Why I Hate the Mall . . . Epilogue

Well, it finally happened. No, I don’t have a date. No, I didn’t win the lottery. And no, I don’t have superpowers, although, that would have certainly affected the outcome of the chain of events that led me to this moment. No, I mean “it finally happened” in the Freddie Mercury sense of the phrase. That’s right. I’ve gone slightly, nay, utterly mad. Return with me for a moment to the beginning: that fateful night I visited the mall looking to get some Gap body spray and dinner at Chick-fil-A and ended up leaving with $120 eye gel because I decided that was as good a time as any to start making more eye-contact with people. (I’m sure you are dying to know if the eye gel was worth it and the answer is “NO”. And considering my current circumstances, I have absolutely no scruples about saying that SEACRET products are rubbish for the price. You can get the exact same results by doing nothing and nothing, as we all know, costs nothing. I would go as far as to say that they rig either their mirrors at the kiosks or put “magic” ingredients in what they allow you to sample and then sell you dollar store generic product for the price of your mobile phone bill.)

After that visit, there were several other visits to the mall where I was inevitably forced to pass a SEACRET kiosk. My instinct was to avoid eye-contact out of self-preservation, but I decided that I was not going to allow these aggressive sales reps to keep me from making progress on one of my life’s goals. Also, avoiding eye-contact isn’t really effective now that they’ve taken to literally planting themselves in front of you so that you will run into them which forces you to make eye-contact. A few times I was able to escape with a polite “No, thank you” and a quick side-step without even breaking my stride. Of course, then they had to change tactics and used misdirection to lure me to their stall. Determined to power on past them, the girl with the lotion asks, “Do you keep my nails natural?” What? Do I natural keep what? All she needed was that moment of hesitation and I found myself inches from those stupid dead sea products. She picked up a rectangular nail buffer and I saw my next tactic.

“I already have one,” I said confidently--I really do have one. She almost looked defeated, but arched an eyebrow and quickly rebounded, “From us?”

“Yes,” I said triumphantly as I turned to go.

“When did you buy it?” she asked scrambling to regain control, but it was too late. I had put eleven feet between us as I called out over my shoulder, “Last year!”

Talk about being proud of myself! She nearly had me in her clutches, but I escaped yet again. I thought that was the end of it and took care of my mall business. I had actually enjoyed my trip to the mall and was so happy that when I came back the same way to get to my car, I was startled she stepped in front of me again, lotion locked and loaded. She caught me so much by surprise that I faltered. “Would you like a sample of our hand cream?” She smiled coolly and her words were smooth, almost sing-songy, yet sinister. I recovered from my surprise and gave her an exasperated, “Seriously?!” as I kept on walking and shaking my head. There was no mistaking, though, that a shift had occurred: We were clearly playing a new game now.

Yes, I know. It sounds a bit dramatic and embellished. I thought I was just being paranoid myself. Paranoid is as paranoid does, however, and I made a conscious effort to avoid that part of the mall anytime I had to be there. I would even walk around the outside of the mall just to get to my desired destinations. That lasted only until the next good rain, when I got splashed by a Hummer as I was making my way round from the Ladies’ Dillards to the Men’s Dillards just so I could get into the Gap from the clothing side, which is a good 20-30 feet from that SEACRET station, undetected. Enough, already! I chastised myself. This is all in your head. Just walk through the mall like a normal person!

My first day “back” on that particular concourse of the mall, was an extremely busy Saturday. I was nervous about going past that booth, but I thought with such a great crowd, I wouldn’t be noticed and who cares anyway, right? She probably didn’t spend a thought obssessing over me and I’ve been avoiding her like the plague. I held my head high, gaze forward as I walked confidently past amongst the throng of mall-goers. I had nearly cleared the “danger zone”--you know, the 10 foot radius between consumers and any kiosk--when I felt a sharp jolt then pain right in the socket of my shoulder as I was knocked sideways and slightly off balance. I steadied myself and was about to apologize when I looked into cold eyes accompanying a smug smile. It was her. “No, I am sorry. Do you keep your nails natural?” She was almost purring. My favorite Seacret sales rep had spotted me immediately and not only had she slithered through the crowd to get to me, she shoulder-punched me. AND she did it AGAIN on my way out! The bruise I had on my shoulder socket took over a week to finally disappear, so I stopped going to the mall for a while.

