Living with Laugh Lines

Raising Eyebrows

noreply@blogger.com (Sara Dillow) — Sun, 27 Dec 2015 15:49:00 +0000

      I'll admit, I am NOT a high maintenance kinda gal. Why, I think I'm the one who invented the "messy bun" way back in 1992 and I still go barefoot in November. Admittedly, I do have a lip gloss fetish and simply cannot pass by Chapstick at the checkout counter. I think the pumpkin pie flavor far surpasses the cake batter. Just sayin'. I wear the stuff nearly 24/7 --even when high wind advisories and gnats at the ball field are strong deterrents. But lately, I've been raising a couple of eyebrows in the world of beauty.
             For some, creating topiaries of the brow comes easy. For me, it's quite a daunting task and I've literally been raising mine on my own for years now. I groom them, watch over them, and read books about how they should grow--almost like I'm rearing twins. It is absolutely one of the hardest jobs I've ever had. So far, one is larger, more poised, and easily tamed. The other is puny and thin, and almost never puts forth any effort. I've tried privately correcting them on several occasions but thanks to one of their faint birthmarks, I looked like I had gotten one of those new, trendy semi colon tattoos. (Gosh! Do you think I'm the one who actually started that trend?!) And when they are successfully corrected, all of my sweat and tears (or dashes through the rain) inevitably wear them down to nothing. One can draw the line, but it's not always perfect. After great contemplation, I felt the need to go public about my hairy struggle because I'm sure I do raise a few brows when they see me branded with a semi colon over one eye and a hyphen over the other, but tell me--is there a secret to raising the well balanced ? I know, I know. I know what you are thinking. Are your eyebrows raised at the fact that this is not my usual post about my daily mishaps with a religious spin? Well, trust me--here it comes.

     Yesterday, I was standing there with the tweezers in my hand looking into the mirror, grimacing over the sting I was about to endure. Pluck! The nose began to twitch, and then tears began to well up. And in that painful moment, it was then that I thought of how lately my brows are constantly raised at my tween daughter and her burgeoning independence and interesting room décor and how many times my mother raised her brows at me when I once stuffed myself into a rabbit hutch and could get back out. (She raised her brows quite a bit, but I'll leave all of those other reasons for a "Why My Mother is an Angel on Earth" post.) As I waited for the blur to leave my eyes, I began to think about ways others may raise their brows at my words or actions. I try to live with my filter tightly in place, but does it always do the job I think it does?  How many times has God raised his divine eyebrows over things I've said and done  as He's watched "The Dillow Channel" on TEN (The Eternal News)? I'm sure that's when He has taken things into his own hands and decided to prune all the wild hairs from my life --even if it stings and makes me cry. It's a necessary procedure meant to shape and refine the most out of control areas of life and it no doubt makes us more beautiful and balanced when He's finished.

      But, it still hurts. A lot. Stress at work? Pluck. High blood pressure? Doink, Doink. Tween daughter? Riiiiiip! Ailing family members? P-L-U-C-K. Oh, I could go on, but it's really not necessary. It's no more that what the rest of you encounter on a daily basis and in many cases, it's just trivial in comparison.

Just remember...in the painful moments, we find humility. We find that in order to grow again, we must not become overgrown or afraid to be groomed for something beautiful.

And that's nothing to sneeze at, except in the moment I can't seem to help myself.

Jesus is More Than a Coffee Cup

noreply@blogger.com (Sara Dillow) — Mon, 09 Nov 2015 00:04:00 +0000

              Jesus is more than a coffee cup.

       I REALLY love coffee. So much so that I could wash my hair in it, but I could care less what my cup looks like because He's taught me that it's what's on the inside that matters. We are His vessels and He will fill our cups to the point of overflowing. He's the perfect blend of motivation, passion, and energy. He's the original House blend made from pure Living Water that eventually wakes us all up.

        He's an addiction that we MUST have more of once we get a taste of how he makes us feel. He gets us through the long day and He's best enjoyed when we spend time alone with Him first thing in the morning.

       He's more than a logo---He's a universal symbol. He's more than a few omitted words. He is the ONLY word. If He personally knows OUR names and will one day say them all aloud, why then should we be concerned with what others may call us or scribble on a cappuccino?

       He's more than a business motive or a fleeting seasonal interest. He is forever KING and Lord of Lords--every day, every season of life, and He's no gimmick. We share Him with others. We have warm conversations over Him. Most importantly, He lives in our hearts, not in what we hold in our hands during a holiday shopping trip. The best way to give Him the attention He deserves is to encourage others to try Him and to serve Him for others.

Yes, sometimes He's even a little over the top.

Jesus is more than a coffee cup.

      And while people continue to let off steam over things that won't help the needy, or heal the wounded, or humbly bring Him glory; the Devil sits back and enjoys the brew it causes...

A latte.

           Jesus is more than a coffee cup.

  If you think He needs more recognition, speak for Him when no one will. Walk humbly with Him each day. Live as though you are a vessel filled with His outpouring love and grace. Remember what He's done for you and thank Him. Seek Him in the smallest of places, faces, and moments. Learn more about Him. Teach your children of His love, and ask Him to help you remember to use a filter. Always.

Walking on Air

noreply@blogger.com (Sara Dillow) — Wed, 22 Jul 2015 14:35:00 +0000

Have you had the feeling that you just couldn't stand on our own two feet? Or that you just may suffocate under the weight of the pressure you put on your own self? Yeah. Me too. In fact, it was just last night. See this? I'll give you 3 guesses--do you know what it is? Raincoat? The Blob? World's largest raisin? Nope. Keep reading.

During the summer we parents will do just about anything to entertain our children and sometimes, we end up traumatizing ourselves in the process. Why, just this past Monday I decided that my children needed less screen time so as we detoxed from the X Box and weaned from the screens, I learned many, many things and thought I'd pass them along to you.

PARENTING TIPS

#4389-- Allowing your persistent tween daughter to make tuna salad is a great way to gain independence. When she gags and complains, you again have the entire kitchen to yourself.

#4390--Do NOT feel compelled to label and date all of your child's special moments. In the case of the Tooth Fairy, your child may accidentally stumble across the artifacts and you will end up paying more out of pocket as you attempt to explain how 2 years ago you must have forgotten to put it under his pillow. Then your child will write a note to her explaining that when she brings the money, to also include memory meds for you.

#4391-- Encouraging your child to explore, to be alone, and to be creative will lead to alternate uses for the sponge hair roller. By putting them in his ears, he will pretend to be a riding toy at the park and he'll never, ever have a fuzzy navel.

#4392--Sending your child to Bible School may result in a continuous summer melody of "Jesus May Come in the Morning" on the kazoo, in which case you will pray for Jesus to come sooner than that.
And there you have it, folks. They are called tips for a reason-- many words will perch on the tip of your tongue and when you find that your patience is nearly depleted, you most likely didn't use it all up. Somebody probably tipped it over. With a projectile sponge roller poison dart.

   So once again last night, I was on a different type of roll when my kids asked if they could sleep on the air mattress for fun. It's huge and once inflated, it takes up over half our living room, but I approved with visions of them tucked in with sweet, sleeping faces as I sat looking down upon them lamenting about how they've grown. But when my son asked if I could join them---I would be walking on air. Literally.

       I'm not a little woman, so I approached that thing with extreme caution because what looked like a harmless pillow could very easily become a landmine with just one step. Oh, yes they did giggle, and snicker, and try to remain polite as I got down on all fours balancing like an olive on top of a Triscuit; but I finally fell into a flat position and imagined myself adrift on the sea--headed to meet the man of my dreams, Jesus. Yes, Jesus. I knew that if I rolled over in the night, there may be an explosion and I'd be taking an evening ride to eternity or there was a chance I could slowly suffocate myself (just picture a hot dog in the tight grip of a bun). But somehow, both eyes closed and I lived long enough to know that my bladder had an urgent matter at 2 a.m.

      Can you imagine the fear I felt there in the dark surrounded by my two children on a billowy puff of vinyl marshmallow? It took all of my strength to soldier crawl to the edge and with every painful inch (remember my bladder ), my children popped into the air as though they were dice and we were playing the life size version of Trouble. Even if there was a rattlesnake at my feet I couldn't have moved any faster. Trying hard not to wake them, I edged backwards and tried to stand. Like a giraffe on a surfboard, my legs buckled and swayed and I realized that if I fell overboard, by children would meet the man of my dreams, not me. Well, I got off that soggy Triscuit but I had to channel my inner Peter first, pretending to walk on water so I could find myself in the grip of grace. I didn't look down and with the aid of my bursting bladder; my sea legs were finally on stable ground.

      You are probably wondering if I returned to my death bed for the rest of the morning, but I didn't. I ended up back in my own bedroom thanking the good Lord that he allowed me and my family to stay afloat one more day and left with the notion that walking on air is a very overrated emotion. For some of us, it's purely a balance of faith and some pretty sturdy vinyl.

     I wonder what my kids and I will get into today? I don't want them to have a deflated sense of imagination, so we may get out that mattress once more and use it to power launch a few more sponge rollers. At least that way, I can air out some of my aggression.

Gosh! Red Tape is So Hard to Remove!

noreply@blogger.com (Sara Dillow) — Wed, 15 Jul 2015 15:16:00 +0000

A-hem. Excuse me while I get up on my soapbox, I mean "hopebox." (This may take a few attempts. Have a bad right knee from an Elvis impersonation gone awry in the mid 80's Anyhow, that's a tale for another day.)

Maybe if I wear these, I'll look like I know what I'm talking about!

      Somehow I feel like Rip Van Winkle roused from a summer's dream and find myself covered in back to school sales flyers. Mid July already? Can't be! Now usually I become quite excited about making my shopping lists and dreaming about my perfect classroom set up, but sadly I'll admit that over the past few years, my love for sharpies on sale and mega packs of Play Doh is beginning to dwindle. You see, that's because my teacher creativity is being slowly snuffed out. I also usually don't write publicly about a strong stance on anything except the Bible and the effects of caffeine, but today I'm feeling a bit riled up and need to blow off some steam before I feel compelled to slowly break my new shiny, black Ticonderogas one by one---which would be pure educational blasphemy!

     I am pretty certain that the way I'm feeling is not due to teacher burn-out. I have heard that's when the thought of children makes you twitchy all over, you are no longer phased by misbehaviors, you never laminate things, and you develop an allergic reaction to wearing your ID badge and a smile. Nah--I think this may be the onset of teacher burn-up. Have you ever heard of this before? Well, let me tell you something, I fear it's becoming a nationwide epidemic and the symptoms are pretty noticeable:

* A strong passion and advocacy for children, fueled by an even stronger frustration that those who know little about them are in control which leaves you burning mad and with the delusions of them as your substitute for a day. I happen to imagine sitting there with a long observation checklist and watching them pace about, wiping their brows, holding their bladders, and cleaning up five cereal spills using only those cheap, brown paper towels. (Muah, ha ha, ha....)

*You know what is right in your heart, but you allow guilt, policy, and intimidation to make you feel that you are crazy or inadequate.

*You feel anxious about returning to school. Not the giddy kind either. The sad kind--sad because you know your power, trust, and creative edge will be slowly crushed beneath
policy , hidden agendas, and an overwhelming, top-down sense of urgency.

     Most teachers I know absolutely LOVE their jobs. I'm partial to kindergarten myself, where every day is a new way to figure out a different way to get them to do things the efficient way. Besides, who can resist little faces with missing teeth, freckles, and so much promise and joy for learning? They need me to advocate for their right to play, learn, grow, and to protect them from the barrage of political arrows. The truth is, teachers need advocacy and protection too--from constant blame and shame. We try to speak up, but it's viewed as negativity or the inability to play on the "team." Legislators and even some of those in my profession will even go so far as to call it whining, but teachers wouldn't seek help unless they truly needed it. In my work day, there is NEVER a down second-- ever--- and more and more is expected to be accomplished on the personal clock. There is getting to be so much red tape that it's nearly impossible to think outside of the box because it's pinning you inside. White elephants such as poverty and addiction are being ignored and lots of political arrows are targeting teachers from behind as they are distracted by the newest changes. Few of us ever eat lunch or engage in lengthy personal conversations because we want to get home at a decent hour. Passion and energy are fizzling faster than the Alka Seltzer's we ingest for our upset, nervous stomachs. As expectations rise sharply, morale takes a huge plunge because though we try so hard, it's never, ever enough. Ever.

