Things That Make You Go "Eww"

There was a time in my life when I wasn’t squeamish. I could handle various sorts of slime and gore. My sophomore year in high school I watched a video on how to deliver a baby in an emergency and not once was there the suggestion to boil some water. The video must have been shot in the 60’s and was set in a dingy storeroom with a single, naked light bulb hanging from the ceiling. No doubt the inspiration for the setting of every 70’s hostage situation on television. I also dissected a fetal pig that year without the slightest guilt or gagging. We got an extra hundred points if we could extract the brain from the skull with out severing the spinal cord. I got that hundred points, but only because I had the stomach to mash the spinal cord back together and it held up to my biology teacher’s inspection. As a counselor at church camp, a girl in my cabin threw up all over herself, the wall, and the girl on the bottom bunk. I cleaned her up and all of her spew without flinching.

Those days are gone.

Something as small as a booger is enough to make my tummy turn. As a teacher, there is no escaping them. I’m constantly facing all manner of mucus. When I worked with Pre-K, the other teachers read my signals of panic and revulsion and would come and rescue me from a child whose brain matter was dangling from his nose. I have the classic “snot-nosed” child in my classroom, bat-in-the-cave and a layer or two of dry, filthy crusting regularly adorns his nostrils. Last week, I couldn’t stand to look at it any longer and attempted to get it cleared with 3 or 4 tissues to keep it from touching me. I was not successful, but suddenly the kid was aware that he had a booger in his nose. I went for more tissues asking, “Do you think you can blow it out?” Without a moment’s hesitation, he blows and not only did the bat exit the cave but an unreasonable amount of gelatinous substance followed it to freedom. Seriously, I didn’t know that much mucus could come through a single nostril.

And then there’s regurgitation. I can’t even watch it on film anymore. Even worse, I get nauseous at the sight of the puking happy faces you can put in emails and instant messages. In fact, I’m getting sick now as I compose this post. As if to emphasize His sense of humor, God gave me employment as a behavior coach for a child with the most sensitive gag reflex in the history of the world. One of his favorite foods was one that also caused him to puke most frequently: scrambled eggs--which, by the way, go against the scent-taste connection. I like good scrambled eggs, but the sulfur-smell makes ME want to hurl. There was a morning that he started gagging and I was determined to get him to the bathroom because I couldn’t handle watching him ralph all over his tray again. As I was attempting to get his helmet off, his entire breakfast landed in my hand. How my breakfast didn’t also re-appear is a mystery. After that, his barfing all over his tray wasn’t so unbearable for me.

The best or worst, depending on your point of view, tale of projectile vomit came from one of my teaching assistants who has a two year old son. Once he was holding his infant son over his head and cooing at him when the darling one wretched . . . right into daddy’s mouth. Pardon me. I don’t feel so good.

Family Tree - Part II

Just because pieces start falling into place doesn’t mean the puzzle is complete. I can guarantee you, as could anyone who knows me well, I am still quite the puzzle. I can hardly hang on to my proverbial ducks (they’re neurotic and ADHD), much less get them in a row. I have struggled in writing this post. There is a lot I want to say about what I have learned in the past year. Here is the thing that has struck me the most in a most timely fashion: the Old Testament heroes were remembered for their faith, not their flaws. Is it new information? No. It’s been a matter of public record for centuries and stuff I knew, but I didn’t connect. The Hebrews “Hall of Faith”, a list of the hopelessly flawed whom God called faithful. I don’t know how I’ve missed it, but I’m so thankful I know it now. That I recognize the humanity of Abraham, Jacob, and David and can identify with them. My adopted cousins and uncles whose faith allowed God to carry out His plan. Don’t stop at 11:38, keep reading, “And all these, having gained approval through their faith, did not receive what was promised because God had provided something better for us so that apart from us they should not be made perfect.” (vs 39-40) Did you catch that? They weren’t perfect, nor would they be apart from us . . . you . . . me.

It’s a staggering thought.

In a world that seems determined to thrive on infamy, it is mind-blowing to realize there is a history of thriving on faithfulness. In an age when the sins of the parents are the excuses for our poor choices, there exists a record of a culture focused on the things their ancestors got right. They believed God and waited for a Savior they would not see. They experienced fear, shame, trials and frustration. Realizing that, really knowing it, makes me feel less lonely. I come from a long line of frailty. Every day people whose ducks weren’t quite in a row. However, their fears did not define them, their tribulations did not deter them. God calls them faithful. God called them His, but He had something even better in mind for us—one Lamb, one sacrifice, once for all time. Because of Him, my fears will not define me and my tribulations will not deter me, even if they sometimes overwhelm me. And God calls me faithful and He calls me His. My heritage is of foreigners, con men, shepherds, prostitutes, fishermen, thieves, priests, prophets and kings. My family tree is an accumulation of intricacy, a hybrid of transplants growing from a single Root.

Tender Moments from the Toilet

"This one is big, Miss Lisa."