As most of you who live in Lubbock know, Barnes & Noble relocated and built a big store at the mall. And as any of you who know me know good and well that the only thing I love as much as, if not more than Williams & Sonoma and Sephora is any giant bookstore. (I WILL visit the Amazon warehouse one day!) So after a many-month hiatus, I returned to the mall and parked at the Ladies’ Dillards’s side so I could check out the hats and purses on my way to check out the new Barnes & Noble. So caught up in my elation and haste to visiting that happy place, I forgot about the Seacret kiosk and my nemesis there until I had stepped into the “danger zone”. Everything began moving in slow-motion as the realization of my position came to me. She materialized out of nowhere. Taking advantage of me being clearly off my guard, she stabilized herself, bent her knees and turned her right shoulder inward . . . she came up and forward just as I reached her and knocked me in my left breast-bone so hard that I spun around once and landed flat on my back. I don’t know how I managed to not hit my head, but I didn’t. She rushed to me immediately, apologizing.

“I am so sorry!” she cooed as she helped me sit up and looked genuinely concerned. “Are you alright? I didn’t even see you there! Sure you are OK?”

What???? I narrowed my eyes as I met her gaze and saw a flash of triumph cross her eyes so quickly that you had to be looking for it to have even caught it. She held her hand out to me to help me stand up, maintaining her “oops-it-was-an-accident” facade. She made to let go once I was standing again, but I clutched her arm tightly and forced her to look at me once more.

“Oh, it’s ON,” I said in a low growl. She didn’t respond or react, but I knew she did not mistake my meaning. We dropped arms and I stalked away fuming.

I like to talk big: 1) because who doesn’t? 2) it helps me release frustration, yet simultaneously invoke laughter at my own wit--yes, I think I’m funny, and 3) I don’t have the guts to follow through on my big, exaggeratory speeches. Ask Sarah, she will confirm this. Plus, in my heart of hearts, I really don’t relish being mean to people. Even if they have it coming and I am absolutely justified, my anger/frustration/whatever will subside and I will feel like dirt for being ugly. As usual, after I had cooled off and wandered around Barnes & Noble for a while, my perspective shifted and I had no desire to pursue “it” being “ON”. It was just stupid and I’ve never been in a real fight. I certainly didn’t want to be in one now considering I am a sack of potatoes with noodle arms, putty hands and loose-jointed legs. So I found another way out of the mall determined not to come back for at least a year or two . . .

. . . which brings us to today. Now before I continue, I want to preface what follows by saying that I have really been having a hard time here lately. I am really behind at work. I’m overwhelmed by the semi-complete state of my home. My emotional involvement at work due to the lack of effort on the part of parents of my students has maxed itself out to the extent that the things I blow up over shock even me and has left me utterly exhausted in spirit. I feel like I really hate people when I get this way. My depressive episodes, which generally mean lots of crying for me, have been manifesting themselves as a complete lack of desire to do anything but lay on my couch and sleep. It’s been very bizarre. I say this, not to justify my actions, but rather to put my frame of mind into perspective. I am not proud of myself.

So I had to go to the mall today. It was a horrible day. HORRIBLE!!! We had a little snack party and these free-loading parents show up and eat nearly everything. The Special Ed Director got on to me because I hadn’t taken a TAKS-Alt training module. And because of the Shattered Dreams program, I was two aides short with no subs. I was tired and frustrated and I just wanted to come home and sleep awhile. One of my aides’s car broke down and she needed to pick up a gift she had ordered from Gap. Since we got out early I was going to have a nice long nap, but I am so grateful for the loyalty and devotion of my aides and they make such a paltry salary in comparison to what they are worth that I cannot refuse them anything. I bucked up and told her that I would take her to the mall and bring her home. I should have parked on the Men’s Dillards side. I should have waited in the car. I should have let her take my car while I waited out at school for her to come back. There are a thousand other things I should have done, could have done to have avoided what happened.

I was so exhausted that I needed help to stay awake for all the driving, so naturally, since I was already angry about the mooch family, I ranted to my aide about them all the way to the mall. The good thing was that she was equally angry and ranted right back. I started talking big, as is my custom, and began devising all sorts of punishments for those parents and all the other people who had ever irritated me. I started absentmindedly playing with my little can of pepper spray on my keyring as I imagined spraying it in that dad’s face the next time he attempted to help himself to food in my classroom. I imagined spraying it at all the cosmetic/perfume counter trolls who act like I’m beneath them when I show the slightest interest toward anything in their area because I’m not dressed to the nines and clearly not worth their effort. I imagined spraying it in that dad’s face right before I pushed him down a long flight of stairs.

