day was going along one way. Then I got a text this afternoon and things were different.

There's a little girl I didn't know who got new lenses today. She went Home after a journey with leukemia, and things are much, much clearer now for her. It's still cloudy for the rest of us. Why did things have to happen this way? How is her family doing? How come it happened to them and not to us this week?

This little girl, MiKyla . . . she must have fought her cancer very hard and I'm sure her perspective was revised and refined along the way. But today she got totally new lenses. I wonder what she can see tonight that she didn't even know existed this morning? I wonder what colors are like in Heaven? Are there new ones we've never viewed? The way it smells here after it rains . . . is that what it smells like there? Will there be butter at the Marriage Supper of the Lamb and will it still be fattening? (Just had to say that to lighten things up and because I think laughter will be a primary language on the other side.) I wonder what Living Water tastes like fresh from the Source? I wonder what it's like to visit with the King of the Universe, the Lily of the Valley, the Bright and Morning Star?

I wonder what she'd tell us?

That's my final question. For now.

Get well, Rossie . . . I love you.

Sweet peace to you, MiKyla. I want to meet you when I get there. Sorry I didn't get to do it here.

TESTING . . . Need Your Help

2010-06-02T21:56:00.000-05:00

A JOKE FOR YOU: Where do cows go on dates? (answer below)

Hi! Need your help for a sec! It has come to my attention that some of you who have subscribed to receive this blog in your email are not receiving it. So I need you to do me a favor . . .

If you are a "subscriber" and got this post in your email, please either post a comment below and tell me, or if you want to be more private about it, please email me at kathy@kathyfloyd.com and let me know.

If you are a "follower" and got this in your Google Reader or other reader, please do the same.

If you saw this post and are NOT a subscriber or follower and want to be, please let me know that as well and I will see that it happens.

JOKE ANSWER: They go to the mooooo-vies!

Many thanks!
Blooper Woman

Guilty Pleasures

2010-05-31T12:51:00.000-05:00

Do you have any guilty pleasures? You know, the things you enjoy but don’t want to let on just how much or how often you enjoy them? We have many reasons for keeping our guilty pleasures a secret . . . we spend more time on them than we should, we spend more money on them than we should, or more calories or more energy. We’re afraid someone else will think our pleasures are wrong, or maybe we know they’re wrong ourselves.

I know some of the guilty pleasures you’ve told me about . . . “Sex in the City,” massages, vampire books, blonde highlights, “Desperate Housewives,” FaceBook, daytime soaps, chocolate, wine, feminism, rock concerts, watching wrestling on television.

Some of mine are Wintergreen Lifesavers, pedicures, FaceBook, real butter, buying books and reading anytime I can. Nobody is really making me feel guilty about them . . . I just question whether they’re a good use of my time or money or energy or calories.

I’ve just read a book that almost feels like a guilty pleasure, like I got something out of it that I wasn’t supposed to. I want to tell you about some of it, but not all of it. I want to disqualify parts of it lest you think I’m buying in to the whole thing. I want to share with you the parts I think are profound, but not tell you where or who they came from.

Why? Because you might think this is a book a good little evangelical Christian girl shouldn’t read. And that’s what I am, or at least I try really hard to be . . . or maybe I just try hard to make you think I am. Anyway . . .

The book is about faith, so that should make it okay for me to read, right? I read lots of books on faith.

But the author . . . she’s WAY different from me. She’s liberal . . . I’m conservative. She’s a Democrat . . . I’m (usually) a Republican. She’s a feminist . . . I’m feminine, although the two are not necessarily mutually exclusive. She’s pro-choice on abortion . . . I’m very pro-life. She has some rather salty language sometimes . . . I don’t have any that you know about. She smoked a lot of dope . . . I never did, and sometimes feel half-guilty about THAT, as if someone might think I can’t relate to “real” people who smoke dope. She sometimes calls God “she” and “mother” . . . drives me crazy.

She loves Jesus. So do I.

Oops. That makes us sisters . . . me and this liberal, Democrat feminist with dreadlocks.

I just remembered a guy one time that accused (yes, accused) me of being from a white, Protestant, Republican household. He was white and Protestant, so I didn’t think we were all that different, but I guess he gave a lot of weight to the political leanings. Anyway . . .

This author . . . she described coming to faith, not as a leap, but “rather a series of staggers from what seemed like one safe place to another,” speaking of all the different people, places and situations God had used throughout her life to show Himself to her. And the moment salvation came is different than the common “hear-a-fiery-sermon, walk-the-aisle, repeat-the-model-prayer-after-me” method that we often think is the “right” way to do it.

She just bowed her head, gave up, and told Him so. She said, “(expletive deleted), I quit. All right. You can come in.”

Uh-Uh. No. You. Didn’t. What are you thinking, Chick? You’ve been a raging alcoholic, smoked a lot of dope, had an abortion. You didn’t get saved during “Just As I Am,” although I’ll give you credit for doing it on a Sunday morning. And now you cuss during The Sinner’s Prayer? And you don’t even say The Sinner’s Prayer just like the way it’s written out in the Helps section of the Supreme Evangelical Bible Belt Edition Study Bible, King James Version Only? And you think Jesus is actually going to hear that?