*This series has been canceled.

Tagged--The buck stops here, people!!!

Primarily because I don’t know 8 more people with blogs who’ve not already been tagged, I’m going to cheat and just quit.

1. I, too, am unable to give blood—for the exact same reason as Sarah, just substitute Scotland for Ireland.

2. I’m going to marry Gerard Butler, but he doesn’t know it yet. I have to break things off with Orlando Bloom first. There are actually 3 degrees of separation between me and Orlando Bloom. I was a childcare worker for a girl who moved to Hawaii and was an extra in the movie “Blue Crush” with Kate Bosworth who used to date Orlando Bloom . . . until I stole him from her. (I actually just saw that little girl in the movie when it was on cable yesterday!)

3. For a number of years in my childhood, my dad would often respond, “When we find your real daddy you can tell/ask him” to any question or complaint I had about my upbringing.

4. I murdered one of the class fish in 4th grade. Perhaps it was man-slaughter (fish-slaughter?), since I didn’t intend to kill it. I just wanted to see if I could thump it hard enough to make it touch the bottom of the fish tank. I think if I had put more of my arm into it rather than just rely on finger-strength alone, I’d have been successful. However, when the fish was discovered dead the next day, everyone would’ve known it was me.

5. I got the chicken pox when I was 21. That visit to the doctor was the second most humiliating doctor visit of my life.

6. The time I went to the doctor in Scotland for an ear ache and the doctor said, “Did you know you have an asymmetrical face? You’re face is crooked (I gave him a quizzical look in response to the question). Go look in the mirror and tell me if your face is supposed to look like that” was the first.

7. In 8th grade I wrote a love story about a guy I had a mad crush on. It revolved around his green eyes and was hence titled “Green Eyes: A Short Love Story”. I was really proud of it. The day after I wrote it, I ran into him in the hallway and discovered that his eyes were so dark a shade of brown they were almost black. He never knew about the story, but I was mortified just the same. I found it a few years ago and was mortified that I'd written it.

8. I love makeup. I LOVE it! I’m like a kid in a candy store at a place like Sephora. Funds are typically a problem, so I usually get something small (like lip-gloss) or just talk myself out of buying anything at all. If funds weren’t a problem it would probably take a room to hold it all, however it would probably expire before I could use it all. While I love makeup and sometimes wish I could be bolder in its application without looking like a clown, I don’t always like putting forth the effort to put it on. It’s pretty much the same story with hair products.

When did the word “melty” become a part of the American vernacular?

Things That Go Bump in the Night . . .

. . . or “clackety-clack” would be closer to the truth. That would be my brain. You’ve heard the term “one-track mind” and its reference to a person who has tunnel-vision, thinking of one thing only, unable to focus on anything else. I wonder what that’s like because I’m generally unable to focus on any one thing at all. My problem is I have a multi-track mind and only one train of thought. It sounds nice and compartmentalized, but my train likes to cover all the tracks . . . at once . . . and since no train can be on more than one track at a time—not even the one in my head—there’s a lot of track-jumping and derailment going on up there. Perhaps “CRASH! BOOM! SCREECH! BANG!” and all forms of onomatopoeia associated with a train-wreck would be absolutely accurate.

I can keep that train on the track during the day, when I’m working and have people depending on me. Well, most of the time. It’s at night when my mind races through every thought I’ve had that day that’s been waiting for that train, sweeping over me like a tidal wave, trying to make up for all the time spent running parallel but never intersecting and now that the day’s finally over can catch that train at the station and seizes upon the opportunity to drown it . . . hmmm . . . maybe I should have gone with the tsunami analogy. Anyway . . . I have a hard time finding rest at night and quieting my mind. All manner of thoughts rush through. On really tough nights, it feels like every thought I’ve EVER had returns for an encore. ~sigh~ Can you tell I’m writing this at night?

And now I’ve been tagged . . . ~double sigh~ . . . The only reason I’m writing this post is to buy myself some time as I complete “Family Tree Part 2” and because I didn’t get much sleep this last week, so it seemed inspired. Perhaps I’ll save some of these thoughts for the “random facts” in my “Tag” post. Who decided it was going to be 8 random facts anyway? Why not 5? Or 13? I could easily provide 80, but then no one would come back, knowing more than they’d ever wish to know about me. For now, I have a train to catch . . . or drive . . . something . . . whatever!!!

Family Tree - Part 1

Ever since I returned from Scotland, I’ve noticed that everyone I meet has Scottish roots. It doesn’t matter who I talk to, the second they hear that I lived in Scotland it’s, “My family is Scottish! My mom’s dad’s cousin’s husband’s dog’s veterinarian came over on the ship back in 1880!” Apparently there was only one ship that ever came to the US from Scotland and it was full of vets. It used to annoy me when people would say that. My last name is a common, Scottish surname, we have our own tartan (plaid) and everything, but I couldn’t tell you who came over on that boat in 1880 and I think the people who could have long departed this world. Why does it matter anyway?

