The World Inside My Head

Saying Goodbye

2011-09-17T13:12:00.000-06:00

I traded in my car 2 weeks ago for another make and model. I have driven a Honda Civic for the past 7 years. After the snow back in December of ’09, I decided to get an SUV. I did some research and settled on a Toyota 4Runner as my next vehicle and then put off getting it for over a year. I had just paid off my Honda and wasn’t in a hurry to go back into debt. It makes less sense that I bought it now that I’ve just run up my school loan debt, but nevertheless I felt this was the time. I wanted a more functional vehicle to haul things and people, something the Civic can only do in limited quantity.

I confess the idea of letting go of my little car was somewhat bittersweet as I headed to Ft. Worth to pick up my 4Runner. After all, it was the first car I had purchased all by myself. That alone makes it special. Also, it has never failed me. Probably the greatest factor in my hesitation to let it go was my dog, Sophie.

If you’re my friend on Facebook, you know that I lost Sophie 6 months ago. She was a beautiful Black Lab mix. Her ebony coat was glistened in the sunlight. Her legs had a dusting of cocoa powder on them, so she looked like she was wearing chaps when the light caught her just right. Sophie and I had many adventures together in that car.

Our first adventure was to Leander to visit Melinda in the summer of ’05. She road in the car very well. Then there was a trip to visit Charles in Ft. Worth of ’06. She accompanied me every holiday we spent at my grandmother’s. She’s been with me to Carlsbad on several occasions to visit “Gangy” & “Pop-Pop”. She threw up in the car a couple of times, but most of the time she did really well. Sometimes, I’d take her with me on short errands around town, particularly those at night. Her presence was calming. She’d sit right on the edge of the seat to look out the windshield and place her left paw on my hand as it rested on the gearshift like she was navigating.

Sophie was an amazing creature. In the house she always wanted to be by my side as long as I didn’t crate her, then she would choose her bed in the corner. She was there when I was sick, watching me as if she were mentally preparing herself to drive me to the ER if it became necessary. She was there for every tear I shed in the throes of a depressive episode, just lying against me, seeing me through. Inside, she couldn’t have been a more loyal dog. Outside, she was a free spirit. Outside, if she wasn’t leashed, she did what she pleased. She didn’t come when she was called, she came when she was ready. Chasing her on foot was an endeavor in futility, but she LOVED the car. She wouldn’t come to me if I attempted to retrieve her on foot, but she would not hesitate if I came for her in the car. Outside, she always ran full-throttle into whatever the world had to offer her, as I’ve no doubt she did on that day the fence could no longer hold her.

Slowly, I began to let go of the things that I associated with her: her collapsible crate and bed, her toys, what was left of her Heartguard and Frontline, and finally vacuuming up her dog hair from the floor and furniture. Sarah gave me the great idea of putting her tag on my keyring and I placed her collar on the gearshift of the car she loved so much. The car was the only thing left where I felt most connected to her. And I felt the wrenching as I drove toward Ft. Worth in the Civic for the last time. I’m choking up just writing about all of it. For me it was the final act of acceptance that she isn’t coming back.

I do love my 4Runner. I have Sophie’s collar hanging over the rearview mirror so that she will be a part of this car. Wherever I go, she’ll always be with me. And somewhere beyond where our eyes can see, a wild, black dog with brown chaps is running full-throttle into whatever that realm has to offer her.

It's Personal

2011-06-27T00:18:00.001-06:00

I’ve been taking part in a book study over the book Captivating by John and Stasi Eldridge. It was written to encourage women to see themselves the way God sees them. I’ve had the book for several years, but never read it. Lately, I’ve been somewhat of a snob when it comes to popular Christian literature. In our bandwagon world where Christianity can be more of a fad rather than a relationship with Christ, I’m wary. It’s easy to become followers of Max Lucado or Beth Moore over followers of Christ. I’ve got nothing against either Lucado or Moore—I’ve read their books and done their studies. I remember, though, God’s response to Peter in Mark 9:7, when he wanted to honor Moses and Elijah during the transfiguration, “This is My Son . . . Listen to Him!” (Emphasis mine) I know God can teach us through any means He desires, I just want to make sure I don’t end up worshipping the means over the Master. So, I put off reading Captivating, which, incidentally, was a gift.

One of my friends, invited me to join the study and since I’m trying to break out of my hermit habit, I agreed. Once a week for two hours, I’ve been the only single girl in a room full moms discussing the nuances of the feminine heart . . . and enjoying it. It has served as a surprising, yet gentle reminder from God in two ways.

I’ve gotten very cynical when it comes to people. Especially, people who call themselves Christians. I see people who claim Christ in the media and their actions are anything but Christ-like. I react them to them the way I did to obnoxious American tourists when I was living overseas: I kept my distance and did everything I could to avoid being associated with them. It’s not really fair. I see that. I have been amazed by these women each week. They have reminded me that the Kingdom is bigger than the circles I tend to navigate. There are people out there living by faith that I’ve not even met yet. I want to be more open to knowing those people. I want to give God’s people a chance, to give God a chance to reveal Himself to me through His own.

The other way God got my attention is through the book Captivating itself. I’m only a few chapters in, but something struck me this week: Satan is still on the offensive. I know that. I’ve always known that. He’s the reason God admonishes us, “Guard your heart above all else” Proverbs 4:23. Somehow, I’ve managed to not give Satan much thought as the enemy lately. I know better, yet I’ve been living like I don’t, as if none of the bad things happening in and around my life is personal. That’s what he wants me to think. That’s how he wants me to live, like he’s not here. Baudelaire said, “that the devil's best trick is to persuade you that he doesn't exist!" It’s personal alright. He may not be omniscient or omnipresent, but he is still dangerous. I know that God has sealed his fate and that of his minions: “When He had disarmed the rulers and authorities, He made a public display of them, having triumphed over them through Him.” Colossians 2:15 However, He’s also warned us to remain vigilant against the devil: He “prowls like a roaring lion, seeking someone to devour” (1 Peter 5:8) and is looking to “take advantage of us” (2 Corinthians 2:11).
It makes a difference in how I view my life.

I am thankful for the ways God works in my life, that He makes a point of getting my attention. I know that His wisdom “is supreme” (Proverbs 4:7) and the best way to get it is through His word. I also know that He will reveal Himself to me in other ways if I only keep my spiritual eyes open. He is for me (Psalm 56:9). Because He is for me, He reminds me that His people are everywhere. Because He is for me, He reminds me that I have an enemy. Because He is for me, my life matters and is precious to Him. It’s personal.

Gift

2011-05-06T22:10:00.001-06:00

I had one of those days today. One of those days when it hits me how much I love teaching. It has been an insane year. I have sat head in hands wondering if this year was ever going to end. But not today. Today I basked in the wonder that is my class of nine unique children. Through no fault of their own, they bear conditions and needs that make it necessary for them to be in a self-contained Special Education classroom. I know, I know, I make jokes about tranquilizer guns and tazers because they can really test the limits of human endurance. Sometimes, though, I think I’m the only one who gets to see how perfect they are. It’s my gift. On a daily basis, I get to see unfettered joy over the little things in life, like a poorly rendered paper shark. I get to see unbridled imagination that not only exists on another level, but a few dimensions over in a galaxy far, far away. I see true loyalty that would fight to the death and chivalry so pure it outstrips any a poet could compose. I see compassion, tenderness, and affection uncomplicated and knows nothing of labels or impairment or disorder. It is my gift from God. He gives me the privilege of witnessing true perfection. So many times I ask myself, “Why do I do this?” And then I have one of those days.

Not Forsaken

2011-03-14T00:38:00.003-06:00

“My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?
Why are you so far from saving me,
so far from my cries of anguish?
My God, I cry out by day, but you do not answer,
by night, but I find no rest.” Psalm 22:1-2

I love this Psalm. It exemplifies frustration with personal suffering and the human struggle with persevering when God seems far away. I have had a terrible week that, so far, has been the worst part of a terrible 7 months. My dog died a week ago. I had some hard truths laid on me about things I knew deep down but haven’t wanted to acknowledge. On top of my job and grad school and the grind of daily living, I’m feeling defeated. Mostly I feel like God is far away. Why else would all these awful things be happening, right? Yeah, I know better than that. In fact, I believe God is working on me at present. Likely answering a prayer to grow me into who He wants me to be. I know what I’m asking for when I pray those prayers, but sometimes I don’t consider the cost.