Yep. He is. He really is.

And if you read the rest of her book, it will seem like He really did. She talks in the book about how shocking all this is to her. And about how her friends can’t even really believe she’s a born-again Christian . . . they just think she must be Christian-ish. But I laughed out loud when she wrote that she’s just a little bit away from slapping a Jesus fish on the back of her car, and how she could be with a bunch of Baptists and fit right in, except for the dreadlocks.

I’m thinking we Baptists should let her in and not worry a bit about the dreadlocks. I can’t say I’ve ever seen a dreadlock that I particularly liked. And I think God has a sense of humor and it would be just like Him to have Jesus greet us at the gates of Heaven wearing dreadlocks. And maybe flip-flops.

Now, the disclaimer part, lest anyone think I’ve gone soft or heretical. I believe God is all love and totally holy and expects us to live by His standards, not to conform Himself to our standards. I believe the Word came from Him and is true. There are some things in there He says we should do, and we should do them. There are some things He says we should not do, and we shouldn’t. There are lots of principles in there that we should always follow in matters where the Bible doesn’t speak directly.

But there are some rules that we just make up ourselves and want to impose on others for no really good reason, like you’re going to Hell if you have dreadlocks, or God might not be willing to save you if you drank too much or had an abortion, or you’re not a good little Christian girl if you read a book like Traveling Mercies: Some Thoughts on Faith by Anne Lamott.

There, I said it. And so my guilty pleasure is no longer a secret. And I don’t think I feel guilty about it anymore.

Please comment below: Have you read or heard something that might be controversial but that you feel really showed you some truth about God?

"I Almost Ruined Mama's Funeral" OR "Beulah Land Isn't Always Sweet"

2010-05-24T22:10:00.000-05:00

Funeral directors take the job pretty seriously. After all, somebody is hiring them to provide something that doesn't have a second chance to get done right. Most of us only get one shot at a funeral, no matter which side of the casket we're on (outside or inside)! Some things can happen several times, like redecorating and marriages and facelifts. But some occasions are good for a single take only, like frontal lobotomies and funerals. So of course, you want the funeral of your dreams, whether it's yours or a loved one's.

When I was working as a funeral director, one family I assisted requested Mama's favorite song, "Beulah Land." Back then, I went to the kind of church where, right before the sermon, they said, "Who wants to sing a special?" And this one guy sang "Beulah Land" sometimes. I love that song. We had Bro. Gary Newman play and sing it at my stepdad's funeral. The Atens sang it in our worship service yesterday. Love that song.

"I'm kind of homesick for a country to which I've never been before.

No sad goodbyes will there be spoken, for time won't matter anymore.

Beulah Land, I'm longing for you, and someday on thee I'll stand.

And there my home shall be eternal. Beulah Land, sweet Beulah Land!"

Love that song.

Anyway, back to Mama's funeral. I called my very good friend who sang at funerals for me in those days and told her the selections. Our organist was an elderly man who loved it when my friend sang because he said she was easy to play for. He would have the music photocopied and ready for her to just walk in right at funeral time and start singing. It was a well-oiled machine. "Beulah Land" was to lead off the service.

I drove the family car on funeral day. Pulled in, got my family seated, and flipped the light switch that signaled the music room to get things started. What I heard was:

Far away the noise of strife upon my ear is falling. Then I know the sins of earth beset on every hand.
Doubt and fear and things of earth in vain to me are calling. None of these shall move me from Beulah Land.
I'm living on the mountain, underneath a cloudless sky. I'm drinking at the fountain that never shall run dry.
O yes! I'm feasting on the manna from a bountiful supply, For I am dwelling in Beulah Land.

She could have been singing in Chinese and it would have sounded more familiar than what I heard. In the control room, I found myself homesick for a country to which I'd never been before, hopefully somewhere this family couldn't find me! I had immediate imaginings of getting back in the car with them and hearing, "You. Ruined. Mama's. Funeral." The noise of strife was not seeming so far away at that point, and doubt and fear to me were calling, for sure!

I considered faking a heart attack because I was close enough to one to make it believable. But I held my breath and got behind the wheel to take these nice people to the cemetery and try to survive the backside-feasting that was certainly coming.

They never once mentioned a word about us singing the wrong song. Instead they talked about what a lovely service it was and complimented my friend's gorgeous voice. Obviously, although I was quite confused, I declined to bring the snafu up myself.

I guess I finally resumed breathing at some point and got everything finished and the family delivered safely to their residence. When I got back to the funeral home, still puzzling over what had happened, I called my friend at her office to inquire about the mix-up. She said, "Kathy, I had never seen that song before in my life. The organist handed the music to me and I sight-read the whole thing."

Having talented friends can save your neck.

I then called the man from my church who sang "Beulah Land" sometimes as special music. He looked it up and let me know that the song I knew and loved is "Sweet Beulah Land" by the Gaithers. "Beulah Land" can be found in ancient hymnals.

Oh well, we should all branch out and expose ourselves to new music sometimes.

