A Kenny Moment

**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

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

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

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

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

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

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!