I used to believe like many who claim to be Christians that I could never get mad at God. I could never question Him. That I just had to smile, shrug and say, “He knows best!” The problem with that is that it is not natural. It is not even what is evidenced in Scripture, however, as this Psalm demonstrates. Clearly, David is going through a rough patch and he’s waiting for God to rescue him from his calamity. He’s not the only one. Moses often brought complaints before God when he was frustrated as the leader of Israel. Habakkuk stood on the ramparts, even as the Babylonians were preparing to march on the Kingdom of Judah, protesting the coming judgment on God’s people. And Christ on the cross cried out once more the words uttered by David long before Him, “Why have You forsaken me?”

We can cry out to God. We can ask Him why. In the movie Shadowlands, Anthony Hopkins as C.S. Lewis tells his students, “Fight me! I can take it.” I believe God wants us to bring our frustrations to Him, even if they are about Him. 1 Peter 5:7 says to “cast ALL your anxieties on Him” because He cares for us. Not just the big things. Not just the little things. All the things. He can take it. I think He even prefers it as He so desires relationship with us. I think people don’t express their frustration with God because of the lessons of Job, but notice what David, Habakkuk, and Christ did. Instead of demanding a response from God, they remembered Who He was:

“From birth I was cast on You; from my mother’s womb You have been my God . . . You are my strength; come quickly to help me . . . I will declare Your name to my people; in the assembly I will praise You . . . For He has not despised or scorned the suffering of the afflicted one; He has not hidden His face from him but has listened to his cry for help . . . for dominion belongs to the LORD and He rules over the nations.” Psalm 22:10, 19, 22, 24, 28.

“LORD, are you not from everlasting? My God, my Holy One, you[c] will never die . . . LORD, I have heard of your fame; I stand in awe of your deeds, LORD. Repeat them in our day, in our time make them known; in wrath remember mercy.” Habukkuk 1;12; 3:2

“Father, into your hands I commit my spirit.” Luke 23:46

I have wept for my sweet dog, Sophie. I have asked why a constant and a comfort in my life had to leave me so soon. I have lamented the truth because it means that things have to change and I don’t take change well. I have asked God why everything seems so hard right now and couldn’t He have found another way to work in my life. But I know why. He has a plan and a purpose for me and He causes all things to work together for good to those that love Him (Romans 8:28). I also know that sometimes, unfortunately, He has to rock my world to get my attention and get me back on course. Even more than that He is my God—Master, Creator, Almighty One. And on a summer’s day long ago I committed my life to Him and all that came with it. So I thank Him for the few years I had my wild pup; and I thank Him for the change even if I don’t know where my journey will take me next. I even thank Him for the hard because I know “that the testing of your faith produces perseverance. Let perseverance finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything” (James 1:3-4). I also remember His words for Moses to relay to Joshua, “the LORD your God is the one who goes with you (J)He will not fail you or forsake you” (Deut. 31:6). It takes a while, though. I know these things, know them in my head. My heart just needs a little time to catch up.

All That You Can't Leave Behind

2011-01-28T00:00:00.001-06:00

“When I was a younger, my teen years, I used to think 35 was the epitome of adulthood. It was a magic number, a magic age when I would assume the role of a true adult and have all wisdom and knowledge about what to do in any and all situations. I would be confident, fearless even. I turned 35 a few months ago and I have to say, I don’t know jack and I’m scared often. A lot of things are happening in my life that I don’t think I should be facing yet.”

That was how I had initially intended to start this post nearly a year ago. Now, as 36 is days away, what follows that paragraph has altered somewhat along with my perspective. One of my favorite songs is Walk On by U2, particularly the opening stanza: “Love is not the easy thing. The only baggage that you can bring is all that you can’t leave behind.” Letting go is something I’ve wrestled with all my life. I don’t do it well, if I do it at all. In fact, “all that you can’t leave behind” pretty much sums up my 20’s. I held on to everything: the past, every heartache, every wound, everything I loved and everything that I could not change, take back, or return to. I wanted my experiences to be more like the universal experiences: first dates, first kisses, first loves, AIM, college, marriage and kids somewhere in the mix, so that by now I’d be more prepared to deal with my parents aging. By now I’d be established and really good at being a grown-up. However, my experiences are quite unique to me. There were some first dates and first loves, AIM and college, and there was a lot of drifting.

The fact is I don’t feel grown-up. At all. I feel very much like a child. A child stuck in an adult’s body hoping no one notices that I don’t belong among the grown-ups. I still long for things, which I always believed would stop around this age because I would have everything I ever longed for. When I started this post a year ago, Paul’s words in 1 Corinthians 13:11 were tumbling around in my head: “When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man (adult), I put the ways of childhood behind me.” I know what that verse means, but I still really struggle with my childish ways. I still want to call my Daddy when things need fixing or when I’ve not been wise with my funds. As much as I love teaching, I prefer being the student. I want my parents to not be so well into their senior citizenship.

I’ve learned a lot this past year about what it means to be a grown-up, though. Probably the biggest thing I have learned is that no matter what age anyone is, he or she never feels prepared enough or wise enough for where they are in life. Being a grown-up isn’t about having all the answers all the time. It’s about getting out of bed and facing the people you’re in conflict with when you’d rather not see them again. It’s about acknowledging the things that need to change in you when you find you’re in the wrong, and then working on those changes. It’s about accepting that some relationships change and you have to let them go, or at least let them be and trust that the love is still there and always will be. It’s about being frightened by the inevitable, but facing it because One greater has come and taken the real fear out of the equation. It’s about letting go of all that you can’t leave behind, straining for what lies ahead, and knowing that even if you don’t get the things you most long for His way is best. It’s about knowing He will never leave or forsake you. (Joshua 1:5)

I don’t believe Paul was saying we should never act like children. Christ said in Matthew 18:3-4 that we should become like children before Him. God wants our faith to be like that of children—pure and wholehearted. I believe Paul was talking about letting the grown-up prevail when it comes to the response to the hardships that come into our lives, knowing that a childlike faith the Father would see us through. As I enter this next year in my life, I don’t feel the anxiety I felt this time last year. I know there will be challenges, mistakes, disappointment, and I will handle each one as it comes by His grace. I will love the ones He’s blessed me with, even when it is not the easy thing. And when I look back, it will be to acknowledge what was and be thankful for what is.

Letters from the Bottom Bunk

2010-07-19T23:12:00.001-06:00

After a 17-year hiatus, I have finally returned to camp . . . as a –gulp- counselor. It’s what I always dreamed of being as a camper. However, I didn’t dream of being one quite so old. I know that I’m not old. I don’t feel older than my co-counselors, not on the inside anyway. As it goes with my 90-to-nothing brain, I had a lot of anxiety about coming up here and being so much older than my, er, peers. The greatest anxiety being how I’d be perceived and received: “What’s the creepy old lady doing up here?” My fellow counselors have been AMAZING. So kind, so gracious, accepting and welcoming. I find myself among kindred spirits for certain and I did not expect that. God is good.

That said, being among those so young has brought other things to the surface. Questions, mostly. Questions I thought I’d put to rest. I am at a place in my life where I don’t have a lot of nagging regret about the past. I can look back and know that I did the best I could, given all variables. And because I know that God causes all things to work together for good, and because I am old enough to see what He has done with my wrongs, I am thankful for the path I’ve walked however bumpy it has been.

But . . .