I'm going to keep on trying, smiling, and praying so I don't burn up on the inside. I'm also going to hope that IF I ever retire or win the lottery, I'm going to build a Childlife Preserve for Weary Teachers.

Here are some of the perks of enrollment:

*Free coffee and Alka Seltzers from 8-4
*Unlimited use of bathroom facilities

*Copy machines that really work and no paper rations
*BOUNTY paper towels--not the brown sandpaper kind

*Free personal laminators at sign up--go ahead, coat your entire living space with plastic.
   Easy to dust/clean and besides,I just love that smell when the machine is warming up!

*Unstructured conversations are encouraged--i.e. no Turn and Talks, protocols, jigsaws,
or forced topics for discussion
*Acronym usage shall be strictly prohibited

*Adult activities and events include, but are not limited to:

  Mental Mondays (at least 1/2 hour to daydream in a secluded location)
Target Tuesdays (Field Trip and Show and Tell combined!!!)
  Wishful Wednesdays (a daily drawing to win a duty free recess, a personal assistant,
                                  a year's supply of Velcro , or other teacher suggested prizes)
  Thrifty Thursdays (Swap popsicle sticks for pool noodles and do something Pinteresting!)
Fidgety Fridays (Gardening, biking, whatever gets the wiggles out--anything to avoid the
                          dreaded 2:30 glucose slump)

*And are you ready for this one? You can be assured that you will be trusted and
respected at all times.

      Believe me, my point in all of this is not to garner sympathy. I'm just very passionate about trying to rouse awareness for a very American Tragedy. I believe our system would work if teachers would be allowed to DO their work. Yes, the Tigers and Black Rhinos need saved. But we also need a billboard that reads "Save the Teachers. For when they go, our future goes with them."

   Thank you for listening. I'm sure you feel the pinch where you work too--wherever it may be. I'm also certain you'd agree that there is now a form for everything. Whoever you are and wherever you serve, keep fighting the good fight and praying that those with grand ideas at least try them out first.

(Now please kindly find a way to fill the awkward silence while I try to step back down. Gosh. Retirement may be coming sooner than I think.)

~Sara

Here's the article that put all of this into my head this morning. He makes a very strong point. We are a trying, dying breed indeed.

http://www.washingtonpost.com/blogs/answer-sheet/wp/2015/07/14/teacher-ive-loved-my-very-difficult-job-but-now-ohio-has-made-it-impossible/

Cupcakes: So Divine!

noreply@blogger.com (Sara Dillow) — Mon, 13 Jul 2015 20:24:00 +0000

Four bags of chocolate chips, 1/2 pint of whipping cream, four sticks of butter, twelve burnt cupcakes, nearly $23.00, and six hours fussing over these lil sweeties, and I finally managed to turn out a batch that tasted good enough to send to the church potluck.

I'm no Martha in the kitchen and the good Lord did not bless me with a panache for ganache, so I had to follow the cookbook with a new frantic, glance every 5 seconds. I'll admit I was tempted to improvise and do th...ings my own way (whatever that would be) and I even thought about dumping them all in the trash when I realized I left the first batch in the oven an extra 50 minutes and they emerged as mini horse hooves and smoking like bits of atomic rubble.

No horse hooves here. Maybe a few cow pies.

I'm sure the Lord was chuckling the whole time as I scurried, whisked, opened windows, and used nearly a whole container of Clorox wipes. Sometimes I picture Him tuning in to each of our lives displayed on thousands of tiny screens. Mine probably airs on His "Divine Comedy" channel, but I have to tell ya, such an experience as this led me to think about the way we are as Christians and here's how:

1. We should always cling to the Good Book as a way to check

if we are doing things the right way. We just may get burned

if think we can do things our way , take shortcuts , or make

incorrect substitutions.

2. In order to serve others, there will be cost involved--time,

money, chocolate chips...whatever it takes to get the job done.

Inconvenience is a part of service. If we don't feel the pinch, then

did we really give enough?

3. Failure is far different from defeat. Failure is a blackened

cupcake. It's also hope that the next ones are edible. Defeat is a

blackened cupcake without the desire to try for a better one. As

Christians, our failures should never defeat us. Think of it this

way: There are many times God is disappointed in people but

yet He continues to make new batches of us daily. I, for one am

glad. How else would we have the gifts of gelato and Nutella?

4. Life is like a cupcake. You can't really get a taste until you are

willing to peel off the parts that keep you from enjoying it.

Often, we think we know what we about to sink our teeth

into, but we can be deceived--either by appearances or the

recommendations from others. Sometimes, we will smile at

what has been placed into our hands, sometimes we just

make a mess with it.. Sometimes, it's just not for us but we

should thank Him for the opportunity we had to try it. Oh,

and crumbs are not insignificant leftovers, but a sign that

we have been provided for.

I hope what you hold in your hands today is a sweet reminder

of your faith, and may there be many crumbs on your shirt.

~Sara

Angels Shop Among Us

noreply@blogger.com (Sara Dillow) — Mon, 22 Jun 2015 04:17:00 +0000

Do not forget to show hospitality to strangers, for by so doing some people have shown hospitality to angels without knowing it. ~ Hebrews 13:2 NIV

Sometimes, you can spot an angels in prayer at stoplights at the mall too.

   I saw the face of God this weekend. Really, I know I did. It wasn't what I expected at all. And what if I told you that all I had to do to catch a glimpse was smile and pay $2.00? It's the truth. I have to hurry up and tell the world before I start to doubt my memory. So here goes...

     My two children and I had been rambling through the local super market filling our cart with items to make a colossal Father's Day peanut butter pie. This was our last stop before we headed home and I was admittedly irritated with my son, who had not had the best behavior when we visited a consignment and Fair Trade shop earlier in the afternoon. It would seem that he is not easily amused by dried gourd shakers or by buying a shirt for $2.00 because the scowl on his face was enough for me to sit him upon the counter and try to make a fair trade of a more domestic nature. Anyway, in the pet aisle of the grocery store, he had a moment of remorse and offered to buy a stuffed groundhog toy for our little pet dachshund Shelby. He even stated, "I need to give more to others" as he tossed the ratty road kill into the cart. (It did look rather odd lying atop the Doritos.) At checkout, I debated about using my son's last bit of change to help pay for our items. Not because I was destitute, but it was for a rather selfish reason--I hate clutter in my purse. As soon as I had it folded in my grasp, I heard a small voice instruct me not to spend it and to put it back, so I did and I never thought another thing about it until we were outside in the parking lot loading up the trunk.

     Noah, my son, was evidently nearing a dangerous level of dehydration and began trying to open a bottle of seltzer water with his teeth. I told him to open the bottle outside the car so it wouldn't fizz everywhere and make a mess. He struggled. I loaded. He still struggled. I kept on loading. Then, out of nowhere---I do mean NOwhere---came an older gentleman with sparse, long gray hair sauntering along wearing a dirty, sweaty, tan t shirt, raggedy jeans, and giving a little chuckle as he passed us by. I figured he was laughing at my son who was by now flailing about and shaking the bottle even more. I smiled at the man and then he stopped short, walked backwards 2or 3 steps and said, "Pardon me Dear. Would you happen to have $2.00? I sure could use it." Without even a second of hesitation, I reached into my purse and said, "Sure! Here ya go." The man's face was already like a jolly Santa's except he had eyes as clear blue as Paul Newman and they twinkled more brightly. He thanked me repeatedly and I told him it was not my money, but my son's. That's when he turned, shook Noah's hand, bowed to him in a grand manner (almost as theatrical as Gene Wilder in Willy Wonka) and said, "Son, your good deed will come back to you one day. You know that , right? Thank you my boy!" To which Noah replied, "I have more if you need it."

      Noah was a bit dumbfounded by all the theatrics and since the man had pools of sweat on his back I offered him some water. He politely said "no," thanked me again, and as he walked away I was overcome with the urge to shout, "Bless you!" The man stopped, turned over his shoulder, winked, and said, "You never know. You may have just been talking with an angel." And with a tip of his imaginary hat, he turned away. I looked at my son long enough to smile with pride at his offer to give him more than he asked for, especially since he had been unwilling to give of his time earlier that day. No more than 3 seconds later, I turned and noticed that the man we just spoke to had totally disappeared. He was nowhere to be found. POOF! We drove home in total amazement and he's been on my mind ever since. What would have happened if I wouldn't have listened to that small voice that led me to save the money? Would the gentleman have just passed me by? Or ,would he have asked me anyway so I would have had to tell him that I was unable to help?

       My encounter was what I KNOW to be a Divine appointment meant to teach us about the joy of giving and I marvel at God's unending creativity. Who else but Him would arrange such an experience in one of the most mundane and busiest of places? Who else would have thought to use a mere $2.00 to give my family a priceless glimpse at eternity? Who else can direct our paths with perfect timing using those we may not normally engage with? Only Him. A pure genius to Whom I am so grateful for the way He reveals himself to me.

      I doubt I ever think of Seltzer water, spare change , or stuffed groundhogs the same ever again. I also know that I will be staying more alert when I am in parking lots. Not because I think others may try to harm me, but because I've been shown the goodness of giving. The world is only as bad as we choose to see it. Our God is only as good as we choose to see Him. And if we are going to see anything at all, then our eyes must be open to the ways in which we can see God in our world.

Bleeding Hearts

noreply@blogger.com (Sara Dillow) — Wed, 06 May 2015 11:59:00 +0000

When I was a little girl, my grandmother would tell me a story about these amazing blooms as she would carefully open them to reveal a lady's slippers, rabbits, a sickle, and a tiny baseball bat. I was mesmerized by what one little heart held within and spent many days sitting on her porch searching them one by one. It's one of my favorite childhood memories and though my grandmother has since passed, her legacy of kindness and love and memories of tender moments such as this have not.

He already knows our story. He spends the days searching through our hearts. Does He delight in what He finds? Will those that one day follow behind us discover a love story telling of His grace and mercy? How do we choose to reveal His amazing treasures?

So much can be said by what we hold dear to us. Truth is, the only secrets worth keeping are the conversations shared with Him and the only things worth hoarding are those that will circulate the cleansing power of the Blood to enable us to function as a body of Christ--- with hands to serve, hearts to love, minds to encourage, eyes and ears to notice the needs around us, and feet to lead us to them. Therefore, we must be mindful of the treasures we store in our chests. That which is hidden is meant to be uncovered.

Above all else, guard your heart, for everything you do flows from it.

~Proverbs 4:23

Bloom.

noreply@blogger.com (Sara Dillow) — Mon, 27 Apr 2015 01:35:00 +0000

"...it will burst into bloom; it will rejoice greatly and shout for joy." ~ Isaiah 35:2

Bloom.

Bloom when you're facing the wind.

Bloom when you feel you are no different from those surrounding you.

Bloom when you've just been through a season of loss or storm.

Bloom when the days have been dark and the nights too long to bear.

Bloom when others try to break you.

When you are out on a limb alone, bloom anyway.

It takes courage and faith to open ourselves to the unknown, but when we do we will find that others are attracted to our sweet, lingering fragrance of hope. To bloom is to share testimony--finding the strength to share what we have inside---nectar for those who need to taste that there is sweetness through struggle.

Bloom.

The Cost of Daylight Savings

noreply@blogger.com (Sara Dillow) — Sun, 08 Mar 2015 12:15:00 +0000

At least one of us bright and moving this morning.