Anyway, it made me think . . . some days we seem to live in "the sweet land", and some days we just get "the land". But no matter which kind of day it is, God is in it. He's written the melodies and harmonies of that day and penned just the right words. And even if I'm thinking "oh no! wrong song!," somebody else may be thinking "oh my, that was just perfect." Because either way, the song . . . and the day . . . and the land . . . belong to the Lord.

And I think Mama loved her funeral.

I Did That, But Don't Tell Anybody! (plus a recipe)

2010-05-12T20:52:00.000-05:00

I saw in a recent magazine (Real Simple, April 2010, p. 28) a list of the most embarrassing things people have done for the sake of speed. If you were awake and alert at the time I was reading, you probably heard my sharp intake of breath and then pealing laughter, no matter how far away you were! It was another “HOW did they know?????” moment, followed by an exclamation of “Thank you, Jesus . . . I am NOT alone in the universe!”

Fine, I admit it . . . there are things on this list that I have done, or something close. I will not share what they all are, because while I’m trying to be more transparent, I’m not that crystal clear yet. More like "seeing through a glass darkly.” Or in my case, more like the bathroom mirror with some toothpaste splatters.

For your viewing pleasure, here is a portion of what these people have done:

Taken a “shower” with wet wipes.
Sent the kids to school in their pajamas (under a coat of course).
Duct-taped the hem of my work pants.
Ironed only the parts of my clothing that could be seen.
Cut off mold from old bread for sandwiches.
Painted only the toenails that would show through my peep-toe shoes.
Carried the kids to the car with a blanket so I didn’t have to put coats and mittens on all of them.
Exercised the dogs in the backyard with a laser pointer instead of walking them.
Skipped changing the sheets when my daughter “lightly” wet the bed.
Stapled my daughter’s Girl Scouts patches to her vest because I didn’t have time to sew them on before the meeting.
Knowingly dropped my son off at day care without shoes and acted shocked by his shoelessness at pickup.

Here’s what I WILL confess:

I have been known to tape hems, although maybe not with duct tape. Scotch tape works in a real bind for a little while. I’ve also safety-pinned my skirt on, but that’s a story for another time.
I have definitely ironed only the front of a t-shirt or tank top that was going under a jacket, and you never knew it.
If you cut or pinch the mold off the bread, it is no longer moldy, right? Maybe a little stale for sandwiches, but it will make fine croutons or toast. Works on hard cheese too.
Yes about the toenails, because I would never let UNpainted toenails show through anything!
And you do what you gotta do to get the Awana patches on the kid’s vest before the awards ceremony. I don’t sew, and once I melted Cubbie Bear’s face trying to iron him on. Stapling works. So does hot glue (the low-temp kind).

There. Are you shocked? Maybe not . . . maybe as relieved as I am to know that someone else has been in the same “speed” boat.

Of course, there are some of you (just a few) that have it all SO together that you ARE blown away by these confessions and wonder how you can continue to coexist on the earth with slobs like the rest of us. And there are some of you who ARE like the rest of us but will ACT shocked.

Well, let me tell you . . . your sins will find you out, and I'll enjoy it. Your skirt will blow up in the wind and we’ll all see your taped hem. Or your un-ironed designer shirttail will peek out from under your jacket in the back. Or you’ll serve bologna on wheat with a speck of mold to your kid and he’ll scream aloud and share the news with the whole lunchroom.

I’m finding it much easier to just confess I’m a mess.

I’m pretty sure God loves messy people the best.

TALK TO ME: Can you share something goofy you’ve done for the sake of speed or convenience? Please comment below.

On a side note, I do think that exercising your dogs with the laser pointer is a totally GENIUS idea! I think I'll try it for entertainment in the living room with Gabe on a slow Friday night sometime.

I was asked when I would post another recipe, so here goes: Get a beef or pork roast, whatever cut you prefer. Pour some Catalina salad dressing into a skillet or heavy pot over medium heat, and brown the roast on all sides in the dressing, just like you would brown it in oil. Season with salt and pepper. Proceed to cook it in a slow oven or crockpot just like you would any other roast, pouring the rest of the dressing over it, plus some water if needed. The Catalina gives it a terrific flavor!

Skim, Sweep or Scrub? Part 2

2010-05-11T01:19:00.001-05:00

Like I told some of you, I’ve obviously been on a cleaning kick. The problem is that I’ve talked about it a lot and haven’t actually DONE much of it. That leaves me with a lot of CHAOS (Can’t Have Anyone Over Syndrome) as the Fly Lady puts it (www.flylady.net). The same applies whether I’m talking about the Castle of Floyd or the Temple of the Holy Spirit.

No matter whether we’re discussing sanitation on a residential or internal level, there are many ways to clean. I personally have used all of these methods at various times, depending on the situation, how much time I had, or my level of motivation.

There's the "skim-the-surface" method. You take a quick look around, identify a few tasks that will neaten things up a bit and get 'em done. I'm like that about making the bed (don't pass out, Mom) . . . no matter what else is out of place in the bedroom, making the bed makes it look 75% better. And it's obvious . . . you know you actually did something. I've heard housekeeping experts say that you should take 5 minutes and a trash bag and swoop through your house taking off the top layer as you go. I've done it, and it helps.