Watching my new young friends just at the beginning of their lives has made me long for my younger youth once more. To be back at the beginning armed with the knowledge I have now (and by “knowledge” I mean what I know about myself). I know I would have made some different choices, but would I have been happier? Would my journey have been smoother? Where would I be at this particular moment in time? Would depression have taken the hold that it did? Would I be sitting in front of my computer asking these same questions from a different perspective? That has been the only true hard part about being here. Just when I think I’m past my tendencies of hyper-sentimentality and juvenile foolishness, they both sneak up and bite me on the butt.

It doesn’t really matter and I don’t spend time looking back anymore. My journey to this point was what it was. Kind of like this post, it is the musings of a momentarily wistful heart that remembers what life was like before it learned the lessons that only experience can teach. I chose my road, but God brought and continues to bring me where he wants me—thankfully, in spite of me.

Happy Father's Day

2010-06-20T00:01:00.003-06:00

On January 31, 1934, Gary O’neil Robertson was born in Newcastle, TX. He was the firstborn son of a staunch Baptist barber/musician and an equally staunch Church of Christ homemaker. He was his father’s best birthday present and the doting big brother to two sisters. Gary lived with his parents in Newcastle through first grade. When the United States entered the second World War, his father uprooted the family to go where a barber’s services were in high demand: the U.S. Military. Gary got to experience life on various military bases in Texas and New Mexico, including Alamogordo Army Air Base (now Holloman AFB), where he was living when the first atomic bomb was living in 1945.

After the war, the Robertson family settled in Roswell, NM. Gary graduated from Roswell High School. He pursued a degree in engineering of and on over the years, supporting himself as a land surveyor. He enlisted in the Air Force and was stationed in Japan during the Korean War. He settled in Albuquerque, NM, in the 1960’s where he first saw a young teacher in who lived in his apartment complex. She was involved in a door-knocking campaign for a local political race in the autumn of ’68. Her name was Ina Rea Bittner and when he saw her go into the house of a friend of his, he made his move. They were married June 21, 1969. They had a son in ’72 and on January 31, 1975, Gary received his best birthday present: a baby girl.

My dad got a job in Carlsbad, NM, in 1981 and moved us there to continue his work as a land surveyor. In 1983, Dad gave his life to Christ and sought to raise his family in the Lord. He moved into a position for the City of Carlsbad after a brush with skin cancer. He worked there for 17 years. When he retired, he continued to do survey work around Carlsbad as an independent contractor for real estate title companies, which he does to this day. In 2007, he was named New Mexico Surveyor of the Year.

My dad is one of the most interesting people I know. I believe that I got his sense of adventure and his sense of humor. The thing that I’m most proud to have received from him is his generosity. I don’t know another person as generous as my father. He wants so much to honor God with his money and frequently blesses others who need a little extra help. When my brother and I went in the AIM Program, my dad became a constant supporter of young people seeking to serve God as apprentice missionaries. He also likes to bless people with confections. He’s an awesome baker and confectioner, thanking the title companies that give him work with cookies, cakes and homemade-handmade candy. I got that from him, too, although I’ve never attempted his well-known candy.

Daddy, thank you so much for your love and support all my life. Thank you for our adventures on the roof from collecting honey from the bees we used to keep to the sunrises with our cats. Thank you for always taking care of me and pushing me to go as far as I can in whatever I do. Thank you for spoiling me rotten. Thank you for the example you set for me as a follower of Christ. Thank you for disciplining me when I got out of line. I love telling people that we share a birthday. You are my best birthday present. I love you so! Happy Father’s Day!

Why I Hate the Mall . . . Epilogue

2009-11-24T23:09:00.018-06:00

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

2009-05-10T19:44:00.005-06:00

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

2009-04-26T19:35:00.002-06:00

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

2009-03-30T20:22:00.003-06:00

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

2009-03-23T16:32:00.002-06:00

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

2009-02-15T15:24:00.004-06:00

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

2009-01-20T20:51:00.001-06:00

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

2009-01-13T17:57:00.000-06:00

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?

Tagged by Paige

2008-12-19T22:55:00.001-06:00

1. Post rules on your blog.
2. Answer the six “4″ items.
3. Let each person know they have been tagged by leaving them a comment.

4 Things I Did Yesterday: Went to work, packed up part of the kitchen, had dinner with Jeff & Amy +3, spent first night back in my house

4 Things I Look Forward to: Ladies Bible Class, the Open, unconsciousness, heaven

4 Things On My Wish List: Books, ipod dock, unconsciousness, personal vegetable cutter

4 Restaurants I like: Carino's, Glazed Honey Ham, Taco Bell (YES, I like Taco Bell!!!), The Burger House

4 Favorite TV Shows: Scrubs, 24, Arrested Development, The Secret Life of the American Teenager

4 People I Tag (You’re it): Susan, Tim, um . . . . ????

Grace Sufficient & New Resolve

2008-12-14T18:47:00.005-06:00

(This is post is quite long. Consider yourself warned.)

I have been contemplating the apostle Paul a lot lately. This contemplation was prompted by some frustrations about things I’m experiencing in my life right now and an ongoing discussion with a friend whose wisdom is greater than my own. I have a thorn in my flesh, a plague on my spirit, so who better could understand such things than Paul? My thorn is clinical depression. It is something I have struggled with for most of my life. I don’t know that this is the place to elaborate on how much I wrestle with it, but I will say that it is a hard road to walk as it affects mood, physical well-being, perception, and relationships.

At the beginning of 2008, some very special friends and I decided to ask God for one thing that we wanted for ourselves, one thing that He would do in our lives this year. My request was to be completely healed of this wretched affliction. I was tired. Tired of what it does to me, tired of it affecting all aspects of my life. If anyone can make me well, it is the One who made me. So I began to pray every single day that God remove this thorn from me. For a while there in early Spring, I thought that He was granting my request. I was feeling so good and not having bad nights anymore . . . it was wonderful while it lasted and now we are at the final few weeks of 2008. I’ve felt pretty low and have had a lot more bad nights since the Spring, the most recent being two nights ago.

What is God doing with me? I wondered. Why am I not healed? Am I not praying right? How could He possibly want me to live this way? Couldn’t I do more for Him, be more for Him if I were healthy in spirit? These and thoughts in this vein have been tormenting me for weeks now. I realize that the year is not over yet and that God could do something really amazing in the days that are left. It was these thoughts that prompted the dialogue with my much wiser friend in Christ, who reminded me of Paul’s struggle in 2 Corinthians 12:7-10. Paul says his thorn was a “messenger of Satan”—reminiscent of Job, perhaps?—that kept him from becoming arrogant. “Concerning this I entreated the Lord three times that it might depart from me. And He has said to me, ‘My grace is sufficient for you . . .’” 2 Cor. 12:8 & 9 (NAS) Did this comfort Paul or make it easier to deal with his affliction? Or was it just truth that Paul had to hold onto when he wanted to give up or give in? These were questions that my friend put to me as he tried to help me make sense of my own struggle. 2 Corinthians 12:7-10 seems to indicate it made it easier for Paul, but we only really know what the Word tells us. Personally, I think he must have clung to those words at times when there was nothing else to be done.

What I envy in Paul’s situation, is that God spoke to him directly . . . ”My grace is sufficient . . .” Except for the notion of actually being spoken to by God likely scaring me to literal death, I feel I could endure anything if He’d just say to me, ”My daughter, this is the way it has to be.” God said it. That settles it, right? As it is, I have found that I have an easier time of it if I just live as though He’s said so.

I had an epiphany in Bible class today. We were studying Luke 9:51-62 and how Jesus “resolutely set His face to go to Jerusalem” knowing full well what awaited Him there: betrayal, torture, a trial, and death. He was going to do what He was sent by the Father to do. Not only that, He was resolved to do it. “Unwavering adherence to one’s purpose” was one definition I found for resolve. It fit nicely with the lesson today because Jesus didn’t let anything deter this final journey to Jerusalem. Not the unwelcoming Samaritans, not the fact that He had no place to lay His head, not His family, not His simpler past before He began His ministry, and not the horrors He knew He would face at the end of the road. His purpose was to put an end to the enslaving power of sin once and for all, to die for His creation—you and me. The point? That if He could do all of that for us, should there be any concerns about what it will cost us to follow Him?

