Bathroom Mirror Philosophy

New Blog!

2011-10-11T16:33:00.001-06:00

Hey guys the blog has gotten a bit of a facelift and been moved to here please give it a visit.

Appreciation

2011-08-15T20:06:00.000-06:00

On Sunday last I ventured to Florence Street. Those closest to me know what that means.

I had a dream about my grandfather a few nights ago, and it prompted me to go and visit, which I need to do far more often. Sunday was the first time I’d seen my grandparents in nearly two months. Shameful, I am aware.

The visit began as my visits to their house often do, with me locked out. I knocked three separate times, the cousin that had accompanied me also knocked, more loudly than I, but to no avail. Finally, I pulled out my cell phone and called their house line, alerting them to the fact that I was indeed on their front porch enjoying the 106-degree heat.

When I entered, things seemed as usual. Oversized portraits of grandchildren decked the walls, flanked on either side by prints of our honorary cousins, John Wayne and Chuck Norris, better known as Walker Texas Ranger. My grandpa greeted me with, “Well, I’ll be,” and a hug. My grandma, however, walked within five feet of me several times without realizing I was in the room. But, when she eventually did, I received a warm embrace, promptly followed by an intense interrogation session that her grandchildren collectively refer to as “100 questions.” In actuality, there are only five questions, but they are repeated 20 times. She forgets and I love her, so I answer them repeatedly with repeated enthusiasm.

After these niceties, we (that being my newly arrived aunt and uncle, and me) pointed out that my grandparent’s 62nd wedding anniversary is this week, to which my grandmother replied, “Big deal.” She’s never quite gotten over the whole bed-of-roses scam that she believes marriage to be. She and my grandpa bicker quite a bit, but I know they love each other. Years ago my grandma was hospitalized with a heart-related issue. On a Sunday morning, my grandpa went into the hospital to check on her before going to church. Upon leaving the hospital he was T-boned and taken right back into the emergency room with a concussion. My grandma found out he was injured, but of course, wasn’t allowed to go and see him. When he was finally released in the early evening, he went straight to the elevators and up to her room. With tears streaming down his face, he walked in, his generally slow and stooped form moving with vigor, went straight to her bedside, where she was also in tears, and kissed her. It was the most precious sight I have ever witnessed. Unrivaled. Period.

Nevertheless, on Sunday, my grandma’s dander was up. No doubt the result of my mischievous uncle agitating her with picture shows, hamburgers and slop buckets, but that’s another blog, and I digress. My sweet grandpa shared the oversized musical Father’s Day card he received from another aunt and uncle. He’s very proud of it, as he is still sharing it in August, and Father’s Day was June 19. I opened it and looked, as did others, and my grandmother watched and waited. Like a spider. Then she said, “ I’ve got something better than that.”

She rose from her rocking chair and disappeared into a bedroom. Conversation continued in her absence and we all forgot her threat, but ten minutes later, she emerged. I know now that she went into that room and spent TEN MINUTES searching for something, anything that would one-up my sweet PawPaw’s musical Father’s Day card. I love her, but she’s ornery. Any of her five children or 14 grandchildren will tell you so.

What she carried in her hands was a framed drawing. She passed it in front of my Aunt Wilma first and stated that somebody named Johnny had given it to her, to which we all responded, more or less, “Who the #$%^ is Johnny?” There is no one in our family named Johnny.

As the art piece made its way around the room and closer to me, I caught a brief glimpse, and familiarity washed over me. My uncle was still trying to figure out who Johnny was, I was trying to remember where I had seen this lovely drawing of a feathered creature before, and my aunt said the magic words, “That has Rachel’s name on it.”

That’s right! I drew that bird in seventh grade, not Johnny! Whoever that is! I staked my claim on the art, backed up by others, but I’m reasonably certain Phantom Johnny will continue to get credit for it in my absence, despite my signature (in fine seventh grade penmanship) being etched along the breast of the bird. Oh well, it momentarily drew attention away from the Father’s Day card, and thus brought my grandmother great pleasure, which was my intention when I gave her the drawing ### years ago. Mission accomplished.

In my wise old age ...

2011-08-05T08:03:00.000-06:00

It seems I’ll be 28 soon. At least that’s what mathematical logic tells me, as I was born in August of 1983. Fear of aging sneaks up on you and smacks you in the back of the head. I never worried about it until I turned 25, and only then because SOMEBODY, SOMEWHERE, decided it would be a great idea to write an article, which I read, stating that 25 is a defining year for a woman. To summarize, the author purported that goals not met by age 25 might never be reached. Preposterous as it was, that pseudo-factoid stuck.

Paying too much attention to the opinions and lives of others holds the power to ruin perfectly good situations.

It is easy, tempting even, to stack our shortcomings and disappointments against the accomplishments and blessings of others. In fact, when we foolishly do so, we develop justification to stop trying and an excuse for our sloth.

In her book “The True Measure of a Woman” Lisa Bevere talks about our visual of God’s storehouse of blessings and states that we often see the blessings of others as a decrease in God’s ability to bless us in similar fashion. She uses a personal example of her young family of six being in desperate need of a new vehicle. While she prayed about it, a family in her church with only one child was blessed with a larger vehicle. Lisa simply didn’t understand why her family was not blessed in the same way. They had more children AND worked in more ministries than that family! In consequence she became bitter, envious and angry.

“He is the Rock, his works are perfect, and all his ways are just. A faithful God who does no wrong, upright and just is he.” Deuteronomy 32:4

How often have I failed to apply that scripture to my life? When we focus only on the negative, we are blind to the positive. That’s why we are commanded to praise God through our circumstances. If we focus on all He has already done, we are able to see what He is doing. I don’t believe God answers every prayer with a silver bullet. Sometimes He does, but most often He uses a process. God’s a multi-tasker. As He works in one area of our lives, why not challenge us, and consequently develop a strength or skill that we are in need of for the future?

In relation to focusing on the blessings of others instead of our own, just remember, we are commanded to love. At all times. Period.

“Rejoice with those who rejoice. Mourn with those who mourn.” Romans 12:15

Smell your way

2011-07-31T15:00:00.000-06:00

Smell is the strongest sense tied to memory. I’ve written before about opening storage containers or trinket boxes, breathing in, and instantly being transported to a time or event in my past, good and bad. Quite possibly, my very favorite sensation is waking up during the night before Thanksgiving and smelling the roasting turkey. Even in semi-consciousness that smell always reaffirms that something wonderful is to come, and I’m certain I fall back to sleep with a smile on my face. Memories of this are present throughout my childhood, as my mom almost always did the turkey for family Thanksgivings. The smell of the turkey comforts me. It means I’m at home, surrounded by the people I love most. Home from college at Thanksgiving, it was a reminder that I was home. An added treat was hearing the soft footsteps of my mother at various times throughout the night as she went into the kitchen to baste. Now I cook the turkey at Thanksgiving, which some might argue I do just so I can wake up and smell it cooking.

I’m on a half-vegan kick with my amazing new roommate right now. (Make no mistake, there will be turkey at Thanksgiving. I haven’t lost my mind.) I made slow-cooker oatmeal last night with fresh strawberries, coconut milk and almond extract. All night I woke to this unfamiliar, but sweet aroma, and when I remembered what it was, I think I may have giggled in excitement a little before closing my eyes again.

Over the years, I’ve gone to bed at night afraid, worried, stressed, doubting … I’m sure we have all spent a sleepless night or two experiencing one or more of these emotions. I pray before I sleep, especially when I am experiencing any of the above. But, as any mature believer will tell you, sometimes the peace, the resolve, the answer, doesn’t come before I slip into a strained and troubled sleep.

“Know therefore that the Lord your God is God; he is the faithful God, keeping his covenant of love to a thousand generations of those who love him and keep his commands.” Deuteronomy 7:9

Many times, my prayers have immediately brought peace, restful sleep, and a clear direction to take the next morning. Other times my questions go unanswered.

Nevertheless, I serve a faithful God. The answer may not come when I want it, and certainly not when I feel I need it the most, but it’s always right on time, because it comes on His schedule, not mine.

“Consider it pure joy, my brothers, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith develops perseverance. Perseverance must finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything.” James 1:2-4

For several weeks, maybe longer, I’ve been plagued with a trial. It has appeared in many forms and has involved many different people. I haven’t even known what to call it. How do you pray about something you can’t define?

I spent time with friends last night, had some good laughs, started my slow-cooker oatmeal, and went to bed. Somewhere in the night, I didn’t look at the clock, I woke feeling a question or some form of dread associated with this trial. I tossed and turned for a few minutes and mulled the circumstance over. I looked for a way around the problem it presented, because I’ve tried for weeks to go over the mountain and get it under my feet and haven’t been able to. As I worked to calculate my own solution, God finally whispered in my ear. Just a few words put it all in perspective so simply.

I woke up one or twice more last night before getting up for oatmeal and church this morning. Each time I did, I remembered those few words. How comforting it was to have a plan and a definition, to have guidance from the author and finisher of my faith. It was better than the aroma of a roasting turkey, or slow-cooker oatmeal.

The Four P's

2011-04-12T14:38:00.002-06:00

It’s April, and therefore graduation planning is under way. I find myself with an all-female senior class of young ladies who are very smart and very promising. (And I’m not just saying that because my little sister is one of them.) I have secured our keynote speaker, and this morning while drying my hair, found myself mentally writing her address. Of course, this very capable person will be writing and delivering her own speech, but I figured I’d blog my ideas anyway, send them into the universe for someone else to be (hopefully) inspired, and then remember to graft some of them into my introduction of the speaker in June.

Purpose. Perseverance. Patience. Progress. These four words have more in common than their first letter. The last is rarely achieved without the application of the former three. As graduates stepping into the adult world, the following will be good advice to follow. Planning a future is not simple, and neither is taking on the challenges (and there will be many) that will bring your plans to fruition.

I detest an ambiguous task. Nevertheless, when faced with one that I just can’t seem to get my head or arms around, it is always best to sit back and think of the desired end result and try to get a feel for the big picture. After all, if you don’t know where you’re going, how do you expect to get there? Purpose. Determine it.

However, the end objective is often intimidating, and seems unattainable. That is why once the purpose is determined, logical steps to fulfill it must be outlined. Then that outline must be acted upon even if it is an uphill battle the entire way. Perseverance.

Certainly the order you try to keep these steps in will be tossed, and the schedule in which you wish to achieve them will not be kept. People get in the way. Life gets in the way. We get in the way of ourselves. Plans change. Cheese gets moved. There are few great things in life that don’t require some form of waiting. Patience. I hear it’s a virtue.

Finally, progress. The funny thing about this one is that we never realize when it occurs. It’s only when you look back that you realize you’ve achieved it. An added reward is that the hard work and victories won have made you a better and stronger individual, one ready to grab the next challenge by the horns and start all over, but with earned confidence.

Accompanying all of these steps is the most important advice I can leave with a graduate, or anyone, including myself. Remember it is all in God’s hands – if you put it there. When you can’t see the light at the end of whatever tunnel you’re in, look up at the Light. Knowing this is simple enough, living and walking in it is slightly more difficult. I have to remind myself to do so approximately once an hour.

With that said, we can boldly take on the circumstances life throws at us, whether they are professional or personal. We don’t have to be intimidated by any perceived limitation or ceiling, except the starry one we sit under at night, and only then because we are humbled by the mystery and wonder of its Creator.

If you’re reading this and plan to attend Calvary Way’s commencement exercises, I suppose you can plug your ears when I take the podium to introduce the speaker and present the graduates, because these thoughts will be represented again. But, I promise I’ll phrase it differently, throw in a cheesy joke, and you’ll witness the added spectacle of me tearfully handing an Honor’s Diploma to my baby sister.

Recycled post ... sort of

2011-03-09T21:01:00.003-06:00

I haven't been blogging. I'm sure you've noticed. The truth is, I haven't slowed down long enough to ponder my thoughts. Tonight, I finally did. I was playing a song before Bible Study began. It's one I play often, and it was definitely on my heart. Everything went fine, until the final note. I just played the wrong chord altogether. It made me laugh, it made me think of the post I have reposted below, and then it almost made me cry. I'll tell you why in a minute.

--- Originally posted on August 6, 2010 --- Major Minors

At times, when goals still seem so far from being met, it's easy to think you haven't accomplished much. I'm not talking about a pity party, although I still have those. It's more of a drill sergeant-type self lecture: "Allen! You have got to pick it up!" or "Do not make this mistake again!"

Fortunately, when I have those moments, it's never too long before some positive little memory from the past floats to the surface. I may run across someone who brings it to mind, I may be going through student records and recall an occurrence, or it may just come to me in a silent moment. It's not important how it arrives, but that it does.

Our church is small. Our ministries are big. We aren't a Latin-instructing preschool, or an Ivy League preparatory high school, but we do change lives for the better - always with His help.

A memory came to mind today while I was thinking about needing new floors in the commons area, and tricking myself into believing that my students are somehow disadvantaged by the mustard shade of linoleum that is there at present. Suddenly, I remembered a single mother who was at a crossroads I hope I never stand at. She was on her own with a 10-month-old, and she had to be honest about something in order to enroll her child in our day care center. I could tell she was cringing inside because she was expecting to be judged.

I believe God allows each and every one of us to experience things for the express purpose of having the right mindset to handle some event in the future. I am so grateful He did that for me. Otherwise, today I would cringe at how I handled that woman's confession. Instead, because of what His grace did for me, I was able to look her in the eye and offer reassurance, and care for her baby while she earned a living. Our facilities might not be as shiny and new as my human self would like them to be, but that day God was able to use our day care ministry to make a difference in two lives.

Since having that remembrance early this morning, my day has been peppered with recollections. Some have made me laugh, and some have brought tears to my eyes. All of them have shown me that my God is a composer, a weaver, a master artist.

I love music that incorporates minor chords. The sharp change from a bright, full chord, to the one that seems slightly incomplete gives me chills. When I play, I love to hold out a suspended chord. Even though I'm seemingly in control of what I'm creating, my ear waits at point for the resolve.

When we step off track. When we lose our way completely. When we take something complete and full and choose to change it. In those instances, I believe God just sees that He's going to have a little more interesting finished piece. He'll use the minor chords of our own creation to do something beautiful and unexpected further down the road.

------------------------------------------------------------------

... and back to present day.

It is so easy to lose sight of our purpose. I fear I've gotten off track as of late, I've felt that way for a while. I've been praying about it, God knows what's up and I trust Him to make the crooked ways straight. Tonight, He once again, in an awesome but gentle way, showed me that He has heard. He reminded me that He uses the foolish things to confound the wise, and that in my weakness, He is strong. My wrong note is still music to His ears, so long as it is played for the right reasons. Therefore, I know my life still has purpose in His kingdom, as long as it is lived in a way that points to Him.

Snow Notes

2011-01-09T15:16:00.005-06:00

It's a good day to be a writer. I am sitting before my patio door and staring out at a snow-covered landscape (see it above). My laptop is open, an article was just edited, and I have a cup of Starbuck's Salted Caramel Cocoa within arm's reach. Coffee and a crackling fire would raise the day to a level of historic perfection, nigh nirvana, but alas, I must sleep tonight, and I don't think the fireplace in this house has been used or cleaned in over a decade.

East Texas had two legitimate snow days last winter, so I didn't dare hope that it could happen again this year, but it has. Too often, I allow preconceived notions of the possible and impossible to dash my hopes. I forget to keep those Disney-inspired aspirations alive.

"God can do anything, you know—far more than you could ever imagine or guess or request in your wildest dreams! He does it not by pushing us around but by working within us, his Spirit deeply and gently within us." Ephesians 3:20-21 (The Message)

I think we all hear and live under the "don't get your hopes up" line too much. While I know life is not always a bed of roses, it's nice to look out the window and know that all the naysayers (also known as snow haters) are eating their words.

Today's wintry beauty is just a small reminder that God likes to surprise us every now and then. We are His children, and He does love us immeasurably, so why wouldn't He pull out all the stops just to make us smile?

Teardrops on the MacBook

2010-12-12T07:55:00.003-06:00

The holiday season is officially here. That announcement usually ushers in a great deal of excitement. Naturally, I am looking forward to celebrating old traditions, making up new ones, spending time with family and friends, and of course, always present on my mind is the bleak hope of snow. However, I find myself holding back this year.

I am happy to report that since writing the above sentences nearly two weeks ago, holiday cheer and general merriment have begun to take hold. Ninety-five percent of my shopping is done, presents purchased are wrapped and sitting under a fabulous tree, and our yard should be on par with the Griswold's sometime this afternoon. But, I digress ...

Loss lays dormant. It becomes an uncomfortable, but familiar stitch in the side. Then one night, while putting up a Christmas tree, the thud of reality hits again. The world has kept spinning, somehow, without a certain person on it. Memories are in place, but the possibility of making new ones is gone.

Holidays are full of memories for me, as I'm sure they are for every person reading this. My favorite memories of childhood Christmases involve Krystal. I laugh out loud when I remember our special operative-style plans to meet Santa. I cringe when I recall our wading through waist-deep snow until being abruptly stopped by the jagged rim of a culvert. Under my tutelage Krystal learned and sang the wrong words to many a Christmas carol, but our parents never corrected us. Instead, they listened patiently as we drove through the streets of Boise or Burley looking at lights, and then silenced us with homemade hot cocoa once we were home. Our childhoods were simple, and filled with love.

This year, life has not been as simple. Nevertheless, laughter seems to be our choice of illumination when we find ourselves in a tunnel. It's not the same carefree giggling we shared as girls. Instead, it is a deeper, I'll even say healing acknowledgement of the joy and contentment present in the simple pleasures God provides. Despite our constant wishes for Kenny to be here to laugh for himself, his absence has taught us to look for his special brand of humor in every situation -- now we laugh more often, a little harder, and a little longer, and we laugh at ourselves, to make up for not hearing his goofy chuckle echoing with our own.

Exhibit A: Kenny was a faithful follower of Christ, but was less enthusiastic about the commercialism of the Christmas holiday than Krystal, whom he affectionately dubbed "Krystal Christmas" from roughly November 15-January 2 of every year. With that in mind, I heard a fiendish chortle mix with the north wind last night when we discovered that the lights we had carefully wrapped every tree with would not connect with the extension cords we had purchased. Evidently, these extension cords were manufactured on Mars.

Transplanting past memories, grafting them into the fabric of the present, makes loss easier to handle. Sometimes it plays a trick on the mind, one that is followed by tears or just moments of silence. As I've said before, a fresh moment of heartbreak is a small price to pay for a minute or two of vivid, joyful memory.

I know the same love and strength that has always been a part of Krystal's life will continue to illuminate a path for her. Kenny is not here, but the memories of his love and devotion are. He can't physcially be a part of our celebrations this year, or next, but he is with The One that we celebrate.

Box Tops and Lies

2010-11-30T15:56:00.004-06:00

“Solve for ‘y’.”
“Benjamin Franklin.”
“You have to complete the Punnett Square to get the percentage!”
“Multiply by the inverse and simplify.”
“London and Istanbul were both conquered by Romans.”
“Rubber and quinine.”
“Tuck your shirt.”
“Where’s your belt?”
“You need a haircut.”
“Austin, stop fidgeting.”
“Posture for prayer. Posture. For. Prayer.”

Those are just a few of the phrases that have left my mouth today. Some are statements, others are commands. Most are answers to the 47,000 questions I respond to every day. Nonetheless, it wouldn’t be a standard day at CWA if I didn’t say one or more of those things 15 times, didn’t come home with my pockets full of Box Tops, my hands covered in red ink messages to myself -- reminders that still didn’t remind me -- and at least a few comical anecdotes.

This morning in pledges we voted on our Christmas service project. I found five children’s charities to choose from. My logic was that a hand vote would be quicker and easier than distributing paper ballots to each class. I described each charity and then asked students to vote. My exact words were: “Raise your hands high, and DO NOT put them down until I say so.” (Donna, are you reading this?) Like nailing Jell-O to a tree, my friends. On the first round, I counted to about 12, then 14 more hands went up. I started counting again, and 11 hands went down. This was repeated in similar fashion five times, and our voting process resembled something like a game of Whack-A-Mole. Eventually, we selected a charity, and bless their hearts they chose a good one. I’m proud.

Later in the day, I was on my way into a parent meeting. I noticed a young man (I’ve written about him before, he’s a suspicious fellow) lingering behind me in the commons.

“Do you need something?” I asked.

He oddly nodded his head “yes” and “no” at the same time.

“What is it?” I repeated.

He went on with some question about science experiments, and without having all the background information, and in my hurried state, I gave the answer he undoubtedly was seeking. Three minutes later my meeting was interrupted by the student’s teacher. Said student had originally been given the exact opposite answer. He then proceeded to lie to his teacher about needing to ask me a question for his mom. He was excused from class and found me, and the rest is history. Oh, to channel this resourcefulness into something truly useful ... and honest.

I remember being a teenager and having far more important things on my mind than following instructions. Although, most of the time I did follow instructions, to the point of being nerdy, because the idea of not doing something right frightened me. I also remember not liking the answer I got from my mom, and subsequently going to my dad. I’ve said this before, and I’ll say it again: God gives us experiences that not only teach us, but give us wisdom and grace to deal with people and situations further down the road. Fortunately, I remember what it was like to not quite have it all figured out. I still don’t quite have it all figured out.

I’m glad I can not only laugh at my students’ antics, but also turn them into endearing memories. Wherever I end up in life, when I look back on this chapter it will be filled with humor and joyful memories, and that’s exactly how I want it.

Carnival Contemplations

2010-11-20T08:14:00.003-06:00

Last Friday, I enjoyed a massage and fantastic night out with one of my best friends and former roommate, Andrea. During our outing I noticed a carnival was set up near the mall. More on that later. Andrea and I hadn't spent any time together in a while. Even when we were roommates our schedules were so hectic that we rarely saw each other for more than a few waking hours at a time. But, spending time with her last Friday, I realized just how used to her companionship I had become, and I hadn't thought to miss it until it was reintroduced. Funny.

The following morning, I hopped out of bed and got to cleaning, then went to lunch with Krystal, enjoyed the Art Walk in downtown Kilgore, which I was unexpectedly pleased with, and got a fabulous haircut. Following the new do, Krystal and I headed to Longview to shop and met up with my sister and her boyfriend. We went into Ulta, where Nathan learned about the importance of good conditioners and choosing eye makeup shades that complement one's eye color. Then we ambled through Kohl's, where my blood sugar reached a dangerous low. Not dangerous for me, but profoundly hazardous for those around me. We went to dinner at El Sombrero, also known as heaven on earth. On the way to the restaurant, we passed the carnival again. Krystal insisted that we go after eating ... Mexican food. I agreed. The under 20 crowd we were with (i.e. Nathan and Rebekah) seemed hesitant, and for good reason it turned out.

Let's talk about traveling carnival workers for a minute. I began to feel uneasy when we purchased our tickets. On the booth was a sign that read: "Workers needed for tear down, $7/hour." I wondered if the people that set the rides up were paid $7 an hour, and recruited via yellowed and crumpled fliers. My adult mind began to analyze, scrutinize and visualize. Do these people receive safety training? Are they certified by some kind of carnival authority, if one exists? Where's the quality control? I found myself searching out what might push me to join the ranks of a traveling carnival and none of them were good things, nothing say, driven by ambition. Where's the motivation to tighten that bolt, lubricate that gear, double-check that safety latch?

Mind you, none of this kept me off the rides. Unfortunately most of the above entered my mind while I flew through the air 40 feet above the ground with my precious baby sister out of arm's reach. After "La Arana" and the "Tilt-a-Whirl," Rebekah had endured all the high-speed spinning she could. Krystal and Nathan ran for the "Scrambler" and Rebekah and I went to the "Fun House," which ended up being no fun at all. We approached the ticket-handling professional, and he gave us a look that can only be described as "Really?" After meandering our way through a littered and smudged room of mirrors, we ascended stairs and found ourselves at the top of a precarious twisty slide. We landed safely on the ground. The ticket-handling professional's expression now made sense.

It seemed the carnival's charm was spent, until we were walking to the car and Nathan held up his hand in warning. He abruptly shoved Rebekah away from his side, and was sick. If that was the worst that happened to any of us during our brief visit, I'm happy.

When I was a child, I was fearless. As a teenager and young adult, I was reckless. Now, I dissect everything. Just like with Andrea, I didn't think to ponder my dormant apprehension of carnival rides until I was committed. I think I like it that way. There are definitely some life issues that need to be evaluated, and fears that need to be heeded. But, for the most part, I'd like to shut my analytical side up most of the time. Turns out I can manage that pretty easily when in the company of good friends.

Work Day(s)

2010-11-10T06:52:00.000-06:00

"Every day should be a day we allow God to work on us, but there are some days that we need to be totally gutted and rebuilt. Today is one of those days."

I wrote that before leaving for church on Sunday. I then left and went to prepare a Sunday school lesson. Ironically, or eerily depending on how you look at it, I taught my kids about Zacchaeus and how he changed after meeting Jesus. I came home that afternoon and tried to complete this post using Zacchaeus as an example and couldn't make the pieces fit. Finally, at 5 a.m. on Wednesday, I seem to be on the path to finishing it. I guess I needed more than one workday.

If any of you work in ministry, you know it's not a bed of roses all the time. Foolishly, I sometimes think it should be. As a freelance writer, I write about many very large churches and get to know members of their staff. I trick myself into thinking that the day-to-day work lives of these individuals must be easier than mine because they work for these massive, well-organized ministries. Then, I read Acts chapter 6. Even the first church was disorganized and chaotic. In spite of eager and fervent workers and a number that increased daily (two things I very much want and need for our ministries), there were many problems. Problems with people. How 'bout that?

I began my workday on Sunday, and over the past three days God has illuminated many things to me. It took more than one day for Him to get me to a place where I would hear it, absorb it, and begin to work on it. I didn't even realize that the recurring struggles of my day job were such a weight on me until I read in Acts this morning. But as soon as I did, I instantly felt relief because God showed it to me, and now we can work on it together.

I continued in Acts and read about Stephen, the first martyr. In the seventh chapter, Stephen recounts the history of the Israelites. No matter how many times I read or reflect on this portion of Biblical history, I am always amazed at the long-reaching plan of God. What began as a somewhat dubious promise to a childless Abraham was completed over generations in Isaac, Jacob and Joseph. In the lives of just those four individuals are trials I can't begin to list. Trials I've never endured, but every one a component in God's ultimate plan for His chosen ones. Isaac was almost killed at the hand of his father; Jacob was swindled into marrying the wrong woman; Joseph was sold into slavery by his own brothers ... and all of these events had their place. Joseph's presence in Egypt laid the foundation for Moses to arise and deliver the Israelites out of captivity.

I read all that this morning and rested. God always ties it up with a neat bow at the end. Something that happens today might be a precursor to an event ten or two hundred years down the road.