Oh boy. Here it comes. Yes, the sun but also the anxiety that sets in that Sunday morning when you worry if you really did set the clocks up or not. My mind now fills with visions of having to sit on the "pew of shame" at the back of the sanctuary all because I was a holy mess and couldn't make it to the church on time. Well, here I am --up an extra two hours early just so I could save myself from the embarrassment. Why do I have the feeling I'm going to lose more than an hour's sleep today? This Daylight Savings stuff is very costly. Seriously. How can a person be more productive with an extra hour of sunlight when the new roll of toilet paper nearly got installed on my wrist?

Spring forward, fall back. Yep, it took a few attempts but I finally made it out of bed. The whole ordeal was worthy of an Emmy. Picture if you will Fred Sanford stumbling backwards or a dying Weeble Wobble refusing to go down without a fight. I think my struggle is just a foreshadowing of what's to come. I'm already back and forth about whether or not I should just crawl back into bed. At this point, I'm leaning in every direction.

Bears a striking resemblance to me in first grade.

             It's hard to pour coffee after you've been involved in an alien abduction simulation exercise. (How else can you justify a periodic mandate to lose an hour of time?) So with one eye open, it cost me the very last drop --down the side of the counter and onto the floor as my elbow involuntarily sprung forward with one final surge of adrenaline. It was the last of it's kind and such a loss will only cast me into a prolonged groggy haze. I fear I could become a victim of mistaken identity as a cast member from Dawn of the Dead. I'm going to try harder to pick my feet up when I walk. Oh, and remember not to wear that gray sweater with the hole in it.


          Geesh! I just remembered! I'm in charge of the church nursery today. This could prove to be most interesting, but I do have a few options. I could lie in heap in the middle of the floor as either a climbing structure or Mt. Sinai. I could sit in the rocker with my head bowed as an example to the children of how to live in constant prayer or to illustrate the verse "Be still and know that I am God." Or, we could all just play a good game of "Statue" to act out the salty story of Lot and his wife. I am going to pray that the kids are just as tired as I am but with a good ZAP of happy. It's going to be hard to keep an eye on them when one is closed and the other one wants to roll backwards.

Well, wish me luck. Today's numbers look like I may take a bit of a loss.

0 coffee - 1 hour of sleep = a -1 losing her religion on a Sunday

You know, if they really want people to invest some interest and support in this Daylight Savings business, then the least they can do is mark the occasion with celebratory coffee sales. At least then we could actually SAVE something and stay awake enough to see exactly what we are missing.

2 Hour Delay Relay

noreply@blogger.com (Sara Dillow) — Tue, 27 Jan 2015 20:46:00 +0000

"And my God will meet all your needs according to the riches of his glory in Christ Jesus."

~Philippians 4:19

I awoke this morning at 4a.m. with the great anticipation of a snow day at home drinking coffee from my favorite mug and leafing through catalogs. But instead, I received the news that there would be a 2 hour delay. Now, for a teacher, an extra two hours at school alone is quite a gift. For a mother, the news ensures that she can gently nudge her children awake with the scent of Funfetti pancakes. But to the teacher-mom, this means she must :

Do her hair/making up/ and begin prying of the eyes.

Pack lunches, check backpacks for Reading Logs and coupon fundraiser booklets.

Feed/Water/Clothe the children and employ anti-depression tactics.

Pray for a miracle and for the common sense of those in charge.

Check and recheck all local stations and websites for updates.

Brush off the snow and melting ice ifrom the car in record time.

Initiate reality slaps--several, plus one for the road. They don't really hurt.

By now, the cheeks are quite numb.

Put coffee in hand.

***Oh, and for those with a slight OCD affliction, we shall add "Clear off nearly half the street because there are still too many uneven shovel marks left behind."

And she's off! Let the great Delay Relay begin!

Well, I would just like everyone to know that I did indeed win today's winter relay. Yep. I came in first! As in, the only teacher who showed up. I assume that as I was doing my best to run the race that I ignored the little voice telling me to "check one more time for a school cancellation." My prize? A vanilla latte from the Starbucks down the street. I didn't even mind handing over the $4.15 after using 1/4 tank of gas and driving nearly an hour. Of course, I'm always looking for a lesson to be learned from my mishaps and today was no different. I'm not sure how, but amid all the huffing and puffing while shoveling and cleaning off the car,I heard Him whisper as I noticed this pile of snow:

"Perhaps your blessings are like winter's falling flakes--each uniquely created for you and sprinkled from above. And as they accumulate, it is then that you are able to see the depth of MY wondrous possibilities."

Maybe this is the reason I didn't seem to mind being a "winner" today. Guess he knows how much I needed some quiet time, how much I love my coffee, and how important it is that we relay His blessings, grace, and good works to one another. Blessings!

Give Me a Break! It Can't Be Over.

noreply@blogger.com (Sara Dillow) — Fri, 02 Jan 2015 02:00:00 +0000

Winter Break ends in just three days. THREE days, people! I never realized that this time away from all the pencil shavings, endless sea of untied shoes, and constant Ipad fingerprints would bring such angst and unsettling melancholy. I mean, just over a week ago I was wrapping 20 little gifts, making vats of gingerbread house icing, and trying really hard to remain holly and jolly while my body was succumbing to effects of
germ-ination.

I love teaching kindergarten. I love being a mom. It's just that the two worlds don't just collide, they can cause a universal game of pinball. Time off is a true gift. I once again have a clean microwave. My spices are organized in such a way that I never accidentally buy an extra canister of Cumin. Most importantly, my mind is no longer in danger of a Hazmat spill. Instead, it's kind of like those annoying broadcast tests of long ago with the bands of color and low grade hum. Yeah, kind of like that, only there's a sporadic interruption by an occasional thought about what's for dinner. Besides, it seems only fitting that this kindergarten teacher's Christmas break has been a lot like the way kindergarten used to be---cookies, naps, eating lunch with friends, a little housekeeping, playing with toys, and no homework.

Do you realize how many paper cuts are in store
for me?

I guess it's safe to say that the thought of returning to a fast paced , mind jamming, and coffee chugging lifestyle is a bit, well...daunting. Even Jesus was known to escape the noise and crowds once in awhile after being sandwiched, poked at, reached for, and called upon for miracles (Gosh--he and I have more in common than I thought!). I just wonder if he ever said something like, "Please. Just one more day. Amen." There is so much to be done ahead in order for me to make a comeback as Super Teacher/Miracle Worker, but it takes this ol' bird a long time to change back into that constricting suit.

In an effort to appease both my preference for having things alphabetized and to mentally prepare myself for Monday morning, here is a list of how I am coping with/ avoiding the thought of my impending Break- Up:

A- lot of crazy dreams involving pencil sharpeners, fire drills, a singing telegram,
    and a box of Frosted Flakes.
B-ing irritated at the thought of having to gulp, not sip my coffee in the morning
   so it will take effect in time by 8:30 a.m.
C-ing the school bag in the corner of the room every time I pass by and wishing it held
   money that I want to spend at Pier 1, Pottery Barn, and Dollar Tree.
D-tox from the Xbox (the kids) and D-nial (me)
E-ventually the backpacks will need to be cleaned out. Hope there was no homework.
F-ects on the mind and body will soon take their toll--guilt, stress, lack of focus.
G-eez! Where did all the time go?!
H-and R Block , we'll get together real soon.My wallet found this holiday quite taxing.
I- need to win the lottery. Now.
J-birds chirpin' all day long will soon become my daily song.
K-ble's Food Network, I'm about to get a taste of reality. I will miss you.
L-ementary teachers unite! Pray for a blizzard!
M-mmmmm....there's still time to eat the rest of the cookies.
N-tentions have fallen. Yep. We've all just been plain lazy this week.
O- well. I never did get the filing cabinet organized. I'll file that one for next year.
P-eace to me now means "Pray Earnestly And Control Everyone."
Q-the music--- (preferably the theme from Rocky or Europe's "Final Countdown) cuz
   I'm about to write lesson plans.
R-the classroom plants dead by now?
S-caping to Alaska sounds like a Bucket List item for the week.
T-ea and honey. Soothes the depressed soul.
U- can't clean the closet out with kids around without channeling Joan Crawford.
V-isa, thanks for the credit, but it's you who makes quite a statement.
W-use of the vacuum these past few days. really makes me rethink the whole
    working mom /guilt thing.
X-plain to me how Santa can bring so many gifts , yet he can never return to
   take the trash and excessive packaging back with him?
Y-are my children now strangely kind to one another? Where was this love on
   Christmas day?
Z- new calendar isn't sporting a misprint, is it? Ok. Didn't think so. Just checking.

My holiday is about over, but thankfully, I have this scripture to lean on. I'm gonna need to lean on something come Monday morning when my eyelids won't open and I'm experiencing peppermint bark withdrawal. Ahhhhh! Breaking up is hard to do!

"For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven: a time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up what is planted; a time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up; a time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance; a time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing." ~ Ecclesiastes 3:1-8

Midnight Kisses

noreply@blogger.com (Sara Dillow) — Thu, 01 Jan 2015 04:22:00 +0000

2014, it's nearly time for us to part ways and quite frankly, I can't wait. Yes, I'm a little irritated that our family party this evening ended at 9p.m. when the flu arrived and interrupted all our fun, rendering my poor daughter listless on the couch; but I have several other reasons. You see, I've been thinking a great deal about you and have realized that there need to be some changes. So, I'm starting right now with my own private celebration as this bag of Hersheys and I quietly "kiss "you goodbye. (No, this has nothing to do with the rumors of a 2020 chocolate shortage.)

You see, a kiss is an expression of affection and because I care deeply about who I want to be in the coming months, I've decided to eat one piece for each of the semi-sweet lessons you've taught me. I could easily eat the entire bag, but I'm exercising control and making sure that my 4 midnight kisses are not just random and fleeting--they need to make a lasting impression.
KISS #1: Cleaning out the clutter in my home has led me to spend more time recalling the reasons I thought I needed it and the circumstances around using it. I'm realizing this act is more about the clutter in my heart. There, under all the papers, mismatched plastic lids, piles of shoes, scribbled in coloring books, old DVDs, and broken pencils was once wreckage and yearning for change, but He was there (Ironically, the yellow pencils in the photo read, "Smile! God loves you" on the other side.) In the midst of the faces, memories, photos, and years currently flashing by; He's still there. Even as I try to live more simply and make wise choices about what I allow into my home and heart, He will always be there. Holding on is the hope that one day what is useless will be needed, but letting go is a courageous decision which requires the faith to release the distractions in order to grip tightly to Him so He will use US as needed. (And now, I'm happy to report that I no longer own 17 Thomas the Tank Engine movies so that I may serve as an example of how NOT to turn your home into a train museum.)

KISS#2: Yesterday I was there. Today I am here. Tomorrow I'll be in a different place...but I'll always be in His hands. Time is His precious gift to each of us. Although it's never promised, each of us has the same amount of time in a day/ year-- but we are only existing-- not living-- unless we put the old year behind us, the new year's opportunities before us, memories and gratitude between us, and Jesus beside us. I pray that my new year will be filled with a multitude of opportunities to show others how much they mean to mw rather than just busy-ness and spilled ink on calendar pages from week to week, a fixation upon balance rather than the scale, and pure excitement over what I believe rather than low grade guilt over the things I didn't achieve. In the new year, I hope to live as a generous outpouring of encouragement and inspiration to fill another's emptiness so that I just may find myself overflowing with joy and renewal. I think it's time for another kiss, don't you?

KISS#3: Chances are, we will all awake to an average day in the morning. No one to freshly squeeze the juice or to lay out our clothes. No limo to take us about town. No way to bypass the traffic or grocery lines. No prize or grand award for our good deeds. For most of us, we share the same day to day rhythms with the rest of humanity, occasionally punctuated by a wedding, birth, graduation, or bowling trophy. Sometimes, being another face in the crowd makes us feel lost in the crowd. We may spend a great deal of time feeling insignificant in the Commonhood, but life is more than spending our time--it's about wisely investing it. There is great beauty and satisfaction in seeking joy in that which is common--even a line at the store can become a place of ministry and grace, if you seek the elements of J.O.Y. (Jesus- Others- You). There's nothing common about the power of gentle compassion or simple words of encouragement. In fact, it's a rarity nowadays. It's my hope that each of us experience a little extra in the ordinary and that we all continue to have something in common.