That’s when all these thoughts muddling around in my head went “click” into place. I was able to see, really see, how God’s grace has been sufficient for me, how it would always be. My friend had suggested that I adjust my prayers for healing to say, “God, take this cup from me, but if You choose not to, use it to Your glory.” I know that He has used it because of Barb, a Canadian woman I met through an online support group, who put on Christ this past summer. I never would have met Barb if not for this thorn. There are a lot of things in my life that would be completely different were it not for my struggle with depression. I would perhaps have had a lot less heartache, but I finally realize that I would be missing so much more. I don’t know that I would have ever come to the Open. I don’t know that I would have taken the road that led me to be a school teacher. I don’t know that my relationship with God would be what it is today. I don’t know that I would be so utterly certain of my own salvation, if not for this thorn. What I do know is that I can't imagine my life without these things and I would not trade them.

“My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” (NIV) I found my healing today. Not in actual terms, rather in my understanding. And I have found a new resolve: If Jesus can go through what He went through for my sake on the cross, I can live with depression for His sake and follow Him. My prayer is that He will in every circumstance be glorified through it. I will not be deterred by what others—family & friends—say or do. I will not waver because of inconvenience, discomfort, fear, or pain. I will not look back. I am resolved.

Why I Hate the Mall

2008-11-25T19:40:00.006-06:00

I hate the mall because it is the road to hell . . . hell being financial ruin in this scenario. What I really hate are the kiosks that run down the middle of each concourse of the mall. I had a plan tonight, a single-minded plan to go in, get what I needed--some Love Shack body spray from the GAP and dinner at Chick-Fil-A--and get out. As a general practice for many years now, I don't make a lot of eye-contact with people. Why? I don't know, don't want to appear that I'm staring, don't want to see gorgeous men react to me staring, don't want to encourage scary men to approach me, don't want anyone to steal my soul . . . ? I've realized however that I could miss a lot of things if I don't look people in the eye: eye color, facial features, hair color, approximate height/weight of potential criminals. I would be useless as a witness to a crime because I don't look people in the face. So I've begun to make a point of looking people in the eye more here lately.

When in comes to being in the mall, this application flies out the window, especially where those people manning the kiosks are concerned. Let me be specific here, I'm talking about the foreigners. My fellow, native-born American citizens just sit and and wait for you to approach them. My fellow American immigrants view eye-contact as and invitation that they must RSVP at all costs. I walked out of GAP and she was standing at her kiosk, lotion locked, loaded, and ready to fire. Our eyes met and I was cornered. I let her lotion my hands, I let her buff my nail and soften a cuticle, and then firmly told her I wasn't interested. So she turned it up a notch, she let me smell all the fabulous scents the fabulous lotion came in. Then she whipped out the entire kit in the scent I liked best. I remained firm--I'm not spending $70 bucks on a mani/pedicure kit! She came down to $40, "just for you" and I told her she was Satan, but that I'd do it so she'd let me go. I gave her my credit card and before she ran it she looked at my face thoughtfully. Before I know it she has a q-tip and is dabbing this cold, cream-like gel under my left eye. She tells me about the eye gel, that it is made from natural ingredients, which she lists, but I can't really understand each one because of her accent. Then she shows me a magnified mirror and says, "Tell me if you notice difference." I look carefully and . . . are my? . . . holy moly! My laugh lines are smoother and less noticeable on my left eye than my right!!!

Now, I'm just completely undone. Totally sucker-punched and unable to walk away without that gel . . . HOW much? $120?!?!?!?? I said, "No way! There is just no way I can conscience spending that kind of money on eye gel!" I'm but a poor, country school teacher! She comes down $20 and offers to throw in the mani/pedi-kit "as gift for you." Yeah, still can't do that. She asked me which I wanted more, the eye gel or the kit. The eye gel, of course! She comes down to $75 for the gel & the kit is "my gift to you." I said, "You ARE the devil!" She plays mock shock really well, "I'm an angel!" She rings it all up and puts in a bag for me. I find out she's Israeli, not Russian as I had first guessed. She acts insulted, but seriously, in this town? You don't run into Israelis everyday. "Can I go now?" I ask, I really am defeated. "Yes," she says, "hug?" I hug her and get back on my path to Chick-Fil-A. As I am walking past the kiosk with the fabulous hair straighteners, the young foreign chap working that gig catches my eye . . . DANG IT!!! Stop looking people in the eye! "Can I talk to you for a minute?" he asks charmingly. I smile and tell him that I really have to keep going. He must be invisibly leashed to that booth because he only chased me so far down the concourse, gave me a disdainful glare for refusing him, and returned to his post to make eye contact with some other unwitting soul.

As I walk out with my dinner, intended and unintended purchases, I heave a great sigh. I sigh because I hate the mall and the fact that I didn't have the strength or enough appreciation for my laugh lines to say no. I also shake my head because it just underscores the fact that in some places, eye-contact is completely overrated.

Brave in the Attempt

2008-11-18T18:57:00.007-06:00

A few years ago before I became a Life Skills teacher, I went with the high school Life Skills class as a sponsor for the Special Olympics Summer Games. My friend Bonnie was the head coach and needed some extra help. If you've never attended a Special Olympics event, I highly recommend it. There is nothing like it. A couple of weeks ago, at Bonnie's behest, I volunteered to work part of the Special Olympics Bowling competition. I was feeling pretty low that day and had considered backing out, but I followed through and was so glad I did. It really lifted my spirits.

One of the things I love most about Special Olympics is the Athlete Oath: "Let me win. But if I cannot win, let me be brave in the attempt." One of the guys in the group I was overseeing had "Being brave in the attempt" on the back of his t-shirt. It is an amazing experience to watch people with disabilities give their all in athletic endeavors. They are so focused and determined and the joy on their faces when they achieve their goal . . . I find myself envying them. I see how much the athletes struggle just to roll a bowling ball. They don't care about what they look like, they just want to make the strike.

It humbles me.

I'm struggling with some things at the moment, primarily depression and sleep issues. Those things affect how I perceive my world, my life. I am frustrated over the things I've always longed for and don't have. I'm wrestling with my weight because the doctor told me I need to lose quite a bit by May. I'm weary of the thoughts in my head that keep assaulting what I know is the truth. I'm tired of being afraid and everything seeming so hard . . . and then I spend time with Special Olympic athletes.

No matter how hard I may have to fight in my own life, I will never have to fight as hard as they. Do they want to win every game they play? Maybe, but in being brave in the attempt they can be proud of themselves for not letting their struggles and limitations hold them back. I let everything hold me back. And then there is that oath, that oath that sounds more like a prayer: "Let me win. But if I cannot win, let me be brave in the attempt." Of all the words that I could use to describe myself, "brave" does not make the list.

I know that I cannot heal from things if I don't put in the work. I know that I will never have the things that I want if I never try. Perhaps I am not meant to be healed. Perhaps the things I want were never intended for me. Here is what I know: By the grace of God through the blood of Christ I have already won. But I still have to be here until He calls me home, so here is my prayer:

"Father, let me live--REALLY live as though I have already won.
But if I stumble while living, help me be brave in the attempt."

Mavericks in a World Gone Rogue

2008-10-26T13:01:00.007-06:00

Given the political uproar in our great nation of late, I thought I'd make use of a recurring term in all that din: "maverick". I laugh when I think about Tina Fey's Sarah Pallin on Saturday Night Live saying that she and McCain would get "all mavericky" once they made it to the White House. Often "rogue" is used in a similar context as maverick, but the words are quite different. A maverick is someone who doesn't conform to the standards around them. A rogue is someone who delights in evil, a villain. We live in a world gone rogue. Sin abounds, is overlooked, and sometimes--more often than not, in truth--is glamorized and glorified. Tolerance is the new buzz word. And people who care nothing for God's word or His ways will be the first to quote, "Judge not, lest you be judged. . ." (Matt 7:1ff) How those words have paralyzed God's people into ineffectiveness and apathy.