I am making a conscious pledge to have workdays more often. God is a wise father who knows exactly how much we can handle at one time. I didn't learn every rule of English in one day (still haven't perfected them all). It was a process that lasted many years and required many forms of teaching. I can't expect learning to be a good ... everything ... to be any different. I believe God measures out the wisdom, instruction, and guidance we need as we need it, and as we ask for it. Asking is the key (James 1:5). And, when that wisdom hits you on the head at 5 o’clock on a Wednesday morning, don't be overwhelmed by it -- trust in the strength you have in Him. (Philippians 4: 13).

Rejection: The castor oil of emotion

2010-11-02T06:51:00.002-06:00

It looks as though I'll be a publishing a book. I repeat: It looks as though I'll be publishing a book!!! The opportunity I've been waiting on for two years has finally arrived. This brings me to today's topic: Rejection.

I've been rejected on the publishing front quite a few times. No surprise there. It comes with the territory, and with the economy as it is, nobody wants to gamble on a first-time author. However, at the risk of sounding arrogant, I really feel that my writing is exceptional, and that I am worth the gamble because I am an abnormally hard working and diligent person. Thinking in this manner caused me to feel dejected at some times, and kept me going at others. I guess my reaction at any one point in time depended on my blood sugar. But finally, my belief in my skill as a writer (of novels) has been validated.

It can be said that my book was rejected because I didn't approach the right publishers at the right time. Perhaps my presentation wasn't quite perfect. Maybe the publisher's perception of my work was skewed due to something in that individual's past. Who knows? I find it interesting that these same issues can be applied to all different types of rejection. Not making a team, not being hired for a job, not being asked on a second (or a first) date.

The lesson to learn is this: When it comes to rejection, some variables are just beyond our control. I could never have predicted that a gatekeeper at a publishing house would gloss over my work because they are adverse to New Orleans, hypothetically speaking. Conversely, I could never have known that a hiring manager would pick me because I wore a pinstripe suit and the candidate ahead of me wore a solid.

In the grand scheme of things, it's all already been worked out. But, that's difficult advice to swallow while reading rejection e-mail #84. Nonetheless, I kind of feel that rejection is just the universe's way of helping us to weed out the unworthy so we can end up with something truly wonderful and worthwhile.

The Waiting Game

2010-10-18T16:47:00.003-06:00

Ever had a hankering to do something really stupid? I mean really stupid - I'm not fooling around here. I have. Mercifully, God has granted me with enough wisdom over the past few years that I have avoided, or talked myself out of, most of these foolish ventures. I'm thinking of two instances in particular. One popped up some months ago, the other crossed my mind more recently. Both were spawned from the discontent that seems to spring up even in the most pious Christian lives. At least I hope I'm not the only one that gets antsy and human. Let me know if I am and I'll work harder.

I get in a hurry every now and then - I get impatient and worried. For brief moments I completely and totally take my eyes off God, forget His promises, and con myself into believing I need to take matters into my own hands. This rarely (read: never) works out to my advantage. Thank goodness for that. What a shame it would be to craft something of my own and miss out on whatever He has created for me. How sad to settle for what I can accomplish on my own, instead of waiting for His design to take shape.

In several chapel lessons I have used puzzle pieces as an example for God's will. We only have one piece of the puzzle, and it's probably just a blob of meaningless color. We can't possibly know our place in the big picture because our perspective is too limited. God has the box. Not only does he see the whole picture, He also has the rest of the pieces. I lose my piece every now and then, and God has to show me where I left it. Sometimes I argue and refuse to pick my piece back up. Fortunately, I always do, and more fortunately still, He waits while I make up my mind to do so.

Probably one of the hardest things to do as a Christian, as a human, is to wait. Babies take nine months to be born - that's a long time - but isn't it worth it? What do a mother and father do during that time? They prepare a place for their child, and they prepare and educate themselves to be parents. Can't we do the same regardless of what we're waiting for? Prepare and educate. I can do that.

Waiting is hard for me because I am an active person that always wants to be accomplishing something toward a goal. So, while writing this blog today I have learned that instead of losing my puzzle piece, or pawning it, I should probably study it a little closer. I should prepare and educate myself for whatever God is working on for me.

My Life as a Vagabond

2010-10-13T12:22:00.000-06:00

I am a failure on the blogging front. Not that it’s an excuse, but I have been in the process of helping to renovate a house, and moving into said house. The experiences related to the aforementioned have inspired this very post.

I moved back to my parent’s house in the spring while I was in a time of transition. Soon thereafter my cousin, Krystal, decided to buy a home and asked me to live with her, so I stayed put at mom and dad’s through the summer. Krystal closed on her house in September and we spent the rest of the month painting, changing floors, ripping out sinks, filling a pit, and all of the other fun tasks that go along with making a mid-70’s home respectable for twenty-somethings.

On one such renovation-related occasion, Krystal and I had been painting for several hours. All other family and help had abandoned us. We finished a bedroom and moved on to the pantry and utility room closet. The floors were (supposed to be) being put in the next day, so in view of my extremely messy painting skills, we wanted all painting done beforehand. I went to work cutting in at the ceiling of the pantry while Krystal rolled the walls. I was high on a ladder in the dark pantry when Krystal jumped backward out of the small space and spoke a phrase. I heard only one word that mattered: spiders. How I removed myself from the ladder and closet without serious injury will always be a mystery. After spastically shaking my head to make sure there were no arachnid stowaways, I returned to the pantry doorway with Krystal where we beheld not one, not two, but a “herd” of spiders. We knew if we killed just one, the rest would come after us, so we went in search of some tool that could kill several at once. In an empty house, our choices were limited and we returned armed only with Windex. It didn’t work, other than to ruin what painting we had gotten done. Next, we made a desperate phone call to a nearby friend. He wouldn’t help. We gave up on the pantry and decided to paint the utility room closet, but found it in the same shape. So, we went home.

We officially moved in last Friday, sans beds, dishes, working shower, etc. It made for a fun evening. On Saturday, I moved my furniture from my parent’s house, which is about thirty miles away. I followed my dad in my own car and watched for signs of loosening ropes and such. About a quarter of the way, a billowy white mass flew at my windshield. Snow? Manna from heaven? No. It was my perfect-in-every-way Sealy pillow top mattress and box spring flying out, followed closely by the beautiful headboard and footboard of my canopy bed. I swerved to dodge the mattress and pulled over. I didn’t know what to do next. I climbed out of the car and, with hands raised in some warped form of surrender, walked the three or four yards to my mattress. Unsure of protocol in such a situation, I tried to pick it up. I was unsuccessful. My dad and cousin were at my side by this time and picked it up. I began the search for the pieces of my life … err bed. I saw my headboard at a distance and believed it to be unscathed. I rushed toward the grassy place it rested in only to see the main support beam busted in half. It was facedown, so I lifted it and discovered the lustrous dark wood was now slightly distressed and rustic. We reloaded and drove the rest of the way to the new house. I had put on a brave face for my dad during clean up, but cried once I was alone.

Despite my disappointment over the bed, it is just a piece of furniture. My thankfulness over my family and I being safe and healthy far outweigh my chagrin. I am grateful to be in a place where my contentment and peace come from an intangible source. God works in all things, and He works them for the good of those who seek Him. I know this move, this change, is a fresh start of sorts - definitely a new chapter. Maybe, just maybe, a new bed is part of that.

September Thoughts

2010-09-23T18:05:00.000-06:00

It is now the third week of school, therefore the honeymoon is officially over, the gloves are off, et al. Nevertheless, as my students settle in and begin to show their true personalities, I’m overcome with how much joy they bring me. I am so grateful for all the lives that are a part of my life. Below are a few laughable examples of why I don’t mind the sound of my alarm clock … most days.

I have assigned my high school students the task of recreating the constitutional framer of their choice’s journal during the time of the Constitutional Convention. One such student shared their work so far with me yesterday. I learned that Thomas Jefferson not only had an alarm clock, but also rode to the convention in a taxi. The following day, he ate cereal and borrowed a suit from a neighbor, naturally, since he forgot to drop his own suit off at the dry cleaner’s. No complaints – the student is making a noble and imaginative effort.

At lunch Tuesday, I confiscated a switchblade comb from an elementary student. Before I realized it was a comb, visions of a crumpled bleeding body on the floor of our lunchroom aged me a few years. The owner of this novelty item crossed my path again later in the day when he left his classroom and appeared to be choking. I was immediately concerned, but soon discovered he was breathless with laughter, and also noticed he was carrying his chair. I got distracted, but went to investigate a few minutes later. I assumed he had been sent to the hallway because he was misbehaving in class. However, I couldn’t find him in the hallway. Soon, I heard stifled laughter, and found this young man behind the door in a dark bathroom. He was sitting in his chair with books open - accomplishing nothing as it was dark - but quite pleased with his cleverness.

We enrolled four siblings this year, one is in the elementary class, but the other three are mine, and they are magnificent. I wish I could clone them. However, the endearing mischievous nature of my veteran students is starting to rub off on them. This was evidenced by the oldest boy in the family repeatedly setting the alarm clock on another student’s desk. I couldn’t get mad, because it was funny – especially when the student whose desk it was couldn’t begin to comprehend why or how that radio was coming on all by itself.

Finally, a student came running into my office at lunch time on Thursday (I love that they are undaunted by the “principal’s office”) to inform me that he decided to change his name to whatever country his finger landed on when he rolled the globe. Unfortunately, that country was Iran. I counseled him against this decision.

Do I often want to beat my head against a wall after I’ve gone over the same instructions 15 times? Yes. But, a long time ago I asked God to put love in my heart for the young people I work with, and He’s done just that. At the end of the day, whatever mishap, mistake, or misunderstanding may have occurred, I count it all joy. I have the privilege of showing them how to get it right tomorrow … for the 16th time.

Free and undeserved

2010-09-12T06:45:00.005-06:00

"You can't outrun grace." Yes, it's a lyric from a song. I heard the song the other day and those four words resonated with me. It probably means a thousand different things to a thousand different people. To me, it just means I am loved unconditionally and my mistakes are not only forgiven, but also forgotten. Remembering that truth is the best part of my day. So why is it often so hard to offer it to others?

I received an apology from someone today. I knew what they had done, but didn't care. I can honestly say they were forgiven when it happened, and long before they thought to ask for forgiveness. I can also honestly say I have not always behaved in such a gracious manner.

How many movie plots are based upon one character not forgiving another over some small mistake or misconception? This is the situation Hollywood is built on - the skeleton in the closet, I dated your sister 13 years ago, accidentally ran over your cat, missed chance, miscommunication, just add B actors, instant plot.

We sit in the audience and watch the break up unfold, and we cringe. We think how ridiculous it is that they're not together. We are astonished over the foolishness of the individual holding back their forgiveness. However, are there people in our lives we haven't forgiven for far more trivial, although non-fiction, things?

As I write this I am scouring my life, looking for hidden grudges. I am expanding my search to people I don't see or hear from on a regular basis, and now I'm on to people I've never even met. I admit I'm not always pleased with the decisions made by our nation's leaders, I may even become angry with them. Chances are, not one of them will be sending me an e-mail or picking up the phone to ask my forgiveness for their shortcomings. It's unlikely these individuals will ever admit to having shortcomings. So, why don't I just sit back, unload my worries on the one who's offered to carry them for me, and forgive people before they even have the chance to know they're wrong. It's not my job to sit back and judge their actions anyway.

I write this now, I'm sure I'll forget it soon enough. But, if I remember to practice it here and there, it could make a difference. Think how short romantic comedies would be if forgiveness was just poured out up front.

We can't outrun God's grace, so why make others chase after ours?

It must be love ...

2010-09-09T20:38:00.003-06:00

I have numerous very good reasons for not posting for almost two weeks. School started this week, which is the root of most of the reasons. It is also the reason I'm multitasking tonight. By that I mean that I am blogging and preparing a chapel message for tomorrow at the same time.

I'm confident most have heard the story about the young man that dropped all his books while walking home from school. Several students laughed and pointed, and none of them offered to help - routine behavior for his peers. However, one boy did eventually cross the street and helped pick up the books. They walked home together and were friends throughout junior high and high school. On graduation day, the boy who dropped the books stepped onto the stage to give his valedictorian address. In his speech he recognized his best friend, and confessed that the day they'd met six years before was the day he'd planned to kill himself. I don't know if this account is based on actual events, but every time it finds its way into my inbox, I am reminded of the magnitude of importance our actions, or inactions, possess.

My chapel message for tomorrow will come out of Romans 12 - we'll be talking about love. It is simple, but complex. Desired, but not always deserved. You can see that my challenge in relaying love's importance to young people is making them understand the depth of what love actually is.

I can scoop up a toddler and put a bandage on a scraped knee easy enough, but can I smile and be patient with the chatty individual ahead of me in the check-out line? I can help a family member through a trial because I love them and I'm invested in their future, but can I do the same for a stranger whose circumstances and personality I am not familiar with? Simple, meet complex.

I can accept the graciousness and generosity of my family and my Savior, but I can't earn it. Desire, meet undeserving.

When I was young, I thought love was a Disney movie. I thought it was a hug. Not until adulthood did I see that love is not an emotion or action we save for just those closest and dearest to us - it is how we are to act toward every single person we come in contact with, and it is usually expressed in the most casual ways.

Romans 12 instructs us to honor others above ourselves, practice hospitality, bless those who persecute us, be willing to associate with people of low position. Here's a tough one: Be careful to do what is right in the eyes of everybody. Everybody. Not just your pastor, not just your grandma on Sundays when she takes you to church. Everybody. All the time.

I've been really busy lately with good stuff, but as I sit here at 10:00 on a school night (gasp) I wonder how much of my business includes following all those instructions in Romans 12. When I'm in the middle of some seemingly crucial task and the phone rings, am I being patient and exuding love to the soul on the other end? Am I being careful to do what is right? If not, what kind of impression am I leaving?

Simple actions make bold statements.

Pioneers: The first purpose-driven lives

2010-08-27T06:42:00.003-06:00

I am a morning person. I meant to write a post on this topic yesterday and never got around to it. I'm so glad I didn't. I woke up this morning, started a pot of coffee (Savannah Seduction from the Paula Deen collection - you should try it), and looked out the back door. It's been mercifully cool here the past two days, and this morning the temperature was just low enough to pull a swirling mist out of the lake. The wind was blowing gently, pushing water toward our dock and causing the tall reeds on the far shore to sway. The same breeze permeated the branches of the oak trees, putting a million leaves in motion and even sending some fluttering to the ground and water beneath. Generally speaking, my backyard was on par with a scene from a Nicholas Sparks movie.

I opened up our day care yesterday morning. We open at 6:30, which means I was up at five and out the door by six. The drive into town got me thinking on this subject: As much as I love to sleep, I love a quiet, still morning that much more. There is a confounding mixture of peace and majesty right before the sun comes up that I love to be a part of. Add to it the aroma of strong coffee and I'm blissfully happy.

I have mostly fond memories of the wee morning hours. Growing up, our family vacations always commenced in the pre-dawn darkness. Likewise, our Christmas mornings have never seen the light of the sun. Even while working long summer days at the National Interagency Fire Center after my first year of college, the 6:30 a.m. clock-in time was met with laughter and in the company of one of my best friends.

There's more to it than positive associations, though. Mornings are filled with possibility. Everything is new. Those are qualities not shared by other times of the day. Historically speaking, mornings were most important – the entire day’s success pivoted on what was accomplished before the sun was even up. Failure to literally seize the day resulted in catastrophe and waste on a farm or other primitive place of commerce.

Every branch of my father's family tree made the trek from the eastern United States to the mountains of Idaho in the late 1800's. His maternal grandfather lost his first wife and three children along the way. Harsh winters can last eight months in that already rugged country, which was at that time (and now, come to think of it) sparsely populated. Nevertheless, my ancestors hacked out homes, started families, and became successful founding citizens of what would become our nation's 43rd state (1890). I consider my day's productivity to be wrecked if the Internet is running slowly.

In spite of that fault, I do hope my a.m.-adeptness is something passed down from my pioneer ancestors. On childhood camping trips I would wake in the tent or camper that was damp with dew. I would smell the fire right before recognizing its crackling sound mixed in with clanging pots and pans. My dad would already be up working on his "Mountain Man Breakfast." Stepping out into the crisp and pure mountain air of Idaho - you have no idea - you literally feel your lungs being cleansed. The rustle of pine needles underfoot, the burble of a meandering stream nearby, the call of birds, the smell of coffee percolating in a tin pot, and the sight of distant rocky peaks that tell you just how small you are. This is purely my assumption, but those have to be the small joys cherished by the hard workers I came from.

I sit back and picture a great-grandfather stepping outside a cabin of rough-hewn timber. It's early, their body is sore, but they have a hot be it meager breakfast in their stomach. They look to the east and see the faint promise of sunshine making its way up the backside of what I believe to be the most perfect landform created by God. They button another button on a coat or pull gloves onto chapped hands and then take a deep breath and start out. Inside they have a knowledge that whatever they accomplish that day, little or much, it's that much more done and it's a measure of work they can be proud of because they started early and with purpose.

Clever Title

2010-08-23T17:01:00.002-06:00

Accomplishment: Something that has been achieved successfully.

Today is my 27th birthday. I'm in full swing analytical mode looking back over the 23 years I remember well. I've succeeded at a lot of things, I have failed at others. I ran my first 5K race this past weekend. It was something I had wanted to do for some time, and I feel really great about having done it. I finished college, a degree hangs on my office wall. I attempted to adopt children and backed out. I tried to buy a house, several actually, and never made it to closing. I've written a book, but haven't had it published. I could continue to list successes, near successes, and failures, but no more is necessary to make my point.

Above my bed hangs a sign: “Blessed is the life that finds joy in the journey.” Life's mixture of attempts, missed chances, triumphs, and let downs are what make up a lifetime of rich memories. They are what make a person. Forced experience never ends up being all that rewarding or memorable, but a chance encounter, an unexpected experience, a stolen laugh, the unmerited opportunity to be a light for another soul, those make up the well-woven tapestry of a life.

When Krystal, Rebekah, Cynthia, and I were in New York in January, it wasn’t the expertly planned and executed moments that were the most enjoyable. Instead, a second trip to Junior’s for cheesecake and a table full of diabetic coma-inducing desserts in Little Italy are my favored memories … and it’s merely a coincidence that they happen to revolve around food.

1 Peter 2:9: But you are a chosen people, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, a people belonging to God, that you may declare the praises of him who called you out of darkness and into his wonderful light.

When push comes to shove, every accomplishment and every moment of life are gifts from above. We are allowed to have them because of his grace. We are a “chosen people, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, a people belonging to God” for the sole purpose of glorifying him. I live in the light! And not because I found it on my own. He led me to it, and when I stray into darkness, he plugs in a nightlight for me. How can I not live my life for his glory?

I dub myself an overachiever, and I am a person satisfied by work well done. I have goals and plans, among them are running a full marathon, publishing books, marrying a man who loves me, having children of my own and adopting more, making a home, growing a school, and seeing the world. But before any of these, I have the goal of molding and shaping a life that is in keeping with the commands and will of my Lord.

The most comfortable clothes I own are the ones that are stained and frayed, and have been in a dresser drawer for a quarter or more of my existence. Similarly, the people I most enjoy being with are the ones that have been walking beside me, and I by them, through the food fights and mountain tops of life. In this vein, I hope that the accomplishments I treasure most are the ones that point to Him. Like paint-splattered jeans and old friends, they might not look like much, but they mean a lot to me, and one other person.

Spiritual Geography

2010-08-16T17:19:00.005-06:00

“It's in Christ that we find out who we are and what we are living for. Long before we first heard of Christ and got our hopes up, he had his eye on us, had designs on us for glorious living, part of the overall purpose he is working out in everything and everyone.” Ephesians 1:11

Mountains and valleys, friends. Mountains and valleys. Every human has both. Looking back over a few of the valleys I've been in, I see an image of myself with a shovel in my hand. Do we dig our own at times?

I've always considered myself to be an "up by the bootstraps" kind of gal. However, when I really hold a light close, I see that I have occasionally managed to kick myself while I was down. Who needs enemies when you have yourself? How do I manage to do this? I have several favored methods, but here is a prize-winning example.

When presented with an opportunity I often jump to the most preposterous negative circumstance I can imagine and will let it intimidate me. I am proud to say, I do usually go through with said opportunity, but not without a lot of unnecessary anxiety. A hilarious example of this occurred just this past weekend. I was looking for a 5K and found a trail run in Austin. I haven't trained for trail running (yet), so it was a poor choice anyway, but ahead of determining that, I was actually wasting brain cells worrying about mountain lions. That's right. Mountain lions. There have been four attacks in 100 years, none of them fatal, in this particular park in the Austin area. Pretty slim odds, right? Doesn't matter, my mind left all actual logic behind and was 1,000 miles ahead fashioning a weapon out of a fallen pine branch to protect myself from the feline beast, which is sure to uncharacteristically show up and choose to attack me out of 300 runners. If I were ready for trail running, I would have talked myself down and gone to this race. But, why do I even go looking for these fears?

I find the worst valleys are the ones where we have forgotten the truth in Ephesians 1:11. My mountain lion fear was not a valley, but it is an instance where I took my eyes off Jesus. Peter did that once, too.

I know myself pretty well. God knows me better, which is why I should listen to Him more, and others less. When I feel myself on the slippery edge and can look down and see a descent in front of me, it’s never His voice I’m hearing, it’s usually not my own, either. Instead it is the imagined, or real, judgment from others. Their thoughts on my choices, my plans, my actions – the perceived disapproval of others is how my journey through a declivity of self pity always begins.

I stumbled on the above scripture in Ephesians a few days ago and began writing this post. I couldn't finish it ... until now. I stumbled on more scripture a few minutes ago that I feel complete the thought. 1 Thessalonians 5:16 says: "Be joyful always, pray continually, give thanks in all circumstances, for this is God's will for you in Christ Jesus."

Always be joyful - God's given you joy. Exercise it. No matter what's going on, if you know Him, you've got a reason to be joyful.

Pray continually - Even in the rare event that you and everybody around you is experiencing a blissfully perfect life, somebody somewhere doesn't know Him. Pray for that person.

Give thanks in ALL circumstances - This one is hard, but when things are looking glum, when you feel the cold fist of a bad mood, the best thing to do is start praising him. Count your blessings, not your sorrows. (I borrowed that from a church sign.)

It's safe to say that the next time I find myself in a valley, or on my way down to one, if I'll utilize these tools instead of that old shovel, things will get better a lot quicker.

Rebuttal to myself

2010-08-14T16:47:00.003-06:00

I never intended for the blog I wrote earlier today to be negative in any way. Nevertheless, I think it was, and I wasn't comfortable leaving it up for the whole universe, or my 10 followers to read. If you already have ...

I'll write a regular-length post in the next few days. In the meantime, let it suffice to say that I am blessed beyond measure. I love my family - I could praise God forever over the wonderful people He's given me to love. Most importantly, I walk in grace, holding the hand of a Father who loves me more than I can even begin to comprehend. It's not my plans or goals that count - when I start letting those (me) steer the boat too much, I have to step back and surrender my will once more. Oddly enough, after I do, the clouds part and I'm back to being me, hanging out with my best friend.

Hindsight and Touchstones

2010-08-10T09:17:00.003-06:00

When I was a kid I went to sleep with every stuffed animal I owned piled up on the bed around me because I didn't want any of their feelings to be hurt. I had my favorites, but none of the animals needed to know that. It was best if they all felt equally loved. I also remember a new refrigerator being delivered to our home, and the old one being hauled off. I felt terrible for the old refrigerator.

Of course, I grew out of that mindset, but even as an adult it has at times been hard to let go of "things." I feel disloyal when I trade in a vehicle that's been loyal to get me around safely for a new, shiny model. I even felt bad getting rid of my old Dell laptop in exchange for the fabulous MacBook Pro I am currently typing on. That old laptop was with me through many of my life's biggest moments. It was with me at the University of Idaho and rode with me in the old Chevy Cavalier when I moved to Texas for good. I completed my final semester's projects on it, and it was at home waiting while I walked across the stage at Stephen F. Austin to accept the diploma we had earned together. Why do we form attachments to the inanimate?

Naturally, the answer is in the emotions and memories attached to the objects, not the objects themselves. I keep a wooden box of mementos from an old boyfriend in my closet, not because I care about a macramé bracelet he made for me, and not because I harbor feelings for him ten, wait eleven, years later. The contents of that box are artifacts from my life at that point in time. I might open it up once a year, and every time I do a certain smell hits my nose and I am instantly taken back - to high school hallways, a theater class, and a house off Maple Grove in Boise, Idaho. Memories like those are vivid, and they keep me grounded. Every person needs touchstones in life to show them where they were; I believe that makes it easier to stay focused on where we're going.

The year I spent alone in Idaho forever changed me. I lived in the panhandle college town of Moscow, my parents and sister were in Texas, and my childhood home was in Boise. Whenever I made the 300-mile jaunt down Highway 55 to the City of Trees I always visited my house. Before it sold, I would still go inside. I would walk into our den and remember slumber parties with my best friend, whose name is also Rachel. Every Saturday for probably three years we slept on the two couches in that room. I would walk to my old bedroom. The holes from the tacks that secured posters and other relics of my youth were spackled and painted over, but every memory was crystal clear. I would leave the house and remember the excitement I felt two years before taking the same steps toward the limo that would deliver me to my senior prom. That was my past, and the tangible structure tied to the memories involved sat empty on Sandhurst. There were remembrances plenty, but my future was 1,800 miles away in Texas. The vacant house I visited every few months that year was the touchstone that revealed to me where I needed to go.

When some "thing" must go, or must change, how can we hold on to the essence wrapped up in it? If I were to throw away the wooden box on a shelf in my closet, how would I recall so vividly the memories stored inside it? By remembering the person, or the people, not the "things." By looking forward to making more memories down the road. By using lessons learned as the touchstone for growth and guidance in the future.

I wrote my first book on the Dell. But I'll write my second one on the MacBook. I grew up in a house on Sandhurst. I'll grow old in the one I choose a little time from now.

Major Minors

2010-08-06T14:13:00.002-06:00

At times, when goals still seem so far from being met, it's easy to think you haven't accomplished much. I'm not talking about a pity party, although I still have those. It's more of a drill sergeant-type self lecture: "Allen! You have got to pick it up!" or "Do not make this mistake again!"

Fortunately, when I have those moments, it's never too long before some positive little memory from the past floats to the surface. I may run across someone who brings it to mind, I may be going through student records and recall an occurrence, or it may just come to me in a silent moment. It's not important how it arrives, but that it does.

Our church is small. Our ministries are big. We aren't a Latin-instructing preschool, or an Ivy League preparatory high school, but we do change lives for the better - always with His help.

A memory came to mind today while I was thinking about needing new floors in the commons area, and tricking myself into believing that my students are somehow disadvantaged by the mustard shade of linoleum that is there at present. Suddenly, I remembered a single mother who was at a crossroads I hope I never stand at. She was on her own with a 10-month-old, and she had to be honest about something in order to enroll her child in our day care center. I could tell she was cringing inside because she was expecting to be judged.