KISS#4: There's no need to look forward, because He's already there. So I'm gonna keep looking upward this year with a gracious, trusting stare. That's right. I'm not going to worry about the things that lie ahead because wherever I'm led He'll see that I'm fed.

Now, after all this "Kiss and Tell," I'm beginning the new year a little sweeter (or at least with in terms of glucose tolerance)so I think I'M gonna drop the ball and go to bed. Otherwise, I may be receiving too many kisses at midnight which could cause me to have to deal with some weighty issues first thing in the morning.

Happy New Year friends! May you unwrap many sweet blessings in 2015.

How to Make Humble Pie From Scratch

noreply@blogger.com (Sara Dillow) — Sun, 03 Aug 2014 04:53:00 +0000

"Whoever exalts himself will be humbled, and whoever humbles himself

will be exalted." ~ Matthew 23:12

Just got back from the store earlier this evening and boy, do I have a headache! The kids were very well behaved and my husband only complained once, but the next time I think I'm going ALONE. You see, I don't want to spend money I don't have.

Reading the fine print. Wish I had.

After visiting the dollar store, we all stopped at Sheetz for what I thought would yield a soda, a candy bar, and a few scratch off tickets. The kids went into the store with their father while I sat out in the car dreaming about what I'd do with a large sum of cash. For a minute or two, I pictured myself anonymously stuffing mailboxes with money for fun, but then I saw the police getting involved after concerns that the money was counterfeit so I quickly jumped into another dream bubble. This time I was leaving a note for my new personal chef so she could remember that eggplant makes my tongue itch. Unfortunately, the guilt crept in for allowing my kids to actually scratch these things off in the first place and I had to jump back down to earth. I mean, what if they go back to school and tell the class that this is how they practiced their math facts over the summer? What kind of mother doesn't fear her children may get black lung from all the scratch off residue in the backseat? Up until this evening, I had yet to partake in our version of the monthly family game night, but a little voice kept encouraging me to play. I think it was that personal chef.

The ticket to learning addition.

Soon everyone came skipping out to the car smiling-- sans soda and candy bar-- but with a few scratch off tickets. I allowed greed to get the best of me so I started rubbing that thing fast enough to ignite a spark. I had to match three numbers out of five. With two $10,000 spaces already revealed and one space remaining, I remembered a book I've been reading about the power of praying boldly and began to firmly recite this little ditty aloud :

"Dear Lord, First of all, forgive me for gambling. You know I don't make this a habit. Secondly, if I win any money I will certainly give half of it away. If I don't win any, then I'll know that you feel it is not in my best interest and that someone else needs it more than I do. Amen."

     Sure enough, I scratched the very last spot to reveal another $10,000. I blinked. I choked up. I screamed bloody murder. My husband began to tear up. The kids had their hands over their mouths in disbelief. Then, I thanked God for his gift and reminded the children of the importance of prayer. I immediately named who would receive the half that I promised to give away ,took a picture of the ticket on my phone, and then I collapsed back into the seat-- feverish from the instant miracle I had just witnessed. A few miles down the road, my husband became increasingly concerned with how we were to claim this cash and asked me to read the fine print on the backside of the ticket. That's when I realized that the kids were not in disbelief, they had been holding back laughter and that my husband's tears of joy were really tears of sympathy for his wife who had just fallen for a gag lottery ticket from the dollar store and pierced the eardrums of the entire eastern panhandle.

      I blinked. I choked up. I screamed bloody murder...again. Then, I fell silent and stared out the window like, well.. an eggplant. The kids didn't quite know what to make of my spectacle. I think my husband feared I'd never speak again which meant I couldn't help him pronounce the word "empanada" at the Taco Bell drive through. But I'm sure that after about 30 laps through, they'd eventually figure out what an  "im- panda" is.

      This whole turn of events should not have come as a surprise. I tried the same thing out on my father in law Christmas Day in 1997 and it was of the same emotionally charged proportions. I also should have known that my son never goes to the dollar store unless he leaves with something to raise my blood pressure. Even more concerning is that I should have known better than to think I can underestimate the good Lord's sense of humor. It's obvious to me now that I won't be stuffing anyone's mailbox with money in the near future, but I will certainly be stuffing my foot in my mouth. I'm pretty sure there's a personal chef somewhere right now who is imagining how she's going to tell her employer what to do with that eggplant. My daughter seems to think this was all a test for God to see what I'd have really done with $10,000. My son thinks this was just plain hilarious and my husband thinks I'm crazy. But I think I was part of a heavenly recipe for making Humble Pie from scratch. After all, I did gather all my in-GREED-ients to make some short dough.

     Bold prayer. Boy, I was bold alright. Bold enough to think for one second that God wouldn't find a way to teach me a thing or two about the ticket to humility and bold enough to overlook the name "Luck O' the Irish" on the front of it because the closest I am to being from the Emerald Isle is taking a bath with Irish Spring soap!

This is what Humble Pie looks like when
served with some Irish so--duh bread.

And for the record, the closest I'll ever come to having someone cook for me is during my stay in a nursing home. But I have the feeling I'll need $10,000 to make that happen.

"When pride comes, then comes disgrace, but with the humble is wisdom."

~ Proverbs 11:2

Fear is No Pig-nic

noreply@blogger.com (Sara Dillow) — Sun, 27 Jul 2014 02:53:00 +0000

"Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God. And the peace of God, which

surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus." ~Philippians 4:6-7

Many people spend their whole lives running from their fears because of insecurity and lack of faith. Today, I found myself chasing after mine due to a breech in security and a lack of speed. Don't believe me? Well, I have the unbending kneecaps and diminished lung capacity to prove it. I'll try to share the ordeal and should have no problem being long winded since I now fear that using the keyboard may cause me to become short of breath. Here goes...

Do I smell a little fear?

The kids and I decided that our pet guinea pigs should get out and about so we arranged a little "pig-nic" in the front yard by the shade of the big maple. The menu consisted of mostly of greens and bottled water and I'm sure the neighbors driving by wondered why we were lounging beside overturned laundry baskets. While the piggies enjoyed the breeze and clover, I began to think about what may happen if a stray dog or cat came along and the only plan I could think of was to pray that they didn't. As I attempted to slide the basket closer into the shade, I startled our portly piggy Nutterbutter and she quickly became lodged in one of the holes of her basket. How in the world she squeezed into that tiny opening I'll never know, but I quickly found myself welling up with the same fear I get when I panic about having my bottom forcibly pushed by an impatient mob during an emergency escape through the hatch in the top of a smoke filled tour bus.

The Mountain Dew Dash's
course of action.

With a move similar to popping bubble wrap, the piggy sprang free and much to my surprise, she bolted like an escaped fugitive, a missile after thistle..a submarine in enemy territory at full speed. With every step I took, the farther she went. I could hear my children screaming and crying from an open bedroom window like the house was on fire. I could hear my poor heart breaking for them. Then again, it may have just been chest pains---I don't usually run because I'm no jackrabbit and the effects are equivalent to 24 hour jackhammer usage. I kicked off my sandals under the crab apple tree so I could pick up a little speed and followed the piggy past the neighbor's driveway. Fear clutched my throat (or was that early onset rigor mortis?)at the thought of returning home empty handed. I was also fearful that this adventure would be the one that entitled me to use a scooter at Wal Mart. But I kept running---gasping for air, barefoot, and crying out into the mountain, "Lord! Please help me!" And in that second, Nutterbutter dropped into a deep pile of underbrush by the creek and I seized the opportunity to bring home the bacon. I thanked God the whole way back up the hill, but I was so winded the neighbors may have thought I was speaking in tongues---"Tha u Gah! Tha u Gah! Plee leh er b k!" (Translation: Thank you God! Thank you God! Please let her be ok!") Why, it was probably even unrecognizable to God Himself.

When I finally plodded to the front door of the house, sweaty and shaky (remember the jackhammer?); the kids were in complete awe--mostly because they rarely witness my inner Olympian.

Nutterbutter: Proof that pigs fly.

Nutterbutter evidently worked up an appetite because she inhaled a carrot in under a minute. I collapsed into the nearest chair and prayed I'd one day walk again. I even thought about using telepathy to summon the TV remote.

Well, I've had some time to think about the purpose of this spectacle and I've realized a few things. Some people choose to react to fear much like my guinea pig, often running away from those who trying to aid in their struggle with no particular direction except to distance themselves. The farther they wander, the more lost and scared they become. Still, others react by asking for His favor to catch up to that which they fear most in an effort to claim it in Jesus' name. Even though there is some degree of pain involved, they know they call upon Him for victory.

We're not having another "pig-nic" anytime soon. Not because I'm afraid I'll compete once again in the 600 yard Mountain Dew Dash (or Sweat for Pets), but there's a new fear He needs to help me conquer. I'm not going to go outside for a few days because I'm pretty sure the rumors about how the kids drove me crazy this summer and I ran away calling upon the Lord will take a while to simmer down and I really don't feel like chasing THEM down and explaining the truth about such hogwash. Besides, at this point I can only limp or crawl--- unless I run into them at Wal Mart on my scooter.

"Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous. Do not be frightened, and do not be dismayed, for the Lord your God is with you wherever you go.”

~Joshua 1:9

Blood Relations

noreply@blogger.com (Sara Dillow) — Sat, 19 Jul 2014 01:25:00 +0000

"An ounce of blood is worth more than a
pound of friendship." ~ Spanish Proverb

I seemed to have misplaced my mothering manual again. I really could have used it today. I'm sure there is a chapter entitled "Bore-dumb" which outlines the necessary steps to take when the only thing that motivates your children during summer vacation is a strange sense of humor and odd uses for common household items. I think I'll submit this photo when the new edition comes out.

A new definition for "sweet tooth", or
a feeble attempt to problem solve?

         There are many times I've questioned my parenting skills, like the time I accidentally sent in a pair of penguin socks with my son for the kindergarten mitten exchange and the day I burned the boiling water for the hard boiled Easter eggs. Still haven't figured that one out. All I remember is the house filling with smoke and my son twirling through the house saying, "I'm lost in spaaace!" Oh and have you ever experienced the sting of embarrassment that follows when your son tells people that babies come from Ebay and that he is an E-baby (guess he's seen me bid farewell to money one too many times) and that the church takes up a collection to have the babies shipped and delivered? I sure hope his poor future wife is able to do his bidding. Why, sometimes I even question whether or not there was a mix up at the hospital, but then I witness my daughter's obsession with back to school supplies and list making and my son's inability to go 5 minutes without laughing and I know that such tendencies must be in our blood.


          There are many, many reasons I'll never win the coveted "Mother of the Year" award, but somewhere in that missing motherhood manual is a chapter called "The Why of a Needle," based specifically upon personal events that provides a brief summary of how to handle a panic stricken child about to receive blood work. It's also the main reason I have been repeatedly snubbed for this matronly honor over the last year or so.

           This past October, my poor daughter worried herself into a frenzy for nearly two weeks about the procedure and I have to admit, I worried myself over her constant worrying. I remember the drive to the lab, glancing in the rear view mirror and thinking the blood had already been drained from my sweet, terrified daughter's face. Despite my best efforts to provide reassurance (I had to have the procedure don as well that same day) or motivation (the promise of donut holes when it was all over), nothing could alleviate her fears. I probably could have been a bit more encouraging and creative, but because I was fasting, I was also running about four quarts low on caffeine. I was getting annoyed with her whining and worry so I hastily offered her a piece of sugar free gum. As we sat in the waiting room, Abby honestly did not move. Her head was down and when she did glance up at me, there was a single tear in her eye. When they finally called her name, I felt like I was leading a lamb to slaughter. I prayed for her peace and for a quick, painless process.