I was talking with a friend the other day about this very thing. Someone was doing wrong and someone else, fully aware of its utter inappropriateness said, "Well, I shouldn't judge . . . " My friend was incensed at this response. "People are so afraid of being 'judgmental'--wrong is wrong!" As God's people we are obligated to call wrong what it is. Even more than that we are obligated to call wrong what God calls it: sin. It should bother us as it bothers Him. Understand, though, that we are equally obligated to treat sinners as God does, as well, with love and grace. Anything God did in the Bible to bring sinners to repentance was done in love. Sometimes, especially in the Old Testament it is hard to comprehend how God's actions toward His Hebrews could be loving.

I've recently begun a study in Isaiah, an undertaking that daunts me. Isaiah is a challenging book to read and understand. I've avoided it for years because I didn't think I was smart enough on one hand and on the other hand, I was pretty sure it would not only confuse me but also scare the heck out of me. I know a lot of harrowing events were occurring in Israel during Isaiah's lifetime, so I wasn't sure that I wanted to really get up close and personal with those things. However, in my studies over the last year or so, I've come across many comforting, inspiring verses in Isaiah. My curiosity began to get the better of me as I learned more about the way God loves and has always loved His own. To help me in my endeavor, I've enlisted the help of Jim McGuiggan's The Book of Isaiah. So far, I have yet to get to the actual book of Isaiah part. McGuiggan lays out some important information necessary in understanding Isaiah in the beginning of the study.
He mentions God's response to sin saying, "In dealing with sin, God is not being loveless. Holiness is love refusing to live at peace with sin!"

Those words put God's love for Israel into a context that I had never grasped before. He loved them so much, but they continued to reject His love. He was going to save them in spite of themselves, so He spared a remnant from destruction and promised them a Savior who would free them from the oppression of sin for all time. Jesus showed them God's love in a way they could truly see. He healed their wounds, physical and spiritual, and gave Himself as the ultimate sin offering. In a world of spiritual apathy, Jesus was a maverick who inspired renewal. In a time of legalistic practice that could never save souls, Jesus restored humanity to its Creator.

We find ourselves in a similar situation today as God's people: A world of tolerance that confuses acceptance with approval. Paul admonishes us in Romans 12:2 "Do not conform any longer to the pattern of this world . . ." This world where political correctness is prized over truth and righteousness. We are the mavericks in this world of self-gratification. Called by God to call sin by its name and to teach His truth in love. It's time to get mavericky!

The Motion Picture Soundtrack

2008-06-16T18:47:00.002-06:00

I think most people know my favorite band is Sister Hazel. It's true. I also love movie soundtracks. I think one of the most fun jobs in the world would be to be the person who gets to pick the music for a full-length feature film. To find the right song to convey what the characters in a film are struggling through or rejoicing over. Let's face it, music is a powerful force in movies. It can make a scary film scarier, a funny film funnier, and a film about the triumph of the human spirit downright victorious. And long after the movie is over, the movie soundtrack brings back those moments in the film that made us laugh, scream, or cry.

If my life were to be on film, Sister Hazel would consume most of the soundtrack of my life . . . mingled with a good deal of '80's pop. One song that would definitely make the voluminous compilation of "Lisa: The Motion Picture Soundtrack" is the inspiration for the title of this blog. Here follow the lyrics . . .

World Inside My Head

On the road to safe
I kinda tripped along the way
It just seemed like a nasty hassle
The path was greener on the one less traveled
That's where I remained

People so high they think
I can't hear the whispers
I can see it falling off their face
Their trying to shoot down my plane of grace
It seems like it's already hard enough

But the paint on me is beginning to dry
And it's not what I wanted to be
The weight on me
Is Hanging on to a weary angel

So tell me what it is about me
Where did everybody go without me
So, I like to fantasize
And watch the sunrise like it's a big surprise
Life moves and I stopped to taste it

I drank it up till it left me wasted
But my rains have bled
A softer red
Oh you should see the world inside my head

You can shackle me away
And try to wrap around my dreamer
I feel better when I paint my days
With purple seas
And left out grays
Strange is just a different point of view

But the paint on me is starting to dry
And it's not what I wanted to be
The weight on me
Is holding onto a weary angel
[Chorus]

I feel better when I paint my days
With purple seas
And left out grays
Strange is just a different point of view

But the pain on me is beginning to dry
And it's not what I want it to be
So wait on me
Wait on me
[Chorus]
(Richard N. Marx; Jeff Beres; Ryan Newell; Mark E. Trojanowski; Andrew Copeland; Ken Block; Skidd Mills)

What songs would make it on to the soundtrack of your life?

Mourning

2008-05-30T23:52:00.001-06:00

I've been out of touch with the blog world the past couple of months. A lot's been happening in my world and the world inside my head . . . deep thoughts aplenty! I just haven't really known what to do with them. My grandfather passed away in April. It was a time of mixed emotions for me and my family. My grandfather suffered most of his life from schizophrenia and alcoholism and in his last years Parkinson's and Alzheimer's. My memories of him are tainted with fear and distrust, primarily because I didn't understand what was wrong with him and why he acted the way that he did. I used to think I would feel relieved when he passed, but I was sad. Sad about the relationship we never had or would ever have. Sad that I didn't know as a child what I know now about mental illness (silly, I know), wondering that if maybe I had, could I have given him more hope than what I was able to provide in my ignorance and fear? Sad that he had to suffer what he suffered, trapped in his head, lost and alone. I can't do anything about any of that now, I know, but the thoughts are there lurking as I work to move forward.

Today was the last day of school and with the end of this school-year came the end of many other things. In the weeks leading up to this end, I have had many ask me if I was ready for school to be out. My answer was "no". I wasn't ready for the end. I will be losing 3 students that I've had for 3 years. That was pretty rough, but I intend to keep up with them, so I didn't feel so bereft over them. The thing that I've been dreading most is the departure of "Triple-J": Jack, Jim, and John. Jack is my principal who is moving to a school up north to be Assistant Principle for high school, I believe. Jack is a godly man and a wonderful leader. He pushed to get a Life Skills class in his building and the kids loved him. He provided a sense of security and safety on his campus, and he strove to inspire his teachers to give their all to the children they served. I loved working in his building and will miss him. Jim was the school counselor. He had a quiet strength. He was a magic balm for Sonny. When no one else could get through to Sonny, Jim could. He's going to be the counselor for the high school and I've informed him that I will be calling him when I need help with Sonny next year with the expectation of his full and immediate cooperation. He laughed and said he'd be ready. A good man, a good heart that I'm going to miss being so accessible.

And then there was John. John was one of my teaching assistants and an answer to prayer. When I learned last summer that I would be losing one of my assistants from the year before, I immediately began praying for a new one. I had come to realize that God has been looking after me since I started teaching, regardless of how much I was communicating with Him. I said half-hearted prayers when it came to the acquisition of teaching assistants right before I met them, "Please, God let us get along well!" The Lord provided every single time, more than I could have hoped for. I thought, "What will He do for me if I pray with my whole heart?" So I did, and so came the answer in John. John was the best thing that has happened to my class. He is an amazing, positive male role model for my students, primarily boys. He taught them the importance of working hard, telling the truth, and taking responsibility for themselves--all things that I've taught them for 3 years, but in a way that only a man could succeed. John was creative, coming up with activities to do with them on the spot that were fun and educational at the same time. They never resisted doing anything Mr. John suggested. One day he taught them all how to write their names in Greek. He was trustworthy, patient, and everything I prayed for ("immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine . . . "). I never worried about being gone because John was there. He was a tremendous blessing and I will miss him and the stability and balance he brought to my classroom.

So I've been in mourning. So much in life is beyond our control, I know, but sometimes a person needs to just have a good cry over it in order to move forward. I mourn my grandfather, but I gained a deeper understanding of the vital importance of compassion and grace in our world. I mourn the end of a chapter in my teaching career under phenomenal leadership. I mourn the end of a good team running my classroom. I mourn the loss of a few good men. Like David, upon the looming death of the first child he had with Bathsheba, I mourn. When the child finally passed, David got up, cleaned up, and got on with things because there was nothing more he could do. In the same way: the year is over, I've said my goodbyes, and my mourning will end. I will get up tomorrow and get on with things. I will get on my knees and start praying about the year to come. I will pray for my new leadership and my new teaching assistants with wholehearted faith, knowing that God will provide.