I believe God allows each and every one of us to experience things for the express purpose of having the right mindset to handle some event in the future. I am so grateful He did that for me. Otherwise, today I would cringe at how I handled that woman's confession. Instead, because of what His grace did for me, I was able to look her in the eye and offer reassurance, and care for her baby while she earned a living. Our facilities might not be as shiny and new as my human self would like them to be, but that day God was able to use our day care ministry to make a difference in two lives.

Since having that remembrance early this morning, my day has been peppered with recollections. Some have made me laugh, and some have brought tears to my eyes. All of them have shown me that my God is a composer, a weaver, a master artist.

I love music that incorporates minor chords. The sharp change from a bright, full chord, to the one that seems slightly incomplete gives me chills. When I play, I love to hold out a suspended chord. Even though I'm seemingly in control of what I'm creating, my ear waits at point for the resolve.

When we step off track. When we lose our way completely. When we take something complete and full and choose to change it. In those instances, I believe God just sees that He's going to have a little more interesting finished piece. He'll use the minor chords of our own creation to do something beautiful and unexpected further down the road.

The school house rocks

2010-08-03T06:33:00.003-06:00

The air is filled with possibility. It has to do with a looming school year start. I love the line in "You've Got Mail" where Meg Ryan talks about New York City in the fall and says it makes her want a bouquet of sharpened pencils. She also mentions loving the smell of Scotch tape. I also love the scent of sharpened pencils and Scotch tape, and New York, even when it smells bad. As well, I love "You've Got Mail" and watch it every single time it's on TBS. Every time. But, that's another post.

There's an unmatchable motivational factor involved with an approaching school year. This has always been true for me. In elementary school it started whenever mom and I went back-to-school shopping. When new clothes and shoes went on layaway, my stomach swelled with butterflies, and I would thereafter ask her to take me to the school every day so I could see if the class lists were posted yet. They never were posted before the third week of August, but I'd ask anyway. Once the lists were posted and I knew who my teacher was, it was time to go school supply shopping. Oh, the weight of importance I placed on Lisa Frank pocket folders! Unicorn or dolphin? It was a decision of some magnitude. I would pack and repack my backpack in preparation for the first day. About two weeks before the first day, my clothes would be brought home and I would begin the process of selecting an outfit for the first day.

The excitement continued in similar fashion all the way through junior high, high school, and college, but once I finished with school it dissipated. Working for a newspaper, and then an architecture firm, I saw the same people every day of every month. Then, I chucked it all and decided to become a freelance writer and teacher. And today, I find myself excited once again. I'm not picking out outfits or practice-packing my purse, but I did clean my office. The supercharge behind me these days is all about the potential of this year. It's my second full year as administrator and I think I finally have my feet under me, I fully own the position. Some staff members have left, and we have new people in place. Some students have graduated or moved, and we have a crowd of new ones coming in. I'm downright anxious to see how all this new blood will reshape our school.

I can't say enough what a privilege it is to work where I do among my family and closest friends. More than that, I'm blessed beyond measure to have, at the very top of my to-do list, the responsibility of teaching young people about the love of Jesus. Didn't go to college for that one, but it's an acquired skill.

Some years ago, when I was working for the paper, I wrote a blog on my MySpace page titled "Back To School Blues." At that time I was down because I realized there were certain milestones and rites of passage gone forever. I would never buy gear for a dorm room again, not for myself. I found myself borderline depressed because I had graduated and found a job and my life was nothing like I had imagined it would be. I had worked hard (I use that term loosely) for four years to get a good job - it had been my goal and motivator. Now I had a job, and it was a total let down. The most disheartening part was there was no change on the horizon. No end of semester, no new classes, no graduation. I was supposed to sit at that desk for 40 years.

Well, that didn't work out. I changed desks a few months later. I entered a new job, a better job, and I tried to reinvent myself. I failed. The people I worked with were wonderful. The job was wonderful - a pretty easy gig. But it still wasn't right. Then, I wound up where I am now, in a position no way related to my education, save the writing I do. And, it's perfect. It may not be the most prestigious or glamorous of positions, I wipe noses and change diapers here and there. But, I have an awesome long-term goal - one that has very little to do with me.

Life's a Trip

2010-07-30T08:35:00.004-06:00

Isn't it funny how things turn out? Facebook, as I'm sure it does for many people, keeps me in an almost constant state of retrospect. Five or ten years ago, ahead of social media, it was easy to forget people (read: experiences) from the past. Now, by my own choice, I daily see names and faces of people I haven't seen in years. Chances are, I won't ever physically see them again, barring the extremely unlikely event that I attend my high school reunion.

Depending on the name, I am taken to the halls of Borah High School in Boise, Idaho. Occasionally, an experience tied to a certain individual will take me further back, even to West Junior High (shudder). Others cause a flashback to the University of Idaho campus and the Pi Phi Palace. Some are more recent, like the SFA campus in Nacogdoches, Texas, and just yesterday I communicated with someone I interned with at cue:creative in Tyler, Texas. Some associations are positive, others move me to the serious consideration of lobotomy. Regardless, they are all people and experiences that are a part of who I am today. Every memory shapes me, and I find it so interesting to look back over these chapters in my life and try to get into my own head back then. I never would have imagined I'd be where I am today, not geographically, professionally, socially, or spiritually.

I was an extremely selfish, stupid, and insecure individual in high school. If I could go back, I would do it just for the sheer purpose of being nicer to people. There's a lot to be said for a smile. Oh, how offering one to others at crucial times might have changed things a bit. Wisdom like "show yourself friendly" or "keep your mouth shut" were wasted on me then, but now I see so clearly what they mean, and how the advice is best and most simply applied. If I'd obeyed the latter, I might not have lost a car window and an insurance suit during my freshman year of college.

I was an extremely selfish, stupid, and insecure individual in college, too. I was a mess - the first two years anyway. Made excellent grades and bad decisions. Reputation was something I didn't think much about, I felt it didn't have any weight of importance for the long term. God took care of me, though. He gave me a fresh start in a new place. I couldn't be what I am today in proximity to that past life, and He knew that. I have absolutely no control over what people think of me, but I do have control over what I think of them. I figure forgiveness and a non-judgmental attitude balance the scales. Just this minute while writing this it's so clear to me what God was up to. What an awesome and wise Heavenly Father I have.

Once I got to Texas I started getting some sense talked into my dense head. Still messed up on a daily basis for roughly five years in a row. Now I mess up, but I generally realize it pretty quickly and make it right. "Success is a journey, not a destination." We've all heard that, right? The same rings true for a walk with God. I didn't cross the Texas state line and instantly turn into a saint. Living for Him is a process, and I learn new things every day. My first years at it were a mess, because I was young and still wanted to fit in somewhere else. I made mistakes, ruined opportunities to witness, and tried to earn my salvation, instead of just receiving it. But, time and love were applied to my confusion, and although I have questions and trials all the time, I now have this wonderful open line of communication with my Creator. Even when the answer doesn't come right away, I know He's working on it, and I have peace - the kind of peace that only comes with full trust in, and surrender to someone else.

I can't explain in words to anyone what true liberty is like, but I hope my life is an explanation. My God is so good to me. Whatever is between the lines in the paragraphs above, it’s erased. I may remember it, you may remember it, but He doesn't. And His opinion is the only one that matters in the long run.

An emotional rhapsody

2010-07-26T17:54:00.003-06:00

I'm listening to Matt Redman. Right now "You Alone Can Rescue" is playing, and I plan to listen to it again. Every single time I sit down to write a blog, I take a few moments and search, and listen for a still, small voice to tell me what I need to say. I try my best to be obedient. I never know if what I write will touch someone who reads it, but I'm always blessed by the thought I'm given. It's humbling and awe-inspiring to hear the voice of God. I can't come up with most of this stuff on my own. "To you alone belongs the highest praise" - that's the final line of the song, which just ended. Talk about timing.

Music is so powerful. It can put us in another place, another time, it can make a fading memory burn bright and invoke an emotion or desire thought forgotten. It can inspire a person, bring them joy, or drive them to tears. It can bring praise to someone's lips, or influence them to make poor decisions. I believe music has had all of these effects on me at one time or another.

I love music. I assign a lot of importance to it. I can look at the long list of songs in my iTunes library and identify a memory or emotion with just about all of them. I've listened to three tonight, in the past hour or so, that all point to my two very good friends.

One friend is actually my cousin, and probably the human being on this earth I'm closest to, although I wouldn't have always admitted it. The other is her Marine husband who was killed in Afghanistan this past May.

My music library is organized alphabetically, and oddly enough that places the first and second songs that reference them right next to each other. One is uplifting, and the other (although it's an awesome and beautiful song) I have no business listening to because I know it's going to open the floodgates. In consequence, I will sit around bawling and sniffling for an hour, like I'm doing right now. I repeat: Music has a profound effect on me.

When the couple was first dating in high school I don't know if any of us thought it would turn into what it did. The relationship lasted a year, and then two. When he enlisted in the Marines, there were some that believed the relationship would peter out due to time and distance. But, they lasted through basic training, then through the first tour in Iraq, and then the second. What started as flirtation in the band room, turned into a commitment between two of the most independent and iron-willed people I've ever met.

I remember vivid details from their wedding. Not just because I was the maid of honor and had a front row seat - if anything nervousness would have blocked some of it out. I remember because it was like no wedding I've ever been to. It was so personal, and illustrated in numerous ways the absolutely unshakeable bond of love, honor, and dedication that was present between the bride and groom. The first song I listened to tonight was the song she walked down the aisle to. If I remember correctly, he discovered it some length of time before he ever proposed, called her from Camp Pendleton, and played it for her over the phone. It's like it was written just for them.

I am positively heartbroken every time I listen to it, or even think about the lyrics. Marriage is about loyalty, companionship, and commitment. The one you marry is supposed to be the person you love and cherish above all others next to God, the one you would have an arm severed off for. Sadly, it's a covenant that has been cheapened by modern society. It's mocked, and seen as a way to get new appliances and bath towels. It's even viewed as temporary by some. Not the case with these two.

This is where the other two songs come in. One was played at the funeral - "Promised Land" by Fee, the other is just a song I know. "Promised Land" reminds me that she hasn't "lost" him at all, she just has to wait a little while to see him again. In the meantime, he's "gone up to glory land, he's gonna see his Lord, he ain't gonna cry no more." That song is for him. The other is for her, it simply reiterates that God is love, and perfect love casts out fear.

This is for her, too. You've always been so supportive of me, even when I wasn't of you - and that's why I know you're reading this right now, so let me say this: You are a remarkable, strong, intelligent, Christian person, and I am so privileged to know you, and honored that you call me friend.

Midnight in Montgomery

2010-07-23T15:08:00.000-06:00

It’s been a long time since I’ve regaled my readers with a comical vacation anecdote. If you’re unfamiliar with these tales, let me educate you. Throughout my brief lifetime as an Allen, we have embarked on many adventures. Often, our lodging choices have been less than, ahem … desirable. My most popular recant of a hotel pick gone bad - horribly bad - is a New Year’s Trip to Galveston Island and a stay in a chain whose name I’ll change to protect their reputation. Let’s call them, La Stinka. This stay can be summed up with three words: bugs in bed.

We left this past Sunday for the Georgia Coast, which is a long way from East Texas. We originally had reservations in Meridian, Mississippi, but got there earlier than expected and decided to push for Montgomery, Alabama, so our drive wouldn’t be as long the next day. We arrived in Montgomery after dark, making our approach from the south side - always a good idea. After driving for more than eight hours and we were tired and hungry. We meandered through the coveted pawn shop and seedy bar district for some time before locating any kind of remotely acceptable lodging. The choice was between a (names changed) Motel 9 and a Fantastic Ocho. Neither are on my Top 1,000 list of places to spend the night, but we were out of options. Onward to Fantastic Ocho!

We checked in and walked to our room, which was exactly ten feet from the lobby. I think the guy at the counter took pity on us and put us somewhere we’d feel safe. Or, it’s possible he knew something we didn’t and really was trying to keep us safe. The room across the hall from us had recently lost its door handle. Six jagged holes remained.

We entered our room, where the lights and television were on (?). From there, the evening unfolded. We left to get something to eat and on our way back to the room asked for more towels. These towels never did arrive and we went to bed. Just as we were drifting off, there was a knock on the door. Towels. Back to bed. Another knock. More towels? No, this time a 7-foot man was on the other side. I’m thinking Michael Oher, but this was Montgomery and not Memphis. Did I mention the door did lock, but there was a gap between it and the frame that a small child could wiggle through? The chain had also been torn off, same unfortunate accident the door across the hall experienced, no doubt.

Gigantor was the final visitor of the night and I finally relaxed and slipped into a shallow sleep, a sleep disturbed by a distant rumble. Thunder? No, it was constant and getting closer. The COPS theme began playing in my head, and I concluded it was a police helicopter. I’ll never know for sure.

When I awoke the next morning I needed internet. I was 99.99% sure there was no Wi-Fi but tried anyway, and tickle me pink, there was! It belonged to the Motel 9 next door, but I didn’t think piggy backing fell below the high ethical code of the establishment. The final golden nugget of humor is this: There was an ironing board, but no iron.

All in all, the room was clean, the staff was friendly and helpful, and we got a decent night’s sleep. It also serves as a great story, and fuel for my unfair “Bama” stereotyping.

Vacation!

2010-07-16T15:20:00.005-06:00

I am leaving on vacation in a few hours. I find trips are a whole lot better when you've been progressively busy prior to taking them. Not stressed out busy. There's a difference. If I'm stressed out busy, then I just stay stressed while I'm away. But, when it's progressive, accomplishing busy, and I get to go away knowing I'm leaving behind a job well done, oh man, that's a good break.

This week has been spectacular. I couldn't think of a better note to leave on. Vacation Bible School was a wild success, and despite running around like a crazy person a lot of the time, I still managed to get a lot of actual work done. I've got several new students in the wings for the upcoming year, we have a confirmed foreign exchange student, I got some excellent news on a personal front, and I discovered that my biceps look amazing. Anybody want tickets to the gun show?

Have I done anything to make all this come about? Maybe a little, but I know better. I'm wrapped in His blessings. On a sad note, my very good friends Tiffany and Jordan are leaving Sunday night to take a position in a church in Indiana. They will be greatly missed, but I know this is an opportunity for them to grow as individuals, as a family, and minister to others. In Jordan's last lesson, he defined grace as "divine favor." It's a good thing to have, especially when I consider how undeserving I am.

How humbling it is to sit and think af all the blessings I already have, and then think ahead to the promises God hasn't fulfilled yet. He's already done so much, and I know I've only begun to know Him. Still, serving God isn't just about the mountain tops. He's with us in the valleys, too, and we are to praise Him in every circumstance. He is always worthy. So worthy. If it's ever difficult to find something to praise Him over, try telling Him you can't find anything. I bet He'll bring something to mind.

I'm going to try and post while I'm away this next week, but I make no promises. It's going to be a full week. I'm driving to Meridian, Mississippi, today (6-hour drive), then on to Brunswick, Georgia, tomorrow with an excursion through the Okeefenokee thrown in (10 hours). Tuesday through Friday I'll be in Savannah, Georgia, a place I've wanted to go to since ... forever. Friday, I head to Chattanooga (8 hours), and Saturday I'll wind up in Memphis with an aunt and uncle, and two awesome cousins. It's going to be fun!! I'll post pictures if nothing else.

The best laid plans. . .

2010-07-14T05:32:00.004-06:00

My baby sister is looking at colleges. She knows what she wants to do with her life, she's already secured one scholarship and is actively pursuing others, and she will graduate with honors next May.

Ah, to have plans. Although I hope she doesn't, statistics support the possibility that she will change her major; I changed mine half a dozen times. The differences between the two of us are plenteous: I chose my first major to choose one, almost out of vanity, she has chosen a field she is passionate over; I viewed college as my ticket to a non-stop party, and she is actually pursuing education; when I received my acceptance letter I wasn't thinking past the first week after Sorority rush, and Rebekah is already thinking about where she wants to start her career after college graduation.

I haven't been around very long, but boy have I made some rash decisions. It's easy to sit back and let regret slip in and allow myself to be inundated with "If only. . ." statements, or the good old "If I'd known then what I know now." I say that a lot, but maybe I wasn't supposed to know then.

At lunch yesterday, a friend of mine talked about wanting to become a flight attendant, but she was too young at the time. By the time she was old enough, she had a young family, and when they were old enough for her to pursue the dream again, September 11 occurred, and her husband put his foot down.

I'm teaching vacation Bible school this week and the kids have a memory verse for each day. Monday's was a favorite of mine - Jeremiah 29:11 "I know the plans I have for you, says the Lord. Plans to prosper you and not harm you, plans to give you hope and a future."

Did God intend for me to live in debauchery for several years? No, I was out of His will. But, decisions I've made about career, schooling, geographic location - those are choices I've tried my best to turn over to Him, and I have to trust that He has me right where I'm supposed to be, doing just what I'm supposed to be doing. One of the awesome things about God is, He's in control no matter what, and even though we have a free will, He's more than capable of stepping in and cleaning up after us and getting us back on the right track when we're ready.

So, best of luck baby sister. Keep Him in the center of it and all your plans and dreams will turn out just the way they're supposed to.

What's a human to do?

2010-07-08T17:00:00.004-06:00

I work hard to make this blog positive and uplifting (you never know who is reading it), which is why I try to avoid posting on days that I've been irritable. Like today. But, here I am. Sometimes you just have to get things done, even when the circumstances are not ideal.

Irritability: Having or showing a tendency to be easily annoyed or made angry.

Checking symptoms. . .it's affirmative. I have been irritable today. Not that it's an excuse but I had a LOT of caffeine yesterday and therefore did not get a LOT of sleep last night. I literally felt electrical currents pulsing through my body all night. Then I took a sleep aide way too late and woke with a grogginess that can only be chemically induced. Way to mix the uppers and downers, Rach.

I've also been building Egypt for three days (in preparation for vacation Bible school next week) and generally ignoring all other responsibilities. Today, those neglected tasks started to weigh pretty heavy. That, combined with little sleep, made for the irritability.

As a follower of Christ, it's my job to be constantly aware that others watch how I act and react. As a leader, it's my job to just handle stuff. I feel so foolish when I look back on a situation I handled poorly and realize it was nothing to have lost my cool over. I feel disgusted when I show my temper to others. Praise Jesus, the latter doesn't happen very often. Anymore. Evidence of His work in me.

Conversely, there's something very Stepford-like about people that never show their humanness. I find it hard to trust, befriend, and not be intimidated by people who have it together all the time. Ironically, many different people have told me that I have my lid screwed on too tight. What's a human to do?

Life is a balancing act in so many ways. When we get wobbly, we have to reach for our touchstone. I can't always keep from being irritable and saying or doing something rash, but I can sure ask Him to help me, and forgive me when I fall. I can't find answers and solutions for every bump in the road, or explain every seeming injustice or disadvantage, but I can search His Word until I find peace.

I can't take a heart that's broken make it over again, but I know a man who can.

I can't take a soul that's sin sick, make it make it white, whiter than the snow, but I know a man who can.

Some call Him Savior, the Redeemer of all men.

I call Him Jesus for He's my dearest friend.

If you feel no one can help you and your life is out of hand, well I know a man who can.

"I Know a Man Who Can"
As sung by George Jones.

New, old things

2010-07-01T07:12:00.001-06:00

There is no new thing under the sun. King Solomon did some painstaking research to prove that point. But, isn’t it refreshing when we can look at something we’re used to with a new, fresh perspective, and gain a whole new appreciation for it?

Last week I had family visiting from Idaho – my sister, Susan; her husband, Larry; and daughter, Kristie. Larry had never seen Texas and Susan and Kristie had not visited in more than three years. We went through all the usual stops, which include a nearby antiquing town, a Cypress swamp, and of course, the amusement that is my large extended family.

While trolling through Caddo Lake, under its mysterious centuries-old Cypress trees, I listened to the tour guide, who by his own omission was not an educated man, but the wealth of knowledge he possessed about the land and water he grew up on made me proud. Additionally, I’d forgotten the beauty and uniqueness of the place that is a mere 50 minutes from my driveway. I wouldn’t have even been there if it weren’t for family visiting, and I found myself anticipating what they would find impressive, and at the same time, remembered how impressed I was with it myself. To make things more interesting, my father has become nearly an expert on the history of our region, and listening to him recount the significance of brick buildings and dirt roads along the way made me stand a little taller.

A little later, we were at a dinner attended by almost all of my mom’s family. Not one of them failed to shake my sister and brother-in-law’s hands, welcoming them and assuring them that they were family. That just doesn’t happen everywhere. Again, I beamed with pride and appreciation.

It’s easy to get wrapped up in what other places have to offer, but I’m glad I had the chance to see through another’s eyes how much I have just a few steps from my front door.

Likewise, it seems almost effortless to slip into spiritual indifference, even numbness, and forget the beauty of what God has done in my life, or any life. Anyone can get comfortable with a routine and begin to go through the motions. For me, it only takes studying a familiar passage that well illustrates the saving grace and passion of Jesus to make me fall in love all over again with renewed vigor and purpose.

Every time I put forth the effort to grow, and pull myself off that spiritual treadmill, He always gives me a 200 percent return, revealing to me something new, although it’s not new at all. It’s really a gift, a piece of wisdom, a new closeness, that’s been waiting for me the whole time.

Humble Pie

2010-06-21T13:14:00.003-06:00

"It's hard to be humble when you're as perfect as I am." Surely most of us have seen this clever caption, or some derivative of it, on a bumper sticker. I laugh at it most of the time. At other times, I probably judge the driver of the vehicle to be arrogant, not humble like me. In doing the latter, I am showing arrogance myself, not humility. It’s a vicious cycle.

"Humility and the fear of the Lord bring wealth and honor and life." Proverbs 22:4

God loves, defends, and provides for the humble. He loves, defends, and provides for all of us, if we let Him. But, the person who daily and knowingly works at serving Him in humility has a degree of peace, contentment, and joy, that I would like to tap in to. I'm not there yet.

Before I began writing this today, I checked Chip MacGregor's blog. He had posted a list of errors in writing that drive him crazy. I read the list one by one, my ego growing by the second.

"I don't do any of those things."
"Thank goodness I know better than that."
"Who would do that?"

Those are a few of the thoughts I had. I even began to get frustrated because I realized there are serious writers out there that submit work with those types of errors, and they get published! I go over every piece of my writing with a fine-tooth comb. I literally practice parallel construction in my sleep. I can spot a misplaced apostrophe or dangling modifier a mile away. I correct billboards while on vacation. But, I can't get an agent or editor to do anything other than send me a form rejection letter. Or, no letter at all.

That was my thought process. Then I read a rule I didn't know. This rule has been a point of confusion for some years. Chip made it very clear, though. I realized I'd probably been w-w-wr-ong. Probably.

Humility. "When pride comes, then comes disgrace, but with humility comes wisdom." Proverbs 11:2

I have a lot of little issues flying around in my head right now. I think the answer to most of them is: God, it turns out I don't know everything. I need you to keep showing me and leading me. I put my life in your hands. I want to serve and please you. You know what's best for me. In Jesus' name, amen.

"Do nothing out of selfish ambition or vain conceit, but in humility consider others better than yourselves." Phillippians 2:3

The First Four

2010-06-17T16:29:00.002-06:00

The grandchildren on my mom's side of the house came in groups. After two a little older, I was the third grandchild, followed closely by Krystal and David, then Allison. It was just the four of us for about eight years. Then, David and Allison had a younger brother, Krystal had a younger brother, and before too long, I had a baby sister. Somewhere in there an uncle remarried and we gained two step-cousins, and a few years ago, our family grew by three more via adoption. Despite nearly a 16-year spread between the youngest cousin and myself, we're all pretty close and get along.

My mother has three brothers and a sister - Glenn, Sherlene, Larry, and Joel. They grew up a stone's throw from their aunt and uncle's home, where there were five more children of the same age - Marion, Jan, Glenda, Evelyn, and Wayne.

When I first moved to Texas and started meeting my mom’s cousins I was so intrigued by the relationships between all of them and my mom and aunts and uncles. After so many years of geographic separation, they could still walk into a room and in a matter of minutes, be swapping old stories and rolling on the floor laughing about something that happened 30 years before. I swelled with pride over being a part of such a big laughing family and always looked forward to gatherings so I could hear the same stories and be a part of it all.

I will say, it's started to wear off a little. I still love being with my family, but the newness of it is gone. I've been in an awkward position for a few years. Krystal moved to California, David married and splits his holiday time with his wife's family, and Allison lives in Mississippi. A lot of the time I'm the only one around out of the "First Four." Despite my closeness with the second set of grandchildren, I miss my three original companions.

However, the best things are worth waiting for. I have the privilege of spending a lot of time with my family - even extended family. There aren't many days that go by that I don't share a laugh or make a memory of some kind with one of the “Second Set.” So, even though things seem a little mundane, even monotonous at times, every day my second-set of cousins and I are bankrolling memories - stories for the future.

Austin is a second set, and he’s an artist and so quick-witted, I can’t help but respect him, being a pretty witty gal myself. Dylan is a hard worker who makes friends wherever he goes – who knows what kind of characters he’ll bring home for Thanksgiving one day. Brent came right before Rebekah and is my unofficial baby brother. He’s soon to be married, and as fortune would have it, his bride is my little sister’s best friend – a very welcome addition to our family table. Nathaniel is all the way over in Mississippi and I’m sad to say I don’t know him as well as I’d like to, but I know he laughs the same way David does, and that’s worth a whole lot in my book.

In a time when brothers and sisters barely make time for one another, it’s a great comfort to know that I have a place in all these different lives, and they certainly have a place in mine.

Already, on the occasions that a few of us end up in the same room, we inevitably find something to have a good abdominal-workout laugh over. A few more years of living and some great-grandchildren thrown into the mix should prove priceless.

I would say I'd like to be a fly on the wall at Christmas in about ten years, but I think I'll have an even better seat.

A Kenny Moment

2010-06-14T13:01:00.004-06:00

**This post is dedicated to Sergeant Kenneth B. May, Jr. - Marine, coffee lover, and friend.**

A part of my renewed writing motivation is a set of goals. Within that set is a goal to post to this blog three times weekly. I've been fumbling through this day waiting for my inspiration. A few moments ago, it came.

It's summer, and I'm in a summer state of mind. I still have work to do, but the urgency is absent. I ate lunch and then remained still, which leads to grogginess. Ordinarily, I don't allow myself to have coffee after noon, as I'm very sensitive to the caffeine and it will release its power on me just as I'm trying to settle down for the night. But it's summer - and Tuesdays are my day off during the summer. Therefore, I can stay up past my self-imposed bed time on Monday nights, which means I can have coffee on Monday afternoons. And, we've come full circle.

Since I drink my morning coffee at home, I seldom have any at work unless one of the other teachers has made some. I never make it myself at work for sure. So, today, when the afternoon drowsiness came calling, I was horribly unprepared. I first went to the very front of the building I'm currently in and found a coffee pot, but no coffee. I went to a second building to get coffee and a mug, then went to a third building to search for some "fu-fu" creamer. I returned to the coffee pot with these items and went to work. The coffee pot at my disposal was a one-cup Mr. Coffee model, whereas the filters were for a full-pot model. I, of course, in my hasty greed for caffeine, ignored this fact until I had coffee in the filter and was trying to close up and hit 'on.' The oversized coffee filter was hanging over the edges. This had to be corrected. I found a pair of dainty, children's safety scissors and began to trim away at the coffee filter. I was in a moment of great concentration when Kenny arrived.