             I had my blood drawn first and Abby timidly watched from the doorway, then it was her turn. She had a rather pleasant experience-- no tears, no fainting, no karate moves and no bolting for the door. I stood close by her side and as the syringe slowly filled and I marveled at how our blood is genetically similar. I couldn't help but wonder about the differences that could be made in the world if our levels of faith, joy, and patience could be determined by a simple blood sample. If so, I'm not sure my results would have been all that satisfactory on that day. I realized that I was more concerned with my own ability to deal with the situation than my daughter's need for love and understanding. Soon the band aids were in place and there was a smile on Abby's face and I was relieved that the ordeal was behind us. Or was it?

             The next day, I received a surprising call from my doctor stating that my sugar was elevated. The very same afternoon, I got a call from Abby's doctor stating the same. It didn't take me long to figure out why. Remember that sugar free gum I gave her in the car? Well, I had chewed some too.  Guess who had to return to the lab and repeat the entire process all over again even though I promised my child that it wouldn't have to be done for several months ? Yep, that would be me. But this time, I was going to use the situation that formerly drew fear and uncertainty to teach an exercise in trust and courage.That morning proved to be much more than collecting a vial of blood. What began as a situation drawing fear and uncertainty, ended as an exercise of trust, courage, and willpower ---at least until we passed the Dunkin Donuts on the way back home.

           Tomorrow morning we both go back to the lab and I just kissed an anxious little girl goodnight. But this time around, I've taken the gum out of my purse and have kept a 20 feet distance from my husband's potato candy in the fridge. I was calm, collected, and soft spoken as I reminded her that I would pray for her to be at ease and to get a good night's sleep. As I left her bedroom, I noticed her sweet little profile against her pillow and her head full of shiny dark hair and couldn't help but smile, thinking of how much we are alike and drawn closer through such "blood relations."

I sure hope this doesn't get around
the vine at church on Sunday.

Now, in unrelated news (or is it?) I really need to start looking for that mothering manual again so I can look up "What to do when your son pretends a zucchini is his baby brother and names him 'Zuke.'" I've gotta squash this quickly before people think he's completely out of his gourd and I try out that new casserole recipe.

"You don’t choose your family. They are God’s gift to you, as you are to them." ~Desmond Tutu

Finding 40 Sense

noreply@blogger.com (Sara Dillow) — Wed, 02 Jul 2014 04:26:00 +0000

"So we do not lose heart. Though our outer self is wasting away, our inner self is being renewed day by day."~ 2 Corinthians 4:16

I found forty cents in the console of my car today and who would think that I'd immediately associate my find with my birthday last December? Yep, it was a BIG one people and for the last year or so, I have wrestled with this notion of turning 40. Not so much with the fact that I'm getting older, but because I wanted to find the perfect way to celebrate. I envisioned a large family dinner, thought about doing 40 acts of random kindness, and I even entertained the notion of taking a nap for 40 days and 40 nights. But no matter what I considered, no idea really suited. Turns out, it passed quietly in the night with no Y2K experience of time stopping and the world ending by morning. I would have been prepared though because I had stockpiled enough Slim Fast, chai tea bags, and coffee grounds to help me linger a few more days.
Obviously, I'm still here taking advantage of coffee and Slim Fast coupons---but you know what? Turning 40 is a very complicated thing and it has a lot to do with how well you know yourself, not who you once were or who you wish to become. It's about celebrating your own personal triumphs AND getting to try out a whole new line of skincare in the Mary Kay catalog. It's all about reaching a sensible perspective, or in my case, standing on top of the hill, rather than being over it, and enjoying the new and multiple views. So, as I have been trying out my new 7 month membership in this privileged club, I've realized what this mythical and widely exaggerated milestone truly means to me and the more I think about it, the more I begin to make sense out of all this aging nonsense.

Here I am allowing OCD to get the best of me again
as I chastise family members for putting stuffed toys in
the same bag as the plastic ones.

~ The 40 Year old Daughter ~

I was a heavy burden to my mother before she even set eyes upon me. Weighing in at 9lbs, 15 oz., I was born the daughter of a railroader and a homemaker, a limited 1973 edition--or should I say, late model? I think I was three weeks overdue, but back then babies weren't induced and were nearly born in a pickled state. Little did my mother and father know that they left the hospital with a dark hair, dark eyed, stubborn, middle child who had difficulty following directions, telling time, counting money, refraining from throwing crayons at people in church, and sharing the bathroom with others. In fact, I'm pretty sure those poor souls spent most of my younger days praying I'd find some common sense. But somehow, they managed to help me get an education without anyone having to wear an orange jumpsuit and shackles.
It hit me today that my mother was my age when I was in college and three years shy of marriage. If I remember correctly, we celebrated her 40th with a balloon launch. Now I'm wondering if that was really her way of celebrating my impending launch from the nest. With a husband and two children of my own, I can now fully appreciate what dear old Mom and Dad sacrificed for me and my siblings and I'm proud to say I often sound and act like both of them, despite trying to tune them out in the teen years. It's taken 40 years to recognize their voices within, and those two really did make a whole lotta sense!

It was Mother's Day, and standing still in the same spot was
certainly their gift to me.
~ The 40 Year old Mother ~

I was 29 when my daughter was born and 33 with my son. I remember worrying if Abby's tights didn't match her dress at church, if Noah didn't have his little hats on correctly, or if people thought I was too lenient or too strict with them. I worried if they had the toys they needed to develop properly, and I had their pictures taken every month. I always said that if God was going to bless me with a third child, it would have to be by 40. Well, I know He's figured I've met my limit since it's July, so I think it's safe to say I can have a BIG yard sale sometime this summer.
I also know that if He had blessed me, I would be much different this time around. First of all, I would not insist on keeping every sock or teether and I'd realize that the only things worth holding onto are little hands and the memories shared between you. I still take pictures of my children, but I don't keep the camera in my hand so often that I miss the bigger picture. This 40 year old sees motherhood through the lens of practicality and meaning, not picture perfect moments on exhibit that remind her of a still life. Granted, there are just some days I can't remember if I fed my children or not, and days when my son conveniently reminds me that if it weren't for "Commoonin" in church, he wouldn't get enough to eat; and sometimes I accidentally combine their names as "Nabby." But what a relief it is to know the pressure's off and that I am no longer in the running for "Mother of the Year." I mean, why bother anyway? Once you're my age, you can start to compete for "Mother of the Millennium" and I hear there's no swimsuit competition.

December 14, 1996: We've since endured many losses--money, hair, our minds,
the ability to stay up past 9 p.m. We've also gained much--circumference, gray hairs, aches/pains, 2 kids, and the understanding that Wal Mart IS our vacation.

~ The 40 Year old Wife ~

Oh boy, where do I begin? I married when I was 23 on a clear and cold December evening with a candlelight ceremony, the perfect dress, and starry eyed vision. I had every intention of baking my own bread and milking my own cows each day in order to be the perfect wife. I had all the right kitchen gadgets, a hundred cookbooks, and the desire to leap about the house like Maria in the Sound of Music, but NO culinary skills at all. In fact, my husband's favorite meal to date were the deep fried hot dogs I created by accident one day when I was bored. Imagine...BORED! I don't think I've used that word since. Early on, we figured out that when we said "I do," we must have been referring to frequent lay offs and unemployment, student teaching, crazy schedules, several new cars, tolerating OCD tendencies and changing cat litter, and whether or not we had the local Chinese restaurant's number in our chunky, walkie-talkie like cell phones.
So just how has this 40 year old fared in the pursuit of marital bliss, you ask? Well, I realize the key to bliss is pretty much just hit or miss. I spent many early years growing a marriage based on ideals and unrealistic expectations which led to great guilt and disappointment. But now this wife understands that she can't be all things at all times, neither can your spouse, and that it takes courage to admit it. One week, I'm an excellent dishwasher, and the next, a fabulous chauffeur. Some nights I actually remember to pack lunches and put the laundry away. Other times, I collapse into a chair and wish the pause button on the remote worked on people. Some days, I pray more than others, some days I wonder if I speak Chinese. My husband is still here with me and as far as I can tell, does not dream of Jeannie. More importantly, I have since learned to accept my shortcomings and own them, no longer trying to sweep them under the rug because one day, the rug will get shaken and the dirt would certainly fly!

Nowadays, I take a minimalist approach to classroom decor. The
less you have,the less you have to put away at the end of the year.

~ The 40 Year old Teacher ~

My career began shortly before my marriage and that young teacher had a zest for lamination, decoration, sticker organization, color coded seating charts, and differentiated spelling lists. She often left school at 8:30 p.m. and was known for falling asleep while coloring. In today's terms, being a 40 year old teacher is pretty much a "Race to the Top." You spend years training, working, and trying to get ahead only to find that once you get there, the pace quickens as you head towards the finish line (a.k.a. retirement). You find less time to laminate, no use for stickers, and little purpose for decorating. I find that I no longer blindly accept what comes my way and I now know the difference between questioning practices and motives vs. complaining. Paperwork and neatly labeled folders used to entertain my OCD side well into the night, but now I like to keep a few random stacks sitting about just to remind me that paper is a waste of precious resources--my students. Technology is still my friend, but sometimes our moments together can become strained--mostly because I can't read the small font. Coffee at this age should be administered intravenously and when you find that your legs have fallen asleep while sitting criss-cross applesauce on the floor with your class, just use that opportunity to offer to tie shoes. In kindergarten, I teach a great deal of number sense and when it comes to the number 40, I like to think of it as living the life of two 20 year olds.

It's always a good thing to prepare for your future. That can add value. So,
here I am practicing my "I won the lottery!" face. Haven't quite perfected it yet, but I think I have plenty of time to work on it.

~ The 40 Year old Woman ~

Like fine, aging porcelain I bear the marks of time---having overextended myself amid pregnancies and a strong fondness for cheesecake. Now, some call them stretch marks, but I like to think of them as "abdominal crazing" because... well, I am getting to be an antique. Gray hairs? Welp, they are nothing more than a sign that children are definitely the highlights of my days. Crow's feet? That's not what I call 'em. I prefer to use the term "happy feet" because we only seem to get them if we are constantly smiling or laughing. I used to want to do it all, now I only want to do what's right and important. I used to see myself climbing a ladder of success, but now I just want to climb into bed and get a good night's sleep. I used to wonder if I'll make a difference with the life I've been given, and now I know that there's a difference between giving your life to Him and living your life for Them. I no longer wish to be another woman. I'm content to be my quirky, silly self and no OTHER woman.

I once read somewhere that life is like a coin. You can spend it however you please, but you can only spend it once. Well, I'd like to add my own newly found 40 sense to that. We may not always see what we're worth, and it can take years for us to appreciate, but we will always have value in His hands--no matter our size, shape, age, or condition.

And with His grace,maybe-- just maybe, you'll be reading about "Finding 80 Sense (and losing it again)."

Spin Cycle

noreply@blogger.com (Sara Dillow) — Fri, 27 Jun 2014 12:32:00 +0000

Just last week while driving home, my son asked,"Mom, do we have any clean towels?" which forced me to remember that no, I hadn't done the laundry yet. I had been so busy with all of my end of the year teacher duties that there had just been no time to think about the staggering elevation of Mt. Neva-rest towering from the base of the clothes hamper. I had once again fallen victim to the dreaded Spin Cycle. Naturally, I asked him why he wanted to know, thinking it was because he felt he needed one so he could take the guinea pig on a sled race through the house, but instead he said, "Thank you Jesus! Now I don't have to take a shower tonight!"

Now all of this laundry business got me to thinking that the time had come for my children to take more responsibility around the house in order to free more time for fun things-- like taking the guinea pigs on towel surfing tours of our home. So, in an effort to be a responsible, earnest adult I set out to teach Noah how to fold clothes. Here are the results:

My view from inside the basket he surprisingly
slipped over my head.

After inching his way around the house like this,
he will be retaking Laundry 101 in the near future.

So much for the real life application of
symmetrical concepts.

As you can see, this lesson clearly folded and as you can probably guess, I became a basket case. The whole ordeal reminded me of that old Kenny Rogers song that went something like this:

"You gotta know when to hold em.