It’s important, though, for people to know their heritage. For me, lately, it’s become even more important to know my spiritual heritage. I grew up going to church. I heard all the Old Testament Bible stories: Noah, Abraham, Joseph and the coat of many colors, Moses and the plagues, David the shepherd boy, David and Goliath, David the king . . . there was some smatterings of prophets throughout, but I never really knew or felt connected to them. I knew they were real people. I knew they were important people in their generations. Another time, another place, not all that relevant to me unless it was Bible Bowl season. And there was my time in AIM and on the mission field. Most of my adult study has focused on the New Testament. There in Hebrews, the “Hall of Faith”. The spiritual giants of all time—“men of whom the world was not worthy” (Heb 11:38). That’s about when the anxiety set in—What am I doing? I don’t belong here!—and I’d check out. What has plagued me most recently is the realization that for the last decade, I have read books and watched movies over and over, analyzing them and gleaning the truths of life from them. I love getting lost in a good story. I love seeing something new the second or twenty-second time around. I love observing and identifying with the complexity of characters and their relationships. The one thing I neglected to pursue with equal or greater intensity was the study of the Bible, the ultimate of stories, characters wrought in chaos of complexity and who actually walked this earth, THE truth . . . the thing I needed most.

A couple of years ago I had decided that I needed to get serious with my spiritual walk . . . again. I thought the best way to get back on track was to get back into regular Bible study. I went to the Bible-mart and picked up a couple of books by Jim McGuiggan, “Genesis and Us” and “The God Who Commands the Impossible”. I started with “Genesis and Us” for obvious reasons, endeavoring to understand just how relevant Genesis is to us. It was pretty amazing. I began to feel connected to this time and place so long ago. Suddenly, Abraham wasn’t such a distant figure of heroism. Jacob was not the “good guy” in his own story. And Judah the man hardly behaved like the child of the Holy One. It took me a year to complete “Genesis and Us”. (Not because it was a particularly voluminous work, rather I’m a voluminous procrastinator who gets easily distracted.) I began to feel a renewal in my heart. It’s amazing how perspective can have so great an influence on our thoughts; a little tweaking and pieces of the puzzle start falling into place.

Don't worry, there is a point to this. Stay tuned . . .

That "WHOLE Other Blog"

One of my all-time favorite TV shows is “Home Improvement” which follows the escapades of Tim “The Toolman” Taylor and his family. There are a lot of shows that I watched in my formative years that I thought were so fantastic and cutting edge at the time, only to watch them as an adult and think, “This is the stupidest thing I’ve ever seen!” (Yes, I meant to just plagiarize myself and is it really plagiarism if it’s your own words? I think that’s called de ja vu . . . or being redundant.) For example, anything that starred David Hasselhoff. Where is Max Headroom today? Or Automan, for that matter? Or Manimal? (OK, so those go further back . . . elephant memory, remember?)

And then there are the shows that are timeless: Magnum P.I. . . . and . . . do I really need to continue? Although, I must give The Wonder Years its due. Home Improvement is also proving to be timeless to me as I catch its reruns on Nick at Night lately. I love Tim’s regurgitation of Wilson’s pearls of wisdom in “Neanderthal” man-speak and his complete misquotations of history’s great philosophers, and their names. It’s still hilarious all these years later.

Personally, I think the writing is the key to a good show. I don’t know that Eric Bana would have made Knight Rider worth watching today. Let me rephrase that: I don’t know that Eric Bana would have made Knight Rider worth sitting and listening to the dialogue today. (By the same token, however, nobody but Tom Selleck could be Thomas Magnum. Hmm . . . tricky.) Some of the shows of the 70’s, 80’s, and 90’s have the worst dialogue in the history of screen. It wallows in the shallow sludge that is the romance dialogue of James Bond movies. ~shudder~ No wonder Bond will never be in a long-term relationship.

But there are plenty of fantastic to choose from. Allow me to present to you my picks for the best shows on TV—ever! (The top 4 are my absolutes, the rest are in no particular order.)

#1 Magnum P.I.
#2 Arrested Development
#3 Scrubs
#4 24
#5 Dead Like Me
#6 Home Improvement
#7 The Wonder Years
#8 Hart to Hart (yes, you read that right)
#9 Hunter
#10 Sledgehammer

What are yours?

And now it's time for . . .

. . . Tender Moments from the Toilet. A new series from the World Inside My Head in the tradition of The Dog Days of Winter (which will resume in the winter). Each episode will feature the tender words and pearls of wisdom I receive regularly from a child sitting on the pot. This week's episode:

"I love you, Miss Lisa."

Something we all need to hear a little more often, don't you think? Out of the blue, in an unexpected moment, with no prompting whatsoever.

Now if I could just use my powers for good . . .