For a second he was still here, and momentarily I thought ahead to when I would have the opportunity to share this little anecdote with him. I won't be able to in this lifetime. But I know he saw it all the same, and not only is he getting a kick out of it, he might be impressed with my resourcefulness. I was always impressed with his.

In the summer of 2004, I had just moved to East Texas. I had left my whole childhood and social life behind me in Idaho. My cousin and best friend, Krystal, and her boyfriend, Kenny, were my new social circle. I don't recall why, but the two of them were at my house early on a weekday. Kenny was working nights at the front desk of a local hotel and had just gotten off work. The three of us decided to make breakfast. Out came biscuits, hash browns, and whatever else the bounty of my parent's well-stocked pantry and fridge offered up. I wasn't a regular coffee drinker yet, but Kenny definitely was. My dad drank instant (goo!), but we did have a coffee maker and coffee, but no filters. Kenny, who also worked in the restaurant business, went to work crafting a filter out of paper towels, and I remember thinking how clever it was, and it worked, too!

Too often, people put away the things that remind them of those they've lost, they neglect the activities they once shared. Maybe they're scared to have a moment as I did while brewing coffee today. As for me, I'd rather have a candid split second of vivid, poignant memory, followed inevitably by tears, than a lifetime of premeditated recollections ushered in by flashbacks to a funeral.

Krystal, who in time became Kenny's wife, received very wise advice from her pastor in California following the news of her loss. Paraphrased, he told her to carry out the plans she and Kenny had made - they might have to be altered a little, but they didn't have to be cancelled altogether.

I eventually started the coffee and came back to my office to start writing this post while it brewed. When I returned to pour a cup I habitually picked up the bottle of creamer and gave it a good shake. The lid wasn’t closed tightly and creamer flew from one end of the room (incidentally, the pastor’s office) to the other. I cleaned it up with another oversized coffee filter and set my mug behind me on the pastor’s desk. Of course, there was more creamer on the bottom of the cup and it was now congealed in a nice ring atop the pastor’s desk. One more coffee filter, and a chuckle – it was just the sort of domino-effect comedy of errors that Kenny would appreciate.

Our loved ones live on when we remember to enjoy the things we enjoyed with them. They stay with us when we allow ourselves to laugh at something they would have laughed at. And, they are honored when we strive to be a little better person because of the things we learned from them. These are all evidence that the person lived, and left a legacy.

Kenny, I look forward to many more cups of coffee with you.

Look at the ant

2010-06-12T07:31:00.003-06:00

I don't know what to write this morning - I only know I want to write. That's refreshing, as it's been some time since I felt words pulsing in my fingertips. My natural creativity often slinks back and stays silent, intimidated, even exhausted, by the seeming importance of parent letters, web revisions, board meeting minutes, and ho-hum e-mails.

Several months ago, my pastor taught a message about keeping your personal walk separate from your ministry. God always knows what we need. I always knew I needed to take care of my personal relationship on some level, but I wasn't practicing it. A pretty important part of living for God is helping, serving and ministering to others. That's indisputable. However, it's very difficult, nigh impossible, to help others if we don't seek strength for ourselves daily.

I was praying and studying, of course, but the time I spent for my personal growth always seemed to be done in preparation for praying for someone else, or teaching a lesson. Should we pray and study in that manner? Absolutely. But, should we also make time every day to just have a personal talk with God about our own growth? Yes. That's what I was missing.

I find the same is true for my writing. I use the talent and skill I have for a bunch of other things, which is fine - I'm supposed to. But, I let those tasks fill my writing shoes. I have four goals every day (minimally): pray, study God's Word, write, and exercise. For too long I have let my mundane daily writing tasks, those listed in the first paragraph, slide by as "writing." I go to bed at night and mark things off my mental to-do list and allow "parent policy revisions" to ease my conscience over not nourishing this precious gift from my Creator. This is not acceptable.

You lazy fool, look at an ant.
Watch it closely; let it teach you a thing or two.
Nobody has to tell it what to do.
All summer it stores up food;
at harvest it stockpiles provisions.
So how long are you going to laze around doing nothing?
How long before you get out of bed?
A nap here, a nap there, a day off here, a day off there,
sit back, take it easy—do you know what comes next?
Just this: You can look forward to a dirt-poor life,
poverty your permanent houseguest!
Proverbs 6:6-11 The Message

I'm not claiming to be lazy, but I'm not working as hard as possible every day for my writing, either. "You have a full-time job, Rachel!" Yes, I do, but there are a lot of writers with full-time jobs that still make time for their passion. That's what this is about - whether I ever publish or not, writing is my passion, my outlet. I owe it to me to make time for it every day.

Crazy Awesome

2010-01-06T15:33:00.002-06:00

It’s just shy of two months since my last post. Shameful. What a busy, busy two months it's been. I have felt every emotion, it seems I've done every job. It's been crazy, which brings me to my topic: Crazy Love - the book by Francis Chan. I started reading it about Thanksgiving and just this morning found the time to pick it up to finish it. (Granted, I got Sarah Palin's book for Christmas and read it voraciously, putting all other literature, save the Bible, on the back burner.)

Crazy Love is an amazing look at the depths we allow our faith to fall to, and at the crazy justifications we latch onto in order to live our lives how we choose and still be "Christian." I have been in a state of confusion for some days now, completely dependant upon God to give me direction. The questions in my mind were unprecedented, and have brought on doubt in every area of my life. Usually, I seek out some human as a sounding board. In fact, I usually seek out a person that I know will tell me what I want to hear. This time, however, I needed truth, even if it was going to cut me and send me back to square one. But I couldn't find the right person. I realize now, God designed this trial with that very feature. He desired for me to talk only to Him. To seek guidance only from Him. And I did. It's awesome and almost humbling when you are in a place that only God understands. I didn't even understand where I was, and I simply told Him that. I asked Him to figure it out and let me know. Then I went to sleep in peace.

What an immeasurable gift!! To have a friend, father, and savior, all rolled into one. One who enthusiastically listens to our problems and takes on our burdens. One who works it out for us, gives us a plan, and lovingly walks beside us - just to be there to catch us when we inevitably mess up and fall down!

That was last night. I woke up this morning with the desire to finish reading Crazy Love. Not every question has been answered, but I definitely have a direction to pray in. I truly believe God used the book to make me see where I was missing Him.

God is so mysterious! Foolishly, the past few months, maybe even a year, I thought I had Him figured out. (Pause for ridiculous laughter.) Of course, I don't. God is the same yesterday, today and forever, He doesn't change! So why did I believe He had? It is so clear to me what I have done. I changed. I changed my approach and my attitude, and God didn't change at all.

We can't make an eternal God melt, mold and reshape Himself to fit this century. His rules and plan remain the same. Love Him with everything in you, and love your neighbors as you love yourself. It's so simple, but so hard when you put yourSELF in the middle of it. Nothing is about me, it is all about Him.

Thank you, God, for being patient with me, loving me, and showing me so gently how to get it right again.

Thanksgiving thoughts . . . sort of

2009-11-18T16:30:00.004-06:00

It's been too long, and I have to say that too often. Ahh, but the holidays are in the air. My heart is telling me that it's time to slow down and do fun things, while my head (and calendar) tell me something quite different. I do have a little lull this week, which is why I am able to write this blog.

I can smell turkey already. Not just in my head, there's actually a turkey roasting in this building for the school's thanksgiving celebration tomorrow. It's finally turned cold, or it did this morning. Now it's nearly 70 degrees and I'm roasting in my boots and turtleneck.

I love fall. I love everything about it. I love the leaves, the holiday atmosphere, the family and friends, the smells. I love the history. One of my top ten favorite movies, it might even make it into the top five, is "The Last of the Mohicans." I have owned the book for a couple of years, but just read it this last week. Well done, Mr. Cooper. Well done. What a spectacular book! The descriptions and the subtle way he weaves romance and adventure. The vividness of the characters and the vitality in all the action. My, my. . .

Although the story takes place in the summer months, the New England setting is quintessential to this time of year and the emotions I feel. One day, I hope to celebrate a Thanksgiving in New England, even though, without family along, it might prove somewhat lonely, and not as special as I imagine it being.

That brings me to one of my points: What is it about other, unknown locales that seem to hold our (my) interest? I am intrigued by the east, all of it, Maine to Florida. Well, maybe not Florida so much, but the rest of it for sure. Maybe it's just because I haven't spent time there, other than a few days in NYC. I've lived in the west, and now I live in the south. I've never experienced the Midwest, but it doesn't call to me. I really do think it's specifically the east, and I think it's the history.

As a pre-teen, I became near obsessed with my ancestors and family tree. I wanted to know where and whom I came from. That has subsided some with maturity, but I also did a lot of research, and now I do know where and whom I came from. That said, I think my preoccupation with the eastern seaboard is wrapped up in it's importance in national history. That is where our nation began. It's the very soil that the wave-tossed Pilgrims stepped onto. That fact is special to me. And, Thanksgiving is special to me. It becomes more and more so each year. It's OUR holiday, as in America. And, as I see more and more our country being unappreciated, the people who fought for it and built it unappreciated, it is my special purpose to do more to uphold the traditions and attitudes that made this country, and made it great. Those same attitudes and traditions can make it great again, if, well I'll just say it, if some of our forefathers and mothers would pay us a visit and kick some a#* in Washington and a few other places.

One theme in “The Last of the Mohicans” is the desire to escape the oppressive government and live. Our forefathers desired to do it on their own and make it on their own. They escaped the governments that had inched too far into their lives. It is that independent mindset, that grit that founded and fostered the nation we have today. Why are some trying so hard to undo all of it?
Freedom of religion was fought for – BY CHRISTIANS, and now Christians are the very ones that must apologize for their beliefs and back down. Blood was spilled to wipe out unfair and abusive taxes, and we have signed our paychecks over to an out-of-control, greedy and oversized government once more. There are many more examples I could cite. Today, military heroes are afforded little respect by the media, and must step ever so lightly as they defend our nation from tyrants. But, this week, terrorists, the tyrants our men in arms fight daily, will stand trial in our nation. They will be presumed innocent and granted the rights of an American citizen – they will be treated the same, equally, as those they saw fit to murder.

Look at what has been done for us, and look at what we have done, and not done, in return.

Freedom of speech, press and assembly seem untouched, but look at our track record. What do you think comes next?

Sweater Saga

2009-10-25T17:24:00.002-06:00

There are times in a woman's life when she just wants stuff. Be it clothing, a piece of decor, a new home, or perhaps a certain food. Yesterday, I wanted a sweater. I didn't have any particular style or color in mind, I just wanted a sweater - something cozy and feminine to wear in the beautiful fall weather currently descending upon us. My only parameter was the amount of money I intended to spend on said sweater. However, the number in my mind was more than adequate. I've bought many sweaters in the past for less.

I went to seven stores. No sweater purchase was made. I tried on approximately 176 sweaters, all of which were too baggy, odd color, weird neckline, ill-fitted waistline, too much glitter thread (?? any glitter thread is too much in my opinion ??), or it just cost more than I wanted to spend - yet I would try it on anyway because I know myself. I am weak, and if it looks good enough, I'll buy it and forget my "budget."

In my final store, it seemed my luck was a'changin'. I found a beautiful sweater coat. It was "cozy" with toggle buttons!! It was also on sale and they had it in my size - that's a winning combo. Toggle buttons!! I took the sweater off the rack and meandered around the store a little longer. I finally tried the sweater on, just slipping it over the t-shirt I was wearing. It fit nicely and I was mentally pairing it with a lovely pair of brown boots (which I have yet to purchase also) when a vile stench of some sort violated my nostrils. I searched my immediate surroundings for the source of this odious invasion, but found nothing. Then I sorrowfully comprehended what was going on. I pulled the collar of the sweater up to my nose, and almost fainted. It reeked of sour mildew. I don't know what happened to this poor sweater en route to Longview, Texas, but I'm sure it needs counseling. I hurriedly took it off and returned to where I'd found it, hoping there was another one in my size that didn't smell putrid. There were several more, but they all boasted the same scent.

Alas, I left sweater-less. It was beautiful and affordable, but that smell doesn't come out in the wash. So the charm and femininity of the garment would no doubt be cancelled out by the fact that I would smell like a week-old dishrag while wearing it. Not really my style.

Learning not to lean

2009-10-10T07:40:00.003-06:00

There is a picture that my parents have, my aunt and uncle have the same one, and a second set of aunt and uncle also have it. The picture is of three children, suspiciously crouched behind a set of steps, holding giant orange-and-black balloons. The looks on their faces would tell you that their whole world's happiness is wrapped up in the balloons, and in the company of one another. The latter is true, the former, however, might be misconstrued, as I know our whole world's happiness was wrapped in the security and love offered us by the six adults in the house.

My two cousins and I have remained close since that photo was taken about 24 years ago. Krystal has since married and moved to California, and David moved back to Texas from Mississippi, and married earlier this year.

Growing up it was me and Krystal, and our families respectively that wound up in Idaho together. Those years, formative for me, cemented forever the feeling of having a second set of parents, a second set of people to run to with my problems, a second set of ears to just listen and then help figure it all out. They left Idaho and returned to Texas before I was even a teenager, but the attachment remained. When I moved to Texas permanently and this aunt and uncle became my pastor and pastor's wife, the practice of sharing my worries and fears compounded. Once again, these miniscule threats to my peace of mind became theirs as well, although I now know bigger ones have always waited at the top of their mind's awareness.

(Hopefully) when we are children, we all have adults such as these. I think of what a wonderful childhood I had, and what a wonderful family I have today, and the picture I spoke of says it all. However, the three of us are no longer children, no longer babies. Nonetheless, (I can speak for myself if no one else) I still lean and depend heavily on the support and security that was in that house that day.

Recently, that changed. The tables have begun to turn, and now I must offer safety, security and even guidance to one or more of those all-important adults in my life. There was one night of fear and even selfishness, for lack of a better term, where my dreams were filled with needs and worries, none of which I could figure out without their help. Beginning the very next morning, their fears and worries were voiced to me, and out of love, honor, and respect, I could do nothing but start on the road to becoming whatever they needed me to be.

People constantly search for ways to be strong, fierce, even to be unaffected by what goes on around them. Ironically, I guess, I believe the purest form of strength is both found in, and refined by, love. Your love for someone else will propel you to set everything else aside and do what is necessary for the well being of that person or persons.

Think of a newly married, free-spirited man, holding his new born baby girl (yes, I'm stealing this from the insurance commercial). The first thing he thinks of is doing whatever is required to care for her forever, even in his absence. That is love. Think of the fear associated with being completely and totally responsible for another life (you already know if you are a parent), yet you find the strength to care for them.

It takes strength to forgive and love covers all sins. It takes strength to stand for what is right, and God's unconditional love encourages us to do this.

As you search for strength in your daily walk, look for love first. You will find the one, although a contrast in some ways, ultimately leads to the other.

The importance of coffee

2009-10-04T16:47:00.002-06:00

My blog has been silent for some weeks. I apologize. I've been a little discouraged on the writing front as of late, and decided to take a break and concentrate on some areas that maybe needed more of my attention. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, though. I have missed it, and I'm ready to start again.

What's a writer without coffee? It's a necessary accessory, if you ask me. I've been a "hardcore coffee drinker" for close to seven years. When I say "hardcore", I mean coffee is first thing I think about when I wake up in the morning (after thanking God for waking me up at all, that is). When I go to bed at night, I am excited about drinking coffee the next morning. I giggle with glee when I smell coffee. I plan whole days and trips around coffee. I will book a more expensive hotel based on its proximity to Starbucks, or another worthy and proven conveyor of my most favored elixir. I LOVE coffee.

I have a brief anecdote to illustrate this. I normally grind and brew my special, snobby coffee at home, but last week, my roommate was out of town, and I'm a big baby that doesn't like being by herself, so I stayed at my parent's house, where there is only instant coffee. . .GASP!!! On the morning in question, I had a doctor's appointment, so I simply left early with the plan of picking up a latte from the "we proudly brew Starbucks" place in the hospital food court. By the time I reached Longview city limits, I had the headache. I skipped getting gas just to get my coffee quicker. I arrived at the hospital, parked and went to the market. In my mind, I smelled the coffee, but when I rounded the corner, I was greeted with only darkness. Darkness and a steel gate. There was no coffee in this place. Derision must have been present on my face, because a kind nurse took pity on me and asked: "Are you looking for the coffee shop?"

"Yes," I answered. "Yes, I am. What happened?"

"This one closed down, but there's one in the main hospital building."

"How do I get there? Can I take the skybridge, or do I have to drive?" (My head was pounding, and my senses, unaided by caffeine, were not functioning properly.)

She answered yes and I set out to the neighboring building, where I would find the elevator, take it to the second floor, cross Highway 80 on the skybridge and sniff my way to my coffee. Keep in mind that, my doctor's office was exactly one elevator ride and five short floors away at this point, and my quest for coffee was going to take me approximately four blocks, round trip, out of my way - on foot and in heels. Didn't matter. Needed the coffee.

I boarded the elevator only to read a sign telling me it does not stop on the second floor. No problem, I think, I'll go to the third floor and take the stairs down to the second and get on the skybridge. So, when the elevator stopped on the third floor, I went directly to the stairwell and entered, paying no heed to the sign reading "No Re-entry."

In retrospect, this was not my finest moment. My instincts were operating at a deficiency, but that was little comfort when I replayed the words in my head just in time to hear the door click behind me. Before panicking, I tried the handle. Definitely locked. Remain calm, Rachel. Go downstairs and try that one. I amble down the concrete steps, in my three-inch heels, still legitimately more concerned about getting coffee than over the possibility of being locked in a stairwell for some undetermined amount of time. However, when door number two was found to be penetrable only by a four-digit code unknown to me, my need for the legal stimulant faded slightly and was replaced with earnest unease.

Movie scenes began to fill my head, and every creak above and below me was a deranged individual crouching in the corner waiting for just such and opportunity, and just such an idiot as I. I immediately thought of my cell phone, but remembered that I was entombed in concrete. I then walked down to the first floor and beheld what appeared to be an unsecured door. I tried the handle. Salvation!

Crisis averted. Back to the coffee quest. As I emerge from the stairwell, the same concerned nurse appears before me. "Did you find it?" she asks.

I shake my head and she points to my left where there is a broad staircase leading to the bright, light-filled second floor. I feel my face illuminate as I turn to it. Soon I am walking above Highway 80 and the enticing aroma of coffee fills my nose. Soon I have placed my order and have a non-fat caramel latte in my hand. All is right with the world!

Blessed toes

2009-08-29T08:08:00.003-06:00

I am currently writing an article on a church with an amazing emphasis on being the Body of Christ, which really should be the emphasis of every church if you get to thinking about it. In my interview with the pastor, he exmeplified his ministry by saying that the toes aren't the most gratifying part of the body, but somebody has to play the part. If toes are so unimportant, why does it hurt SO BAD when you stub them?

This is a side story, but I walked into the solid-wood base of a chair last night and immediately found myself curled into the fetal position on the floor with tears in my eyes and dirty words on the tip of my tongue. I was certain one or two of my toes were broken, which concerned me, because I need my toes fully functional. If I'm not mistaken, the toes provide balance, and thus, the ability to walk? (Toe experts feel free to comment.) My point is: The smallest, most seemingly insignifcant parts, sometimes play incredible roles, and when they are hurt, every other part feels it and reacts (cue mental image of Rachel on the floor writhing in pain and contemplating x-ray trip).

I work really hard, every day. It seems I spend a lot of time doing things for other people, and solving problems created by others instead of "doing something constructive." In actuality, I must do things for others, because they are constantly doing stuff for me, so I can in fact, do something constructive for at least some amount of time every day. It is a cycle. Just by showing up every morning, daycare staff is in place to care for children and run the center so I don't have to. I may have to get them latex gloves, bring paper towels, remove a child for "level 2" discipline, and a whole bunch of other tasks that may at the moment irritate me, but in the end, I'm helping them do their job, so they can in turn allow me to do mine. I didn't just realize this cycle existed, I've always known it was there. However, I don't believe I have fully appreciated it, or the people involved in it.

If I went to work Monday and no one else arrived, I would be up the creek. Not only would I not be able to do my "job" I would be unable to run the center in a safe and legal manner. I would also undoubtedly lose my mind caring for 50+ children all alone. That scenario would never actually occur, but you get my point. Child care workers may be some of the most overworked and under appreciated people there are. To society at large, they may appear to be the "toes" but in the body of my work life, they are the part that provides balance and allows me to walk. So if I haven't said it lately - I appreciate the Calvary Way Daycare staff.

Adventures in movie going

2009-08-23T18:05:00.003-06:00

Friday night I went out with my parents and sister to celebrate my mom's birthday. Mom wanted to see The Time Traveler's Wife, so my sister and I went with her, and my dad opted to see Inglorious Basterds on his own. Our movie let out about 50 minutes earlier than his, so we waited for him in the lobby of the theater. Oh wow. It wasn't really late, 9:10 or so, but already nocturnal phenomena was occurring.

If you've seen Men in Black, you know that Tommy Lee Jones explains that a certain number of "humans" on earth are actually aliens in disguise. What he failed to mention is that they congregate at the Carmike Theater in Longview, Texas. That sounds severe, I know, so let's soften it and be more specific. What I witnessed was mostly the confusion and insecurity of junior high exemplified in dress and behavior.

This was the last weekend ahead of the start of public school, so I'm sure the kiddos were out in full force solidifying their alliances for the school year. When I was in junior high (shudder) I always had a list of people to call at the end of the summer to set myself up socially for the school year. You have to compare schedules and find out where lockers are so you can easily find one another at break and lunch and avoid the awkward "loner" moments and panic that comes with not having anyone to sit with. I was a poster child for insecurity in junior high. I didn't want to appear alone for even the shortest amount of time. Nevertheless, these poor kids. . .I can see things have not changed.

In my 50 minute adventure Friday night, I saw many things. I observed a faction of the pre-teen Mexican mafia act and react to stimuli in their natural habitat: the arcade game corner. There were young ladies that seemed to be skinny jean/punkish types on the bottom halves of their bodies, but something entirely different and preppier on the top. One group entered the lobby only to buy movie theater nachos, and then apparently left. I know I go out of my way constantly for stale chips topped with thick, congealed, re-warmed, processed cheese product. (??!) The plastic container is the cherry on top. Oh, and the fact that they cost $6.75!!!

I also saw adults that piqued my curiosity. Although, people that attend ten o'clock movies intrigue me in general. I admire them, as it's something I cannot accomplish. I haven't gone to a movie past nine o'clock since high school, and the chances are I didn't go then. I just said I was to stay out past curfew. Nowadays, I'm tucked in by ten watching The Nanny and it's lights out by 10:30. Anyways, back to these adults. One gentleman wore loafers, white linen pants, and a pale pink button down untucked. His wire-rimmed glasses were brushed on the top by his slightly shaggy, sandy blonde hair, and he walked in relaxation with grace and ease. I anlayzed this person and created an entire existence for him while he was buying his popcorn and soda, which took a really long time, by the way. . .Carmike. I decided he was a writer, go figure, who has been published before (so jealous. . .why can't I get my break?), and is staying in Longview to research his book on, well I didn't get that far, but I decided he had written several chapters that day and was going out for a movie to relax his mind before hitting the writing hard again the next day.

What fun people-watching is! If you haven't tried it, you should. It can be inspiring and just plain interesting. My experience was so interesting, I took notes. To write this blog. See, inspiring.

Acquired Fears

2009-08-14T15:18:00.002-06:00

When I was a child, I spent my summers running barefooted around my cul-de-sac. I picked the legs off of grasshoppers and lowered myself to eye level with spiders, attempting to feed them, usually by throwing the legless grasshoppers into their webs. I crawled and laid on the floor of my garage and those of my neighbors. I ate before washing my hands. I drank out of the water hose. And, I just didn't worry.

These days, I cringe at the sight of nearly any bug and find a way to alter my path to avoid coming within its jumping distance. I don't even like sticking my hand under my bed for fear of what might be under it (I live in the country, folks. Brown recluse spiders and snakes are a realistic threat). It is always with scrutiny that I eat at a new restaurant or partake in a homemade treat made by someone I don't know, or trust. I drink only bottled water, although I'm working on that one. Why can't the ease of living we experience as a child be transferred to adulthood? I wish somedays I could unlearn all the facts that have taught me to worry and fear, but I can't. Truthfully, that knowledge is valuable, although cumbersome at times.

I came across a very large, terrifying grass spider the other day. Normally, I avoid even the tiniest of arachnids and wait for someone braver (like my 16-year-old sister) to come along and kill them for me. But at this particular time, I was interviewing a prospective employee and needed to appear as adult-like as possible. So, I gathered my wits, and from across the room, threw a magazine on top of the creature. I then cautiously approached the area and stomped the magazine a dozen times, and left the magazine in place, its weight guaranteeing my safety against any zombie-like characteristics this spider might posess. (Have you seen Arachnaphobia?!) Looking back, I see how this display most definitely secured my repuatation as a competent and professional person for the woman I was interviewing. What's more, I believe the spider may have already been dead, but I killed it more, because it was horrifying to look at. . . even in death.

After the woman left, I took a deep breath and lifted the magazine, and after two full minutes and ten tries, was able to scoop the remnants onto a sheet of paper and deposit it all in the trash.

Ten, twelve. . .wait. . . seventeen to nineteen years ago (HOLY COW!!!) I would have stomped the spider with my shoe, would have had great fun doing it, and then I would have gone about my summer day making mud pies. That's another thing - I hate being dirty now, and as a kid, I came home coated in dirt.

I taught a lesson last week that emphasized the importance of being child like when approaching the Kingdom of God. Such useful advice, but hard to apply, as most good advice usually is. I didn't worry as a child, and now I seem to worry about everything. I am making a conscience effort to stop, to approach life in general with a more child-like, not childish, attitude and outlook. God is going to take care of it all, but as an adult human it is often so hard to step aside and let Him. So, today's moral may be - the more difficult the advice is to follow, the more important it is that you do.

God's Lab Rat

2009-07-23T07:42:00.003-06:00

I'm not saying God is experimenting on me. I actually mean this in the best possible way. I'm talking about God's will, and how He has a way of closing off or opening up certain areas to channel us in the right direction. In my life, He is doing this through added responsibility, and added challenges.

Responsibility from God is an honor. If He gives you a job to do, or two or three or four, feel blessed. I do. By my own request, and through a series of events, I've taken on a brand new leadership role within my church, I've got to step more fully into one I've apparently had, and I've got to expand my reach in a third. Each of these areas is challenging in its own way and I am being pushed as an individual to learn new things and strengthen myself in certain areas. Most importantly, these challenges have become integrated into my personal prayer and study life, and I AM GROWING!