But it's only a temporary fix.

There's the "if you don't see it, it doesn't exist" method. This involves throwing things into closest and drawers where nobody else (hopefully) will be looking. And if they're nosy enough to pull back your shower curtain or open the utility room door, they deserve what they see, right? Children practice this type of "cleaning" regularly. It’s always easier to hide it away than to put it away, right?

We're proof that childhood habits can hang on for life.

There's the "scent-sational" way. Like a sweaty boy thinks some Axe will cover up what the ladies don't want to smell, we pull out the Febreeze and Carpet Fresh and Glade and Yankee candles to conceal what has become a little rank. And we’re able to pull it off until the mist settles or the wick burns down.

Of course, this does nothing to address the yuck that's producing the odor.

There's "sweeping up." This actually does something to remove the grime, better than hiding it or covering it up. It takes more effort, and we actually have to haul away what we piled up with the broom. Sweeping can involve anything from a little whisk to the industrial-size shop broom. The instrument and the effort needed will depend on how thick the dirt has been allowed to accumulate.

Of course, even a good sweeping leaves some dirt buried in the cracks and crevices.

One option is the "leaf-blower" approach . . . just move your dirt or trash to somebody else's property and let them take care of it. Of course, this involves denying that it ever was your dirt in the first place and acting offended that anybody would think you, of all people, would have let things get so untidy.

You can fool some of the people some of the time . . .

There’s scrubbing. We might need to rub gently with a soft cloth, or we might need to get down to the grit with a wire brush. It depends on how deep the cracks are that life has worn in the surface.

Scrubbing can be painful, but sometimes it’s the only way.

And then there’s soaking . . . maybe the gentlest method depending on what substance is needed to soak out the grime. If it’s just water or a mild soap, it might feel pretty good to soak. I’m partial to hot water with some Bath & Body Works bubbles myself. If it’s bleach that’s needed, or something tougher . . . well, that’s a little more uncomfortable.

But we have to do whatever is necessary to erase the stains.

Whoever thought that blood could be like bleach? In human terms, it causes stains, but in God’s world, it washes them white as snow. I can work myself to death skimming the surface or hiding my sins or scenting or sweeping or scrubbing, but what I need most is to soak myself in the One who worked Himself to death to make me all clean! The first verses of Psalm 139 let us know that God is acquainted with all our ways . . . He knows all our dirt! Not once did he say that the mess was too big to tackle.

Oh, the blood of Jesus . . . it washes white as snow!

There is power, wonder-working power, in the precious blood of the Lamb!

The blood that gives me strength from day to day . . . it will never lose its power!

What can wash away my sins? Nothing but . . .

Skim, Sweep or Scrub? Part 1

2010-05-05T16:50:00.000-05:00

YIPPEE! I'm obviously not the ONLY desperate housewife in town who cleans before the cleaning lady comes! Thanks for your comments which include me in your sisterhood! You've eased my mind that I'm not just weird, in addition to making me think a little more about the spiritual connections to how we skim or sweep or scrub to clean ourselves up . . . or not!

I'm not a very good housekeeper and never have been. My friend Michelle and I used to say that we should have been roommates at some point because she was a cleaner and I was a cook. (When she got married, I wrote down basic recipes for her, like how to fry potatoes. Now I'm not much of a cleaner OR a cook and she's probably great at both.)

I LOVE LOVE LOVE a clean house. It's IMPOSSIBLE to maintain, so I've given up the dream, but I don't love it any less. I love it SO MUCH when someone else helps make it happen. It's always better than if I do it all by myself. If I walk through the back door and smell lavender Fabuloso that somebody else mopped with, I experience a little peaceful moment of satisfaction right there. If I come home and my husband has cleaned the kitchen (which he does better than me anyway), that induces more romantic feelings than a dozen roses ever could (although the cards he sends with the roses can't be beat).

But even when the house manages to get somewhat clean, the clutter and dirt manage to re-invade everything anyway! Like that kudzu weed in Louisiana! I feel like I'm engaged in an ongoing combat with it ALL the time! With two other people in the house, plus the devil dog, it doesn't matter if I pick up / sweep up / wipe up daily, weekly or less often . . . something is always out of place or sticky or dusty! And the menfolk who reside here do a decent job with their stuff, so I can't be blaming it all on them! Some, but not all! I know what I can blame on the dog . . . he can find a sock or a paper towel in the most remote location and drag it out into the open for a good time. (My husband had to get out of bed last night because we heard Gabe trying to open the bathroom trash can . . . he was bored and wanted to play when we wanted to go to bed, so he was creative about finding ways to entertain himself!)

There's a website I've seen before and need to revisit . . . www.flylady.net. I have a friend that swears the Fly Lady has saved her sanity with her decluttering instructions and the "27 Fling Boogie! On her home page, the Fly Lady asks the question, "Do you suffer from CHAOS (Can't Have Anyone Over Syndrome)?"

HOW DID SHE KNOW????????????????

I don't know her. Haven't met the woman. She's never been here, or if she was, somebody else let her in. Since I hardly have anyone over because of the CHAOS, I don't think anybody reported me. Or did they?