As we drew near the Gap, I was acutely aware of the Seacret booth. Sure enough, my nemesis was ready and waiting. She had her lotion out and she was in position to knock me over again. I slowed my pace and Becky veered into Gap Body. I stopped squarely in front of Miss Seacret and she straightened up and looked at me with false demure. We stood there, facing off for what seemed like hours. I wanted to . . . and I realized I didn’t know what I wanted to do. Just walk away, you’re tired and you want Jesus to be proud of you. I turned to go, but not before she squirted fruit-scented Dead Sea-salted body cream all over me. I didn’t hesitate . . . didn’t think . . . I unleashed a stream of pepper spray right in her face. Her shrieks were shrill and stifled between coughs and sputters. I pushed her over and watched her writhe on the floor in agony for a moment before I picked up the tube of body cream and squeezed out the rest all over her. That’s when the cops showed up.

I was arrested and charged with assault. I decided to use Justin, a friend of mine who is a policeman, as my one phone call. He helped me contact my dad who posted my bail. I have a court appearance in two weeks and can’t leave town, so I won’t be going New Mexico for Thanksgiving. I want to plea insanity, but I don't know that it will fly here. I’m a bit numb at the moment. I know I was utterly and completely in the wrong, but I’m having a hard time feeling remorse. I’m sure that I will eventually and I will apologize and make restitution for my behavior. I am more worried about the disappointment and heartache I have caused my family, especially my parents.

Eye-contact--it’s just not worth it. At all. EVER.

Only fragments of this story are factual:
1. Seacret Eye Gel was not effective after that first demo at the kiosk last year. I used it faithfully everyday, sometimes twice a day and saw no results that seemed so evident before I bought it.

2. The Seacret girl did use misdirection and tried to interest me in their nail buffer, which I already own, when I refused a sampling of lotion.

3. I did go to the mall today.

To My Mother

Ina Rea Bittner was born January 3, 1944 in Haskell, Texas. The daughter of first-generation German-Americans, she spent the early years of her life on a cotton farm. She worked hard on that farm, as well as in school, and every endeavor she undertook. Ina Rea loved learning and decided to be a teacher when she grew up. She got her degree in Education at the University of North Texas in Denton. She eventually moved to Albuquerque, New Mexico, where she met her husband, Gary Robertson, and settled. Ina Rea had two children: Charles, the first redhead in five generations; and Lisa, a girl with an over-active imagination. In 1981, the Robertsons moved south to Carlsbad, where Gary and Ina Rea have remained to this day.

My mother is probably the absolute nicest person I know. She is also one of the happiest, most cheerful people I know. My mother is rarely down, and even when she is it does not last long. She was devoted to us all of our lives. When my brother and I were very young, Mom would come home from teaching other people’s children all day, get us all in our “grubbies”, and take us out to play on the swing-set in the backyard. We would swing for what seemed like hours and she taught us songs like “Kookaburra” and “You are My Sunshine”. She read us stories and taught us to read quite young. She rocked us to sleep every night of our early childhood. She made the best spaghetti. During Christmas, she would always pull out Anne Murray’s “Snowbird” and play it while we decorated the Christmas tree.

Mom always believed that God was important to sustaining a family. Long before she gave her life to Christ, she exemplified His love in her love for us. My mother was the first person to show me that God was in our lives even when we weren’t in a church building. My earliest memories of prayer are not in Sunday school, but in a peach stucco house on Tyler Road in the North Valley. That was the most precious gift she could have given me—teaching me to pray and then setting the example of putting on Christ. So I honor her today . . .



Mom, I know that I’m no picnic sometimes, but you always love me through my ugliest moments. I don’t make my bed, I’m a crummy housekeeper, and maybe you feel you somehow dropped the ball when it came to teaching me those things. But you gave me something far more valuable than that, a wonderful, happy childhood full of love and laughter. I don’t think I could ever say it or show it to you enough—you are most precious to me. I love you, Mom. Happy Mother’s Day!

That Lady

Remember that lady? You know the one. She was the lady you always saw walking at the park. She wore head and wristbands, carried dumbbells, and had those headphones with the antennae and built-in radio. Sometimes, she was even wearing a sauna suit. That lady. The one you chuckled about because she looked so silly.