Know when to fold em.

Know when to walk away,

And know when to run..."

Thought I'd let everyone know that we have since moved on to pet care, but a couple of days ago I quickly learned that his idea of cleaning the guinea pig's cage was to feverishly rub deodorant all over the top of its screened lid. Now I'm beginning to think there's a lesson I need to learn.

S'mores says, "I smell an attempt
to make his mother sweat a little."

Wait. Did you hear that? It's the little tune my washing machine whistles when the load is finished. Guess that's its way of persuading me to take a Snow White approach to the task, but honestly it would be much more appropriate if it played "Sixteen Tons." Anyway, I have learned a thing or two about domestic "agitation." It can be a necessary part of the mother's ministry. How else will our children know the benefits of coming clean (a.k.a confessing to deodorant experimentation)and the importance of not making the mother a wrinkled mess?

Nacho Ordinary Father

noreply@blogger.com (Sara Dillow) — Mon, 16 Jun 2014 03:24:00 +0000

"A good father is one of the most unsung, unpraised, unnoticed, and yet one of the most

valuable assets in our society.

~ Rev.Billy Graham

So, here's a note of gratitude from the "white house":

Dear Brian,

During your last 11 years as a father, you have proven yourself as provider for the family. Your spotless grounds keeping has provided a clover free environment for the children to run amuck in flip flops as well as great humor while wearing your Harley bandannas and Tyvek suit.You have provided a safe, pest free environment by trying to outwit and outrun a rabid raccoon and with your routine stink bug patrols. You have always given tastes of your own ice cream despite the fact that each family member already has his/her own, thus providing valuable lessons about sharing , patience, and self discipline.

Sundae with Jesus--because I will need lots of prayer if
he eats all of this.

His way of teaching the kids not to waste food. I think.

Our daughter is wrapped around his finger, but our son is
always wrapped around his spoon.

Since you are the man of a thousand questions, you encourage our children to analyze and reflect on a daily basis, and you never deny them the opportunity to use technology, even if our son is now drawn to the Kohl's kiosk like a moth to a porch light.

By mastering the art of pancake flipping you have provided morning nutrition when your wife simple could not. When staging your father/son wrestling matches,your provide ample entertainment and and fulfill your child’s need to inflate his ego.When your kids have to learn a hard lesson, you are the old softy who shows them all about second chances and that giving in and giving up are two entirely different things. For those times when you and the GPS didn’t communicate well enough, you instilled the importance of the need for prayer and in knowing one’s surroundings ( the nearest restroom.).By working hard every day, you have shown your children the value of money and how it should not be stored too long in a wallet.(I'm very grateful you didn't adopt that cat at the pet store today, but do you really think we needed to order that mountain of nachos?)

He's always willing to carry the burden
on his shoulders--in this case, it was $20 worth of pet bedding.

Lastly, accounting for these things and many more, you have provided the family with a clear understanding of how the heart can function outside of the body. We hope you enjoyed your Father’s Day and pray you didn't mind paying for your own lunch. If not, at least provide us with the satisfaction of a little white lie.

Sincerely,

Sara, Abby, and Noah

How to Lick the Icing

noreply@blogger.com (Sara Dillow) — Sun, 09 Feb 2014 04:52:00 +0000

Hangin' at the Local Hasty Freeze

           May I just mention how much I love to see all the lights left on in every room, even when no one is occupying them? No, seriously, I really do. You see, I used to consider this one of my biggest domestic "disturbances," but after this week's ice storm which left us without power for nearly two days, I now see the light, the whole light, and nothing but the light.

          The morning began like any other this winter as I impatiently waited for the school board to decide if I should go back to sleep or back to reality. Once I got word that the school year would be extended by yet another day, I had a premonition that I'd end the school year with an actual fireworks display in July and then I fed the guinea pig a carrot, taking great delight in knowing that on this morning I could actually sip my coffee instead of chugging it down. Mother Nature had pulled out all the stops to pull off another mini vacation for us and just when I thought I would FINALLY get that bedroom closet cleaned out---she pulled the plug. The lights dimmed a few times and that's when the darkness and boredom crept in.

                   Limbs were cracking in the woods from their heavy coatings of ice and my patience was cracking despite my heavy coatings of "nice." I held firm to my forced Claire Huxtable-like persona the best I could, but when your husband slowly morphs into Squidward and there are heated and filled debates over who would eat the last Pop Tart, even Claire herself would begin a melting transformation into an ice queen. Well, soon the kids were wearing extra layers and dejected expressions and I was wearing on my own last nerve as I sat like a tuber in cold storage. Who knew that waning IPAD batteries could cause such significant drops in attitude-- why, no one even cracked a frown when I told them that they were walking commercials for the new ISAD. So, picture a family of four bumbling about in tight quarters in the dark,with dwindling temperatures, and the fear of being found by rescue personnel and mistakenly overlooked as frozen sides of beef. There was nothing to do but sleep (and eat Pop Tarts), and somehow, we all defied the odds of hiBRRRnation twice!

This icing is just divine!

An hour or so later when I was able to muster the energy to open my eyelids and thank God that he allowed me to survive on my own stored up energy for a few hours, I went to check on the guinea pig to see if she preferred her carrot frozen or fresh. When I lifted the lid on her cage, I was frozen in disbelief. Somehow, there were now 3?! Mother Nature had pulled a fast one (literally) and brought us more than ice. You see, I had had my suspicions about the guinea pig's possible "fragile state" when she began to balloon for no apparent reason and my son thought the two were "dancing together" the Friday before. When I saw the little babies milling about, flashes of my late night 70 mph trip to the pet store for another cage clouded my vision, but were quickly replaced with flashes of traveling 5 mph in the ice BACK to the pet store with the handwritten purchase invoice from September stating I had bought two FEMALES. Now the rescue personnel would surely find 4 frozen sides of beef and 4 frozen pigs in a blanket.

What I wouldn't give to see my own children
fight over vegetables like this!

I could go on to tell you how we nearly starved and had to make a trip to Wendy's for nourishment, about how we spent the night at my sister's house on the couch, and about the guilt I felt leaving "Squidward" behind to stoke the wood stove all night without succumbing to hiBRRRnation himself; but I'll spare you the details. To make a long story short, I'll just say that once again, the Lord shed some light on an otherwise dark situation.
The sermons at my church this past month have centered around how we can "be the light" to others, so it's no wonder that this is what triggered my ...well, enlightenment. I wish I could say that I hadn't lost my own power to smile and bite my tongue at all during this ice storm, and that I repeatedly thanked my husband for kindling the spark and fanning the flames that night rather than complaining about how the rescue personnel will now find smoked hams instead; but I can't. What I can say is that living an "unplugged" lifestyle-- even if for a day or so-- made me appreciate how powerful it is to reside in His presence, despite feeling powerless in your own residence. He can shower the earth with both frozen fury and glistening beauty at the same time, he can bring warm beginnings from endlessly cold situations, and he can restore all that has been seemingly lost. Of course, it's tough to see all of this when you refuse to overlook the darkness. So, if you want to lick the icing, you have to ask your Father to help you beat it.

Funny how when you unplug from OUR world, you quickly

discover the power and beauty of HIS.

Designer Genes

noreply@blogger.com (Sara Dillow) — Wed, 22 Jan 2014 05:37:00 +0000

Boy, I can't tell you how wonderful it feels to be able to FINALLY sit down and set all my wandering thoughts free again. After turning 40 in December, I've done quite a bit of reflecting about who I am and who I want to be in another 40 years. Some people get tattoos to celebrate this milestone, but since I worry that any permanent wording on my body could eventually resemble one of those wavy/blurry internet security codes in a few years, I'll pass on that and give thanks to a Christian life coach and a pair of late 80's acid wash jeans for showing me that writing is MY way of getting inked---sharing my story, expressing my beliefs, and leaving an impression.
A few weeks ago, my mother asked me to take a bag of old clothing to be donated. Something told me to take a peek inside that bag and what I saw was more than I ever expected. I had come face to face with my own past--a pair of acid wash jeans from the 80's. They were much smaller and hideous than I remembered, and I was amazed that I ever had the courage to wear them. Just who was I really back then?

Side ventilation is the only way
you can breathe in these things.

                  Let's see...I was 17, full of myself, stubborn, and a whole lot skinnier than I thought I was. I tried desperately for people to like me, even if it meant trying to be someone I felt I wasn't. These jeans were not typical of my wardrobe back then as I distinctly remember sporting the infamous ankle roll. Judging from the tightness factor of these pants, I guess it's safe to say I was not very comfortable in my "skin." These relics were once worn to a Def Leppard concert, and I think I know why--you don't usually sit down at those. I began to think if I'd ever allow my own daughter to make such a fashion statement, but that quickly became irrelevant when I heard her gasp and say, "What. are. those? Uh, please tell me those holes are from moths." (Thank you Lord!) And just how strong was my faith back then? Well, it was present but a bit absent of a true relationship with Christ. Unfortunately, the times I prayed were few and far between--- unless I was trying to zip these pants!

               Well, I want you to know that I tried these babies on that day and after a near accidental circulation loss, here's what I discovered:

1. They fit very well--around my ankle.

2. Sometimes when we step back into our past, we risk exposing a whole other side of
    ourselves.

3. When the jeans no longer fit, it's because we've either grown out or have grown up.

                 Here's where my story becomes more, well... binding. A few days
ago, I met with a Christian life coach to create a purpose statement by which I will serve and honor God using my unique talents, traits, and abilities. What I discovered about myself was amazing! It was exactly what I had known all along to be true, yet somehow the entire process gave me permission to be happy in my own skin and reaffirmed the fact that my uniqueness was evidence of the presence of Christ, living in ME. On the drive home, I could not stop thinking about the old jeans I wore many moons/pounds ago. And though I may no longer be able to fit into a size 12, I have grown into genes with no size limitations. In fact, if I faithfully use what He has passed on to me, then I can never pretend to be someone I'm not. Despite the different purposes we each have, as believers we all have His genes within us and this allows us to fit into His plan perfectly. And the best part? There are no zippers required.

                  Now, more than ever, I am proud to say I am able to fit into the designer genes that fit me best. I just hope the good Lord can forgive me for my previous lack of fashion and common sense, because that, my friends is clearly not in my jeans.

"Now there are varieties of gifts, but the same Spirit; and there are varieties of service, but the same Lord; and there are varieties of activities, but it is the same God who empowers them all in everyone. To each is given the manifestation of the Spirit for the common good. For to one is given through the Spirit the utterance of wisdom, and to another the utterance of knowledge according to the same Spirit." ~ 1 Corinthians 12:4-11

"For you formed my inward parts; you knitted me together in my mother's womb. I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made. Wonderful are your works; my soul knows it very well. My frame was not hidden from you, when I was being made in secret, intricately woven in the depths of the earth. Your eyes saw my unformed substance; in your book were written, every one of them, the days that were formed for me, when as yet there was none of them." ~ Psalm 139:13-16

BACK to Normal

noreply@blogger.com (Sara Dillow) — Sun, 20 Oct 2013 04:21:00 +0000

"Surely there is a future, and your hope will not be cut off."~ Proverbs 23:18

My daughter recently took a picture of a peace sign etched into
the branch of our tree and that's when I marveled at the way God always
finds a way to bring peace into every situation.

In case you are wondering where I've been since July, I would like to let you know that I have been on a quest to seek normalcy. Some days, I think I'm close to finding just a smidgen, but most days I want to give up on this myth residing in a land of unicorns, weight loss inducing cheesecake, and schools without grossly overworked teachers. So, if you ever find any of this mystical stuff at the end of the rainbow, please let me know.

First of all, in order to find something, you have to know what you are looking for. Here's what the BING dictionary says I should consider seeking:

nor·mal [ náwrm'l ]

usual: conforming to the usual standard, type, or custom

healthy: physically, mentally, and emotionally healthy

occurring naturally: maintained or occurring in a natural state

However, somewhere between the recent gall bladder attack which left me practicing Lamaze the entire way to school, the computer malfunction that caused this school marm to have severe panic attacks (yes, Lamaze came in handy yet again) , and my husband's back surgery a few weeks ago; I am sorry to say that by my own standards, BING is a bit delusional.