See? There's that paranoia again . . . but I seriously need you to think I have it all together better than I really do! If I tell you how bad it is, you'll say, "Oh, I know it's not THAT bad." Of course, you're not actually seeing things the way they really are.

You know, I had a cleaning lady once who talked about how messy her other clients were. So I just knew she talked about me too. (Okay, aren't you just DYING to know whether that was YOUR cleaning lady and whether I now know about the toothpaste in your sink or the black grout in your bathtub?)

I guess God might be a little like the Fly Lady . . . He just knows things like this, about our messes and stuff, because He knows US! He's acquainted with ALL our ways. And as dirty and smelly as we can be sometimes, He continues to want to help! And He won't force Himself on us . . . He offers us solutions that work and says, "Trust Me, your life will go better if you'll live it My way." We sometimes get desperate enough to do it His way for a while, but eventually we will usually take things back into our own hands and the clutter and dust WILL creep back in. The only solution is to let Him clean deep and keep letting Him back in to clean.

Well. Just talking about the mess isn't really getting anything done about it, is it? So I'm off now to fold the 37 loads of laundry that are on my couch. We'll talk more later about how we tend to try to sanitize, deodorize and conceal-ize our way. Until then, things remain messy here and I can't have you over unless you warn me way in advance. WAY.

O Lord, you have examined my heart
and know everything about me. Psalm 139:1

Cleaning Up for the Cleaning Lady

2010-04-29T18:17:00.000-05:00

My last post brought a little discussion from a few of you . . . what about those of us who feel we need to clean up for the cleaning lady? Okay, I admit it! I cannot walk out of my house and just leave it as is for the cleaning lady to deal with!

I DO have some pride, you know! I cannot bear to have someone else think that I am just a TOTAL slob! It's hard enough to have them think I'm in the NORMAL range of slob-hood, whatever normal is.

So while it might be okay to have dishes stacked in the sink, it wouldn't do to have them still on somebody's bedside table. Or heaven forbid, in the living room. And while there might be used towels in the bathroom, they need to be hung up and not on the floor. And while the floors might need some serious sweeping or vacuuming, I would never leave all the remnants of the styrofoam cup that the dog played with and chewed to bits the night before. (Do you know how many bits there are compacted into a styrofoam cup? That's like asking how many grains of sand are under the ocean.)

This drives the men in my life CRAZY. The night before the cleaning lady is expected, I'm saying, "Please get your stuff picked up so the cleaning lady can clean." Their reply is, "If we do it all, why do we need her to clean? Let her clean. You hired her to clean!"

Yes, but not entirely. I hired her to clean the kitchen, clean the bathroom, dust furniture and do the floors with occasional side trips into the oven or around the baseboards. We do the laundry, change the beds and try to keep it all together in between the bi-weekly visits. And since I feel guilty for having her come at all, I try to make it look like I actually did something with the floors or the bathroom or the kitchen since she came last.

Isn't this how we often deal with God? We think we need to clean up before we let Him come in and clean deep. We have our pride, don't we? We can't let God know how yucky things have gotten since the last time we let Him in. So we tidy up and make it look like things are neater than they really are, and then we open the door and give Him space to work a little bit.

But we don't offer Him access to the whole house . . . we plan to continue taking care of some of it ourselves. We don't need him to get down deep and clean everything, right? Because then He would know that there's dirt way down in some cracks that we have covered up with stacks of other stuff.

Well, here's the deal . . . He already knows. And I suspect . . . so does the cleaning lady.

HELP! My House is a Wreck!

2010-04-21T22:11:00.004-05:00

It was beyond disappointing to get home from baseball tonight and get the message that the cleaning lady wasn't feeling well and wouldn't be here tomorrow. In a word, darn. This means no, you can't come over. If you do, I'll talk to you through the front screen.

Let me pause here for a little disclaimer.  You might be right now having thoughts like "I can-NOT be-LIEVE she has a CLEANing lady!" or "Well. I thought she was more like us COMMON people but I guess I was incorect." or "If she REALLY loved Jesus she'd send that cleaning-lady-money to Haiti."

I'M hoping you're thinking "Oh goodie! She IS like me, because I can't get MY house clean EITHER!!!"

I told you people I was real desperate on housewifey things.  Folks who think that women who work out of the home aren't housewives have got to understand that we get the the special blessing (??) of doing both jobs, often doing neither one very well. So if it will prevent an argument, I'll let you call yourselves REAL housewives, but I get to be a REAL DESPERATE one. And when a girl is desperate, it just stands to reason that she needs help. Enter the cleaning lady.

I think cleaning ladies are often like anti-depressants. People really need them sometimes but they feel weak and guilty about it and don't want anybody to know. They think they should be able to handle the problem themselves and they struggle bravely, painfully onward. So I never had a cleaning lady of any sort (well, maybe one time for an afternoon), until I had a serious disabling illness a few years ago.

My grandmother said "I could have sent you flowers, but I thought you might like it if I sent my cleaning lady." And she did, for an afternoon every other week for over a year. When my grandmother died, there was still money set aside for a couple more months of my cleaning lady. Nice, nice grandmother.