I've become that lady.

A few weeks ago, my friend Amy recruited me to join her team for Get Fit Lubbock. We earn points per minute of exercise, events attended, percentage of weight lost, etc., and there are prizes awarded at the end. It's been a good way to be motivated, explore new ways to pursue a healthier lifestyle, and spark my selective, yet mild competitive streak. I went to a Tai Chi class the other night that was great fun. It was conducted by this older, little chap who had no waist and reminded me of Jack Lalane. I felt very graceful after that class.

Like the experts say, however, walking is the best exercise and that's what I've been doing most. My brother recommended getting some "handsies", little hand-weights. I got some that reminded me of workout gloves with tumors. I took them out for their maiden stroll a few evenings ago and it occurred to me how ridiculous I looked. And I realized I had become that lady. The thing is, I know that if I stick to eating healthy and walking regularly, the payoff will be worth looking silly at the park. So next time you see a lady walking at the park wearing semi-orthopedic-looking sneakers, enough workout clothes to qualify as a sauna suit because 1) she's so pale and 2) unwilling to subject the general public to her ample physique, workout gloves with tumors, and obviously carrying her iPod in her sports bra 'cause she keeps forgetting to purchase an armstrap . . . I'm that lady.

"Tender Moments . . . " Revisited

I have one girl in my class, Archie. Archie has autism. She's actually my first real experience with autism. Kids may say the darn-dest things, but Archie takes the cake. She will often ask questions that she wants you to ask her so that she can let you know what's happening with her . . .

Last week we were doing some testing when she jumped up from the table:

Miss Lisa: "Archie, what are you doing? Sit down, girl, we're not quite finished here."

Archie: "I have to go to the bafroom!"

Miss Lisa: "Well, alright. On you go then!"

Archie (on her way out the door): "Miss Lisa, is that the poop that's coming out?"

Normally, Miss Lisa would say: "Is it, Archie?" However, on this occasion . . .

Miss Lisa: "It better not be until you are on the toilet, young lady! Go, GO, GO!!!"

And SCENE!!!

A Safe Place

I recently spoke with a friend whom I had been out of touch with for many years. As we filled one another in on our lives, I was stunned to learn that my friend had suffered horrific events and painful hardships. What really upset me was that these things occurred in a large environment of Christians and my friend could find no sanctuary. I was outraged because the safest place on this earth should be the body of Christ. My first instinct was to say, “If I had known, I would have been there for you.” I knew immediately, however, that was not true. I was so entangled in my own struggles during those years that I don’t know what I’d have done. I have a feeling, though, that I would not have been compassionate or supportive.

I was heartbroken and wept after our conversation. I wept for my precious friend. I wept over the realization that I would have failed them even if we had remained in contact. I wept over the idea that anyone would have to endure such trials alone.

By the grace of God, through renewed, regular Bible study and experiencing the love and example of the saints at the Open, I know better now. I understand more the compassion Christ shows to people. It seems silly to say that. I’ve been a Christian and loved God for most of my life, yet somehow I missed something somewhere. That sounds sillier to me because I was a student of His word. I read the stories. I learned about Jesus and saw how He cared for people. Lonely people, hurting, confused people; people who were broken by sin and despair. So how could I have missed it?

When I started developing this post in my head, it was borne out of anger, frustration—and was intended as a rant against all that is wrong in the church. I had a hard time finding the words, oddly enough. Weeks later I realize that harsh words would not be constructive or right. God has always been faithful about sealing my lips and blocking my pen when I’m angry. The truth is, it doesn’t matter why or how I missed the mark. What matters now is that I don’t miss it anymore. The best way I can facilitate change is to start with myself. Jesus was always a safe place for the lost, hurting, and broken. If I am truly seeking to be like Him, then I must be the same. Whether that means showing compassion to someone who’s never known Jesus or seeking out my brothers and sisters, too ashamed and broken by sin, who feel they can never come home. Lord God, please help me be like Jesus . . . help me be a safe place.

A Lesson in Faith

I was out of town week before last. I had gone to Ft. Worth to help make preparations for my brother's wedding. While I was gone, I took my Bible with me (always take it when I travel anywhere) to keep up with my study of Esther. I only managed to do it one day the entire time that I was gone. In a general context, it's not a big deal. I don't believe the Father is waiting to whip me for not reading my Bible everyday. Specifically, however, it is a big deal. For a mind like mine--with a history of dark and depressive thoughts; prone to over-thinking, self-degradation, and overindulgence of imagination--it is even critical. I noticed the difference almost immediately. Apathy, fear, irritation, and the irrational were pressing hard to find a way in. So on Wednesday of this past week, I was determined not to go to bed until I had spent time in the Word and real time in prayer. For me, it makes a difference.