After years of living with chronic back pain, my husband Brian finally decided he wanted to have a "normal" existence so he grew a spine and decided to go through with an invasive procedure. And from the very beginning, this experience has been nothing but a mind boggling and amazing series of events. I could go on and on about how my husband ran into a friendly Saints loving football fan in the waiting room (and they can be hard to find), or how his doctor and surgical team were highly skilled and attentive, how our prayers were answered when the doctor reported that Brian's spinal injuries were not as extensive as previously thought (Prayer is powerful stuff!), and how the cafeteria staff didn't laugh when he asked me to order close to 10 items for his dinner (I think he thought it may be his Last Supper); but there are just too many to list. However, there are few standouts which have really reinforced the need for an occasional curveball. Let me explain.

                The waiting room TV informed us that our government was shutting down amidst stalled interests. Obviously, such a thing borders upon insanity, and even though I do not want to make light of the misfortunes of those losing their jobs, this news proved to be a mini blessing for me the next day when my husband was discharged. You see, I am paralyed by the thought of driving on major interstates and the thought of traveling down I-270 alone equated to a kamikaze mission in my eyes. I was expecting the routine drive to be similar to cruising on the Audubon, but God's love and mercy exceeded normal limits. After praying for Him to send angels before me and to keep me from harm, God cleared the path and I ended up having nearly every lane to myself. No one was commuting to D.C. that day and I'm sure He must have known that if I had accidentally detoured and went to Washington, that there would have been no one to ask for directions! When I arrived on hospital grounds, I thanked Him for his ingenious plan and then boldly asked for help in finding a parking spot, and guess what? There before me was an opening in the second row, right outside the main entrance. With the sun brightly shining down upon it, it looked like a heavenly beacon prepared just for me by those same angels that flew by me on I-270. I swear I even heard them sing!

           The ride home was admittedly not as pleasant, but long story short, we survived to tell the tale. Brian was sitting papoosed to the front seat, full of little happy pills , but instead of asking for help getting him situated in the car, I should have asked for a blindfold for his eyes and an apple for his mouth. Every bump in the road caused sheer agony and the whole ride home was like trying to carry an egg on a spoon through a series of landmines. My husband cried out to Jesus quite a bit, and I'm still not sure if that was because of the pain or if he wanted Jesus to take the wheel. But at any rate, our prayer lives increased ten fold for those 55 minutes, and once again God proved that he uses unconventional methods like potholes and rumble strips.

        Now that we are home and trying to get things back to normal, I am surprised by my husband's degree of patience and resolve to get well. I wondered prior to his surgery if all the hardware he would receive in his back  would give him bionic capabilities or if the magnets on the fridge would find him the least bit attractive. But now I'm beginning to wonder if a memory chip was implanted instead since he sings and preaches non stop all night long in his sleep. Currently as I'm typing this, I'm being serenaded with a rather warbled melody of Old MacDonald and Happy Birthday. Time will tell. Regardless, let's just hope this Six Million Dollar Man doesn't receive a Six Million Dollar hospital bill.

This is how we decorate for fall at Club Med.

       Now, most people have decorated for the fall season with mums on their porch and colored wreaths on their door, but at my humble and chaotic abode, my seasonal style is a bit more warped. You see, amber colored pill bottles line my mantle, casting a warm autumn glow all through the house. My floor is often littered with real wet leaves from the many trips I make to and from the car unloading school gear, unnecessary Wal Mart purchases, and the three new guinea pigs (and all their many belongings) we just added to the family. Yes, that would be THREE. Insane, I know, but that's another story for another day--trust me. I find myself breathing in and breathing out a great deal most days, like when I returned back to school after a four day hiatus following the surgery only to endure a classroom flood from a torrential downpour five minutes before the class was to take fall pictures. Nothing like a little "Swim Fast" for breakfast. Then there was the day that my little town experienced a streak of sheer madness and our school was on lockdown due to a half naked man parading about the neighborhood carrying nothing but a strategically placed leaf and his own burgeoning self esteem. I guess acorns aren't the only nuts you can find this time of year. Seems people really come out of their shells and get squirrelly! Oh, and how can I forget the way the Yankee Candle salespeople put out that fire that was burning a hole in my pocket last weekend? Seems my senses totally left with every whiff I took. Why, I'm now the proud owner of $100.00 worth of pumpkin, whoopie pie, and cinnamon scone candles AND a container of porous, fragranced nuts. That's some pretty WICK-ed stuff right there!

         Well, I could go on and on about the hundreds of unique situations I've encountered since summer, but the point is that by now I'm pretty sure that God is tired of hearing me say, "Please just let things get back to normal."  In fact, I think that's the reason He has pelted me with so many curveballs. I've taken a few wallops to the head just to finally figure out that God's not normal. You heard me. He's a non conformist, capable of redefining every imaginable boundary and exerting His supernatural prowess over the entire universe and lately He's given me my share of opportunities to discover that I'm not normal either --especially if I can exceed my own expectations whenever I live up to His.

        This may sound crazy, but I think He's using my husband's surgery to teach me that normalcy is not to be confused with getting one's back to normal. Then again, maybe He's just trying to strengthen my own backbone so I can remain upright and firm in the midst of trials, strange situations and unknown territory. Whatever His reason, I'm sure He's always going to be there loving me like crazy.

Some of our strangest decisions are the result of sleep
deprivation. Normally, I get 8 hours to seek and use
my mental clarity.

"Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication

with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God." ~ Philippians 4:6

Shrink or Swim

noreply@blogger.com (Sara Dillow) — Fri, 26 Jul 2013 04:00:00 +0000

Here I am, filled with as much joy as air.

     When my sister invited my family to her campsite recently, the kids were overjoyed. It's not very often they get the opportunity to swim, let alone throw water in each other's faces. As for me, well I was hoping I could possibly shake my reining title as "World's Palest Woman" if I sat poolside for a bit. So, in an effort to be prepared, I skillfully packed my quilted tote with all the essentials---towels, camera, swimsuits; and for some odd reason, I even decided to excavate my 8 year old two piece swimsuit, pressed between two "shrunken" (that's a term I use for clothes that mysteriously seem smaller after they've been hanging in your closet) dresses like a spandex fossil from a decade long, long ago. I had bought it for a beach trip and never wore it; but some universal force stronger than lycra compression led me to consider its seasonal debut this sweltering moment in June.

         A cross between a wet suit and a uniform for the Tour de France, my S.C.U.B.A. suit (Sara's Covering Up Bulging Assets) would prevent both northern and southern exposure. Now usually, I sit by the pool in a regular t shirt and shorts wishing I'd take a nap and wake up a size 6, but on this day I was praying that my heap of resurrected black spandex would attract sunlight so I would no longer blind those who caught glimpses of my near fluorescent limbs.

           Soon, we adults were all poolside, our chairs in a circle under the big umbrella, panting from the heat. We watched our kids splash and kick and shooed them away when they repeatedly asked for drinks and the chance to buy 5 feet long inflatable pool toys. It was very hot, but I was determined to stay in the direct sunlight for as long as it took to turn a simple hue of pink. I could feel my thighs burning and sweat beading on my brow; and before long, I felt like a shrinky -dink shriveling in the oven. Thankfully, people watching took my mind off the possibility of becoming one with my plastic chair.

       There were moms of all shapes and sizes shuffling around the pool after their children, and I envied them all for suiting up in the name of family fun. Even though I knew how to swim, I hadn't been in the water for nearly 18 years---a captive of my own self image and echoing taunts from childhood. My children were chuckling and bobbing about and oh how I wished I could remember what it felt like to float. I should have been in the water with them making summer memories, but instead I was choosing to sweat, shrink, and burn in the name of pigmentation and inferiority.

        As the afternoon wore on, my niece and children continued to beg me to get into the pool, but I continued to resist. What if I ended up on some site called "Pool Fools?" What if my S.C.U.B.A. suit just doesn't cover it anymore? Worse yet, what if I'm driving down I-81 and see myself on a billboard that reads, "Whale-come to KOA!" Shady memories of a pudgy 8 year old girl hiding behind a towel, feeling unworthy, and surrounded by giggles floated through my mind and before I knew it, I was standing up. I had those awful lines on the backs of my legs from the chair and my kneecaps had been burned enough that they resembled red dots on a Twister board, but I couldn't allow those children from 1984 to keep me from my own children in 2013. I had missed the chance to take a stand long ago, but now it was shrink or swim.

         No one giggled, no one whispered, and no one stared other than my own kids squealing and roaring with joy.  I swam better than I could ever remember--weightless, proud, and free. FREE! Remember Grandpa Joe in the original Willy Wonka movie? It took him years to get out of his bed, and now here I was nearly walking on water. I spent the rest of our day doing my best to make up for all the years I sat and shrunk from view --I even had the wrinkly raisin fingers/toes to prove it. I'll admit getting in the pool was a lot easier than getting out--that weightless feeling becomes a heavier issue as you surface and your swimwear truly does feel like a shrinky dink!

        But one thing I have taken away from my experience is that God has never intended for us to lounge around and watch others live their lives while our own shrivels from existence and makes us miserable. He wants us to listen to His voice, assuring us that we are loved and worthy; not those of giggling, judgmental school girls, or our own negative self talk. Surely, one can sit, think, and shrink; or one can jump in, swim, and do it for Him.

"Sometimes the hardest part of the journey is believing
you're worthy of the trip." ~ Glenn Beck, The Christmas Sweater

Craving M&M's

noreply@blogger.com (Sara Dillow) — Tue, 23 Jul 2013 03:45:00 +0000

"Sometimes you will never know the true value of a moment until
it becomes a memory."

I can't believe another month has flown by and we're nearing the finish of July. It seems that just yesterday I was turning the calendar in the kitchen and thinking, "I can't believe June is here and I survived another school year!" I wonder if my rising black coffee consumption is causing mental black-outs? Maybe, it's the fact that I have been so busy trying to make time stand still in a quest to create memories for the kids and "mom-eries" for me. Then again, I once had a teacher politely remind me that I was once having difficulty managing my time.

              Bet you're wondering what I meant by "mom-eries." Well, before we grow up and have children, we tend to have MEmories (note the first two letters: ME) that we remember because somehow they made a deep personal connection in our minds and through our senses. Once we become mothers, we have MOMeries which I like to think of as intentional, meaningful ways to connect with your children that you forever carry in your heart. The perk of both is that one ultimately leaves an impression upon the other, so I call them M&M's. Actually, there's a third kind, the MAMery, but that is simply the lasting impression left from a mammogram. (Sorry, the pressure to share that one was too great. Get it? Pressure? Sorry). Anyway, my goal in early spring was to make this a summer to remember and so far the only thing I have not been able to remember is the mayonnaise from the grocery store and whether or not I fed the dog, so I call that success.

            We're halfway through summer and the days are growing hotter, but our family's summer bucket list is becoming shorter. Everyday we have been making time to indulge in some M&Ms. Whether my kids and I are making jello, visiting the library, turning up the real jazz station in the car as loud as it will go and wiggling about like fools, or squirting each other with the hose; I am filled with determination to stop counting days and make each day count.

            So, a few days ago a friend and I took our daughters to a Big Time Rush concert in Hershey, P.A. then visited the amusement park the next day when my son and husband drove up to meet us. I'll admit, the thought of suffering through the heat and threats of severe storms did not appeal to me. I knew this concert would be a life changing event because I ran the risk of coming home sunburned so badly I'd need skin grafts, deafened from all the giddy, squealing girls, incoherent from a heatstroke, with the strong aversion to anyone under age 14, or blindness caused by all the tweener bling and camera flashes. But, since I was craving some M&M's, I managed to climb breathlessly to our seats with a smile and all the fries.