I pray all the time for a better prayer life, and naturally, for a closer walk with God. I pray these things out of habit. And, although I sincerely desire those things (obviously) I never think too much about how God's going to bring them about in a tangible, visible or measurable sort of way. I've realized over the past week or so that He's been working on these things in my life for some time, and now, I must be getting to the place where my eyes are open, my vision is clearer, and I can really see how He's doing it. AWESOME!

I believe one thing that has brought this epiphany on, is the fact that I've stopped viewing my walk as "just for me." With the added responsibility, I've come to realize that the quality of my walk is going to directly impact the walks of others. If I'm not where God wants me, doing what He wants me to do, studying what He wants me to study, acting and behaving how He wants me to act and behave, how am I going to lead, teach and bless others? Everything is connected.

Example: If I don't pray and seek God before leading praise and worship, how will I know which songs to pick and what words to speak? I must be in tune (no pun intended) before my fingers hit the keys in order to be sensitive to the spirit and God's intentions for that service. THAT is an awesome responsibility, but an amazing blessing, too. To have such direction and immediacy in prayer! "God help me and lead me and show me RIGHT now, so I can do exactly what you need me to do RIGHT NOW." And, the results are immediate - I pray for God to use me, I tell Him in prayer that the talents and gifts He has given me belong to Him. Then I witness and feel Him use them for His glory. He tells me what to do, I do it, and then He goes to work. It's like an out-of-body experience. I watch and see what He is doing and I feel such closeness to Him, I feel such worth. I don't want this to sound like it's about me, because it's not. It's about Him. Just like an offering or any other sacrifice we offer up, God takes it and uses it in the way He chooses.

Thank you, God, for allowing me to work for you.

Neurotic or just punctual?

2009-07-20T19:29:00.003-06:00

I am not a procrastinator. Not since my sophomore year of college anyways. I hate unfinished business, don't want it hanging over my head. In fact, I usually can't wait for my writing deadlines to arrive, because although I may have a project finished, I will not submit it early. I feel I should use every available minute and opportunity to further perfect it. So, most times, I am frantic for 7-10 days before a deadline trying to pick an article to death before submitting it by 9 a.m. on the deadline day (after reading it over a casual 6-8 additional times. . .you know, just to be sure).

Conversely, while working out I try to wish the "deadline" away. I just got off the treadmill a few minutes ago. I try to vary my routine, for fitness and to keep myself from going crazy. Tonight, I kicked my butt by maxing out for about 90 seconds, then walking at a brisk pace for 90 seconds. I went back and forth several times after a full 20 minutes of steady jogging. I like the brisk walking best, and when the 90 seconds started winding down and I knew I would have to ramp it up and kick my butt again, I relished my last few seconds of brisk walking. However, I never cheated, in fact I would usually push the speed button up a few seconds early. Surprise attack. On myself.

I'm not sure what the moral is here, other than this: Doesn't it feel good to just get it done?

My motivation at work has been fleeting lately. I get there in the morning all fired up, but by lunch, I'm pretty much done. I guess it's the summer mentality, and that's okay. Soon enough school will be back in and I'll be forced to dig for motivation at 3 and 4 in the afternoon because that will be the first chance I'll have all day to sit down and do desk work, project work, busy work. There will be so much to do, but I will get it done. And it will feel great. So, I guess it's okay to stare out my window for 10 out of every 30 minutes of the post-lunch work day. I'm getting plenty done in the morning, and I know me, when push comes to shove everything that needs doing will get done. Even if it's after lunch, even if it means breaking my brisk walk a few seconds early.

Watching and Waiting

2009-07-15T07:49:00.003-06:00

Faith makes things possible - not easy. Simple enough advice, but easily forgotten and often difficult to follow.

Our school is entering its seventh year. Biblically speaking, this should be the year that we see great growth and return, the year the fruits of our labor should be most evident.

I have been looking forward to this school year for some time. I feel like I finally have my feet under me and have an excellent staff behind me. This past year, and years prior, it seemed we were always just surviving, not being progressive. It felt like I was on a treadmill. I really wanted this year to be the one where new ideas could blossom and be put into practice. It was going to be a growing year, not just another maintenance year. Last week, my hopes were diminished some as I read a letter of resignation from the strongest and probably most valuable teacher we've ever had. I hold no anger toward her at all, and I support her decision to move on fully - she has left on nothing but good terms. However, the void she leaves behind is one only I can fill - for the time being.

At first, this turn of events discouraged and worried me, but then I remembered the phrase above. "Faith makes things possible, not easy." And, then I remembered another one: "If things are going wrong, you must be doing something right."

For a long time, I have felt that I needed to be more heavily involved in a certain area of the school, and I've never pushed myself into it because the staff member that resigned did such an excellent job in that arena. Now, I have no choice but to step into that place. Isn't God a wise Father. I had my plans for this year, but He has some, too, no doubt. And His are better than mine. Through this change, I've learned that no matter how inconvenient or unlucky a circumstance may seem, I should step back and think about what God may be trying to accomplish through it. Where is He trying to lead me? What is He setting up?

I know this staff member prayed and sought God in her decision. Likewise, I have prayed that God will enable me to fill her shoes, and give me the strength to fill my own at the same time. And I know He will do it.

Many people believe a life lived for God is dull, that there is no excitement. They are wrong. When God changes a circumstance and you know it's for the purpose of something awesome, there is nothing more exciting than watching and waiting for His will to be perfected.

When work isn't work

2009-06-22T06:13:00.003-06:00

Imagine being on vacation, but having to work. It's not that hard to visualize. I think most of us have had a working vacation at some point. I for one never went home for Thanksgiving or Spring Break while in college without the building blocks of a project or the outline for a paper in tow. Now, I carry writing assignments along with me. On the surface, I find that irritating, not because of the writing itself, but because of the leg work I have to get out of the way before I actually get down to doing what I love. . .the writing.

I carted along two articles on my family vacation to Tennessee a few weeks ago. Thanks to decent time management skills and an extremely stressful pre-vacation week, the articles were finished before we departed and all I had to worry about on the trip was making minor changes as fact checks came back from the people I'd interviewed. However, that experience has shown me that most of my free time is spent writing, preparing to write, editing what I've already written, or figuring out who I can write for next. In other words, I leave one job and come home to another one. But it doesn't feel that way. Yes, there are days that I would rather go home and numb my mind over with several hours of television, and I'll admit that I've given into that temptation more than once (especially when there are Jon & Kate Plus 8 marathons). I have to let my mind rest at some point. But, it generally doesn't happen two days in a row, or really, more than once a week, because it is not what I love. It is not what truly relaxes me. My writing does, and I am not at peace at the end of the day unless I have contributed something to that part of my life. Whether I write a blog, edit a section of the book, write a new section, research an agent, tweak my query letters, or work on a current assignment for a magazine or other client, I have to do something writing related, every day, or I'm just not happy. It is my release, my touchstone.

I believe God wired me that way. I believe He wants me to be a writer more than I do at times (dee-ta-dee). He has blessed this part of my life more than I ever could have imagined. He must be in it, because new writers don't find the work I've found on their own right out of the shoot. He always planned it, and He chose for me to have various and sundry experiences along the way to train me for it, to develop relationships and skills that would help me build this career. When I look back on all He has put in place, all He has allowed, I am overwhelmed by His awesome ability, His goodness, and His plan.

I know this is Him. When I am discouraged, something always happens to encourage me. For example, while on vacation, we stayed with my aunt and uncle in Mississippi and visited their church. I spoke to their pastor and pastor's wife about my book briefly a few months ago when they were here for my cousin's wedding, but have thought little about the conversation since then. I wouldn't say I was down about the book when I left on the trip, but it had been put on the back burner, and let's face it - getting fiction published is never easy. At the close of the Sunday evening service we were a part of, the pastor of this church stood before his congregation and praised my writing work and expressed how excited he and his wife were about my upcoming book. Prior to that, his wife had asked me about the progress and requested a copy. Those two experiences catapulted me back into the publishing endeavor. I was reminded that I am capable, that I am doing more than most attempt to do, and most importantly, that God has blessed me with a talent and I have to do all that I can to ensure He receives glory from it.

When I am lazy, something always comes along to motivate me. I will be in the middle of a lethargic and pitiful Saturday afternoon, watching a worthless movie I've seen 15 times, and all of a sudden a writer character will be introduced, or a scene will call to mind the quintessential writer's life. I am always imagining a cabin tucked in the mountains, or a cottage on the beach, some kind of retreat where I will stay while writing my 21st best seller. No matter the place, I am always in a sweater, with a cup of coffee, and I own a Grand Waggoneer. This is MY vision. Don't judge me! The point is, while I'm watching a movie or TV, or reading a book, a subtle, unexpected motivator always creeps in and I am reminded that "there is no someday." And, the cherry on top is: when I finally turn off the TV and put my butt in the chair, the chair I'm sitting in right now, I have a lot more fun and am far more relaxed than I was doing the other fruitless activity.

Socks Revisited

2009-06-17T20:04:00.003-06:00

Check the archives for a post titled "Let's talk about Socks, baby." It's a story about my formerly not feline friendly grandparents and their cat, Socks. There have been many experiences with Socks since that blog was posted. . .let's see. . .a little more than two years ago, but today was just one of those special moments I feel deserves extra attention, plus my Uncle Nolan will get a laugh out of it.

I worked my brain out this week and by about three o'clock today I was ready for a break. I stay in town on Wednesdays for church in the evening, so I took an hour or so off and went to my grandparent's house. Now, if you read the aforementioned post, you know that some time ago family was redirected to the front door of the house when our traditional side entrance was overhauled to become Socks' fully heated and air-conditioned bachelor pad. We've mostly grown used to this, but every now and then, we are thrown a curve ball.

For starters, it was 600 degrees today and I drive a black car with black leather interior. I was hot. I park on the street at their house, so by the time I reached the front yard, debated whether or not to take the beloved, but terrifying ramp (which has been repaired and appears much safer, as long as it's not raining), and arrived at the front door, I was just shy of heat stroke. (I'm exaggerating of course, but my point is, I was ready to get inside.) I turn the knob of the door, which for most of my life has been unlocked during daylight hours, only to find it locked. I crane my neck around the corner of the house to see if the car is in place. It is. I wait. I ponder. Socks.

Soon I hear rustling about on the other side of the door and the blinds are pulled up. The stern and suspicious face of my grandfather stares out at me. I'm certain he has no idea who I am for a full 30 seconds, but finally yells through the window: "Come in through the side door!"

Confusion.

Mixed signals.

I retreat from the front door, walk down the ramp, trek through the yard, and endure the 600 degree heat a little longer. I ascend the steps to the side door, which used to be a screen door, but is now a solid, dead-bolted security door marking the entrance to Socks' crib. I attempt to enter, but again find it locked. I just want to visit my grandparents!!! Why won't they let me in!!! I went to the front door, because I'm not supposed to go to the side door ANY MORE!! Then I was told to go to the side door, but it is LOCKED!!! What am I supposed to do?!!!

Desperation. Heat taking its toll. Need water. . .

I hear the patter of my grandfather's feet and a moment later he opens the door for me and offers a hug. He then closes the outer door before I can open the interior door leading into the house, where Socks is lazing about. It's a very sophisticated, complex security system my grandparents have concocted to completely and totally ensure there is no chance of escape.

I finally made it into the inner-sanctum and enjoyed a nice visit with my grandparents, during which Socks went out to his apartment. After a while I got ready to leave. I said my goodbyes and approached the side door that I entered through. As my hand reaches for the knob, I am quickly redirected to the front door. . .???. . .!!! You mean the door I originally tried to use?

You know when you get in trouble as a child and your parents tell you to "shut your mouth" but then you get in trouble for not answering their next question? This was a similar experience. I no longer know what door to use. I have a college degree, am a nationally published writer, and am responsible for educating people's children, but I do not know what door to enter and exit through at a house I have been in and out of my entire life.

I suppose next time I'll try the back door, or perhaps a cracked window. There used to be a weak spot in the floor between the living room and dining room. Maybe, with the right tools and one of those hard hats with a light attached, I could burrow into the house from underneath.

P.S. I love and respect my grandparents and consider them wise and faithful people. I also know their love for me is unconditional, and I have drawn on that knowledge many times when I felt the rest of the world had turned against me. Despite my jokes, Socks is their companion during the day. My life does not allow me to be with my grandparents every day, but Socks provides entertainment and makes them feel needed, and for that I am grateful to him.

Lock your doors! Hide your SAT scores!

2009-06-02T05:57:00.005-06:00

Welcome to the Socialist States of America!! I've been awake less than an hour and my distaste for the direction of our nation is freshly and fully renewed. Why, I ask, are thousands of GM dealers across this country losing their life's work? More importantly, why are the whiny, often-lazy, manipulative unionized laborers that the hard work of these very dealers has supported for three decades keeping their employment and benefits, and blood-sucking unions? Trust me, the inflated and ridiculous demands of unions had everything to do with GM going under. Dealers working seven days a week to move and sell the consequently over-priced, non-competitive end product were not the problem. This perplexes me, yet I think I've found the answer: Unions were one of the first (for lack of a better term) stupid steps toward socialism, so it's only natural for the idiots in power to preserve these entities. I mean, it would be counterproductive to harm the foundation of the welfare-state structure. Conversely, the dealers are actually self-made people, with a little bit of personal wealth, and hey(!) ambition and intelligence, and their kind simply won't fit in with the new and better, "changed" America.

I had this revelation, and then started thinking like Big Brother. Two men laid off in Knoxville were on the news this morning. They lost their jobs, but instead of kicking back in the recliner and living off tax dollars for a few months, the very day they lost their jobs, they started a new business. Ironically, this business makes money by cleaning up foreclosed homes for resale. Bet the government didn't see that one coming!! HA!! Nevertheless, this action again shows the men to be self-sufficient, and therefore, not ideal for citizenship in our new and changed states.

I was discussing IQ scores with people yesterday and it occurred to me: If you've got a score higher than 110, you'll want to keep it under wraps. Better yet, hook yourself up to the toaster and see if you can shave off a few points. You don't want to appear too smart these days, it may soon be considered treason.

Diary of a Mad, White Girl

2009-05-10T18:51:00.006-06:00

I am Bridget Jones. On certain days. Minus the cigarettes, boos, and loose morals. And swearing. Incidentally, I am also a brunette. I'm trying to tap into the positive here. I go through stages of chaotically motivated self reinvention/improvement. I love my life in general - love the family and the work, but I'll admit, the single factor does seem to bother people - oh for real, it just got to the part in the movie where she's at the dinner party and a dozen people stare at her after she's asked why there are so many single women in their thirties. Yeah, I'm watching it right now. No, I'm not in my thirties, but you have to make the adjustment from London to rural East Texas. I'm in my mid-twenties. It's the same. Trust me. The people I know love me the most (I count myself in that group) never say anything about my singularity, and I don't believe they care. Complete strangers, however, or people whose business it most assuredly is not, are quite uncomfortable with my unattached state.

It is considered bad etiquette to ask someone what they do for a living at a social engagement. Is it not also rude to ask someone if they're seeing someone special? Or, even worse: "So why aren't you married?" My answer: "I don't know." Am I supposed to know? Because I don't, really.

Then I'm told that I need to "put myself out there." Ahem. . . have these people seen what's on the market in my neck of the woods? No, thank you. The pickins are slim.

Moral of the story - I'd rather be single forever than settle for something mediocre just to fit a mold others consider to be acceptable. I hope if you're single and reading this, you can feel the same way about yourself.

FYI - I am leaving in the morning to take seven students to Knoxville for national competition. I'll be away for a week, so the blog will be silent. Not that that will be a big change, I am pretty much posting once a week anyway. That'll change come summer, I promise.

Teaching and Learning

2009-05-10T18:19:00.002-06:00

I was thinking of mothers today - can't think why. . . Any the who, I thought about the mothers, the women, whose selfless selves have been immortalized in films and on the page. Women like Melanie Hamilton in "Gone With the Wind." Melanie was so kind, generous, patient, and a million other things. She was a good Christian, she was a woman, although fictional, that showed impeccable, untainted character.

I was thinking of my faults this morning, about how I am not like Melanie Hamilton. (Although, as much as I love Scarlett, I'm always angry at her for throwing Melanie's love away with both hands.) Here's the thing, I can't think of a flesh and blood woman who is like Melanie, or Jane Bennett, or Beth March. They were all fictional, after all. Still, there do seem to be women out there that are always the picture of grace and goodness, but I am certain behind closed doors they all get real. How can one be perfect in an imperfect world? The answer is we cannot. Someone extra challenging will always come along, a situation will undoubtedly unravel before us, that will make us behave human, in the worst possible way.

I try really hard to love all the people in my life, I try to love them faults and all. I have to, God loves me every day in spite of mine. It's hard. I want to teach people, and I'm only 25, so I don't know all that much. I guess I am striking a balance between learning from those who know more than me and setting an example for those who know less. That's a challenge, but if I truly work to achieve that balance it all sort of works out. If I choose to teach and lead by example, then my example of learning from, respecting, and honoring those with more wisdom than myself should naturally have the desired effect on the other party. Correct? Quite philosophical for 7:30 on a Sunday evening don't you think?

Conversely, what do we do when someone cannot, or refuses to be, taught? They are either so set in their ways, or so over-defensive due to low self esteem, that they cannot accept doing it any other way, let alone another person's instruction. They must already be right and perfect, otherwise, in their mind, they are worthless. I don't know how to help a person like that, and unfortunately, that sends me into a downward spiral of human-ish frustration.

I don't remember where I was at or what I was doing or what the woman looked like, but she simply said to me: "I learned a long time ago that you can't please everyone. So, I don't worry about pleasing anyone. I just please God."

I suppose that's the trick. If you're doing that, everything else should naturally fall into place. Why is it so hard to remember that throughout the day?

Saturday Talk

2009-05-02T05:52:00.002-06:00

Another post-free week has come and gone. Another INSANE week has come and gone. There was a serious issue with students with tentacles reaching into my personal family life; my mother had surgery; my younger sister began, and quit, her first job; I had an article due; I got a new assignment from a brand new client; and SWINE FLU!!! Oh my goodness!! None of these are excuses for not posting, a dedicated writer bent on building a platform and readership would be up until all hours of the morning to insure their blog was in prime condition. I am dedicated, but I'm dedicated to many things, especially my family.

With all that out of the way - some Saturday thoughts: I believe Swine Flu, or H1N1 (because nothing is officially scary until it has a letter-number combo label), is a government conspiracy. Think about it. Our president conveniently leaves the post at HHS open? I think it was a cover. There was immediate alarm over this sickness when it was discovered in Mexico City, but were the borders closed? No. Why? Because it was apparently already in New York. I watch the news quite a bit and consider myself to be a well-informed person and citizen. So, I ask, how did it get from Mexico to NYC before anyone knew about it? I live in Texas!!! Next to Mexico!!! I run a school and daycare!!! I consider myself to be in that handful of the population that should know about things like this. . .ummm, what's the word. . .searching. . .QUICKLY - as I live and these businesses operate in the neighboring state to "Ground Zero" of this whole affair. It just seems odd. Why weren't international flights grounded? Oh, it doesn't matter. Well, then how did H1N1 get to EGYPT? Is H1N1 equipped with propellers which allow it to travel across massive spans of water? Is this information forthcoming from the CDC?

This accusation sounds sensational and I am not a sensational person. Although, most of the above is me behaving sensationally. The direction our government is careening toward is socialism, and by default, extreme and unprecedented control over American lives. An opportunity such as this, where they are able to inspire fear on home soil, where they hold the information and the cure, is a prime one for bringing us to our knees so we will consent to whatever they decide is best. And after it's all over, we may have a nation and government changed overnight. In no way am I accusing the present administration of planting this virus, but I do believe that now it's here, they're capable of using it to the advantage of their still-hidden agenda.

Next thought: Torture. Oh! I've been sitting on this post since those interrogation records were released. Let me tell you something - my school has an early childhood program attached to it, a daycare. One governed by the state, and consequently, the most ridiculous set of regulations one has ever read. Well, California's may be more ridiculous, but I digress. The people that wrote these regs? They don't have children. It would be IMPOSSIBLE for these people to have raised children or, in fact, know anything about children, and then have written these rules to follow for caring for them. Example: If a child hits, bites, slaps, kicks, takes a toy away from another child, we have no recourse but to explain to them (possibly a child as young as 12 months) that they made a poor choice. If the child does it again, we are to ask, not tell, if they will move to isolation (time out). If the child would rather not go to isolation, they remain mixed with the group so they're free to hit, kick, slap, bite and steal some more. After all, toddlers do know what's best. Example: If a child hits, kicks, slaps, bites, talks back to, or in any way disobeys their teacher we have no recourse but to explain to them (possibly a child as young as 12 months) that they made a poor choice. If the child does it again, we are to ask, not tell, if they will move to isolation (time out). If the child would rather not go to isolation, they remain in the activity. Without punishment. We are not allowed to punish, we can take away privileges and use other proven disciplinary methods, and we're professionals, so we make it work. I am not a proponent for physical discipline in daycare. With sometimes months of frustration, a challenging child will finally fall into our structure and stop their bad behaviors, but it takes a long time and these are children under age 5. Once they're in public school, we can almost never correct them (I'll save that for another post).

So, if it takes time and structure to rid the young and undeveloped mind of a toddler or preschooler of undesirable behavior, what exactly will it take to get information from adult terrorists that have been trained and brainwashed, sometimes since childhood, to do whatever it necessary to take American lives? I'll go out on a limb and say shacking up in a minimum security, suburban prison with three meals a day, cable, and a fluffy pillow isn't going to be much of a motivator.

Of course, we could use daycare tactics and get "down on the terrorist's level" and explain to them how unhappy we are with their behavior, detail the consequences of said behavior (which are American deaths - that's dirty pillow talk to them), and tell them we are taking privileges away unless they answer our questions. Hmmmm. . .what privileges could we take? Dessert after dinner? How about we talk to Allah about taking some virgins away?

If this PROVEN method fails, we can always let terrorists run day cares under state regs. That'll crack them in no time.

Glory

2009-04-24T14:48:00.002-06:00

Oh wow, I haven't posted in almost two weeks. Well, that's not true, I actually posted something on Tuesday, but took it off two minutes later. I'll revise it and re-post it at a later date - time-sensitive material of a sort.

All I can say is the past two weeks have been INSANE. If you think running a school and dealing with teenagers, Kindergartners, staff, and an occasional daycare issue is challenging - you're right. Now throw on top of it a budding writing career and you've got the recipe for a nervous breakdown. But, I didn't have one, not even close, there have been a few OMG moments, but for the most part, things haven't been bad, just challenging. I like a challenge. I'd rather be running around like a headless chicken and busy with the work of the Lord than sitting around, idle and bored, with time to get into trouble. It is a pleasure to use the mind God blessed me with!

Some things clicked for me this week. I find myself earnestly desiring to wade through the muck and mire people allow to build up around them. I desire to do this because maybe I can teach them something, maybe I can make a difference. There are people in my life that I do not enjoy dealing with, but finally this week, an answer to prayer no doubt, I've just decided that my preferences really don't matter. I've just got to keep a smile on my face and put up with them and show love, kindness, patience, and all those other good things - not because I have to, but because I want to. I want to see a change happen in that person. I want that person to be successful. I want that person's future to be different. I want them to grow up and pay it forward.

What do I get out of this? God will show me His glory, His abilities, His power. He can do anything, heal anyone, deliver anyone, and if you've never experienced God's glory, never had those chills race up your back when His presence sweeps into a room, you're missing out.

There are many things in this life that I enjoy, that make me laugh, that I get excited over, but none of them compare to the feeling I get when I know God just took care of business. When He does something to remind us all down here that He is the B.O.S.S. He healed my grandmother of "terminal" ovarian cancer 18 years ago; He healed my aunt of breast cancer two years ago; He has provided for me in every way for two years following a substantial pay cut because I've followed His leading on my life; when my vehicle spun out of control and there was nothing for me to do but cry out "Jesus", He heard me, and my car came to a safe stop; He kept a dear friend and now family member safe during two tours of duty in Iraq; When I'm out of answers and options, He listens, He watches over me and gives me the measure of peace I need to rest, and the next morning, it's always better. These are just a few examples that came to mind just now, but He does it every day, I pray every day, so ultimately, only He knows what He's kept me from, only He knows what He's done for me and my loved ones, and only He knows what my continued faith will make possible for the future.

I can do nothing without Him, but I can do anything with Him.

Welcome to my (now) political blog

2009-04-11T07:11:00.007-06:00

As a child, I lived in constant fear of going to jail. This was no doubt the result of an adult in my life bending the truth somewhat to insure the Barbie or Bubble-Yum lust in my eyes did not manifest itself in the form of elementary shoplifting. Then, I saw Aladdin, and my fear of jail was shadowed by the fear of losing one of my hands. I learned early not to steal.

Early in the week, almost certainly out of anger with the teenage specimen's whose education I am responsible for, I jotted down some random thoughts that I intended to turn into a blog later in the day. The blog never came to fruition. It's probably a good thing, because this blog would have been a tie-dyed mixture of anger and loosely, wildly connected causes and effects. One sentence I wrote blames a certain Vietnam-era celebrity and her bra-burning for my students' inability to meet a deadline. Oh yes, I did find a way to connect the two in my mind, but if I ever want to be considered a serious, and sane, writer, it's best I save that one for the winter of my writing career when it is acceptable to be crazy and spout off unfounded theories. Oh, why don’t I just live a little? If Michael Moore can get away with it . . .

I believe we are witnessing the degeneration of our society's work ethic. I believe it will be extinct in another generation, or at least endangered. Initiative? Personal responsibility? Hard work? These, not spotted owls, deserve Hollywood's charity balls, and prime real estate on the front pages of America’s newspapers. Fostering these traits in our young people, instilling them in the ones that will lead our nation (what's left of it) should be ousting the left’s insatiable thirst for social programs. However, this is one more area the government has no business sticking its bureaucratic-booger infested nose into. It's a job that should be done by the parents, and somewhere along the way there's been a breakdown . . . one exponentially multiplied by the government’s empowering of citizens to be lazy and desecrate the vision and values of our founding fathers. Our Christian founding fathers, no less.

I am not an expert on child development and I do not have any experience in sociology other than a freshman course, which oddly, probably qualifies me to make this assumption more so than if I had a Ph.D. behind my name (depending on the university). Minimally, three generations of Americans have been raised largely without physical discipline and with both parents working, if they even had two. They’ve been allowed to talk back, allowed to be lazy, and have been handed a weekly allowance and keys to a vehicle after doing very little to deserve either. In our public schools, they have been pushed along, nursed with dumbed-down, propaganda-infested material. When they misbehave or fail to meet standards, often the teacher’s hands are tied. Research shows that children’s intelligence actually decreases the longer they stay in our public schools.

I present to you the group that elected our president! They want fetuses aborted and serial rapists and murderers spared from the needle. They want illegal immigrants to have education and health care while hard-working American men and women avoid preventive exams and take out loans to pay for their children’s college tuition, thanks to inflated taxes. Come to America! It’s the land of opportunity! Unless, you are in fact, an American.