Deep Thoughts at the Garage Sale

2008-03-23T20:33:00.003-06:00

I had a garage sale this weekend. I wonder at some of the things I have acquired over the years. Wonder why I kept it, that is. There were several items I can remember buying just a few years, and in some cases, months ago. For some reason, I thought they were things I couldn’t live without at the time. So dire was that need apparently, that I don’t feel a wrench as I write “25 cents” on a fluorescent sticker and place it on a handbag that cost me $30.

I know why I have kept all that stuff, rather why I “keep” stuff. It’s mostly because I don’t want to let go. Most of the items in this sale are things I’ve had for a very long time: a little doll someone gave me on my birthday, the scarves my grandmother used to keep in her drawer, some trinket I picked up in Scotland. They all connect me to someone or something, some place in time—someone, something, some place I hope to experience once more. I suppose that somewhere inside I feel that if I let go of these things, I am giving up that hope of return. I know that isn’t necessarily true, but it’s something I’ve always wrestled with.

There comes a time when you just have to let go, be it an item you’ve outgrown, the dream of a distant country, or a relationship you hoped to one day restore. Too often we hold on to things long after we’ve had to give them up, long after they have in whatever manner let go of us. Myself, I have spent hours, days, years even lamenting decisions I have made, friends I have lost, places in time that are gone forever except in my memory. “Why?” I wonder now. “Why did I hold on for so long . . . to something that wasn’t holding on to me?” Letting go doesn’t minimize the significance of an event or person in our lives. God closes the door on aspects of our lives so that we can focus on what He has planned for us, which is usually better than anything we could conceive ourselves. It’s still hard, though.

I resolved not to make any New Year’s resolutions this year. But since everyday in Christ is New Year’s Day, I’m resolved to work on not holding on to things that aren’t holding on to me. I want to stop being consumed by all that I can’t leave behind and be ready for what God has in store for me. It’s a good thing every day is New Year’s Day because it’s going to take a lot of New Year’s Days to get this one down.

The Grocery Store Format

2008-02-26T20:44:00.004-06:00

I was at the grocery store the other evening. I decided to go to a different United than the one I have frequented for nearly 10 years because it's slightly closer to my apartment by about 30 seconds. I was almost immediately frustrated the moment I walked in. I would like to know how the powers that be in grocer chains decide what the layout will be for an individual store. To me it makes sense to build them them to have the exact same floorplan and stock arrangement. Now, I can understand the desire to cater to the neighborhood and the diversity therein, but is it too much to ask that the bittersweet chocolate always be directly across aisle from the cake mixes? Cannot the Mediterranean dried apricots be at the end of canned fruit and juice aisle in every store?

The thing that really struck me was the sign for Aisle 2: Religious Candles, Salsa, Mexican, Pasta, Spaghetti Sauce. Religious candles? I had to go check to make sure I wasn't hallucinating. Sure enough, at the end of Aisle 2A, just past the Mexican soda pop and across from the Noodle Roni was a collection of candles swathed in religious iconography. I didn't notice any saints for lost and confused grocery shoppers, one that might help me find the bittersweet chocolate.

Then I went to the one where I usually shop because at the very least I'll see that handsome management chap who I enjoy looking at. I was on a quest for mascarpone cheese to put in my tiramisu cake. I'd seen there before many times, but could I find it this trip? Nope. Not only that, I couldn't find any religious candles with patron saints to help me in my search. What is the deal, United people? It became a true quest as I sought out at the Wal-mart on West 82nd and Milwaukee, the Market Street on 82nd and Frankford and finally discovered my prize at the Original Market Street on 50th and Indiana. OK, so they cater to neighborhoods and all, but couldn't they make them the least bit familiar to the person who doesn't frequently shop there, but has to out of necessity. It's hard to get around in a strange place when you're far from home!

All That We Ask or Imagine (and He really means ALL)

2008-01-17T21:01:00.000-06:00

"Now to him who is able to do immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine, according to his power that is at work within us, to him be glory in the church and in Christ Jesus throughout all generations, for ever and ever!"

Ephesians 3:20-21 has long been a favorite verse of mine. It often energizes my prayer life as it reminds me Who I'm bringing my requests to. "Immeasurably more . . ." Doesn't it make you think big? Really, really BIG. Not only BIG, but bigger--more than we could ask, more than we could imagine. My brain hurts.

I've been thinking a lot about my time as a teacher in the last 5 years. I've also been thinking a lot about the things I don't ask for that God does for me, little things that it doesn't occur to me to imagine. I needed to get some work done on my car this week and it was going to take most of the day. When the brother still lived here, I could count on him to follow me to the repair shop, take me to work, and bring me back. Even now that he's moved, there are still people I could call on for help, but I hesitate to ask because it's not a small inconvenience to pick me up from the repair shop at 7a.m., drive me to the next town for work, drive back into Lubbock for wherever they work, come back out to get me, and then bring back into to town. Whew! I know many people who would gladly do that for me and wouldn't want me to think twice about it, but it's still a lot to ask.

So I asked Emma. Emma teaches in the classroom right next door to mine. She has been a tremendous help to me over the last few years as I've sought to navigate the the treacherous waters of Special Education and all of its paperwork. More than that, she has become a tremendous friend. Emma also lives just down the road from me and has helped me a couple of times now to get to work and back when I have found myself needing transportation. I've often heard it is no coincidence that we are in the time and place we find ourselves. It's no coincidence that I started getting to know Emma in workshops and meetings a year before I'd be working in her building. Or that my classroom ended up being right next door to hers and she lives in Lubbock, just down the street from me. Am I saying that God provided Emma so I could have a ride to school when my car needed new tires? No. But He provided Emma and in providing Emma, He has taken care of me. He provided a model, an advisor, a mentor, a friend, and something as insignificant as a ride to work. As grateful as I am for Emma's generous spirit, I am more grateful for the 30 minutes of visiting in the car that I got with a friend with whom I don't get enough time. Nothing is insignificant about that.

My Favorite Things . . . Top Fives

2008-01-01T01:49:00.000-06:00

Happy New Year! I contemplated writing something thought-provoking and profound. I think, though, that I'd prefer to talk about the things in life that I enjoy and learn a little more about things that you all enjoy. Stealing from the John Cusack flick "High Fidelity", here are some of my Top Fives.

Females in Literature:
1. Hermione Granger--Harry Potter Series
2. Elizabeth Bennett--Pride and Prejudice
3. Eowyn--Lord of the Rings Trilogy
4. Anne Shirley--Anne of Green Gables
5. Beatrice--Much Ado About Nothing

Comedic Characters in Film:
1. Captain Jack Sparrow--Pirates of the Caribbean
2. Dorie--Finding Nemo
3. Spike--Notting Hill
4. Billy Mack--Love Actually
5. Stuart McKenzie (dad)--So, I Married An Axe Murderer

If I Could Have Been Anything Else:
1. Women's Auxillary Ferrying Service Pilot--WWII
2. Figure Skater
3. 1940's-50's Dancer in Movie Musical
4. Master Chef
5. The person who determines the music in movie sequences

Things I Hope to Do:
1. Hike the West Highland Way in Scotland.
2. Visit Ireland
3. Hike Mt. Fuji
4. Visit Prince Edward Island
5. Go to Disneyworld

This is all about fun, people. You can list as few or as many as you want. Thanks for reading this last year. I wish all of you a wonderful, blessed 2008!

Things That Make You Go "Eww"

2007-12-14T18:56:00.000-06:00

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

2007-11-17T02:53:00.000-06:00

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

2007-11-09T19:35:00.000-06:00

"This one is big, Miss Lisa."

*This series has been canceled.

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

2007-10-29T20:39:00.000-06:00

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 . . .