If I look for the blessings that came from my illness, one of them was having a decent excuse to have a cleaning lady and not feel so guilty about it. I used to joke that I hoped to recover to the point that I was good enough to do almost everything I wanted to, but not quite recovered enough to scrub the bathtub or mop!

When I thought I could do without her, I couldn't. So after a time of struggling bravely, painfully onward AGAIN, but this time with some physical challenges, I found another one and struck a reasonable deal for a few hours every other week to dust furniture, vacuum and mop, clean the bathroom and kitchen, and make occasional forays into the oven or around the baseboards. I then informed my family that we might do without meat or Twinkies, but we would not be doing without this luxurious necessity (or necessary luxury) ever again.

Well, I guess I'll be doing without her tomorrow. A lot of ick can build up in two weeks, you know? Wonder when she'll feel better. Wonder if she really feels all THAT bad. Wonder if she's sick at all or if this is just a vast conspiracy to punish me for indulging in the luxury of a cleaning lady!!!!!! Sorry, I drifted into paranoia there . . . I don't really think that. I do, however, wonder whether the ring in the bathtub could grow big enough to consume a boy-child. That's not paranoid . . . that's serious.

Part of the problem is that I could have been keeping up a little better so that the cleaning lady's absence wouldn't make so much of an impact. Like not letting the dishes pile up in the sink because I know she'll wash the ones that are there. Or letting those towels lay on the bathroom floor. Or not sweeping even though it really did need it three days ago.

Anyway, it just made me think about the opportunities I have to clean up my spiritual house that maybe I miss. You know, like how I skipped church Sunday night. Or the days where I don't get the full meal deal of a quiet time and just make do with a scripture snack-pack. It sure allows things to get dusty.

Or maybe there are times when I just don't WANT to clean up my mess! So there! Besides, it was all YOUR fault that there's a mess to begin with, so YOU clean it up!

Ooooh. That slime just oozed out of nowhere, didn't it?!?!?! Sounds like a cleanup is needed quickly. And this brings up another point . . . even when somebody else causes our messes, if the messes are bugging us, they belong to us. We own them. We are charged with seeing that they are taken care of. We could wait on someone else to clean up, but they might not step up.

And besides, if they did, they probably wouldn't do it to suit us anyway!

Share a comment below . . . do you have a cleaning lady? Do you feel guilty about it or like it's a necessity for you?

1 Peter 2:1-3 (MSG)   So clean house! Make a clean sweep of malice and pretense, envy and hurtful talk. You've had a taste of God. Now, like infants at the breast, drink deep of God's pure kindness. Then you'll grow up mature and whole in God.

It Never Goes Well When the Train Engineer Gets Dis-TRACK-ted

2010-04-14T19:40:00.001-05:00

First of all, a recipe . . . although I don't think you'll like it as well as the banana bread:

KATHY'S MUSHROOM STEAK
Pour a small amount of oil in a deep skillet and heat over medium heat. Dredge beef cube steaks in flour and brown in the skillet, sprinkling with salt and pepper. Get out two cans of cream of mushroom soup and slice fresh mushrooms in preparation for when your steak is brown. When beginning to brown on one side, turn over. Turn the heat up to medium high since the steaks aren't browning as fast as you would like. Decide you'll multi-task a little and leave the room to look up some things on your computer. Forget that you could have brought the computer into the kitchen and kept an eye on the steaks. Remember the steaks later, way later, when you begin to smell them several rooms away. Allow these pieces of shoe leather to cool before throwing them away and seeing what TV dinners you have in the freezer. Think about how good the mushroom steak would have been.

I heard a great sermon this past week on "Distractions." You'd think I didn't listen very well since I've been dis-TRACK-ted again so soon, but I did . . . really! Bro. Ken Freeman talked about how Martha was "cumbered about by too much serving," or distracted by all the things she had to do. She got really busy doing things other people needed her to do . . . fussing over the stain on the nice white linen tablecloth, getting Lazarus's whiskers out of the bathroom sink before company came, refreshing her silk centerpieces and lighting her Yankee candles. Oh, wait . . . did they really need her to do those things? Or did SHE create a lot of her own have-to-do list?

Yeah . . . that sucks a lot of the excuses we use right out of the situation, doesn't it? "Well, I've got to . . ." and "I need to . . . " and "I have to . . . " and "So-and-so is expecting me to . . ." roll right off our tongues when we're trying to defend all our busy-ness. But burnt steaks don't lie! What I needed to do was watch the steaks! After they had been sauced and turned down to a simmer, there would have been time to send that email or look up that website or work on that talk or get the whiskers out of the sink

Have you ever felt like you're trying to do so many things at once that you're not doing any of them well?

Maybe instead of frying chicken and mashing potatoes and making gravy and deviled eggs (get it? deviled eggs? haha!), Martha could have tossed a roast and veggies in the crockpot a few hours early so she'd have time to sit at the feet of Jesus with her sister. And brown and serve rolls would have probably been fine too, instead of homemade. Maybe one of those frozen peach cobblers and some Blue Bell Homemade Vanilla for dessert instead of the chocolate meringue pie. I bet Jesus would have loved him some chocolate meringue pie, but he was more about the company than the food, and it would be hard to complain if you've got ice cream and people you love around you. (Some Pharisee might have griped about it, but they probably didn't invite any Pharisees to dinner that night anyway.)