Don't think I'll forget this scream
anytime soon.

Once we were settled and my heart rate had slowed down a bit from the trek to Section 25, Row P, my memories as a 10 year old hopelessly in love with Eric Estrada from the 70's show CHIPs came flooding back to me--- most likely from the pool of sweat trickling down my brow. It seemed like so long ago that I was happily cutting that hunk's face from the TV Guide and gluing it to paper so I could make a poster for my bedroom door, counting the minutes until I would be his adoring wife at 18. Glad I have those memories because I never did get to marry that man, but I'm still grateful my mother subscribed to TV Guide because it helped me add all three Bee Gees to my poster a few weeks later. Now, here I was nearing the age of 40 with my own daughter,having no knowledge of the song lyrics those young boys were crooning, and wishing the band would stop tossing balloons and start throwing Hershey Kisses. This time around, I'm the mother and it's a $20 program, not a TV Guide. It turned out that seeing my daughter's face light up when the boy band appeared onstage was an absolutely priceless moment, and the feeling I felt in my heart as she repeatedly thanked me was both bittersweet and overwhelming. This concert wasn't exactly a life changing event for me, but it served as a tender, yet noisy reminder that my life is changing -- one M&M at a time and that I don't want to be in a big time rush to live it.

Hershey Park the next morning was a wonderful way to get into the spirit of National Ice Cream weekend. We melted. Like ice cream. And chocolate. I wondered how I would keep my M&M's from doing the same--after all, they were in each of our hands. We waded through all the merriment as the park played Christmas songs to promote the holiday during the month. Um, let's just say I had my fill of HOT chocolate. Four refill drinks and 5 pounds of sweat later, I was still able to plod along carrying my tote bag of stuffed animals, ticket stubs, and other M&M mementos. I had to use a great deal of magical thinking to get me through the day. I imagined that those large 99 cent refill cups with the long , stretchy straws were really IV drips that could attach to the navel Wait, that's most likely a hallucination. I pretended that I was 10 again with a body that could defy gravity and a behind that could actually wedge itself into those little seats on the boat ride and it worked! Sometimes, we go to great physical and mental lengths for a few M&Ms.

It doesn't take much to make my son smile.

          And they are most definitely worth our efforts. Despite the excessive heat, my son had a skip in his stride and a smile on his face that sweltering day and nothing can replace the feeling of how he slowly put his little hand in mine; leading his poor ,tired mother onward to the next adventure. My daughter took great comfort in knowing that I would be in that tiny boat with her as it dropped to the bottom and I am so glad I was there to see her proud moment as she faced her fears with me behind her all the way.  When the family finally "kissed" the park goodbye, my toenail polish had become melted to my socks, but the moments we shared together made me proud, made me laugh, and had melted into my heart.

            Time certainly slows for no one, but the older I get, I think I'm beginning to learn to manage it. Just keep the M&M's handy so time can never manage you. Go ahead and give in to the cravings. They will leave you feeling very satisfied.

The Games We Play

noreply@blogger.com (Sara Dillow) — Tue, 25 Jun 2013 12:38:00 +0000

There's a family portrait from 1991 hanging on my mother's dining room wall and I constantly have staring contests with the young black haired girl in the background with that round face and poofy bangs whenever I visit. Sometimes I think her wide grin is just her way of saying, "Hmmmm...looks like at least one of us will be forever 18 and wrinkle free." Sometimes, I just want to take a pair of scissors to those Aqua Net laden bird's nest bangs of hers, but then I stop and remember that I am the more mature woman--or at least that's what the Mary Kay skin care guide says.

Here, let me introduce you to
Miss "wrinkle free and forever 18"

        In just five short months my 30's will hit the road and lately I have felt the need to prove to that 18 year old know- it- all that I am still full of vim and vigor and still able to run rings around her little halo of hairspray. I guess that's why I accepted my son's challenge to a game of badminton yesterday afternoon. Little did I know that it would be me hitting the road instead.

         It was my idea to play in the street in front of my mother's house because that's how my cousins and siblings played when we were younger. There was barely any traffic back then and I spent many summer evenings swatting birdies while my parents sat on the front porch listening to all the squabbling, heavy breathing, and complaints about the gnats. But today, there was just one slight difference as I reenacted my childhood summers. I was wearing a pair of brown leather wedge sandals, which I fear have become another mid life experiment. That 18 year old would never have worn those with my sagging, elastic waist denim shorts...oh no, never!

           Well, soon the game was on and I was mincing about in my wedge heels, trying to keep my shorts up, and feeling so proud of all the power shots I made while my mother watched me try to defy the aging process from her front porch. She no doubt took great pity upon me for trying to serve a heaping wallop of "Who's nearly 40 now?" in the face of that youthful, mocking image on her wall inside.

Since there is no photographic evidence of these recent events,
this family archive photo shows a partial view of the street
from my childhood home where the accident occurred
at approximately 1:30 p.m. on June, 24, 2013.

          Well, things went more slowly this time around, but boy did I feel spry and invincible! Suddenly, my son sent the birdie whizzing overhead and the next thing I know, both my ankles swayed to the left and I felt myself slowly and silently crumpling to the ground like a mighty oak felled by the hand of God. (Well, actually it was less majestic than that--more like tranquilizing a wild moose.) On the way down, I could hear every muscle cry out for mercy and I distinctly remember telling myself, "Oh my. I'm falling down. I haven't fallen down in 15 years. Why would I fall down now? I really think I'm falling down. I hope I land in a descent position. Lord, spare my hips, please!" I rocked onto my right side (picture a fish out of water too long), then somehow found myself with my feet to the blue sky, the sun shining through the straps of my experimental Fountain of Youth sandals; and thinking, "Is this how you go to Heaven? Feet first?"

          Oh, I must have been quite a sight--sprawled out on the yellow line like a bloated road kill. Miraculously, no one saw me fall right away. Guess I didn't make that much racket. Get it? Racket? The fall obviously didn't break my funny bone because I was seized so quickly by laughter that I didn't have the strength to move. My sagging shorts could have been on fire but there was no way I could have mustered the energy to roll and put them out. Lying there on my stomach, I shook uncontrollably with deep belly laughs until my family finally noticed there was a woman down and ran to lend aid. I felt like I was trapped in one of those flashback movies and everything was happening in slow motion with echoing and distorted voices, making me laugh even more. I heard my mother say, "Geeeettttt uuuuuup Ssaarraa! A car might commmme! Huuuuurrryyyy!" as she tugged at my arm. Funny how as a child she let me play in the street, and now when I'm close to 40 she shows some concern. I begged her to pull my pants up, but I'm pretty sure the Super Moon made a repeat daytime appearance around 1:30p.m. Oh well. I'm just going to say that I raised the white Hanes flag and finally surrendered my feeble search for an agile, youthful identity.

           You know, it must have been an act of God and all those years of taking calcium supplements that finally allowed me to stand and perch upon those blessed sandals without a single car coming upon my little street show. As I limped along to the side of the road, visions of Nik Wallenda walking the tightrope across the Grand Canyon came to my frazzled mind. For me, crossing the street to safety in those shoes was just as much of a risky venture and just like Mr.Wallenda, I also took the time to praise Jesus with every step I made because had a car swerved around the corner, someone would have quickly realized that Brownsville had a new speed bump AND a dork in the road.

           This morning as I sit here wincing with every tilt of my coffee mug, I feel like a wad of foil unable to straighten itself out again. My stiff ankles are a reminder that sometimes being sturdy is better than looking "purdy." I've got a few minor scrapes and a bruised ego, and I'm seriously considering filing for recreational disability (sure hope there is such a thing). If I'm approved, then I will never have to make another claim to prove aging self at BADminton. But, it's gonna be ok no matter the outcome because I survived the plunge with a new view on turning 40 and both of my hips.

          Like most of my misadventures, there's a lesson to be learned.
I'm pretty sure that yesterday's recreation of Goliath's demise was intended to teach me about staying humble when I stumble and that sometimes we lose our balance when we long to walk in someone else's shoes, which in my case were those strappy sandals of an 18 year old. Also, I've learned never play games with people---either out of desire to win them over or to win at badminton. And most importantly, God wants us to remember that He sees the little sparrow fall AND the moose too. Oh, and if my son keeps calling me "Humpty" and reminding me to stay active, God is going to witness the fall of my last ounce of matronly patience. Now, please excuse me while I go engage in more age appropriate behavior: taking aspirin.

Humpty Thumpty

Wanted to prove herself to them all

But ended up taking the fall.

All the King's forces and sandals with heels

Could never show her again how an 18 year old body feels.

Gotsy Hibachi?

noreply@blogger.com (Sara Dillow) — Sun, 19 May 2013 03:13:00 +0000

Why couldn't thing say "Good Rear?" My self image
wouldn't have been so deflated.

Some days, you just know God is watching. Even when you momentarily ditch your diet and have ravenous thoughts about all the food you are going to eat that evening, He knows all about it. Yep. He will even make sure that the Good Year blimp hovers over your car then entire way home from work to remind you. Yes people, yesterday I was given the firsthand opportunity to experience what it is like to be one of those points on a Google Map. As I gazed out my sunroof, I saw it looming overhead and I'll be honest--after the day I had, I asked God to beam me up. But, I'm glad he didn't. It would have most likely resulted in a 911 call to extract a round peg from a square hole.

Things don't always roll out the way
you hope they will.

          Once the blimp took a detour, I continued with my gluttonous thoughts about the Japanese Steakhouse. A sizzling mom's night out at the hibachi grill was the perfect way to end a week of chaos and deadlines that all began early Monday morning when I found a mysterious roll of toilet paper sitting squarely in the middle of my desk at school. Didn't take me long to figure out that this was God's humorous way to let me know how the week was going to roll out. But, little did I know that my first adventure to a hibachi grill would open my eyes and give me a new perspective about how to live when things heat up.

          Now, let's just keep in mind that as I took my seat inside the restaurant, I became fully aware of how much I love hairspray. As random, flaming geysers licked the ceiling, I had flashbacks of Def Leppard concerts and Michael Jackson's Pepsi fiasco and figured I'd be given the chance to show others how to properly stop, drop, and roll, I'd leave with a pretty good start on a summer tan, or the owner would have to have the large grease spot on my chair professionally cleaned--think pork cracklins. Perhaps God should have sent a fire truck instead of a blimp. Before I knew it, knives and spatulas were twirling, oil was heating up, and a mound of shrimp and rice was being tossed about before my two eyes-- which I'm happy to report that I still have. You know, that hibachi chef and I have similar cooking styles. He doesn't really measure anything, shakes however much salt etc. he thinks should be shaken, and he has perfected the art of the one bowl wonder. When he gestured for me to open wide and catch a piece of wayward chicken, I could barely compose myself. Shouldn't I have to fill out a legal form or something? This ol' bird felt like a duck at the park and four pieces later, the flying fowl went foul and landed south.
Thankfully, the evening never required an emergency vehicle. But, if all this sodium induced swelling doesn't subside soon, an emergency acupuncture may be necessary.  The evening was definitely a real pick me up, but I'm afraid the people at church tomorrow are going to think I got a face lift!

When I have flames like this in the kitchen, I just call it
a burnt offering.

As I'm sitting here eating my little take out container of leftover rice, I'm trying to make meaning of the nuttiness that this week brought. So, here are some lessons I learned when you sit and watchee the hibachi:

**Everybody can give orders, but not everyone take them the right way.

**When things heat up, stand back and pray.

**Sometimes, things get a bit mixed up and it's difficult to catch what comes your way. Just keep laughing.

**Everyone eventually gets what's coming to them. Sometimes, that means it's a shared combination.

**When others are watching, don't put on a show. Show them what to watch, or in some instances, what to watch out for.

**If for some reason, you find it difficult to use what has been placed into your hands, (Chopsticks, anyone?) persevere and always find a way to hold onto your "tempura."

Well, that's all for now. It's getting hard to keep my eyes open. Not sure if that's soy sauce related or just the fact that "miso" sleepy.