The upcoming workforce (I use that term loosely) and voting class has been taught that it's okay to do wrong, that they're not hurting anything or anybody, that it's some other person's fault and never their own. Thousands and hundreds of thousands, even millions, of people have been taught to be irresponsible by ma and pa government, elected officials even. While drunk, I drove a car off a bridge and left my passenger to drown, but I'm me, so it doesn't count. Who am I? (I’ll let you do the research on this one yourself – it’ll be good for you.)

As I said earlier, I learned stealing was wrong at an early age. . .until, an adult in my life (not one of my parents) witnessed me breaking an item in a store and hurriedly ushered me away from the evidence and out to the car. (Breaking something and not paying for it is still stealing – don’t want anybody to get confused.) That moment stands out in my memory. I was scared, I was sure I was going to jail. I didn't. That one example of escape did not enable me to become a hardened criminal with lose morals. Fortunately, I was raised in a Christian home where there were consequences for my actions and where right and wrong were taught as black and white. One event was unable to undo actual parent involvement and good upbringing. What about all the people that didn’t have that? Thanks to policy being signed as I write this, they will look to the government for everything, including moral example. Consequences? What are those?

So, with the moral, ahem, deficiencies present today, how are those that have had no teaching going to lead, and lead us well? How do they know the policy being put in place is wrong, wrong, wrong, and destructive, destructive, destructive? They’ve never had to sacrifice to keep this country free, never crawled under their desks for bomb drills, they have never had to really fear what the soldiers of another nation could do to them (obviously our armed forces are excluded from this remark). Neither have I, but I do have a moral backbone, and I do read (despite going to public schools), enough to know that the reason I’ve never had to endure those things and fear those things is because we’ve always had a somewhat competent leader at the helm. I’ll even throw Bill Clinton into that pool, but let’s face it – George W. Bush is what kept us safe after 9/11. In fact, he kept us so safe, the great majority of our nation has forgotten we need to fund national defense.

These truths are evident in many, if not all, of the challenges facing our nation right now. And, the worst part is, the people drinking the government's Kool-Aid are being set up for a catastrophic let down. This won't last. Irresponsibility NEVER leads to prosperity. Unless of course, you're on Welfare.

On an online community I sometimes visit, I read a person's comments about Europeans and how their lives are so blissful. How the greed so prevalent in America isn't present there and there is no rat race. I quote: "The people there live on and with so little."

That's because they don't have a CHOICE!! Their wealth is redistributed to the masses!!

Some day soon, that person may have the chance to live just like the people he envies on The Continent. There’s a chance it might not happen in our lifetime, but I think the footers are in place and the slab is about to be poured. Maybe, if there was time to undo decades of poor child-rearing and ethical decay, my generation or the one after me could do something about the walls being raised.

A country-fied city mouse

2009-03-31T18:55:00.005-06:00

We forget the negative when we've been away from a place, a person, a situation. Time heals and absence makes the heart grow fonder. I've lived in rural East Texas for almost six years, and most days I find reasons to dislike it and pine away for the big city, any city. It's amazing to me that one region can be so completely devoid of culture, food, and size 2 garments. I am constantly frustrated and preoccupied with what my locale doesn't offer that I often forget to sit back and think about what I love, and why, ultimately, I really am happy. If I wasn't, I would have found a way to leave by now.

I recently finished a Nicholas Sparks book about a man who leaves his fast-paced Manhattan life for love, moving to a no-name North Carolina town. A loft apartment overlooking the city is traded for a rented room full of taxidermy. The apex of all things literary and culinary, walks in Central Park, the excitement and tension of New York streets, is exchanged for a local diner and a sad local paper. As I read the first chapters, even before the character's desolation was revealed, I felt it. I live there. In the end, the character comes to love his new home. He is even given the chance to return to Manhattan and passes it up, choosing the slow and simple saunter of southern life.

Driving home tonight, passing wooded areas and pastures made lush and green by days and days of East Texas rain, I had a flashback to my teen years, when I started driving. I grew up in Boise, Idaho, a fairly good-sized city. Not a New York, not a Chicago, not a Houston or Dallas, but big enough. Beautiful. Varied opportunities for experiencing culture, museums, street markets, shopping, entertainment, food, food, food, and recreation everywhere - skiing, river sports, hiking, biking. . .a wonderful, wonderful town. And I remembered on my peaceful drive home tonight, the traffic. As a young driver, the back-ups on well-traveled roads infuriated me. Granted I was young, extremely immature, and had no semblance of a walk with God. All the same, I didn't like the traffic.

Toward the end of my 19-year stay in the Northwest, I became disgusted with the mentality of the people, who grew more and more. . .I won't go into detail, but my political views are no longer the norm in that part of the country. In fact, looking back, it appears that God was dropping hints, setting it all up, making it miraculously easy for me to leave my childhood home, my friends of a decade or more, my golden college experience. Everything I sometimes long for now, was mine, and I had grown sick of it. It no longer mattered, I wanted John Deere Green, cowboy hats, belts with big buckles and names on the back, magnolia trees, chicken fried steak, okra, banana pudding, and Blue Bell on the front porch. I wanted to drive from my house to the post office and back and know what 80 percent of my family and friends were doing and where they were at. I wanted to find love and raise children within 15 miles of the final resting places of my great-great grandparents.

Humans are fickle. We are forever dreaming of the green, green grass that's in our line of sight, but out of our reach. Then, it seems when we finally have a moist, muddy handful of it, we want to throw it down and wipe our hands.

I often wonder what I would miss about East Texas if I were suddenly transplanted into a metropolitan area. There's no way to know for sure, however, I am confident the layered sounds of crickets, frogs, and distant birds all painted onto a background of tranquil silence would be missed when I attempted to sleep among busy city streets. In the spring, the wafting fragrance of wisteria, in the summer, the first aromas of barbecue, when those were replaced with the smells of culinary choice on a busy downtown street mixed with exhaust, I would miss my lakeside home. And, at the end of a day spent in a building built tall as a monument to mind-numbing, soul-sucking commerce, I am confident I would long for the days that my only charge was to please God, to find a way to plant one more seed, and then wait for HIM to give the increase.

On leadership

2009-03-26T06:05:00.005-06:00

This blog is not political, although I am a very political person. However, I recently witnessed a prominent politician (who shall remain nameless) display a ridiculously defensive attitude. And, it made me worry, more than I usually do, about the people in charge of our nation and by default, my future.

I've learned (read: try to remember) to compare the situations of others to my own before passing any kind of judgment, not that I should be passing judgment at all, but I am human, nonetheless. Being in a position of authority, at any level, opens a person up to ridicule and makes them the target of the finger of blame. That's just the way it is, leadership is a mixed blessing. I learn this more and more every day in my own life. The one in charge is most often seen as the bad guy, the fun hater, and when those they oversee spin out of control, it is most often the leader that actually slides off the cliff. Unfortunately, these incoming opinions are often transferred and become a part of the leader's opinion of themselves. I can see how that could make a person defensive, but I also know from personal experience that a defensive attitude usually comes from a lack of confidence in either the decisions one has made or one's ability to perform the job.

Needless to say, when I saw this trait in this politician, it made me fearful because it illustrated that this person is not confident in their decisions, is not pleased with the job their currently doing, and does not trust in their own ability to do a better job in the future. Disturbing.

Still, comparing their situation to my own, I tried to think of what I would do. It's taken much time for me to learn to do this, and I sometimes still forget, but in most cases I step back, evaluate, and then ask for help. The latter is a huge shot to the ego for some, it used to be for me. Why do we feel there is shame in asking for and getting help when the hand we're dealt gets to be too much?

Strangely enough, leaders who have asked for help have gone down in history as heroes. For instance, Winston Churchill asked for the help of the U.S. in WWII (although it took much coaxing before FDR agreed), the result was victory over an evil man and the salvation of millions. I give you Winston Churchill - household name.

Eventually, even the wisest leaders screw up. In fact, it's safe to assume that leaders do not approach wisdom until they've fallen down in the mud a few times. When mistakes are made, the best we can do is learn from them. It doesn't make the sickening swell you feel in your stomach go away any sooner, and it is often hard to fight the urge to punch people in the face when they tell you to "learn from it", however, it is the best advice, and the only way to turn a negative into a positive.

Don't trust someone who is afraid to be wrong, or hasn't made any mistakes. Because we've all made mistakes. It's impossible not to and people who claim they've made none - have. They just refuse to take responsibility for them.

Mail Issues

2009-03-23T17:38:00.002-06:00

I miss getting mail. Real, hold it in your hands mail, and e-mail. . .legitimate e-mail. Now, in the gloomy shadow of a cancelled trip, I need the pick-me-ups of everyday life even more than usual. When you have something really huge and exciting to look forward to, and then it’s not there anymore, (even when it’s by your own action. . .or inaction, nonetheless) your normal life loses some of its luster. That’s why I need my mail. Mail holds such possibility.

I have a Blackberry synced with my personal e-mail and every time it buzzes, my heart leaps a little. What kind of news is it? I can’t tell you with any certainty what I’m hoping it might be, I just want it to be something. Okay, yes I can, I want it to be an agent writing to tell me she’ll represent my book, or better yet, that she’s already got a publisher waiting for someone with just my tone and she’s faxing over a 10-book contract with a $50,000 advance.

Oddly enough, it’s usually some hacked to death attempt at English telling me I’m the sole benefactress of an Ethiopian ivory fortune. I am well rehearsed in the deletion process. Spam mail is such a let down. The people responsible for spam mail should get bonuses for the fits of temporary depression they bring on. Not only are they phishing for identities and breaking down secure servers, they’re also playing on the emotions of poor freelance writers hoping for book deals. I can only assume they’re conspiring with pharmaceutical companies and other entities involved in the creation and distribution of drugs like Xanax, Wellbutrin, and Paxil. I think Little Debbie, and maybe Blue Bell, are also involved as my personal consumption of their products has increased three-fold since Sunday evening last.

On the USPS front, I’m only getting bills, small white envelopes symbolic of balls and chains. Reminders of responsibility and mistakes. This is one area that I am expecting something of value, I am a writer that gets paid, so every now and then my lust for mail is positively reinforced in the form of monetary gain. I could use some of that monetary gain about now.

To twist the knife ever so slightly, I did get a Membership Reward postcard from American Express today inviting me to redeem points for a fabulous stay in. . .where else. . .Paris!!!

For the record, as I seem bitter, I stand by the decision I made not to travel last week. It was not the right time, I know the difference between lack of peace and fear, and what I felt was an absence of peace. However, I am very disappointed that it didn’t work out, that I wasn’t able to do it, and for that matter, that I hitched my wagon to such a far away (literally) star. I really, REALLY needed a vacation, a disconnect, which I could have accomplished much closer to home. Or perhaps, that would have been scratched, too. Maybe I wasn’t supposed to go anywhere. I try not to question it too much, it’s best to just trust and wait for the perfect opportunity.

While I'm waiting, maybe I'll do some internet shopping where I can get some really exciting mail. New shoes, handbag, a red patent leather belt (basic item, yes, yet impossible to find). However, this will no doubt lead to the continued delivery of the aforementioned bills. Vicious cycle.

I'm back...from the airport

2009-03-16T09:02:00.000-06:00

If you’ve read my blog at all the past few weeks, you know that I booked a trip to Paris, France, for Spring Break. If you read this blog Friday, you know that I was supposed to have left on said trip yesterday. And, if you’re reading this blog now, you know that I am in fact in the United States, and you are probably wondering why. So am I.

That’s not entirely true. I know why. I couldn’t get on the plane. For a long time, I have been living under the idea that I am a worldly, independent type, destined to see and explore every crevice of the earth. Turns out, that’s not who I am at all.

Nearly every source of my earthly joy is in a 30-square-mile radius and I am a very content person, a trip overseas was not going to add anything. Well, it might have and I know there wouldn’t have been anything wrong with me going, in theory. But, I couldn’t do it. I made it all the way to the airport and was within 90 minutes of taking off and I could NOT do it. Many people reading this probably think I’m a complete fool for not going, especially if you know me and have heard me rant and rave about wanting to travel and about this trip in particular. However, none of you were inside my head at the critical moment. None of you felt the lack of peace. None of you have to look at the credit card statement.

This is a lesson learned, that’s how I view it. God can use any means He chooses to teach us, to mold us. And, He may very well have used this to teach me, to show me, exactly what my life is supposed to be, what it is supposed to be about.

If I were in Paris right now, I would be one of several places. I could be touring Notre Dame, I could be on a bus familiarizing myself with the city, I could be exploring the Quartier Latin, or I could be crumpled on the bed in my hotel room in tears wishing I could go home. Although it seems preposterous, I could still be wandering through Charles de Gaulle looking for my baggage and/or shuttle driver, or there’s a small chance I could be stranded in Amsterdam. The crumpled on the bed is probably very likely. I am a strong person, but the people God has blessed me with are what make me strong. I am not brave, not on my own. If I have someone else to lead, guide or protect, I’m there, I’m on it, the responsibility drives me. Conversely, when it’s just me, I fall apart. I am a social being. Sure, I enjoy the occasional afternoon or evening of solitude, but for the most part I like having people with me, I like having someone to share with. When I am away from home, even on short trips, I always want the people I care about most with me. Especially my sister. A few months ago in Houston I walked through the Galleria wishing she was with me. That’s probably why I bought her the overpriced dinosaur t-shirt from Urban Outfitters.

My aunt told me last night: “You can do anything you put your mind to.” That’s true, but everything I’ve accomplished in my short life has been possible because of the support and love that’s always been present. Not one of my family members or friends told me not to go on the trip, but once I decided against it, nearly every one of them told me they were relieved. They hadn’t been comfortable with me going by myself, but they weren’t going to stop me because they knew it was something I had desired to do for such a long time.

I lost my peace and excitement over the trip more than a week ago. I woke in the night in a sweat and pulled out the travel documents ready to cancel. I didn’t, but I never felt much but anxiety from that point on. I prayed and prayed and prayed some more, only to get short periods of peace. Those brief instances were always quickly dashed away. What does that mean? I have no idea, and I probably never will. It was probably pre-trip jitters that even seasoned international travelers experience. Mine took many forms. Ultimately, the hurdle in the forefront yesterday was the flight. I woke this morning and turned on the news to discover that there were no plane crashes. I would have arrived safely. Everything other than that will probably forever remain a mystery.

Lessons learned:

**Nothing in haste – I thought booking this impulsively, as opposed to having seven months to wait like last time (oh yes, I cancelled a trip a few months ago, check the archives) would be good for me.

**Know my limits – solo travel is not something I can do, not that great a distance.

**Pay attention to past experiences – New York and Houston, when the former ended and the latter commenced, I knew I didn’t really like being away from home. I’m an east Texas girl. I’ve thought for a long time that I’m not, but I am. It’s a simple life, not that glamorous, not that exciting, but that’s the hand I’ve been dealt and I am grateful for everyone and everything that I have.

**Praise Him in tribulation – thank you God for a family and friends that are supportive of my decisions and of me, no matter how foolish. Thank you for forgiveness, provision, and a plan.

Random Tid Bits

2009-03-13T11:47:00.003-06:00

It's Spring Break. My students left about 45 minutes ago, and I am leaving on Sunday for Paris. I think this calls for a laid-back sort of blog, not that all of my blogs are profound tomes of wisdom, but this one is going to be really relaxed. I'm just going to mention two very random things that have happened to me and a person close to me as of late.

1. My cousin, who lives in California with her Marine husband, recently had 12 pairs of underwear jacked from a laundromat. Who steals underwear? Yuck. (I mean this as a general comment, my cousin practices very good personal hygiene...awkward.) I'm a germophobe, so I have a bias, but I think most people should have some sort of mechanism in their brains that tells them it's not okay to, number one steal, but also wear a stranger's undergarments. I get the heebee-jeebees when I see slips at a Good Will. It ain’t right. The heartbreaking part is, her underwear was Victoria's Secret, and at a minimum cost of $8 a pair, that's at least $100 worth of panties gone in the night. Horrible, and...random.

2. Last night my sweet tooth got to aching and there was nothing in the house. We do that on purpose. However, I did find some chocolate chips, toffee bits, and chopped pecans. I mixed them together in a bowl and ate the concoction with a spoon. Don't judge me!! Now, that in itself is random, but, there's more. After this act of desperation, I of course needed to brush my teeth because one without dental insurance does not go to sleep with toffee stuck to one's teeth. I brushed well and set my toothbrush back in the thing that holds my toothbrush (I don't know what else to call it). It bounced out, slid off the counter (as almost everything in my bathroom has done at least 46 times - the room has an altered gravitational pull or something) and landed. . .on the toilet brush. Yuck, again. This is the reason I was in Wal-Mart at 7:40 this morning, on Friday the 13th no less, buying a toothbrush and nothing else. That’s random, too.

This blog will in all likelihood remain silent next week. But, I will have Paris experiences to share when I return.

Clutter

2009-03-10T15:45:00.002-06:00

Goodness, it's been almost a week since I posted. I've been down with a demon sinus infection, but still working, planning, and doing a bunch of other things. Being sick has catapulted me into a wariness of sorts concerning my trip, which begins in four days. I don't know about you, but when I'm sick, I don't want to be anywhere but home. I was like that in college. Even after being away from "home" for more than a year, when my throat began to ache, I instantly longed for my parent's house. So, having been ill these past few days, it has been impossible to fathom being anywhere but my cozy, comfortable, familiar home.

The sickness (or the medication I'm on to get rid of it) has made me so foggy, I can't think straight about anything, although things have improved greatly today. The aches and pains and fatigue have closed in on me and pushed away my desire and ability to do other, more important things, which brings me to my topic and today's title, clutter.

I look at my desk right now and it is covered in various stacks. Each of those stacks is a project I'm working on. I know the deadline and requirements for each, some are big, some small, but what they all have in common is their cluttering up of my life. This is my desk at the school, so I can shuffle things around and limp through my days. At home however, it doesn't work that way. Most of my writing is done at home, from a small red desk under the window in my bedroom, save this blog that I usually eek out during a lunch break. The red desk is the birthplace of “The Hatpin Killer”, it is where articles on architecture, construction, church sound systems, bridal sizes, and ski resorts are created, and it must be a clutter-free environment. For whatever reason I cannot sit down with the intention of writing anything (good) with the same stacks around that I allow at the school. This means laundry must be folded, hung and put away, the bed must me made, the books and DVDs must be straight on the shelf, the floor must be vacuumed, my stack of bills must be neat (and preferably paid) and the desk itself must be free of STACKS!

Why is this so? I don't know. Again, the stacks on my desk at the school don't bother me so much. Maybe it's because I have more space in that office than I do in the home office. Maybe the need for neatness at home is just subconscious procrastination. “I have to do this load of clothes before I can get started.” I have to change the sheets before I can read over that interview.” Maybe I'll never know, but I do know this, once the room is clean, I can always sit down and get busy with an article, whatever the topic may be.

The same goes for mental clutter. There is nothing worse than having an article due while I have some pressing personal issue on my mind. In fact, it’s dang near impossible to churn out anything but oatmeal-like dribble. This is why I become a peacekeeper when I’m on deadline, I clear my life of the possibility of personal drama.

As I write, the medicine is finally doing its job and I feel the fogginess lifting for good and I’m looking forward to a clutterless, unclouded day. Ironically, it’s supposed to rain cats and dogs tomorrow.

Sleepless in East Texas

2009-03-04T11:00:00.004-06:00

I did not sleep last night, not real sleep. It was that altered-state-of-consciousness business. I began reading a book about Marie Antoinette before bed, and consequently, had waking dreams of the Dauphin and Dauphine and approaching revolution, and became very concerned about my taxes (I have to pay in this year - first time ever - because of my writing income).

Amidst my tossing and turning, I thought about the trip and my finances. I prayed. I panicked about my arrival at Charles de Gaulle airport, fearing it will be too intimidating and I will have to fight the urge to walk straight up to a ticket counter and pay an exorbitant amount of money to fly home immediately. I prayed some more. My worries and fears are always more concentrated at night.

Today, I am zombie-like, so I apologize if this post is less than brilliant. As a result of my nocturnal financial panic, I got up at five, an hour earlier than usual, and looked for some writing work. I've not been sending queries out because I've been focused on the book. Now that it's finished and now that I have a more clearly defined schedule at the school, I have time to look, and more importantly, will actually have time to do the work should I get it.

Yet another outcome: I drove to work terrified because I was behind a truck loaded down with steel beams. If you've seen "The Descent", you know what's up. Horrifying. My mind does not WORK properly when I am sleep deprived. However, it does lend a surreal quality to the day.

I just can't take it any deeper than this today. . .

Riding the Shopping Cart

2009-03-02T14:31:00.003-06:00

Standing in the parking lot of Sam's the other night, I saw a man, probably my dad's age, run full speed while pushing an empty cart. He then jumped onto the cart and rode it until he ran out of steam, then repeated the process. I also saw a bright orange monster truck with suicide doors, but that's for another post.

I've seen my own father ride the shopping cart through parking lots, and I've done it myself, although not since high school. Seeing an older person engage in what seems to be a childish diversion got me to thinking: Now that the world appears to be breaking down, now that everything we've accumulated as a nation or as an individual may soon be worthless, isn't it time to just chuck it and have fun?

The Bible says to occupy while we're on Earth - I've often taken that to mean we're not supposed to take anything too seriously or get too wrapped up in our Earthly lives and what they offer. However, I went to a wedding this weekend where the pastor instructed the new couple to live life, enjoy life. This seems to be an issue of balance. Enjoy the fruits of your labor, but don't put them in a place they don't belong, like before God.

God didn't put us here to be miserable, we have a purpose and we also have access to joy and peace that surpasses all understanding. God is in control. We are not. That's where I live. In fact, booking the trip to Paris was ultimately a control issue for me. And, I know if I had given into that urge and need to be in control, I would be unhappy for not going, and it would be a giant step toward leading a life full of worry and missed chances.

I seem to be writing about the trip a lot, but naturally I'm excited, and it being such short notice, I am spending the majority of my free time planning and preparing. I am not allowing myself to stake out a minute-by-minute itinerary, but I am planning some things, like which neighborhood I would like to visit each day. I'm trying to allow myself time to wander, which is what Paris is for. It's going to be good for me.

It's amazing to me, and once more, evidence that I serve an awesome God, that a still small voice keeps reassuring me when I have doubts about my travel plans. (Incidentally, these pesky doubts are coming fewer and farther between.) I was reminded the other day that Jesus was a traveler, that France is still a part of God's world, and that ultimately, I need to find a way to be strong on my own, with God as my only companion. This seems to be taking on a pretty serious tone for a brief spring vacation, but nonetheless, it's where I'm at and this is my blog. . .

The more serious and sinister the world we live in seems to get, the more important it is to just run as fast as we can and jump on. If you get the chance to run and jump again...take it. And, that's what I plan to do. I will carry on with my responsibilities, and I will live my life the way I'm supposed to because that's my insurance, but when and if it all comes tumbling down around me, I plan to be cool as a cucumber. The trick is being ready to park the cart when the time comes.

Breaking News

2009-03-02T14:26:00.002-06:00

I got two e-mail acknowledgements from the agent. So, it would seem they received ALL three of my submissions. L. . .O. . .L

On making decisions

2009-02-25T09:26:00.006-06:00

We've spoken about this before, so it should come as no surprise that I'm not so good with the decisions. This truth prompted my family to purchase a "decision maker" for me at Christmas. It is a wooden platform embedded with magnets. It has different answers written on the top and above it hangs a pendulum, also with a magnet. The pendulum swings wildly at first, but then slows down and frantically jitters between two answers before finally landing on one. The likeness to my own decision making process is uncanny.

I actually turned to it as I stared at a "continue with purchase" button on a travel-booking site Monday. It told me yes, and I proceeded. I am now officially spending Spring Break in Paris, France. Once I made the decision I felt nothing but relief. Although, I periodically go through buyer's remorse moments and fret about the stability of the world in general. France is God's world, too, and wherever I am, there is He also.

My plunge into international travel inspired me in other areas, and I finally got up the courage to submit my book query to an agent. Let me set up the scene. I've reviewed this agent's submission guidelines exhaustively, but I did it one more time last night. Their web site states that an immediate e-mail acknowledgment should follow your query submission. It instructs you to resubmit if you do not receive one. I did not get one, so I sent it again with a different subject line. Still no acknowledgement. I waited until this morning and sent it again from my work e-mail account. As of the drafting of this post, I have no acknowledgement in either inbox. However, after the third attempt, I read the agent's blog where she happened to have posted about the agency's query policy. She casually mentioned it sometimes takes a few days for the acknowledgement to appear. . . visualize me in a state of frenzied worry and panic. I strive for perfection when making Hamburger Helper. Doing something this important wrong is the stuff my nightmares are made of. . .!!!

So, one possible outcome of all this decision-making empowerment is, I just sent the same query to an agent (not just any agent, but the one I've been researching for six months) three times, that'll go over well, very professional. The other? I have been rejected by their e-mail system, not once, not twice, but three times from two different addresses. Only time will tell. In the meantime, anybody know a good agent?

New habits are born easily

2009-02-24T15:30:00.002-06:00

What foods did you hate and refuse to eat as a child? Mine were numerous: broccoli, spinach, tomatoes, onions, cottage cheese, sour cream, even mayonnaise. As an adult, all of these foods have become my favorites. I want spinach leaves on my sandwiches, tomatoes on my burgers, would jump through fire for crispy and delicious onion rings, love cottage cheese for breakfast, and you get the idea.

I found the same thing to be true with words. Certain parts of speech have meandered into my vocabulary quite suddenly. Like the word ‘foolish’. It’s not an uncommon or difficult word, but I never used it much (read: ever) as a child or teenager and now, it’s just poppin’ up everywhere. I’m sure this can be attributed to the fact that I am a WRITER and also an avid reader. Oh, and also, I grade approximately 300 pages a day (oh yes, I counted) in every core subject. There, that mystery is solved.

I cited these happenings in order to compare them to my life as a teacher. I now practice what my teachers preached. I embrace and enforce the rules I rejected and rebelled against. I subject my students to things that I hated my teachers for when I was growing up. And I went to public school. Within the private education setting, I know I have much more latitude when it comes to discipline (disclaimer: we do not practice corporal punishment). I am constantly telling students to tuck in shirts and change out of their P.E. shoes (part of our dress code). I daily assign detention for tardies and nail them for talking in class, failing to do homework, and a plethora of other things that I DID as a teenager.

The irony? I was much worse than any of them (I hope), and I’m quite afraid I will one day soon be blackmailed. I skipped class almost daily my senior year – all of my seniors, or senior wanabees, are quite motivated and dedicated to graduating on time, and therefore miss very little school. I don’t know much about my students’ “extracurricular activities” but none of the signs of alcohol or drug abuse/experimentation are there. It is a small school where my own sister attends. I know she isn’t involved in those things and she never alludes to any of her friends partaking, either. (Partaking, another one of those words.) However, as a high school student I spent my Fridays and Saturdays, and many weekdays, in places I had no business being, and as a result, I tend to be more suspicious of my students than is probably fair.