Besides, I bet while Martha was in the living room snitching to Jesus about Mary not helping out, the chicken got burnt and the gravy got lumpy and the meringue separated.

I probably should cut Martha some slack . . . I'm always glad when someone else wants to fix supper and clean up.

I guess I'd better wrap this up since I hear my child in the kitchen fixing his own TV dinner. Not that there's anything wrong with that, but it's making me feel a little guilty tonight for some reason!

Oh, and PS . . . we would have had brown and serve rolls with the mushroom steak, not homemade. Didn't want to leave you with a false impression there.

And the Verdict Is . . . GUILTY MOMMY!

2010-04-07T09:42:00.001-05:00

MOMMY GUILT! AAARRGGHH! I was reading an article that said I shouldn't have it and that all the other mommies who look like they've got it all together don't really. It was a good article . . . the same stuff I'd tell a mommy in my counseling office.

But I'm different, right? That doesn't all apply to me. I really DO have mommy guilt that surpasses all ability to overcome it, and the other mommies I know really DO have it all together. I mean . . . I could visit their homes and not have any thoughts of contacting Nanny 911 or the laundry police. Their cars can hold the number of people they were intended to hold, not two less because of the jackets and books and paper sacks covering two-thirds of the back seat. And I'm absolutely certain they all have their morning quiet time every single day before anyone is up, where they of course devote a half-hour to praying for their child's future spouse, whoever and wherever he/she might be.

I can't keep up.

Okay, just to help me make it, if there by some slim chance might be another one of you out there like me, I need to know I'm not alone! Can you relate to any of the following?

1. I never finished my child's baby book. (And now I can't remember all those first word, first tooth, biggest poopy details.)

2. When he wants something from the kitchen, I often tell him he can get it himself. (My servant's heart is showing, isn't it? But I would never want him to be all grown up and not be able to open a bag of chips . . . oh . . . um . . . I meant be able to peel a delicious vitamin-rich banana.)

3. His babysitter did the potty training. (Actually, that worked out really well for me. I love her.)

4. Brownies have been known to constitute breakfast. (What's the difference between that and a muffin, I ask?)

5. I never think to have a camera with me and depend on other have-it-all-together mommies to email me pictures of my child. (This has really worked out pretty well for me too. And some of you are GREAT photographers!)

6. I am the only horrible mean mommy in the whole wide universe who hasn't let my kid have internet access for himself. (What if he flunks elementary school?????)

7. Easy Mac and ramen noodles are pantry staples. (I already know about the sodium, people!)

8. I'm praying for rain today so we can go to church tonight instead of play baseball. We're having revival services that are too good to be missing and the baseball game can be made up. (This of course sounds
like what I want to do is more important and therefore induces the most guilt.)

9. Sometimes I just don't want anybody to come over and play. (They might go back and tell their have-it-all-together mommies how I keep house. Or how I DON'T keep house.

10. We haven't taken our kids to Disney World. We haven't even taken this one to Six Flags. (What if he misses out on having every possible fun experience in life?)

Now . . . since I'm one to ATTEMPT to focus on the positives, I will also tell you that I am accompanying my son's third grade class on a field trip to the zoo next month, and he does have teeth even if I didn't note the date and time each one popped through his little gums, and I took him out for a special breakfast this morning . . . it was a donut, but that's more breakfast-y and acceptable than a Little Debbie . . . and it made him happy. If he never gets the internet, he won't ever be playing dark and sinister online games with some 57-year-old perverted man who casts himself as a 10-year-old really cute girl. And if he never goes to the amusement park, he'll never be thrown from a rollercoaster, right? He's well potty-trained and he can pour himself a Coke if he wants one. Oh . . . um . . . I meant a nutritious glass of lowfat milk.

PS - I just want to brag on my son . . . he is also able to fix his own Easy Mac.

Ramblings

2010-03-31T18:57:00.000-05:00

I have about seventy-five things to write about and I'm quite sure you don't have time for all that. So I think I'm going to pick about ten random topics and ramble a bit. Bear with me . . .

1. Something I learned today . . . Peeps are the #1 bestselling non-chocolate Easter candy. I tell you this because you never know when a fact like that might come in handy. Years ago, "Who Wants to Be a Millionaire" was on the TV and the half-million dollar question was "How many Curly's were there on The Three Stooges?" I hollered into the next room and inquired of my resident Stooges expert. He got it right (I don't remember the correct answer) and gloated to me, "And see, you thought that was useless information!" I think I probably pointed out that it was indeed useless since he wasn't on the show and we didn't win the half-million dollars.

2. I LOVE LOVE LUVE to read. My favorite genre is Christian fiction and there's nobody better at it than Liz Curtis Higgs, whose new novel, Here Burns My Candle, was released last week. I wasn't at the bookstore at 12:01 a.m. on the release date or anything like that, but I showed up before the 24-hour mark and stayed up a few late nichts until I finished it. This is the first of two books about Elisabeth and Marjory Kerr in a parallel of the Biblical tale of Ruth and Naomi, only set in 18th-century Scotland. You'll get quite a blissin if you read it, but then you'll be pernickitie about having to wait until April 2011 for the next one. Do it anyway . . . it is better than verra guid! You'll be thankrif you did!