On Facebook, one of my friends had noted, "Faith is not a noun, but a verb." As I pondered the effects my lack of study produces along with these words, I had this epiphany: Faith takes work. I suppose that's a no-brainer for some and I actually felt silly when the thought first hit me. I know that's the truth and, perhaps, have always known it, so why the light bulb moment? I suppose because I experienced how quickly my attitude shifted in such a short time. I went to church while I was gone, was surrounded by godly people, and I continued to pray each day, but it wasn't enough. To keep my mind healthy and stable, to maintain my relationship with Christ, to be the servant I need to be, I need to be in God's word.

Faith takes work just like a relationship or producing something good takes work. It has taken me nearly two years to even begin to understand God's grace and how it works in my life. I still don't get it, except that I know it has nothing to do with me. However, the work it takes to increase and strengthen my faith is nothing in comparison to the work Christ did to provide me that grace. Here is what I have learned (so far) on a long journey of faith:

"Faith comes by hearing, and hearing the word of God." Romans 10:17 NIV
Read the Bible, be in His word. That's where we learn about God's love for us and how He worked to rescue us from sin and condemnation. The more I read it, the more secure I am about my salvation and the more in tune I am with His presence in my life.

"Faith without works is dead." James 2:26b NAS
Or "faith is not a noun, but a verb". As we increase our faith by being in the Word, we in turn put our faith to work by applying what we learn: tell people about Jesus (Mark 16:15), look after orphans and widows (James 1:27), help the weak (Acts 20:35), bind up the brokenhearted (Isaiah 61:1) . . . in short, be like Jesus "It is enough for the disciple that he become as his teacher, and the slave as his master." Matthew 10:25 NAS

Feelings are not an indicator of faith. If you are having a hard day, if your spirit is in turmoil, if you are struggling with anger or worry and anxiety, it doesn’t mean that somehow you don’t have enough faith. If you want to find someone who can relate, go read the Psalms of David, the man after God’s own heart—such a man must be full of faith, right? It’s not about how you are feeling, but about what you do on those days or in those moments. Lifting your voice in prayer is an act of faith. Reading His word is an act of faith. Running from opportunities to sin is an act of faith.

Faith takes work. I have discovered for myself that staying in His word is the best way for me to increase and strengthen my faith. It enables me to grow in wisdom, be more compassionate, trust Him wholeheartedly, pray more, and truly walk by faith.

A Good Man is Hard to Find

I had a bit of an “off” day at school today. I was off, the kids were off, the computers were off (too much traffic trying to watch the Inauguration), everything was OFF. The thing that threw me further off than I was when I arrived was my boy sunshine, Sonny. He was WAY off. He hadn’t done his homework because he didn’t have time because of his game—his video game, to clarify. I was left with the unsavory task of following through on consequences that he was well aware of in advance. He shut down, flopped down, and what should have been a fairly easy remedy involving the principal’s intervention ended with three of us—myself, the principal, & the campus policeman—carrying him to the principal’s office. Once there, he refused to budge from his spot on the floor, which was fine since his was no longer a disruption in the hallway. I felt compelled to put in a call to the one person I knew could reach Sonny even in shutdown mode and get him to comply: Mr. Jones.

Mr. Jones is an amazing, soft-spoken man who was the counselor on our campus last year and really helped out with Sonny and got to him in a way no one else could. I don’t know what it is in Mr. Jones that Sonny responds to, but something about the man makes Sonny want to obey him. Personally, I believe it’s the Holy Spirit. I know Mr. Jones to be a godly man of faith. He is good, kind, and yet no-nonsense. When I saw him approaching the building in his crimson shirt and khaki slacks, he may as well have been on a great white horse, armor blazing in the morning sun. I knew everything was going to be OK because of his connection with Sonny. And it was.

He spoke to Sonny about his strengths. How tough he is when he is faced with obstacles and how he conquers them, something that is true about Sonny on a selective basis. Mr. Jones told Sonny how he knew he was a good, strong boy who didn’t need to flop in the floor because he is tough and can take responsibility. Sonny does not generally take responsibility for himself, but he will more often in the future because Mr. Jones put it in his head. Oh that every man in his life could be like Mr. Jones!