In closing, remember that one teacher you really didn’t like that was never, NEVER, sick? Mine was my senior chemistry teacher and she missed maybe one day the whole semester. I had a student the other day comment on how I am never out sick, and I’m not (and thank God because I don’t have insurance). Her words: “Ms. Rachel you’re never sick, you’re always here.” She didn’t mean it in an ugly way, she’s one of the students that can stand me. But what about the others? I ask this and chuckle to myself. That’s right, I come from very good stock and I will always be at work, ready to tell you to tuck your shirt, set your goals, stop talking at the computers, etc.

Some women turn into their mothers. I however, have turned into Mrs. Buckley, Room 318, Chemistry I.

Characters

2009-02-19T15:38:00.004-06:00

I have tried and tried to find a humorous topic to write on today. I’ve wracked my brain for a funny story from the past few days and nothing has surfaced, at least not one I wouldn’t be considered cruel for writing about. The topic I keep going back to is the people in my life, the ones I see every day. So, today will be character introduction, and some of it might be funny.

Let’s start at the top, at the beginning – my parents. My dad is amazing, a Vietnam veteran, the most honest and hardworking person I know. He is a fisherman, a metal detector, an expert on end time prophecy, and a right-wing, arms-bearing, conservative Christian REPUBLICAN. It is quite possible the Fed will arrive at our house one day soon, as my dad routinely invites them. Every time a story on Fox News gets his dander up, he stands in front of the television shouting his address and proposes a meeting in our front yard for later in the day. A duel of sorts. . .

My mom is perpetually 16. She plans her evenings around American Idol, is addicted to computer games, shops when she gets angry, and enjoys slamming doors and throwing things, mainly dishes and remotes. (I’d better not say anymore because she reads this blog daily.) Her good habits far outweigh her bad ones. She is one of the few people I know that will absolutely do anything for anybody. She has always put my sisters and me ahead of herself. I start thinking about things I know she’s given up in order for me to have, and I tear up.

On to the truly entertaining one. Rebekah. There are a few previous posts that will shed light on the history of our relationship. Lately, we’ve become buddies. She’s matured and I’ve learned to pick my battles. We “hang out” and sometimes have dance parties – just the two of us. We also share an affinity for trashy scary movies. I saw her through her first boyfriend-related tragedy about a month ago. As an individual, she is so much stronger than I ever was, and I am so grateful. She is not the least bit afraid to show her values. She is uninfluenced by others and their perception of “cool.” I respect her for that so much. A good anecdote to illustrate her less-practical side involves a sweatshirt. She picked out said sweatshirt and came up short, so I pitched in. It was expensive. When mom exclaimed, "You spent $___ on a sweatshirt!" Rebekah's response was, "Well. . .it's reversible."

There are several other noteworthy characters to talk about, including all of my students. However, I have a basketball game to get to, so we’ll have to discuss them later.

Job Description

2009-02-17T16:50:00.002-06:00

Today, I spent 25 minutes in Game Stop. Prior to today, I’m not sure I’ve spent 25 seconds in any kind of video game store. Our school has an academic and good behavior incentive program called A-Privilege. Good grades and no serious disciplinary issues for a two-month period will earn a student two months of “privilege.” The two months is topped off with a day away from school, on which we treat our students to lunch and an outing. Sometimes it’s bowling or miniature golf; today it was a day at the mall in Tyler, and consequently, Game Stop.

I wound up in Game Stop because of one very special student. Seeing him every day reminds me why I do what I do for a third of the salary I am “eligible” for given my education and background. This student was enrolled at the academy the year I began working there again. He was completely beaten down by his peers from public school, to the point that just about anything would drive him to tears. Self esteem was non-existent and his brilliance and bright personality were dull and unnoticeable. At first, he was withdrawn and shy, untrusting, but after time he blossomed. By the end of the year he was friends with everyone and he returned this year with a smile on his face, full of summer stories, which he excitedly shared with fellow students, teachers, and anyone else that he could find. He is proof that God can heal anyone, that a loving, Christian environment IS the answer.

When this student found out I would be accompanying them on their outing today in place of the pastor, he asked if I would be in his group. Students his age are not required to have a chaperone, but he wanted me with him, so I agreed. We arrived at the mall and he ran ahead with his friends (friends in plural, something he didn’t have a short time ago), but when I came through the entrance he was waiting.

“Ms. Rachel, let’s form our group.”

So away we went…to Game Stop. The jargon amazed me. I stood by and watched as he knowingly traded games and asked about new games, specific versions, upcoming release dates, and the methods of downloading cheat codes. He moved with confidence, secure in his right to be himself. That’s how he behaves in the classroom, too. His personality is wonderful – he’s a little different, but so was John the Baptist. It is a blessing to me every time I see one of our older boys, one with a souped up pick-up or a starting spot on our basketball team, walk by this student and acknowledge him and show him kindness. That’s just the way it is at Calvary Way. My students are wonderful. They didn’t all start out that way, but they are educated in a place where the presence of God dwells, and where prayer goes on almost constantly.

This student is not our only success story. We have many. Some have come from broken and abusive homes, others deny God and His existence daily. Whatever their issues when they come, we always see improvement, maybe not as much as we want as humans, but some. When I think of it spiritually I know that the seed has been planted, the change may not come in my lifetime, but the work has been started and God will give the increase.

As I write this, the after school group is sitting outside my office singing “Open the Eyes of My Heart.” They’ve been in public school all day, an institution that has unabashedly turned its back on God. They have removed every trace of Him from what they teach. But God finds a way, and those same students come here in the afternoon and willingly, excitedly, and openly glorify God. Not because it is required, but because they want to, because their simple heartfelt praise makes them feel good.

I may never publish a book or travel the world, or even have anybody but family and a few close friends read this blog. But I’m in God’s will. When I wake up in the morning and come to work, I am helping a young person find their way. Many of them have experienced and endured things I’ve never dreamt of, and only one person can help them overcome the obstacles life has cruelly thrown in their path. It's my job to make sure they get introduced.

Paris...in the Spring?

2009-02-16T12:15:00.005-06:00

Spring Break is fast approaching and I promised myself a vacation before Christmas. I haven't booked one yet - probably my sub-conscious (and conscience) at work. However, the reason I'm actually going to cite is the Last-Minute Deal. Europe is on my list. I cancelled a trip to Spain and France this past fall for financial and a host of other reasons. Although, I think the chief one was fear. The minute it was cancelled I burst into tears and immediately started cooking up plans to get across the Atlantic all over again.

Back to the Last-Minute Deal - they're cheaper, and, for someone like me, who analyzes everything down the bone, who can over think which oatmeal flavor to eat for breakfast, and can worry to the point of physical illness, it's a good spur-of-the-moment decision making tool. Last time, I had seven months to talk myself out of the trip - this time I'll have about three weeks before departure.

Paris seems to be the lucky lady. I feel as though I have to get Paris out of the way before I can truly enjoy any other destination. And, if I only make it to Europe one time, Paris is the place I want to see more than any other.

Now, I have one week before my planned departure date is up for booking and I am nervous wreck. So far today I've felt pretty good about going, but I have moments where I panic. Here are some of the reasons:

Money. This trip will eat into my savings. I don't have a lot of money put back, but at least I have some. This trip won't take all of it, but all the same, I'm a freelance writer and a small private school administrator, I'm not exactly rolling in the dough. What if I need a filling? Ahhhh...see...there's the Type A. Good old "what if?" Be gone!

The book. Always the book. I tell myself I should take the time off and park in front of the computer. Well, I can tell you right now that won't work because if I'm at home I'm going to watch Seinfeld and do other worthless things (I am so NOT calling Seinfeld worthless). Additionally, I will get sucked into other tasks and I'll have people around who will distract me. Plus, I won't unwind, I need to disconnect. My mother (very wisely) suggested I use the trip as a reward - get the book ready and submitted to an agent before you go. In other words, the trip date will be my deadline. Note: I'm not taking my laptop to the other side of the world...I'm just not.

Traveling alone. I will be all by my lonesome. First trip overseas, alone. Is it a good idea? Paris is a well-developed city and I am a smart person. I've visited large American cities and have been able to navigate very well thanks to a little pre-departure research (I must exclude New York from this example - that was five days of perpetual lostness). But, Paris - I don't speak the language and I hear the French are less than helpful when it comes to poor, lost American tourists. Still, I will know my hotel address, will study maps and the metro system, will plan well, and if all else fails, I will bite the bullet and take a cab. I do like the idea of doing this completely alone. It reaffirms my independence and I won't have anyone to please and entertain but myself. So, I can stand in one spot along the Seine for an hour if I want to. I am a people pleaser and I usually put what I want aside to keep everyone else calm and happy, especially on trips.

Homesick. Yes, I do get homesick, although it usually only happens when things don't go well, or when I don't have a home base. A hotel is a home base, it's the place I belong. However, if French people are mean to me if and when I ask them for directions, I could get to missing home and second-guessing my decision. I don't want to have miserable, unhappy memories of Paris - that seems an oxymoron, IT'S PARIS! I can't help but think of Carried Bradshaw in Paris and how unhappy she ended up being. The phone call she made to Miranda, Miranda handing Brady Cheerios. It's visions of the mundane everyday routines that tug on my heartstrings when I get homesick and I know that could happen. Could. And I have no Mr. Big to come rescue me.

World Stability. I'm more than a little concerned about world issues. If the hmmhmm hits the fan, I would like to be on American soil and near my family. However, it appears things will get worse before they get better, so I'd better go while I can. I could travel domestically and the hmmhmm could hit the fan and I would still be away from home. I do still trust the American government...sort of, so I guess if there is a catastrophe and I'm overseas (with hundreds of thousands of other Americans) they've got a plan to get us home, keep us safe, etc.

Plain old guilt. This is weird, but I have so much guilt. My parents and my sisters have never gotten to travel internationally, so why should I get to? Money plays a role in the guilt, too, but I already talked about that.

When it comes right down to it - I want to go, so badly, and in spite of all the reasons above. I can dispel them all. I'm just going to trust in God. If I'm not supposed to go, I know He'll put up a roadblock.

Crush

2009-02-13T08:18:00.003-06:00

Remember that Jennifer Page song? It's just a little crush...

There's just something about having a crush that gives you butterflies, huh? It's far less satisfying than the feeling you get when you're in an actual, meaningful relationship, but it's still nice to have someone to look forward to seeing everyday - I know this is true for girls. So, it seems fitting this Valentine's Eve to talk about love, or like, anyway.

Usually, about spring time, I start getting nostalgic about past relationships, and I lose some of my passivity when it comes to dating. This year, it came a little early. Many of my friends and family (okay, most) don't know I did this. I kept it under wraps because it has an aroma of desperation, but, I recently subscribed to an on-line dating service. It didn't work out, and I've since cancelled the membership. However, for about three weeks, I talked to one person, and that non-reproducible, gives-you-butterflies, air of possibility hung thick around me. I met this person, and that feeling quickly evaporated. Proof that ignorance is bliss.

That was a few weeks ago and the nostalgia subsided. Now, though, thanks to the weather, it's making a comeback. Spring time brings the cool, but not too cool mornings that seem to lend a clarity and cleanness to the whole day. Oddly, (this is East Texas, so not really odd at all) those days have been a part of this February's meteorological tapestry. Lately, I've found myself driving with windows down and sun roof open listening to my favorite old crush songs. When I get home in the evenings, I want to go for runs and walks and get out in the boat, and I expect to smell the grill fired up, a sign that summer is approaching. I'm just happy these days, and I want to share it with someone. The analyst in me says that with spring comes renewal, therefore my animal instincts are kicking in telling me to be fruitful and multiply. I can assure you, I have no intention of acting on these instincts. I write it all off to spring fever, just looking for a new element to entertain me until summer gets here.

Although, another theory I have, this time around anyway, is that my book is influencing me. Is it possible to have a crush on a fictional character? I think it is. I've always had a thing for Rhett Butler. But what about a character I've created? This is erring on the side of schizophrenia, so I won't linger here long. The love interest in my book is a Puerto Rican district attorney and the personality (and looks) I've created for him makes me wish he was a real person. I guess that's a sign that my book is engaging. If I, as its creator, can get that wrapped up in the story as I'm writing it, it stands to reason others will, too.

Yet another explanation for this onslaught of mushiness, is that every acquaintance I've run into lately has asked me if I've gotten married. I used to get defensive about these inquiries, but now I shrug it off. I'm very happy with my life. I've been happy with it for quite some time, in spite of not being married or in a serious relationship. So, I really don't think that's the explanation, either.

The culprit is most definitely the time of year, the romance in the air, and I'm not complaining. I even worry that once I'm permanently attached, I won't get this feeling anymore. But, then I remember that I'm waiting for God to send Him, and whatever He has planned for me is so much better than anything I can find or produce on my own. In other words, something wonderful is on the way - even more wonderful than a crush.

Getting off the multi-tasking

2009-02-12T09:43:00.006-06:00

Since junior high, I've challenged myself to see just how much I can accomplish all at once. Seventh grade is when I discovered I could shave my legs and wash my face while I let my conditioner set for three minutes. Years later I would study notecards while driving back and forth to school. Not safe, but productive.

Multi-tasking. It was an epidemic about 15 years ago. Oprah talked about it and it snowballed into efficiency reform. I'm good at it, it's the chief reason I'm able to get so much done in 24 hours. I also love it, if I could multi-task while sleeping, well, I would. However, my need to constantly be marking something off my to-do list is starting to take its toll.

While driving to work this morning, I flipped on the radio. It was tuned to a Christian station, and instead of enjoying the song and taking the opportunity to meditate on God and spiritually prepare for my day, I automatically thought to myself, "I need to print this lead sheet and learn the song." (I am the keyboard player at my church.) This thought quickly turned into guilt for not having had prasie & worship rehearsal in several weeks, and soon I was stressed out, I had that feeling in my stomach of worry - the kind I get when a writing deadline is looming, and the words I'm staring at on the screen are not quite article quality. When I realized what I was doing to myself, I made a conscious effort to stop. It worked, in this instance. Most often, the matter is slightly more serious. Work-work, and writing-work have to get done at some point and I can't help but think about those tasks constantly when they are unfinished and incomplete.

Sadly, the past few "vacations" I've taken have either revolved around work, or I've had a writing deadline, meaning my laptop came along with me. A constant reminder that I could not completely unwind and relax. My trip to New Orleans was really for the purpose of researching my book, which is set in the Crescent City. A recent trip to Houston was to attend a conference hosted by the magazine for which I am a regular contributor. I enjoyed both of these trips and found time to do fun things, but nevertheless, I didn't get a "break" from everything, which is what is truly recuperative about a vacation.

My standard days are much the same. When I step from the shower and walk back into my bedroom to get ready, I turn cell phone, television and computer on, thus opening myself wide up for stress. I often work through lunch instead of being social. In the evenings, I won't allow myself to rest until I've done some writing and engaged in some form of exercise. I'm ashamed to admit this, but I've actually tried to pray while doing crunches.

Case in point, it's time I learn to relax and disconnect guilt free, and that means I don't have to multi-task 24 hours a day. It's alright to not be accomplishing something. This new initiative will commence tonight, during The Office.

Faith

2009-02-11T12:13:00.003-06:00

Yesterday I wrote about fear, so today it seems fitting to write about its defeater, faith.

A terrible line of storms, stretching from Corpus Christi, Texas, into Kansas pushed its way east last night. Ordinarily, storms do not bother me. But, this one had the media in a tizzy and had produced at least on life-ending tornado by the time I went to bed. It didn't reach my neck of the Piney Woods until after midnight, but when it did, it was loud, fast, and fierce enough to send me running away from windows. The lights flickered, debris hit the roof, and a terrifying whistling filled the air. I paused, waiting for the house to begin shaking, anticipating my roof being ripped off above me.

As humans we fear. We have since it was introduced with sin in the Garden of Eden. I prayed before I went to bed last night, I prayed for protection from that very storm. How quickly I forgot, how easily I neglected my faith. I remembered it soon enough, though. When the initial scare was over, I relaxed and spoke the name of Jesus and was able to fall back to sleep, and when my alarm went off this morning, I instinctively said "thank you."

How lucky we are that God doesn't forget us. I forget that He has promised to provide for and protect me, but He's never once let me down.

When the challenges of my day start accumulating, and they always do, it is so simple to not only get frustrated, but to also show that frustration, thus potentially ruining an opportunity to witness. One such incident happened just this morning. I've had an issue with one person in particular for some time now and my buttons were pushed today. And for some reason, no doubt the prayer-answering God I serve, I remembered that they don't do it unto me, they do it unto Him. And, in the words of my Aunt Wilma, "God don't like ugly."

I've got no control over this person's actions. Sure, in my human profession I can exercise some power, but ultimately, it is in God's hands. I remembered this and relaxed. He's got it under control and I just need to focus on pleasing Him.

This experience today is special to me, in part because I've struggled on my walk as of late. My faith and convictions have been challenged over the past few weeks. But when God ever so subtly reminds me that He hears my prayers, that He is ever-present and willing to stand by me and strengthen me, worship swells in my soul. Isn't it amazing, humbling, wonderful, to know that no matter how far we stray, no matter how much we may change, God remains the same. Even when we are far, He is near. He is my rock.

Fear

2009-02-10T11:45:00.006-06:00

Okay, I have given myself a deadline of Thursday for submitting a query of the book to an agent. I am terrified. . .of rejection.

I sent a query to an agent last Spring, before the book was really even off the ground, and it was of course turned down, and I completley understand why. For one reason, the particular agent was one of the biggest names in the industry (it's a miracle he even accepts unsolicited queries). Another is, he was a secular agent and I now know this book belongs in the Christian market, as do I as its author. Then there's the fact that it just wasn't a good query. I didn't know where the story was going yet. I rushed things.

I remember the sentence "I'm going to pass" staring at me from my e-mail. It was a really terrible feeling and I really don't want to feel it for a second time. I worry I'm rushing the submission again, maybe I should keep working on it. However, if I don't give myself some sort of deadline, I won't ever do it. And, how will I ever know if the book is ready unless I put it out there? Still, the thought of it not being good enough for this agent scares me, and I'm not scared of much. Yes, there are other agents, but I really like this one. I have one chance. If the first sentence of my book doesn't wow her, she will stop reading and send me THAT sentence.

Several people have read the first two chapters, which is what I have to submit along with my pitch. They've all liked it and said it made them want to read the rest of the book. But, they're not the agent. Their paycheck and reputation is not at stake. I can't read it anymore because I'm no longer objective. I know I have to preserve my own voice and style, but I find myself comparing my first pages to Patricia Cornwell books to see if I cover the same elements up front. That's not healthy because there is already a Patricia Cornwell. I want the world to read Rachel Dawn Allen.

Monday, Monday

2009-02-09T11:45:00.003-06:00

Holy cow! This day has already been insane. I miss the crisp, clearly defined seasons of the Northwest. Let me explain...I started my day on the assumption that this afternoon would be a sunny (dry) 69 degrees, and therefore straightened my hair. Then, what do I hear, the pitter patter of rain on the roof top. I put my hair in a clip - doesn't look good. I put my hair in a ponytail - also does not look good, and (here's where the Type A kicks in) slightly unprofessional, I think. Hair goes back down.

Meanwhile, I have an article due next week that I desperately needed to send out for fact checking this morning. So in between hairstyles, I was trying to upload the article and hunt down e-mail addresses for an architect, pastor and contractor.

On to the wardrobe malfunctions!! EVERY ITEM OF CLOTHING I PUT ON HAD SOMETHING WRONG WITH IT. It is now more than ten minutes past my standard departure time. I am never late. (Another Type A characteristic.)

In the car, driving to work. Get behind the slowest person ON the planet. Get to work 15v minutes late - after receiving at least one text message that a staff member was out sick, making this the 134th day in a row that we've had absenteeism in either our school or daycare (that's another post). (Yes, I like to use parentheses.)

Nevertheless, I am keeping a smile on my face because I never know who might be watching to see how I react. I love my life, challenges and all. I love the people I work with, even when they get sick. I am truly honored to fill the role that I do, so much that I cant' quite come up with the words to describe it. I'll work on that and tell you later.

Hello again

2009-02-08T14:17:00.003-06:00

The title of this post is also the title of a Shelley Long movie. If you haven't seen it, Netflix it immediately. Long chokes on a Chinese chicken ball and comes back to life, only to find a cheating husband. It's quite good, with just the sort of Seinfeld-like randomness I enjoy.

On to the matter at hand. It's been about 18 months since I last posted to this blog, and it's time I get started again. I have a completed novel saved on the very computer I write from today. This novel is the primary reason I haven't posted for a year and a half. I am planning to query agents about the book this week. It's been "finished" since before Christmas, but I have procrastinated because I fear rejection. I have been editing and editing, knowing perfection is what it will take to get it published, but I fear I will start picking it to death. So, to the hands of an agent it shall go and hopefully this person will fall in love with it and decide to represent me. However, all I've heard lately is how the publishing industry is tightening its belt and only accepting truly extraordinary work, therefore literary agents are becoming much more scrutinizing concerning the work they will take on. True to form, I am worried.

On dining out

2007-07-20T11:05:00.000-06:00

I was at a buffet last Sunday for lunch. I don't particularly care for buffets, but I live in Kilgore, so....

While I was getting my fried rice, this little girl was waiting behind me. When finished, I stepped away and moved to the other side of the island. As, I was getting some Lo Mein, I witnessed this child spoon rice onto her plate then proceed to pick out the peas and carrots (with her dirty little girl fingers!!) and throw them back into the serving basin. I was horrified. I considered telling her to stop, but people are funny about having their children corrected by strangers and I didn't want to have a run in with anybody at that buffet. Trust me, this child couldn't have been raised by any sane, non-violent, respectable person. Instead of saying something, I just gave her the most disapproving look I could muster. She reciprocated with a what-are-you-gonna-do-about-it smirk and walked off. I wanted to smack her. But, I just thanked the Lord I had already gotten my fried rice and told my family to avoid that particular dish. I'm sure there are all kinds of cooties crawling around buffets. I think I will permanently remove them from my list of dining options. They just freak me out. Where's the quality control?

Three-day weekend, sort of

2007-07-16T15:54:00.000-06:00

I contracted a demon stomach virus last week – so not by choice I checked out at 3:30 Thursday. I never got sick in the “classic sense” one thinks of when a stomach bug is involved, and for that I am most grateful, though I still begged my mother to give me intravenous drugs of some kind to knock me out. My skin hurt, my stomach hurt, and it sucked. I was awakened at 3 a.m. Friday to the sound of frogs outside my bedroom window. I sat up and listened, listened some more, then realized the sound was not coming from my amphibian friends. It was coming from my stomach. Something dark and unnatural was going on in my intestines, and I was dripping buckets of sweat, so I reached over and reset the alarm to 7:30, just in time to call in sick, or if I happened to be cured within the next five hours, call in to say I would be really late. I stayed home. There are some things you just don’t screw around with, and the risk of, well, I stayed home.

Ordinarily I love couch time. I had couch time on Friday. About 3:00 my brain was tired of couch time, though, but I didn’t feel well enough to walk around and do anything about it. I hadn’t had much to eat because everything my lips touched sent debilitating pain ripping through my abdomen. (Side note: The guy who brought the virus to work, quit on Friday. Chicken. He knew what was coming.) So, I just remained on the couch, in pain, I went to bed, in pain, and I woke up Saturday morning, in pain. But, to alleviate said pain, I went to the boardwalk in Shreveport with the parents, Rebekah and my Aunt Sheri and Uncle Larry. We rounded out the day by going to visit Sheri’s parents. Her mother is awesome. For those of you who think Texas is crazy, you should spend some time in Louisiana. They’re a breed apart, must be the gumbo. Her mom has been in a wheelchair for several years, I’m not sure why, but she is just the sweetest lady. So, we’re all sitting out on the porch and I mentioned the concealed handgun license class and the conversation briefly turned to firearms.

Sheri said, “I’d like to take a class and get that license.”

“Yeah, me, too” I replied. “But. I have to get a semi-automatic first, because - ”

“Oh, I want one of those, like my mama has,” said Sheri, as she pointed to her mother pulling a small pouch out of her wheelchair pocket.

I surveyed the pouch and considered the possible contents - manicure kit? Nope. Collapsible .22.

That’s freakin’ cool. You might think an older lady, confined to a wheelchair, alone during the day in a rural area would be vulnerable to hoodlums and such. Not this lady – she’s shot at people before and she’ll do it again. She also said if she had to shoot someone in the street, she would, then she’d drag them into her front yard and claim the blood trail was arterial spray. She probably has rope in that wheelchair pocket just for the purpose of a wheelchair body tow.

I’m considering writing a blog, shoot I could probably write a whole book, on things you only see and hear in the South. This story would make the cut, as would this observation: Why do people down here use Confederate flags as window treatments?

Rain and whimsical livestock

2007-07-06T15:28:00.000-06:00

I live near a miniature donkey farm (save it!). When I drove past it during this morning's drenching, tree-up-rooting downpour, the fields where the donkeys graze (or do what miniature donkeys do) was an OCEAN! I have been worried about those donkeys all day. Did they drown? Can miniature donkeys swim? (Hahaha, there's a mental image for you: miniature donkeys swimming!! Hold on. Let me compose myself.)

The barn was also flooded, along with the house - where are the donkeys???

I sometimes forget that not all of you live in Texas, but if you don't live under a rock and you can at least hear, see and/or read, you know Texas has had a rough, rather wet time of it these past 44 days - hmmmmm, that's eerily biblical...

I woke up at 3:30 this morning, after having a dream I had swallowed a mango whole (that's for another post), to the sound of rain beating on the roof. I knew it was bad news. I stayed awake thinking of how I might have to drive our bass boat to work. I waited to feel the house break away and begin to float. That didn't happen, but I turned on the news at 5 a.m. and found out my area in particular was averaging two inches of rain per hour, and it had been raining (that I knew of) for at least two hours. That's a ridiculous amount of water, and I already live on a lake. "The rains came down and the floods came up (repeat)" has been stuck in my head all day. Oh, and brace yourselves, Longview has (gasp) cancelled the "Great East Texas Balloon Race." My life is forever changed.

The trip to Arkansas was fun. Andee and I arrived safely. The trip wasn't nearly long enough, but at least we got to play in the mountains a little. Rebekah and I got along so well. She was like my BFF all weekend. Things are back to normal now, however.

Does that make me crazy? Or just pathetic?

2007-06-29T08:01:00.000-06:00

I am a big, fat chicken. I don’t like being home alone. I slept within five feet of a loaded 357-Magnum last night. Read on – this is a ridiculous story.