One of my all-time favorite TV shows is “Home Improvement” which follows the escapades of Tim “The Toolman” Taylor and his family. There are a lot of shows that I watched in my formative years that I thought were so fantastic and cutting edge at the time, only to watch them as an adult and think, “This is the stupidest thing I’ve ever seen!” That’s a WHOLE other blog, though. In one episode, I remember Tim turning pensive and saying, “Now I just need to use my powers for good.” It’s always stuck with me, especially in my work with children. I was always trying to get the kids I worked with to use their powers for good. But nowhere have I labored in such an endeavor as I have with Sonny. You may remember Sonny from a previous post. He’s come a long way since even then. Sonny struggles, yet has gone from being a child who could quite possibly be the most stubborn boy on the face of the planet, to a boy who follows directions and asks me to give him homework. His dogged and sometimes violent determination to hold to his purpose, rational or not, would definitely be a power that would serve him well if he used it for good. There was a time when I wasn’t certain we’d ever get a handle on it and he’d be able to function in the “real world”. So I observe him with amazement and wonder as we entered this school year. Sonny hasn’t had an all-out-blow-out tantrum at all this school year. He is reading better than anybody else in class and he’s the youngest. It’s as though everything we’ve taught him over the past 4 years has always been there floating around in his little brain and now it’s all connecting like puzzle pieces. I’m tickled at his progress and thankful.

In his heart he truly is a kind and giving spirit. He shares with his friends and desires to please, most of the time, anyway. The thing that has really caught my attention this year though is his pursuit to interact with his peers who are “normal”. Everyday since school started, he has gone out at lunch recess and found the group of boys that are playing football. My heart stops beating as I watch. They don’t invite him right in, but they don’t run him off either. He just stands among them waiting for the opportunity for the ball to come his way. One day he saw it and he took it. A kid kicked the ball pretty high into the air and Sonny got right under it and caught it . . . with his face! But he held on to that ball. I was about to run out and take care of him, as he was holding his eye with one hand and the ball in the other, but I quickly saw that he didn’t need my help. He stood up turn and looked to his friends and held the ball up in victory. They all came running and pat him on the back, excited for him. He has started to bring his own football and basketball. The little boy who used to cling to my leg goes to where the football or basketball game is and waits for his moment to join the game or even start one of his own.

What does all this have to do with Sonny using his powers for good? Persistence is one of Sonny's gifts. That same dogged determination that made him a powerhouse in a power-struggle with his teacher is serving him as he sets out to do the things he loves. It’s required a great amount of stubbornness on my part to work with him. It has served me well, yet I envy Sonny. I envy his innocence and his persistence in the big picture of his life. I grow weary of trying most of the time in my own life. I complain and fret about my weaknesses in frustration, whining, sometimes demanding God, “Why can’t You just fix me?” Or when I felt like I’ve been persistent enough prayer but don’t get the results I expected. Or when I have to work harder than people around me to accomplish something. I grow weary and stubbornly stop trying to find my place in the game where God wants me to be using my powers for good.

I pray hard for Sonny. I pray to be more like him, think like him. He has more working against him at 9 than I've ever had, but he doesn’t let his challenges hold him back. He doesn’t let circumstances or fear keep him from trying. He dreams of playing football and basketball someday. It doesn’t occur to him to quit. The most stubborn boy on the face of the planet is going to be a part of the game.

Back from the Coma

Whoa! I've been gone a LONG time! I didn't fall off the face of the earth and the world inside my head has not gone dark. I just moved. I moved from my home of 8 years to my home for the next whatever. Three bedrooms and two bathrooms is a little much, even for a dog as energetic as Sophie. Unfortunately, the one bedroom/one bathroom where we now reside is a little small for her, but she is coping remarkably well--what a trooper!

It was strange to move. I haven't lived in any dwelling much longer than a year since I graduated high school. It was bittersweet. I was looking forward to a smaller space, less to clean and it would force me to let go of things. It's amazing what you hang onto. Most of it is absolute rubbish. Seriously, why did I keep the napkin from the wedding of two people I hardly know and never speak to? I only went for the cake. And then the clothes that I was saving for when I lost weight and could fit into them again . . . ~sigh~ . . . even if I could, it's probably better for society in general that I parted with them.

I have things to tell, but for the moment I just wanted to drop back into cyberspace and say hello. It's great to check in and catch up on the blogs of others. *SMOOCH*

More from the Landmark

Click on a picture to get the full view. One of them seems to have gotten covered up. Apparently I need a Pic-Posting 101 as well.

Horticulture 101: A Novice Perspective

One of my most favorite things to do in the whole world is go plant-shopping with Sarah. I don't typically let on how much I enjoy it, but I freaking LOVE it! Sarah is quite the vegetation expert, although, she'll most modestly say otherwise. I know nothing about flowers or plants. I had a plant named Herb once, right after I moved into my first apartment. He's dead. I also had a beautiful aloe vera plant that my mother sent with me to college. I felt it was getting to big for its pot so I thought I'd just re-pot it. Also dead.