3. Got several things done today on my to-do list. But it's sorta like a 10-ton elephant losing five pounds . . . you don't really notice the progress much. However, my oil is changed and my floorboards are vacuumed and my hair is trimmed and so is my kid's, so I'll symbolically pat myself on the back.

4. I really do not like baseball all that much as sports go . . . kinda slow. But my kid plays tonight and that changes everything. Go Phillies!

5. Flip flops are not suitable footwear at the baseball field after the sun goes down in March.

6. If you don't prepare your own income tax, you ought to just once so you could catch the vision for how ridiculously complex all that mess is. I can add, subtract, multiply, divide and follow basic instructions in most cases. But by the time you take the figure from Line 38 and subtract it from the lesser of the figure from Line 27 or Line 463, and then divide it by two and multiply that result by 17 and see if it is more than the figure on Line 6 . . . did I lose you yet? Well, good, 'cause I lost myself. So I'll move on.

7. There's a blog I found called "Stuff Christians Life" (http://www.stuffchristianslike.net/) and I'm going to order the book by the same title. It is TOO funny if your childhood backside was imprinted by the pattern on the pew upholstery at least three times a week like mine was. The latest post is about "Ten Plagues Finger Puppets." SERIOUSLY. There's a green Frog and a cute little Locust and a Lice (Louse?). The Hail puppet is smiling.

8. I'm glad several of you liked the banana bread recipe.

9. I needed razors and I made my selection based on the color. They were pretty. Three in a package . . . apple green, watermelon and lemon yellow. Maybe that will make me like shaving my legs better or something. I'll let you know.

10. I was looking at Mark 11:8-10 (MSG) . . . "The people gave Him a wonderful welcome, some throwing their coats on the street, others spreading out rushes they had cut in the fields. Running ahead and following after, they were calling out, 'Hosanna! Blessed is He who comes in God's name! Blessed the coming kingdom of our father David! Hosanna in highest heaven!'" This is Holy Week. Are we doing what these people did . . . giving Him a wonderful welcome? I couldn't help but be proud of my kid last year when he said, "Mom, I need to talk to (unnamed friend) . . . he thinks Easter is about the bunny!" Don't, like I am prone to do, let baseball and busy-ness and bunnies keep you from spending some time thinking about what we have been given. Christ died FOR US. Blessed is He who comes, and is coming again!

God is a Fuzzy Pink Bathrobe

2010-03-24T09:10:00.005-05:00

Once my daddy said that he thought a great way to pray was for your first conscious thought in the morning to be “Dear Lord” and your last conscious thought at night to be “Amen.” I really like that approach. In any good relationship you have, there need to be sessions of deep and intimate conversation. But don’t you also enjoy times of companionship that might not involve words? You are just in each other’s presence and there’s a flow of communication going on whether you’re talking or not.

When that’s going on with God and me, I’ve heard it called “practicing His presence.” I describe it as a constant “awareness” of Him. Every single conscious thought might not be focused directly on God . . . I might be paying bills or trying to comprehend what I’m reading or putting on my mascara (which takes concentration, thank you!). But I think my unconscious self is always tuned in to Him. I can’t say this was always so. There used to be much longer periods of time where I didn’t think about God at all really. It doesn’t mean He wasn’t there, but I certainly wasn’t “tuned in.” I reconnected with Him whenever I needed something . . . and on Christmas and Easter, of course.

I tried to think of a good way to explain to you what I mean, and what came to mind was my fuzzy pink bathrobe. A couple of years ago, my mother gave me a fuzzy pink bathrobe for Christmas. It is the softest thing, like being wrapped up in layers of puffy clouds. When I wear it, I like to have sleeveless pajamas on underneath so I can feel it against my bare arms. It goes beyond keeping me warm. It covers me in comfort. It is a treat to put it on. I can’t think of anything else I wear that feels quite this way. I love my fuzzy pink bathrobe!!!

While I’m wearing my fuzzy pink bathrobe, I might be cooking a meal or folding laundry or writing this blog post . . . (Hold up a minute. I want to go put my robe on now while I write.)

(Okay, I’m back.) . . . or putting on my mascara. Maybe I’m not consciously tuned every second to the sensation of my fuzzy pink bathrobe on my skin. Is it still there? Yes. And when I move around in the course of my activities, it brushes up against me and reminds me of its presence. And I tune back in for an instant to how good it feels. Over and over again, this happens.

Kind of like God. And I love that about God . . . that in the course of my mundane activities, He brushes up against me. I get the opportunity to tune back in to an awareness that the King of the universe goes with me wherever I go. He clothes me in Himself and covers me in comfort. I can’t think of anything else . . . Anyone else . . . that feels quite this way.

Psalm 16:11 (NLT) -You will show me the way of life, granting me the joy of your presence and the pleasures of living with you forever.