One of the great frustrations in my job is the lack of solid, positive male role models in the lives of my children. Some because they don’t have fathers; some because the fathers they have are poor examples. I was so thankful for Mr. Jones last year, and John and Mr. Noles. They were daily examples of strong, positive men and they are missed. How I long to see more men of such caliber! I want to encourage men to be a “Mr. Jones” to children within the sphere of their influence. You guys just don’t know how valuable and vitally important you are! Somewhere, there are little eyes watching you, seeking to know how a man should be . . . so be men:

who “find favor in the eyes of the Lord” Genesis 8:8

“whom the Lord knows face to face” Deuteronomy 34:10

“after His own heart” 1 Samuel 13:14

whose “good understanding produces favor” Proverbs 13:15

Whose “gentle answer turns away wrath” Proverbs 15:1

Who “love at all times” Proverbs 17:17

Who “are the light of the world” Matthew 5:14

Who “walk by faith” 2 Corinthians 5:7

“Of whom the world is not worthy” Hebrews 11:38

Sitting in Seats & Talking & Other Things Happening in Cars

I love road trips. Taking a road trip is one of my most favorite things. My favorite road-trippin’ buddies are my best friend and our dogs. We’ve yet to all be in a car together, but I’ve taken a trip with both dogs and it was quite fun. I love taking trips with Sophie. For the most part she loves being in the car. She likes to keep her paw on my wrist as I shift gears and she doesn’t throw up much.

There are some great tunes abounding for the seasoned road-tripper. When Jenny and I go, we’re total Shania Twain freaks. Neither one of us really listen to her unless we’re stuck in a car together. For Sarah and I, there’s a lot of Van Halen, Lyle Lovett, Cake, Shawn Colvin, etc. At least once, “Under Pressure” by Queen with David Bowie will be played. Sarah’s David Bowie and I’m Freddie Mercury. I can even hit that really high note just before the bridge. It’s not pretty and I really shouldn’t, but I can.

I love the conversations that arise in the course of the road trip. Some can be raucously funny and some can be preciously poignant. You can learn a lot about a person when you are confined to a small space together for several days and several hundred miles, especially at night. I don’t know what it is about being in a car in the vast darkness of lonely roads, but the walls come down. People say things, share things that they can’t put into words in the daylight—unless of course we are talking about my mother, and then this concept does not apply. If you know anything about my mom, you understand. It’s all psychological really. Night brings with it a veil of sorts that allows all others to fall away.

Here lately, I’ve come to really treasure the journeys I take alone. The longest trip I’ve ever done by myself was Lubbock to Arizona to visit the parents of a friend. I got to cross New Mexico and see parts of it I’ve never seen before. I drove through the Plains of San Agustin where the Very Large Array (VLA) is located. The VLA is that long line of radio antennae that stretch across the plain and was briefly featured in the film “Contact” with Jodie Foster. It was a pretty cool spectacle and very odd topographically speaking. Something about the lay of that land messes with your visual/sensory perception. Even though I was driving at a high rate of speed, I felt like I wasn’t moving at all. Trust me, I was going fast.

I like to sing in the car and have my tunes along, usually Sister Hazel. I’ve compiled a CD with all my favorite Christian music that I really love. The great thing about driving by yourself is that you can sing as loud as you want and no one is going to be offended. I usually try to sing all the parts at the same time in any given harmony. It’s humanly impossible, but I try. Even more than that, I love to turn off the radio and sing all the devotional songs I know. Again, since I’m by myself, no one has to get hurt. And anyway Psalm 100:1 says, “Make a joyful noise to the Lord . . .” It didn’t say anything about it being pretty.

The thing I like best about traveling alone is the time it affords me to pray, really pray. I can talk to God about all the things I mean to day in and day out, but often forget for procrastinating. I can pray for each person on my mind and speak to Him in earnest on their behalf. I can bring to Him the things pressing on my own heart, nothing withheld, as much as I need. I’m less likely to fall asleep while driving, which is easy to do in bed. I’ve found myself dozing off even when I’m on my knees and the sun’s still shining. It’s just me and Him in the car, though. And I can take the time to praise Him and thank Him for all He has done for me.

What are your favorite happenings, etc., in a car on a journey down a long and winding road?