I know enough about plants and nature to appreciate it as God's gorgeous creation and enjoy being in it, but should probably leave well enough alone. Beyond that I know roses, tulips, daffodils, hyacinth, and dandelions by sight, perhaps a few others. Sarah, however, knows everything and then some--seriously, you should be with yourself sometime, Sarah, it's staggering. We can be driving by a restaurant and she'll point out the landscape arrangements by name and then expound on why they should or should not have used those specific plants. And when we're in places like Lowe's or Home Depot, she'll rattle off the names of plants and whether or not they need more or less sunlight, water, pruning . . . It's truly amazing. I always learn so much when we're on such outings, but I never remember the names of the plants and flowers she points out. (Although, I do remember that bindweed or morning glory is growing in the northwest corner of the Cheddar's parking lot.) Tragic really, because they have such great names. Being the word-nerd that I am, I try to associate their names with what pops into my head when I hear them as a way to remember them. It helps if it's something meaningful. So far, I've got down lantana, initially because it reminded me of Dan Tanna, Robert Urich's character on "Vegas". Not that I really remember that show, but who forgets a name like Dan Tanna? The main reason I remember it is because I was constantly encountering it as I sat in the drive-thru line at Rosa's Cafe--associating words with something meaningful is key. Unfortunately, I end up morphing the plant name with the word I associated it to, so bougainvillea comes out blow-gun-via . . . which instantly conjures the image of a plant grown specifically for the use of making those little poisoned darts for blow-guns. Honestly, I couldn't distinguish it from hot lips saliva. I was with Sarah at the nursery a few weeks ago while she was looking for some basil and calibrated cobras, but she was moving so fast from one plant to another that I wasn't able to remember what any of the plants looked like. I do remember that apart from the basil we milled through agape, Portuguese maracas, epiglottis, and hyperbole-berries. We were fascinated by this plant that looked like fuzzy red caterpillars on skewers and then we walked over to Mrs. Camp's. (Cake . . . YES!)


Last week Sarah and I ventured out to Lubbock Lake Landmark to check out some activities they had going on. We were fortunate enough to have the best guides imaginable. Two older men who knew their plants. One of them only knew the common names and the other knew only the Latin names, a perfect combination. We stopped every few feet to look at various kinds of grass, wildflowers, and herb plants. It was like being on a PBS show! I only really remember the Louisiana sage-wort and the spiny streptococcus.


All silliness aside, I actually wrote down the names of a lot of the plants and wildflowers that we saw: yarrow, flea-bane daisy, blue grandma grass, copper and globe mallow, bladder pods, and blanket flower. It's going to take me further study to be able to recognize them on sight. I mostly took pictures, which should be dispersed in and follow this post. I purposely did not identify them to spare the plant savvy among you more chagrin. I want you to know how much I admire your enthusiasm and ability to nurture nature.

Join the Campaign

I was sitting in my car the other day in the drive-thru for Chick-fil-A. A part from their delicious chicken, they're about the only place in the restaurant biz that makes a melon-free fruitcup. More reasons to love the place. Lubbock has one free-standing Chick-fil-A in the whole city. That's right, ONE. What that means for the on-the-go lovers of its tasty cuisine is that you probably shouldn't take the drive-thru option if you're really hungry. There is always a line of cars around Chick-fil-A, a long line. From the time you spot it and decide to pull in to the time you actually get your food as much as 20 minutes can elapse. This is fine if you have a good book to occupy you, or knitting or something. However, in a city that is rumored to have the most restaurants per capita in the nation (a fact I've only been able to confirm through local sources), I find this unacceptable. With this much traffic and business assailing one tiny location, why on earth wouldn't they build another one? Or two for that matter! I'm hungry NOW!!! And to quote my dear friend, "All I want is Chick-fil-A!"

So, I'm starting a campaign. The Hungry NOW Campaign. Do not be confused. This is not a movement motivated by charitable endeavors. The sole purpose of this campaign is to help the harrassed, time-pressured, Type-A personality people who don't have twenty minutes to spend waiting for those "two crucial pickles". Join me in responding to the "Eat More Chikin'" campaign with a campaign that declares "Build More Chick-fil-A's So I Can!" Join the campaign for people in their cars who are Hungry NOW!

More information at www.hungrynow.com--tshirts, banners, bumperstickers, mugs, canvass tote-bags, onesies and trashy underwear.