2007-10-28T15:22:00.000-06:00

. . . 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

2007-10-18T17:42:00.000-06:00

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"

2007-10-14T15:06:00.000-06:00

And now it's time for . . .

2007-10-09T16:24:00.000-06:00

. . . 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 . . .

2007-10-03T21:20:00.001-06:00

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

2007-10-01T20:13:00.000-06:00

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

2007-06-12T10:30:00.001-06:00

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

2007-06-09T14:10:00.000-06:00

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

2007-05-03T10:15:00.000-06:00

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

2007-04-08T17:44:00.000-06:00

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

2007-04-07T13:53:00.000-06:00

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

2007-03-17T19:52:00.000-06:00

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

2007-03-05T12:28:00.000-06:00

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

2007-03-01T12:08:00.000-06:00

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

2007-02-26T20:16:00.000-06:00

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.

New From Atari . . .

2007-02-24T03:18:00.000-06:00

. . . It's 2007. The Frogs now control the major governments of the world. In their quest to blot out humankind forever, the Amphibian Axis of Evil invents a new game: Frogger 's Revenge: The Demise of Humanity. The object? Humans must drive down the road while the Tumbleweeds of the Hell Dimension--Damage (the small ones), Demolition (mid-size), and Complete Obliteration (you know the ones I mean!)--blow across their path from both directions. The humans must avoid the Tumbleweeds at all costs and make it to their destination in order to survive and save their planet. Coming to a highway near you!

The Curse of the Elephant Memory

2007-02-17T21:09:00.000-06:00

There is scientific evidence supporting the idiom “An elephant never forgets”. The Greeks originally said this of camels but as time went by, the camels were shut out of the world of idiom attribution and all the glory went to the elephants--a fact the camels have not forgotten. If you read the comments on my post about collecting stuff, you will remember the reference Melinda made to my “elephant memory” coming back to haunt her. I don’t know what she’s talking about. I didn’t realized she had fears about what I remember. Sarah also has had some unfortunate experiences with my memory. We were friends for about 5 years before I finally got her birthday right. A common phrase around that time of year was, “You can remember lines from the most obscure movies that no one in the world has seen besides you, but you can’t remember my birthday!?!” It’s true, though, I have a ridiculous capacity for recollection, although, in recent years my short-term memory has suffered lags and lapses, much to the frustration of not a few friends. (Sorry, y’all! Truly I am!)

Having a good memory does have its good features. For instance, I remember where I was when I told Flee about the boy who split his chocolate with me. I remember information that helps me take tests really well. I remember what happened when my arm was broken at age 3 . . . the whole ordeal down to keeping my Grandma Robertson up late into the night on popsicle runs until I had consumed all the cherry ones. I remember what my high school crush was wearing the first day I ever saw him, which was the first day of 8th grade. I remember the very first time I met Angie Burns: at Sunset in Carlsbad when the AIMers came and did a flag ceremony--I was a junior in high school. I remember the silly game Melinda and I played in our quarters at Skyridge that involved launching a scrunchie back and forth without using our hands. (It’s amazing how you can find ways to entertain yourself when there’s no TV!) I remember what I was wearing the day I was baptized. I remember when I realized that I could understand what a Scottish person was saying with out having to ask them to repeat themselves. I remember great and silly moments from my life. I remember Scotland. Some of the good memories are bittersweet. For the good times, though, the love and laughter--I am grateful for my elephant memory.

Having a good memory also has its disadvantages because with equal clarity do I remember the bad stuff. I remember the fear I felt when my arm broke at age 3. I was terrified of my babysitter, a mean and horrible woman in whose character my mother was deceived. I couldn’t stop crying no matter how hard I tried. (Of course, she was the one crying when she realized what had happened to me because she had left all us children unsupervised.) I remember when my best friend since first grade and a handful of other girls I had known as long decided I wasn’t cool enough to hang out with them anymore. I remember the stupid things I did in pursuit of boys all through my adolescence that only acquired me extreme mortification. I remember the shame I felt when my 8th grade History teacher caught me cheating on an assignment--I couldn’t bear his disappoint in me. I remember everything I’ve ever done that has hurt someone I loved. I remember the day I realized the man I loved most in the world didn’t love me in the same way. Having the memory of an elephant has been somewhat of a curse. I can recall pain, fear, shame, and feel it so acutely once again. It has contributed to my struggles with depression and has prevented me from being my true self because I fear how I will be perceived or judged or reviled.

One of my favorite movies is The Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. My memory has been a source of endless frustration for me and a double-edged sword. I would love to be able to erase certain things from my head, but unlike the “science” in the film, I don’t think I can do that without wiping out the good along with the bad. I don’t want to give up the good, even when the good makes my heart ache. At least, I know that it happened. And that really is the thing, isn’t it? Erasing my memories does not change the fact that the events happened and the way they affected me and shaped who I am does not change.

Yet as I grow older, I am starting to make peace with my elephant memory. I am beginning to see how God has used some of the more painful experiences to make me a better person today. I’m a more compassionate teacher, childcare worker, and friend because I know what it’s like to feel rejected. I’m more sensible about relationships because of my history with men. I take responsibility for the mistakes I make and accept when I’m just wrong because of 8th grade History. I certainly haven’t cheated again. I know that God is and will continue to work through my experiences with depression and bring somthing good from it. I’m working on not thinking so much about the more painful stuff in my memories, not giving things that happened years ago power over me today. It’s far from easy, but everyday I feel the curse is lifting.

The Little Things

2007-02-14T21:33:00.000-06:00

The late Richard Carlson, PhD, authored a well known series of books called “Don’t Sweat the Small Stuff”. His intent was to help people not allow the little things in life overwhelm and stress them. A noble cause and they are great books worth reading. One of the things I struggle with from time to time is not letting the small stuff get to me. In general, I believe that most stuff isn’t worth the worry I put into it. However, when it comes to the application of that belief, I still manage to go off the reservation.

Let’s face it, the little things do matter. How often have we heard the phrase, “It’s the little things . . .” in a positive reference and a negative one? OFTEN. I hear it all the time when people are talking about relationships: “And he put the seat down after he used the restroom! I know that’s such a little thing, but it was really considerate!” or “And he left the freaking seat DOWN!!! I know it’s a little thing, but ARGH!!!!” (You can tell it’s been awhile for me, that really is the best I could come up with.) Then again, maybe I’m just high maintenance. I happen to like real whipped cream and real butter. And you better believe I’m disappointed when I go somewhere and don’t get it when I expect it. The butter is not nearly as big an issue as the whipped cream. Call me crazy but I just don’t think hydrogenated vegetable oil whipped to a creamy consistency mixed with high fructose corn syrup is an acceptable substitute for the real deal. Can I get a “BLECH!”? It takes all the glory out of desserts, cheapens them. Here is this gorgeous towering helping of chocolate decadence, drizzled in raspberry sauce and more chocolate decadence and it is topped off with faux whipped topping. It’s like the most stunning platinum ring you’ve ever seen with a cubic zirconia for the stone. Yeah, those darn little things! How about getting cut off in traffic? Or losing your car keys when you’re already late for work? If they’re such little things, why do we respond to them with such frantic drama? Why does the fact I keep locking myself out of the house every time I go out to feed the dogs and have to either break in or borrow the neighbors phone to call for a locksmith make me completely INSANE?!?!? After all, it’s a problem that has an easy, albeit inconvenient remedy. Wouldn’t that qualify as a little thing?

Of course, on the positive side of it, I do love little things. I like watching my dogs get so excited playing with an inanimate canvass cow. Or the facial expression on, Sonny’s face when he realizes he’s committed an infraction, but he’s trying to play it cool. Driving by the cemetery after a heavy snow in the morning while it’s still dark. Or the little girl just beyond the somber, black-clad mourners in her bright pink dress and white tights dancing and doing cartwheels. Finding a no-waiting cashier in Walmart on a Saturday. The smell of Sarah’s coffee in the morning (she makes the best!). My mom gently scratching my head. Listening to A Prairie Home Companion with my dad. Having the boy you like offer you half a chocolate after telling you about how he just read Anne of Green Gables, among other things, over the fall break. Realizing that your dog is only coming to you for affection in an attempt to lure the other dog away from the chew thing she wants so she can run off with it while the other isn’t looking. Little things. They may seem insignificant and you may be the only person who gets to experience some of them at a given moment, but they stay with you.