My family left yesterday on vacation, leaving me all by my lonesome. There is no conceivable reason for me to be frightened in my home; I AM ALMOST 24 YEARS OLD!! But, still I allow my mind to wander – this resulted in the 357 being placed at my bedside and all other firearms being hidden throughout the house, so no one could get to them before me. Or maybe it was my subconscious’ tactical defense plan. To my knowledge no kind of violent home invasion has ever occurred in our area, it’s rural, but safe. However, since I’m a paranoid lunatic, I went to a preposterous extreme in outfitting myself to handle a very unlikely life-threatening situation. I consider this irrational fear to be similar to how I used to feel about flying and riding roller coasters. The more I did it, the less scared I became until eventually it didn’t bother me at all. I never had a problem being by myself when we lived inside city limits, but the country setting and the woods adjacent to my home just make me a little nervous. I drugged myself last night, because I knew I would never fall asleep. This worked out well until 2:30 this morning when I woke up. I never, repeat never, wake up in the middle of the night naturally, especially after taking a sleep aid. So, I knew a noise was what had disturbed me and adrenaline took over. From that point on there was no stopping my brain. So I watched Fresh Prince re-runs and finally got sleepy again roughly 45 minutes before I had to get up. I will conquer this fear just like all the others.

One fear I will never conquer is my arachnophobia. Oh sweet mercy! When I walked out of my bedroom this morning the largest spider I have ever seen was blocking my entrance to the bathroom. Yet another problem with my family deserting me is, I usually make Rebekah kill spiders for me, they don’t bother her. Rebekah is, in general, cooler and braver than me. But, today she wasn’t there to save me. I considered my options. I could go to work unshowered and just rinse with mouthwash once I got there. My contacts were in the bathroom, but I could wear my glasses (even though they’re too weak of a prescription). The problem was, I went to the gym last night, so I really did need to shower, and also I am driving to join my family today, so I really needed to pack all the stuff in the bathroom. I would have to handle this. I went and got a broom, and from a safe five feet away knocked the spider off the bathroom door. When it hit the floor, it ran under Rebekah’s bedroom door. Good enough for me!

Andee is joining me on my drive into the dark Arkansas night. I’m sure there will be fun stories for next week. Don’t miss out!

Cold, cold-calling

2007-06-22T09:14:00.000-06:00

It’s funny how the mind wanders. I have an hour-long commute. I listen to a morning show on the way to work, but it advertises a lot during morning drive time, so I’ve come up with lots of ways to keep myself entertained during commercial breaks. But, sometimes I just let my mind roam free, working through the day ahead, or trying to forget the day shrinking behind me in the rearview mirror – yes, at times I simply prefer to be left in silence with my thoughts

This morning I found myself singing, humming and/or “ooohhhing” all the parts – including guitar – of “Cold as Ice” by Foreigner. It’s a challenge, even for a well-trained musician like myself. Now, the meat of this tale is why I was singing it in the first place – we’ll get to that later. Honestly, it just popped into my head, but I believe there is a reason for everything. I haven’t heard the song in a while, but it was a college favorite. I was a Pi Phi, my best friend was a Kappa. Our sororities intermingled a lot anyway, but Molly and I were generally together at some point on the weekends at one party or another, and of course on all school holidays spent at home in Boise. My house song was “Shook me all night long” by ACDC (one of the reasons I pledged Pi Phi) and Molly’s, or the Kappa’s, was, you guessed it, “Cold as Ice.” Whenever either song came over the speakers at a Frat party or off-campus kegger, all members of the respective sorority were required to run out and shake it while squealing, “Oh my God – that’s our SONG!!!!!” While dancing, every girl sang along and did air-guitar solos. Remarkably, the Kappas, some of them obliterated, could actually organize themselves into a circular chorus line at the end of their song. My girls were not as talented.

Now the reason, I believe, the song was in my head this morning requires even more background. One task associated with my present occupation is traveling to different corners of our region to make contacts. They aren’t sales calls, per se, more like “relationship establishing.” For the most part I enjoy this part of my job, it breaks up the monotony. But, every now and then, someone is just rude, and it slaughters my confidence and sense of purpose. Some of the visits I made were follow-ups, others were cold-calls, meaning the person has never seen me and I’ve never seen them, I’m just walking in off the street with a business card, brochure and a smile, and a really nice pen, which can double as a weapon. Usually, people are cordial, even if they don’t require our services anytime in the next decade. They still say ‘thank you’ and take the pen and literature, promising to call us in the year 2025 when they are ready to embark on a project. Others show promise and tell me they’re planning a project in the next six months and THAT is what keeps me trucking on.

I walked into an establishment yesterday, smiling, approached the receptionist/secretary, made eye contact, and I was met with nothing. I waited for a “Can I help you?” or any kind of simple salutation. None came, and the silence grew more awkward with each passing millisecond. Finally, I introduced myself and explained whom I worked for and the purpose of my visit. She replied with a ‘no’ to every question and explained they had just completed a project. So, I thanked her, was complimentary of their beautiful building and made my exit. It’s not as if I asked to hold her baby or borrow her car. I don’t know, perhaps she was having a bad day. What’s that saying about never judging people because you don’t know what they’re going through? So, it’s not a big deal. I only shared the story to explain why I believed “Cold as Ice” was running through my head this morning – apparently, my brain was still processing yesterday’s events. Funny to me, maybe not to you – maybe I should consider psychology as a future profession.

Scientific Discovery

2007-06-13T12:47:00.000-06:00

There was HUGE, BIRD-LIKE DINOSAUR discovered in China, well its fossil anyway. Guess what they named it?

Gigantoraptor.

Enough said.

Anecdote

2007-06-12T09:39:00.000-06:00

I have nothing uplifting or even remotely funny to write about, well nothing acceptably funny. I can find humor in just about every situation, but I wonder is it really humor or just some hybrid breed of negativity and cynical sarcasm? I feel as though I’ve been neglecting my blog, but I don’t want to write about things that aren’t entertaining to the general public. I can chuckle myself into a frenzy over some pretty mediocre occurrences, but I doubt anyone else can find the humor in them. Few people join me on the rambling, wooded path that ultimately leads to my "humorous" outlook. When I try to verbally relay these anecdotes, most often they are met with the sound of crickets, so I figure writing them won’t get me much further, but at least I won’t be present for the uncomfortable silence that inevitably will follow – so here goes.

Last week I got a book deal – sort of. I still have to submit the final proposal, but after that, the contract will be faxed for me to sign and return. I set out Saturday to complete the proposal, which is not much more than an outline. I refused the antiquing trip the parents had extended an invitation for, I turned off the TV (wincing a little at missing my traditional Saturday morning movie), and I settled at the dining room table with my drafted outline, pens, reference books and a cup of coffee. I bent over my work with a determined demeanor and began writing, then scratching out, then writing some more, flipping through pages of my reference books, looking to the ceiling for inspiration. After approximately 12 minutes, I was finished. This task (which was not at all complex) I had assumed would take the majority of my Saturday, was completed before my parents even walked out the door. But, I still elected to park it on the couch in my pjs, where I stayed for roughly the next five hours. It was a good day.

Cheesecake and whitewater

2007-06-06T12:35:00.000-06:00

What a perfect weekend! I could not have asked for a more picturesque getaway. It was an enchanting and exciting fling with the city of Boise.

I got in Thursday night, accompanied by Mormons returning from their mission trips. When I got into the arrivals lobby I had to elbow my way through large reuniting families, searching for my non-Mormon friend - my best friend in the whole flipping world – Rachel. Her tattooed boyfriend of one week was a shining light in the LDS sea I was drowning in. That boyfriend is a keeper - he immediately asked what color my luggage was and went bounding off – making laps around the carousel pulling red suitcases off. I wound up with the wrong ones - my fault, not his. We got it all sorted out, though. It was late when I got in, so when Susan arrived I elected to head to her house and hit the hay.

Friday was awesome. Rachel and I met up early and went to lunch with her visiting friend, Kara, a native of Oregon. Cheesecake Factory good. That was seriously one of the meals I will remember all my life, or at least until I go to New York in August. After lunch, the three of us were doubled over in gluttonous pain and replied with groans and looks of disgust when we were offered pretzel samples at the mall. Poor girl. Rach headed to work, but Kara and I bummed around the mall. I love making new friends. I bought the hottest green dress to wear to the appreciation gala the following night. (Background: I made the trip to Boise in part to attend an appreciation night for my high school choir director. It sounds corny, I know, but he seriously was one of those teachers who changed my life.)

Susan and I met up later and had a 3:30 “dinner” with the “aunts.” They are the two sweetest ladies in the world, and they’re pretty much all the other has. You can imagine after a three-course late lunch at the Cheesecake Factory, I wasn’t ready for a 3:30 buffet-style dinner, but I managed. The rolls were yummy. After dinner Susan, Kristie (that’s my 7-year-old niece) and I went to see Shrek the Third. Afterwards I went to meet Susan’s new beau. He was very nice and I gave my stamp of approval. I even got a hug. Following that, we stopped and got ice cream in Middleton, Idaho. I got French fries, too, only because they have fry sauce in Idaho. I must have asked the girl behind the counter three times if there was fry sauce in the bag when she handed me my order. Love that fry sauce.

Saturday was the day of the appreciation gala. I spent Saturday morning with Rachel. Susan had orientation at BSU. Rach and I went downtown to the Co-op and got veggie sandwiches, fresh raspberries and pears, and freshly made cookies, and ate on the gazebo. It was wonderful. After lunch we hit some downtown shops. The Farmer’s Market was still in full swing and it was just a good, downtown Saturday. My rehearsal for the gala was at one, so I had to split kind of early.

I had some time after the rehearsal to wander about Boise, going to some of my old favorite places. I drove up Bogus Basin Road, and down Warm Springs to look at all the old, big homes. I stopped at Ann Morrison Park and walked along the river. And I started falling in love with the city I abandoned. I left while she was still growing up, and now I want to be a part of her again on some level. It’s strange to go back to a place that used to be your home. It’s not your home anymore, so it’s as if you lose your claim on all your favorite places and activities. I saw people (crazy people) floating in tubes down the still-icy river and I missed the summers I had spent doing just that. I guess a lot of it was my missing a simpler time in my life, not necessarily the city. But, Boise is a place unlike any other. It has so much beauty and class and character. A bustling cosmopolitan city or a mountain escape, it has so many faces. It’s charming and comforting while being sophisticated. Proof that, as humans, we don’t know what we’ve got until it’s gone.

The appreciation gala was spectacular. Again I was reminded of a simpler time. What I wouldn’t give to have a choir director in front of me every day measuring out the rhythm of my life - to have constant guidance, someone to tell me when to be loud, when to be silent, and when to change my pace. Next to my parents, Mr. Totorica was probably the most influential person in my life. Lessons he taught us are still with me. There was a sign hanging on the stage, which read: “You taught us life through music.” So true. I still consider what his opinion might be when I am at a crossroads.

Sunday was the big white water day. I have never had so much fun. We were all a little apprehensive at first, especially since I had changed our trip to a more challenging run a few days earlier. The drive up to Banks brought back so many memories. I probably drove that road 500 times, always watching the rafters and kayakers below. I love mountains. Being in the mountains with the wind blowing through the trees – tricking you into thinking there is a waterfall close by. The air is always cool and crisp and clean. The smell of pine, and campfire, and the buzz of insects and the call of birds. Even loud sounds nearby seem to be muffled, absorbed by the mountain air.

It wouldn’t have been a trip to Idaho if I hadn’t used an outhouse. Oh, those scare me so bad. That’s for another post. After sunscreen and life jackets and photo-ops we were in the water getting a 4-minute crash course in white water paddling. Then we were off. Somehow, I managed to get the lead position on the boat. When the fist rapids suddenly appeared around the bend, we all dug our feet into the toe pockets. We went way up, so far that when the guide called out “all forward” I couldn’t even reach the water with my paddle. Then we came surging back down and freezing water came crashing over us. In a few seconds it was over and I immediately wanted to push rewind and go again. There were several III+ rapids “Go left, or you’re fired”, “Bennett’s Rock”, “Mike’s Hole”, “The Mixmaster”, and a few more I can’t remember. I‘ve got the fever now. I will become a River Rat.

After the river, we went back to Boise and had lunch at Smoky Mountain Pizza and Pasta. It was exactly what I wanted. We sat on the patio, which always reminded me of a Midsummer Night’s Dream when I lived in Boise, it was still the same. Later I took a nap before treating Susan to her first sushi experience.

I headed home the next day after a few more stops at favorite places, like Hugo’s Deli (ecstasy on sourdough) where I got some more fry sauce and an awesome sandwich, because “they build sandwiches.” Boy do they.

I seriously considered moving back to Boise over the weekend. I love it so much and it offers the quality of life I am starving for. I never believed I would want to leave Texas or the south again, but the close-mindedness of the region is beginning to take its toll. However, when the plane began to descend over Dallas, my heart swelled. Texas is home, she’s not perfect, but I belong here, somewhere. Boise will remain a place to visit and love – when I left there four years ago, I was disgusted with the state, but now I know I was disgusted with myself and what I had let my life become. Now that I am at peace with me, I can embrace and love from a distance the state that raised me.

Optimism rules

2007-05-30T12:07:00.000-06:00

Looking over my recent posts, I realize I’ve been negative as of late. I’m sorry.

This blog site, above all, is supposed to be humorous. I love laughing and I love making others laugh, and I’ve been a downer (both in blog world and in person) these past few weeks, er, months.

Somebody I know was just put on an anti-depressant. When I found that out, it occurred to me it’s been a (if I swore, I would insert foul adjective here) year. So, I guess it’s okay for me to be a little crabby and unpredictable here and there. Still, I am vowing to do better – I have too many wonderful people, and too much general wonderful-ness in my life to be down all the time. Things will work out just as they should, and in the meantime, I need to apply the “be a better grown-up” rule to my attitude. But, please note, my sense of humor is dry and cynical, so don’t take my sarcasm as negativity, it’s merely my way of conjuring up a laugh to go along with the lemonade I attempt to make out of life’s lemons. (That sentence made sense to me, go back and read it slower.)

To my friends, family and loyal fans (both of you), chin up.

Let's talk about Socks, baby

2007-05-29T14:03:00.000-06:00

(Disclaimer: I love my grandparents and my uncle, I wrote the following only for its comedic value. I realize the character described in the post has become a companion for my grandparents, and I would never want to rob them of that.)

Not the kind that go on your feet. I am speaking of the feline variety. My grandparents’ cat, inadvertently named for the former First Family’s comrade. This cat, Socks, wandered (more accurately, forced its way) into our lives some time back. My uncle, who lives with my grandparents, discovered him, began feeding him, and before long the cat had a permanent home on the screened-in porch, which has been locked from the inside since the cat took up residence therein. Meanwhile, the rest of us are stuck walking around the side of the house and up a dubious, do-it-yourself ramp to the front door. I have fallen down this ramp twice, and at least one of my cousins has fallen. It’s a dangerous ramp, with splintery handrails. Whenever weight is applied to the ramp, a visible gap appears between it and the porch landing, and the ramp itself sways and buckles like the Bay Bridge in a San Francisco earthquake. In the years I lived prior to knowing Socks, I can count on one hand how many times I remember going to the front door of my grandparents’ house. It just wasn’t done. Using the side door adjacent to the driveway was just a part of life. Not anymore, but I digress.

My grandparents don’t like animals. To this day my grandmother refuses to eat food prepared by someone who has an animal in his or her home. I can remember several instances of the city being called out to squelch barking dogs and expel neighboring cat colonies. Being a pet owner, and especially co-habitating with said pet, earned you a place of scorn in my grandparents’ opinion. But, Socks is different, he’s a clean, smart cat.

The whole ordeal started out innocently enough. The cat stayed on the porch because it wasn’t allowed in the house, and if let outside, it would run off or surely be eaten by wild dogs. Fall arrived and the air grew chilly, so soon heavy plastic had been stapled to the outside of the porch. Fair - Socks has to stay warm. That was the first winter. Then things warmed up, plastic didn’t come down. Want to know why? Because the plastic helps keep in the cool air being blown out by the newly purchased window unit. Yes, the cat has its own AC unit.

Now, I will say that although my grandparents had made special allowances for the cat, they held firm to the no-pets-in-the-house rule that had always presided. But soon, the cat was allowed to come in for “visits.” He watched The Price Is Right with grandpa in the mornings, and football with Uncle J on Monday nights. This is how things carried on for a while.

As winter again began to approach, there was a new addition to the “cat pad.” Suspended from the ceiling by two chains hung an electric space heater. There was also a square cut out of the blinds on the porch door, enabling the cat to peer into the living room whenever it fancied.

Socks now has free reign of the home by day. The door is opened first thing in the morning and the cat has claimed its place on top of the guest bed. I was visiting there a week or so ago when the cat rolled over onto its back. I was ordered to tell the cat how pretty he is, because apparently that is what Socks expects whenever he engages in the strenuous task of rolling over and stretching. So, loyal and obedient granddaughter that I am, I relinquished all pride, surrendered my adult card and said to Socks, the cat: “You’re such a pretty cat.” Brent saw me do it.

Siblings, Struggles and Spies

2007-05-21T09:03:00.001-06:00

My younger sister and I have a love/hate relationship. It’s really the relationship of a teenager and her mother. You’d think I would be the cool big sister who lets her borrow my clothes, teaches her how to do her hair and makeup, covers for her when she wants to start dating two years before she’s allowed to. And, I would love to be all those things to her. Every once in a while she lets me, too. I’ve already given her the “I don’t care what time it is and I won’t tell mom and dad, call ME before you try to drive home drunk” talk. That went over fairly well. I try to educate her about the bands that are never played on the station she listens to. Thanks to me she can usually identify AC/DC (she also knows what the letters stand for), Van Halen and Guns ‘n Roses at the very least. I have also tried to enrich her life through film. She’s familiar with many of the most worthy cultural icons ever captured on the screen, like Matthew McConaughey in Dazed and Confused, Matthew Broderick in Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, among others. But, for every good day, there are at least five bad ones. You will learn more by studying the following examples.

On Saturday, I was in the bathroom doing my hair. Rebekah refuses to get ready in the same bathroom as me. She comes to the door and, without pointing, hinting, nodding toward or acknowledging any object IN ANY WAY, says,

“Hand me that.”

I take a few moments to look at the bathroom counter where my eyes scan multiple brushes and combs, at least 15 bottles of various shapes and sizes containing all kinds of potions, and an array of hair tools, toothbrushes, bobby pins, etc.

I turn back to her, returning her request with a blank stare.

This infuriates her. My inability to read her mind and decipher which of the 50 or so objects littering the bathroom vanity is the one she requires at that precise moment has lowered me, in her opinion, to the status of social paramecium. I am no longer her intellectual equal. I have failed.

Visibly irritated, but still not conceding any form of helpfulness, she replies: “That!”

Again, blank stare on my part. My facial expression is absent of any understanding for what she is asking. But, out of fear, I begin pointing to random objects.

First, I try hairspray. No, not it. Stupid answer, Rachel! Her hair is straight today – no need for hairspray. Gosh!

Next - hair tie. A look of disgust is shot toward me.

Repeatedly, I point, then look to her, hoping to see approval and acceptance in her eyes. Growing weary I motion to her toothbrush. Wrong again!! I can hear Napoleon Dynamite’s voice echoing “idiot.” Bullets of cold sweat begin rolling down my temples.

My final guess - I point to the hand mirror. It seems to take hours as I rotate my head again. There is hope in my heart, but also foreboding.

The moment of truth.

With an inpatient grunt, Rebekah snatches the mirror and disappears into her cave…errrr, room.

Victory is mine.

Example No. 2

I get up at 5:15 and I must be out the door by 7:00 to get to work by 8:00. I have a very demanding haircut, but I also like to have a little downtime before leaving – you know drink my coffee, watch a few minutes of the news, etc. So, an hour and forty-five minutes is just enough time to shower, dress, do hair and makeup, eat breakfast, brush teeth and still have some cushion to catch the weather or accommodate wardrobe malfunctions (I will never be able to express the gratitude I feel for Janet Jackson for giving us that phrase.) However, I still have to run a pretty tight ship.

Rebekah has to be up and getting ready by 6:45, but generally she wanders out about 6:30 to inform the rest of us that we have disturbed her. She then spends 15 minutes or so pouting on the couch or in the recliner, frequently grunting or wincing in agony whenever I open my mouth. (There is something about the sound of my voice she just can’t take in the morning…or ever.) Then she eventually eats breakfast and goes to her room to do her hair. Or, she used to.

After this morning, I believe the grunting and wincing are mere fronts. Today it was obvious she had been studying my schedule and habits for some time. I always assumed she was groggy and unaware in the mornings, but I realize now she’s been gathering intelligence. She is acutely aware of all my actions.

After finishing my coffee in the morning, around 6:40, I take my mug to the kitchen then go to the bathroom to brush my teeth and powder my face. That’s how it goes. Every Morning. Without fail. I’ve noticed for a while now, that when I start toward the kitchen Rebekah catapults off the couch or out of the chair and heads to the bathroom where she stays, with door locked, for approximately twelve minutes. Just enough time to throw me off and get me out the door five minutes late.

Sabotage.

The irritating point is this – she’s been sitting around for ten or fifteen minutes while I drink coffee and eat breakfast, acting repulsed by any sound I make, but she doesn’t take that time to use the restroom and escape my vocal reach. She waits. She waits until I am ready to go back in, then she strikes.

Just wait, Rebekah. I’m on to you now.

Good things to come

2007-05-14T10:32:00.000-06:00

Since (I hope) many of you reading this blog haven’t actually met me (clearly this blog is a buzzword in all the major publishing houses by now – I’m expecting a book deal this week) I am starting a series about my past. People who do know me should enjoy them too, as some of these experiences helped turn me into the not-so-well-adjusted adult I am today. Also, I over-analyze EVERYTHING, and I just can’t seem to blame all of my current habits and apprehensions on any of these experiences. Maybe you can. Please – analyze away, leave comments about my unaccounted for mental stability. It’ll make for some lunch hour comedy one day this week. Episode one is in production…stay tuned.

About a turtle

2007-05-08T18:09:00.000-06:00

I know all of you have been in torment waiting for the next tantalizing installment in the saga of my exciting, awe-inspiring life. Trust me, this is going to be a letdown.

We have a turtle. The turtle has a name, but I don’t remember what it is. Obviously, the turtle is an integral element of our family’s everyday existence. Said turtle has been with us for over three years now. We never, believe me NEVER, expected it to last this long, but alas, the turtle has fortitude.

Turtles grow and change, and this turtle grew and grew and eventually, the dormant bleeding-heart, animal-rights-activist gene in mom and me started to show through. The turtle needed a new home, a bigger home. You had to feel bad for the turtle; his (or her, we respect the turtle’s privacy) current quarters were so small he couldn’t even swim. In the animal kingdom, we were considered slumlords. However, there is some background involved.

We started to see months ago, maybe even years ago, that the turtle was unhappy. It’s possible, I suppose, that the connection I fancied was never really there at all. At night we could hear him scratching, trying to climb away, but to no avail. He wouldn’t eat. His favorite hobbies lost all charm. The turtle became despondent and spent more and more time in its shell with each passing day. It seemed he (or she) had lost the will to live altogether, or at least the will to live with us. Our suspicions were confirmed a few months back when we returned from a vacation. While we were away the turtle spent some time with the grandparents. After all the recent disturbing behavior, we felt the turtle didn’t need to be alone for long periods of time. We thought the change would do him good. After picking him up to take home we made a brief stop. In a moment of clumsiness his bowl-thingy was bumped and the resulting slosh of water carried him out of the bowl-thingy, out of the car and onto the pavement 18 horrifying inches below. He landed on his feet and in a flash (or whatever word defines the breakneck, top speed of a turtle) he was off. The turtle charged forward under the mammoth weight of his shell. From somewhere we heard the faint tune of “Born Free.” It’s as if we were moving in slow motion, all seemed lost until Rebekah, in what I know was strenuous effort, bent over, picked the turtle up between thumb and forefinger and replaced him in his bowl-thingy.

After that we knew something had to be done. Something had to change. But we didn’t know what. We thought of counseling. We thought of sending the turtle away, placing him in the lake. But we were afraid. Afraid of the change, of the acute silence coming from the bowl-thingy, afraid of ourselves. If we sent him out with the big turtles, would he be scared, eaten? In desperation we pondered this. And eventually, after what had to be at least four minutes, CSI came back from the commercial break, and like so many of life’s perplexing problems, this too was swept under the rug, unresolved.

Several months later, while we stood in front of PetCo, we were reminded. We couldn’t escape it this time. Sacrifices must be made for a relationship to survive. We purchased a new and larger bowl-thingy (it’s an Olympic-sized swimming pool in comparison to what the turtle previously had) and a few accessories to brighten the place up. We could see the gratefulness in the turtle’s body language as he took his first full-length swim across. We had made the turtle happy. Though now, it’s been a few days and many of the same old problems are resurfacing, some new ones, too. It’s almost like he’s holding it over our heads, my head especially. The turtle must know I’m jealous. I think of him in his big bowl-thingy with his plastic plants and three-tiered AQUAEL Resin rock, and I think, why can’t I have a place to call my own? But, we’ll work through it.

My Favorite Things

2007-05-04T18:00:00.000-06:00

Granted, Oprah’s list is probably better than mine, but I’m on a budget here people…

Watching movies in bed on Saturday mornings: I love to wake up on Saturday with nothing on the books. No weddings or showers to go to, no mile-long list of errands or chores, just a blank page of a day. Even when I wake up relatively early, I don’t mind because I take bliss in the knowledge that I have no call to get out of bed. I can stay there as long as I want. Generally, the HBO Gods smile down on me and I am able to find an entertaining, but not too perplexing movie. About thirty minutes after this ritual begins, I scamper to the kitchen and start a pot of coffee. What’s a Saturday morning in bed without coffee? Which leads me to favorite thing number two….

Coffee: Otherwise known as sweet and essential nectar from on high. Coffee is so much more than a beverage to me. It’s my morning companion – when no one else is awake at 5:25 on a Monday morning, I’ve got my coffee. It faithfully sits on the bathroom counter in my Luckenbach, Texas, mug while I dry my hair and make ready for the day. Coffee is also a communication platform. It’s the excuse for a first date, a reason to catch up with an old friend. You never hear people say, “Hey, let’s get together for water sometime.” Nope, it’s always the coffee.

Laughing: I’m not talking about the forced chuckles we all muster up for our coworkers’ lame (LAME) jokes. I’m referring to next-day-abdominal-pain, teary-eyed, coke-out-the-nose laughter. It’s the kind of fun you can only have around people you get, and who get you back. There can’t be any shame or reservations or shyness, that would mean you were uncomfortable with the people around you - and you don't want coke coming out your nose around just anyone.

Family & Friends: These two get lumped together because there is a lot of overlap in my life. The only friends I had when I moved to Texas were family. And the friends I’ve made since, are a part of my family now. I don’t say it often enough, but I am blessed, I use the words family and friend interchangeably, because to me they are one and the same. I have such an amazing group of people in my life. There is never a need to worry if I’m bothering them, annoying them, making them mad. It’s a waste of time to try and impress them, because the only reason they loved me in first place is the promise they saw, which I couldn’t see in myself. True friends aren’t exactly the same in every way, but they are perfect complements of one another, which makes the teary-eyed laughter thing all the easier to accomplish.