Campain Slogans on all items:
hungryNOW! (front)
All I Want is Chick-fil-A! (back)

If you can't decide what you want . . . (front)
. . . drive away!
Demand more Chick-fil-A! (back)

Warning for those with food allergies: (front)
I'm soaked in peanut oil (back)

The Hub City-More Conservatives Per Capita (front)
One more restaurant closed on Sundays
Chick-fil-A
The Hungry NOW Campaign (back)

A Chapter Ends

I've been working in childcare off and on (mostly on) for over 10 years, close to 20 if you count camp counseling and babysitting as a teen. I was looking for a ministry when I got back from the mission field and a children's home seemed the natural choice. My first application to the Children's Home was not successful, so I found work elsewhere. A few years later, as my college days were coming to a close, I needed a place where I could work on weekends and have time during the week for school and homework. I applied once more at the Children's Home and so began a career and ministry to children. I got off to a rocky start and had much to learn, but eventually I became quite adept at dealing with challenging children. I held various positions at the Children's Home, but always managed to work with the kids. I started working at the Boys Ranch, as well. If you read my posts "Call Me Crazy" and "Out of the Mouth of Babes", you see that it was something I still did. I left the Children's Home nearly 4 years ago to teach Special Ed. My experience at the Home and the Ranch came in handy and contributed to some significant and succesful work with my students. I took a year off from the Boys Ranch as I continued to teach. Two highly emotionally disturbed children every single day plus certification classes were challenging enough. John, however, pleaded with me to come back a year and a half ago. OK, he didn't plead. I said yes without a second thought before the complete request had left his mouth. If you have had the privilege of working for/with John, then you know how easy it is to say yes to any request of his. (But I'd like to think that he would have pleaded had I shown a moment's hesitation--there's nothing like the feeling of knowing that John needs you.)

I returned and worked many weekends initially. When I look back now, I really don't know how I did it. I had taken a new teaching position at school, I had friends in turmoil, and my uncle passed away among other things. I still want to lean towards insanity, but I know in truth it was God's unending faithfulness. I hope as they mature, those boys develop a sound understanding of it because I know of a few who, if not for divine intervention, would be smited by my hand. Yet, I love them so. They make me crazy and sometimes in the early phases of working with them I find that I really do not like them. Somehow, though, be it through the miracle of time or God's gentle prompting of my heart to be more compassionate, I grow to truly care for them.

There is something about children that I’m continually drawn to. I don’t know if it is their energy, their sometimes piercing honesty, or their unconditional acceptance of me. I just know that I feel the most at ease, most confident, and most content in the presence of children. These broken ones, in particular. I find that I identify with them even though I’ve not suffered the things they’ve suffered. I have felt lost in my own life, out of control, and kicking and screaming over things that I can’t change. But they find some way to thrive in spite of everything. They continue to love and risk and laugh and . . . live.

I have realized, or perhaps admitted is more accurate, that I don’t live. Not really. I lost my bearings somewhere along the way and have been hiding wherever I can. I got so good at being inconspicuous at college that I forget that people can actually see me. I find my identity outside of myself . . . in my house, my work, my friends. And I use these things as excuses not to live, not to know what I really want, not to make the most of this gift that God has given me of being alive. It has been wrenching for me to acknowledge these things. It’s the side of “epiphany” that makes me loathe the word. Kind of like life, though, you can’t really appreciate the scale of “epiphany” unless you acknowledge all aspects of it. It makes the pleasant ones more wondrous. And in a grander context, such as Romans 8:28 “All things work for good . . . “, even the loathsome ones become wondrous because you know that somewhere down the road something good can develop from having painful epiphanies.

I want to live. I want to be better, do better. I want to take care of myself so I can better serve those around me. I want to train my dog. I want to be fearless, or if not so, at least not afraid to get up and try again when Satan broadsides me. I want to be like the children I work with, who don’t let their mistakes, flaws, or frustrations hold them back. I want to live and love like I belong to Him.

I drove to my last shift with mixed emotions. I knew I was doing the right thing, but sometimes you feel a twinge of sadness when you know a part of your life is coming to a close. It wasn’t anything special or different from any other shift, as it turned out. I was so tired when I left that Saturday night that I didn’t have the energy for emotions. I was just ready to be in bed. This chapter in my life has closed and another has begun. As I look around the house that I’ve not had the time or energy to clean in the past several weeks, I breathe a quick prayer for the strength and courage to live my life and be a good steward with what I’ve been blessed. Then I roll up my sleeves and begin.

Musings on a Saturday

Wow. I didn't mean to go so long between posts. Clearly, you rabid readers are furious with the the lack of activity in the world inside my head, but it's not because I've been too busy or too tired. There really is nothing going on up there, if there was it would be posted here.

So it's Saturday and it's April, which means two things: Sarah has returned and I no longer work at TBR. I will save my thoughts on TBR for another post. What is there to say about Sarah's return, early return at that, but YEE-DOODY-HAW!!!? She surprised me speechless. It was odd her being gone and then ~shazam!~ there she is. Yes, I just said "shazam". I'm having to adjust my routine because it had been get up, feed dogs, check computer/Skype, get dressed, work, come home, check computer/Skype (I was also checking frequently at school), run errands, eat, come home, check computer/Skype, love on dogs, go to bed, repeat. I went to my computer on Tuesday morning out of habit before I remembered she was back. Let me just say once more: It's GOOD to have you home, girl!!!

I woke up to a blanket of snow this morning. I can't say that I'm all that thrilled about it. It's APRIL for petesake! This is more shocking than the waking up to snow May 9, 1995 when I went to renew my visa at the airport in Glasgow. I thought about posting a picture of it, but decided not to. If you want to see what snow in Lubbock looks like in April, see "The Dog Days of Winter" post. It's exactly the same. My Mom and Dad are in town. Always nice when they visit. I get doted on and who doesn't love that? They usually refurbish my toilet paper supply. And this time I got a drill! I have my own drill now. So all you local pals, if you need some drilling done call me!

We went to the grocery store where I saw a Grapple. A Grapple is an apple that tastes like a grape. It has convinced me that the horticulturists responsible for our fresh produce supply have entirely too much time on their hands. Whose genius idea was that anyway? Somebody actually sat down and thought, "What if an apple tasted exactly like a grape?" Not only did they sit down and think about it, they made it happen. Let me just say that if I want something that tastes like a grape, I'm going to buy grapes. That would cause serious texture flavor confusion for me otherwise and my brain is confused enough without biting into an Grapple. Not only that, I take serious issue with the name "Grapple". I know what they are aiming for, but it strikes too similar a resemblance to the word "grope" in my mind. I won't tell where that leads my mind next, but I think you get the picture and experiencing fruit should have its limits. That stated, if you like living on the edge when it comes to your fruit, may I suggest a Grapple? I have no desire to try it, but it might actually take your world by storm.

At Home in the Desert

I went home this past week--home being Carlsbad. It was Spring Break here, so I took advantage of the opportunity to get the heck out of Dodge! If you’ve never been to Carlsbad, it’s a smaller town in the desert in southern New Mexico along the Pecos River. When I got back from the mission field, my experiences with reverse-cultureshock and re-entry caused me a significant amount of frustration with the place where I grew up. I haven’t gone home much over the years as a result. Time is a great mellowing agent and my attitude is changing. I’m finding Carlsbad more intriguing these days, as well as a place to appreciate.


I took my dogs with me, an interesting adventure in and of itself. Picture if you will two dogs, one a Golden Retriever and the other making up for what she lacks in size with a frightening energy (I like to think it’s a zeal for the Lord), and a little white, 2-door Honda Civic. They behaved very well, though, and I think they even had fun.


My parents, as most of you know, are the sweetest people in the world. I spent the time there between going out with my dad to his house projects and helping my mom use her computer. When I went last year, they didn’t have their VCR hooked up and it still wasn’t this year. I helped with that also and was somewhat amused by the fact that there was a time when they knew how to hook everything up and I didn’t. What was even more amusing was Dad and I successfully hooked up the VCR using instructions for a completely different machine. One of the really high points of my visit was having dinner with Dad at Pizza Inn. I love Pizza Inn. They make fantastic dessert pizzas that can’t be found anywhere else.


I took Sophie for a walk every morning that we were there. The neighborhood has changed significantly since my family moved there 25 years ago. The large “vacant lot” near our house is completely developed with houses. The kids of the neighborhood used to ride our bikes there. The trees are bigger and the street seems narrower than they did to my 6 year-old eyes. I’m glad the area is developing. I wouldn’t want my parents living in a rundown neighborhood. And not everything has changed. Even though the orignial Walmart is now a Sutherlands and the new one is a Super Walmart practically in the next lot, it’s still the place to run into everyone. In a single visit, I saw about 5 people I went to high school with and as many older folk I remember. I still remember when they put the basketball court in over at the park 2 blocks over from my house. It was there I carved my eternal love for Dave Oakley in stone . . . literally. In my defense, I was 11 or 12. My eternal love for him gave way to eternal love for many other boys in the years to come. While nothing lasts forever, unfortunately I think my declaration is going to be where it is for a very long time.


Carlsbad is a really beautiful town. I do love the desert where I spent my childhood and I will leave you with more pictures from the trip.

Me and mom after her Red Hat Society Dinner.


My sweet Daddy.


He insisted on buying me this-it's ACTUALLY called a "Pecan PICKER UP-ER"!


Me and Sophie

Dad, plum tuckered out.

Desert sunset.

The Thing About Weddings

I grew up loving weddings. They were so fun! Pretty dresses like in a fairytale, pledges and tokens of eternal love, those cream cheese mints, and CAKE!!!! What's not to love about weddings? As the years have gone by all that stuff has only gotten better. Unfortunately, my childhood fervor for weddings has waned in the past decade or so. They tend to have the same effect on me as birthdays--I'm not getting any younger . . . Am I making the right choices with my life? . . . Will I always be a wedding guest and never a bride? . . . This cake is so good!. . . Am I destined to be alone? I also get very frustrated at weddings because when I fantasize about my own, certain songs come to mind that I'd like to have. Yet sure as the sun rises in the east, the next wedding I attend has stolen my songs. Yes, stolen them. I can't help it if I want to be a little different from everyone else. I acknowledge that it's virtually impossible for me to have a song in my wedding that no one has used before me, but you can't blame a girl for dreaming. (Don't worry, Flee, I've stopped dreaming about using music from "The Lion King", apparently no one wants to steal that one!)

My worst wedding experience was the wedding of a dear friend. It was in the my home congregation back in NM many years ago. The whole course of the wedding and preparations, everybody who'd ever known me kept smiling and raising their eyebrows at me saying things like "You're next!" "You're day is coming!" "You're going to find someone soon!" . . . Images of knocking each of them upside the head with songbooks kept flashing through my mind as I smiled and politely endured these comments, even the sweet old ladies. Having been recently thwarted in love, mercy was a virtue that was difficult for me to come by. I don't think these well-meaning, good-hearted folks realize how irritating it is for a single girl to hear those things. (I know not all single gals feel that way, but I know a few who do.) Speaking as one that does, I already feel "love-impaired", defective, & beyond hope. I don't need to be reminded of it by all the people who watched me grow up. I haven't even gotten to the worse part of this experience, which was the tossing of the bouquet. Yes, that time-honored tradition that I started dreading in my late teens. It wasn't a game anymore. It had become the single girl's only hope for a future at the altar. My stomach churns just thinking about the possibility of having to participate in one. At this wedding, though, I had no choice and nowhere to hide. As I stood there, surrounded by a few strangers and a bunch of young girls whom I had counseled at church camp, time suddenly stood still. The moment had arrived and all I wanted to do was get it over with, get home, and into a comfortable pair of shoes. It was in that moment that all those young girls turned their eyes on me, then to one another and almost in unison began to shout, "Let Lisa catch it!! Let Lisa catch it!!!" The large group of them parted like the Red Sea and left me standing there in the middle of the room in utter mortification. Oh for the earth to open and swallow me up! And I still didn't catch the thing. I know in my heart that catching the bouquet signifies nothing, except the much underestimated female capacity for violence. But I can't help but think, "God, please, throw me a bone!"

These days being single isn't the horror I always thought it to be. I'm not saying it's easy or that I don't still long for a mate. However, I've been single pretty much my whole life and spent most of my 20's thinking I'd shrivel up an die if I didn't marry by the time I was 30. I'm neither dead, nor shriveled and no worse for the wear, so what was all the fuss about? I just don't know. I must say, though, that God has worked on me to bring me to this place. He put wonderful people in my life, like Sarah, who showed me that being single was something embrace and celebrate. Even more recently He has sparked a renewal within me. I'm pursuing my relationship with Him more than I have in a long time & I'm really thankful for that. Why did I ever let it stagnate? I know that He's never left me and I have never stopped praying, but I have really missed God! Know what I mean?

I went to another wedding of another dear friend this past weekend. I re-connected with old friends who've long left Lubbock. It was WONDERFUL! I still had some pangs from the usual nagging questions, but I had more fun than I've had in a long time at a wedding. My compliments to the bride, who chose not subject her single friends to the anxiety-producing tradition of the bouquet toss. Clearly she understands the woes of that love-lorn crowd, whether we have chosen our states or not. Besides, not having to worry about that dreaded moment in the celebration made it much easier to enjoy the cake. And it was GOOD!!!

The Dog Days of Winter: The Tempestuous Travails of the Mad Cow, the REAL Mad Cow

On a blustery, dusty day, the Mad Cow seeks shelter in the house of a local neighborhood.

Not a happy camper!

Thinking she is safe and way too concerned about the weather, she finds herself in the clutches of the Golden Bone Grinder! AIEEEEE!!!!


As if that's not bad enough, the Black Jaws of Death arrive to stake her claim on the Mad Cow.

A great battle ensues for domination . . .

Whisked to the lair of the Black Jaws of Death, the Mad Cow finds her cries for help muffled by a great muddy paw.

A horn is lost in the struggle

Then another! Then an ear!

Trapped, the Mad Cow feels her life-force being sucked out by the Black Jaws of Death!

The Golden Bone Grinder back for more Mad Cow!

The Mad Cow is fighting furiously for what's left of her life in the cruel, unrelenting possession of the Golden Bone Grinder, when the Disemboweled Croc approaches to finish her off. She places a desperate hoof on the Croc's snout, pinning his jaws shut!

Alas, her efforts are futile . . .

All that remains of the Real Mad Cow . . .

R.I.P.

The Dog Days of Winter: Death of a Catburglar

It was just another job for the Catburglar--break in, strip the place clean, get out . . .


. . . he had prepared for the possibilty of guard dogs, but not the Black Jaws of Death!

She was brutal and ruthless!


Just when he thought all hope was lost . . .

. . . he realized there was more to lose.


Suddenly flippin' burgers doesn't seem like such a poor career choice . . .


The Catburglar discovers and takes comfort in the fact that he wasn't the only fool to enter this house.


However, it's hard to find true solace in the company of a crocodile, especially when it's trying to eat you as a last meal.


Of course, since the croc was disembowelled, the Catburglar passed right through unscathed . . . well, all things considered, anyway. Deflated and all but dismembered, the Catburglar breathes his last.