Maybe we shouldn’t sweat the small stuff and maybe it all really is small stuff, but I really go back and forth on this issue. It is when I’m in my “This is not a little thing, I’m freaking out here!” state of mind that I’m the most agitated and combative. I don’t handle the “Oh, Lisa, calm down. It’s such a little thing!” comments kindly. “Oh yeah? Well so is head lice!” Tell me that doesn’t make you shiver.

Now, If I Could Just Make Peace With My Body . . .

2007-02-09T10:51:00.000-06:00

I'm always fascinated with the abilities of the human body. I grew up loving to watch gymnastics, figure skating, ballet, and old musicals. I loved how graceful these athletes were, they moved so beautifully! What's it like to fly through the air or spin or move like that? I want to do that! When we lived in Albuquerque, my mother looked into getting me involved in some kind of activity. We discovered I wouldn't be able to take ballet because I had flat feet. I had to get fitted for corrective orthotics, which I still wear. Ice skating would have been my next option, but we ended up moving to southern New Mexico, where no ice rink would prosper. I dabbled briefly in soccer, but I wasn't very tough and kept having the wind knocked out of me. I complained enough that my parents didn't make me stick with it. I wish they had or found some other sport for me to get involved in, something that would put me into a habit of challenging and strengthening my body. I've grown up with a greater tendency to not push myself when something is a physical struggle for me. I get tired of having to work so hard and not acheive results as fast as those around me. I know every body is different. I know everyone has hang-ups about their body, particularly women. I've seldom,though, come across anyone who has the hang-ups with her body that I have with mine.

I'm incredibly UNgraceful, I fall down a lot and tend to injure quite easily; although, I'm getting better about that. Of course, I try to avoid activities that would increase my likelihood of losing against gravity and sustaining injuries. It's hard to avoid walking completely, though. I mean, I have to walk from my bed to my bathroom and from my car into the school building, right? It's been one of my life's great conundrums. I'm just pliable. Always have been. There's something about my joints and ligaments. They can hyperextend or twist quite a bit before something tears and tearing almost never occurs. My brother often refers to my hands as "putty". I've had one broken arm and two toes my whole life, which is interesting considering all the falls I've taken. It took blunt force trauma to crack those puppies. Everything else has been scrapes, swelling, and painful humiliation because my crashes generally occurred in public venues. If you've ever seen those doll-toys where the doll is constructed from large beads connected by an elastic string--you know, the kind where you can pull on the leg until the string shows and let go and it snaps back with a 'clack!'--well, that's what it's like living in my body. I went swimming once and was kicking around in the water and my bones in my leg separated at my knee. I actually felt my leg below the knee stretch away from my knee and snap back. Another time, I was doing a climbing wall and I was trying to push up on the first foot hold and my upper leg slipped away from my knee towards the wall while my knee and shin pulled away. I howled in pain, "My knee! My knee!" (Amanda always loves that story and to re-enact my screams of misery, even though she didn't actually witness it.) It slid back in place but it was painful.

And let me just tell you, it's scary to feel the parts of your body that are supposed to stay connected attempt to make a break for it. I had another experience with that today. I was playing baseball with my students, which doesn't require a lot of exertion given that most of them have little to no coordination or athletic ability. I was jogging the bases and one of my assistants decides to grab me and hold me so that the boy who has the ball can tag me. In my efforts to evade her grasp my knees AND ankles completely gave way . . . my feet were going one direction, my shins another, and my quads another. I was certain I was going in for a crash landing, but somehow managed to stay upright. Given the bellows of laughter from both my assistants, I'm sure it was hilarious to watch--like maybe watching the Scarecrow off The Wizard of Oz. My knees and hip were sore afterwards, along with my dignity. Can I not even change direction without my whole body getting confused about what it needs to do?

The truth is my body is an enormous source of frustration for me. I have no natural strength. I have to work really hard to build it up and even then, I'm still not as strong as an average woman of my size. I worked out for months to have the strength and stamina for that climbing wall, only to be thwarted by my ligaments. I am whining here, but don't misunderstand me. I can laugh at my mishaps, I do it often. However, at times I'd just as soon not have mishaps. I've frequently asked God why. Why did He make me this way? If I'm so "fearfully and wonderfully made", why is my physicality such a challenge? Why do I have to work so hard just to be average in this area of my life? "Haven't You given me enough?" I'm working on my attitude. I'm working on accepting myself and all my flaws and seeing what God sees through the blood of Jesus in spite of them. Why is it so hard to see ourselves the way He does, anyway? I'm being rhetorical here, mostly. I know that exercise and nutrition is the only way I'm going to even come close to having the type of functioning body that I want, so, along with working on acceptance, I'm working up my courage to try again . . . just one more time. It would be nice, though, to know what it's like to have a body that can do anything easily and fearlessly, for a change. I suppose I'll have to settle for running down the moving sidewalks at airports in order to acheive some sense of how it feels to run like the wind. At least if I fall down on one of those, I've not come to a complete hault. In the meantime, I will take advantage of having the ability to walk and be thankful that I can.

Collector of Much, Connoisseur of None or Things That Are Weird About Me

2007-02-05T13:40:00.000-06:00

I realize there is some redundancy in my title. I searched through thesaurus after thesaurus trying to make it sound clever. But it all means the same thing. Moving on . . . I have always been intrigued by collectors. I have always been intrigued by what they collect. The idea that someone likes something so much that they must possess every possible manifestation ever created, designed, or produced--intriguing. Stamps are pretty popular across the board. Then there are baseball cards, comic books (my brother used to own a formidable collection of Spiderman comics), dolls. And who could forget the Beanie Baby craze. Little colorful creatures stuffed with pellets or something . . . why? I guess they were cute, but they made grown-ups act strange.

In one of my favorite movies, "Amelie", Amelie collects flat, smooth stones for skimming. The boy she falls for collects laughs and discarded pictures from photo booths. I have often thought about recording laughs, especially of my kids. My friend Nikki has a fantastic laugh. I see the thrill in collecting things and have enjoyed getting to know my friends' likings and preferences in things they can collect. It makes it possible for me to get them that one item that will always rescue me from birthday gift failure. I have a friend who loves pigs and collects all things piggy (Nye!). Another who loves frogs--Yo, Andie!!! My first grade teacher collected Barbie Dolls. She had them in this fantastic display case, original Barbies from the 50's and 60's! My friend Melinda loves bears and Cynthia loves cats. And all around me people collect things, animals, things that are designed to look like animals. I even have a student who collects "feffers" (feathers). And without fail when we go outside, if there is an empty plastic bottle within 100 foot radius, he will find it fill it with dirt,rocks, leaves, twigs, and some unsuspecting insect and VOILA! He's created his own little ecosystem.

What do I collect? For a long time I didn't really consider myself a collector of anything. I didn't like any one thing that I just had to have multiple versions of. However, when I was living in Scotland I brought home the cutest pair of earrings: silver, with blue hearts. I showed them to Melinda, who didn't display the enthusiasm I expected from her. Instead, she said, "What is it with you and blue hearts?" Shocked and affronted, I emphatically denied that I had a "thing" with blue hearts and stomped off to my room. As I was putting my fantastic, underappreciated earrings in my jewelry box, I noticed something. I had four other pairs of earrings of the blue heart variety. Apparently, I was drawn to them and collected them. Over the years I've come to realize that I actually collect quite a lot of things . . . and always have.

When I was a teenager, I collected old calendars with outdoor photographs of scenic views. I tore the pictures off and literally papered my bedroom wall with these pictures of beautiful places. I've been known to collect movie ticket stubs. I know I have every single stub from every movie I saw in Scotland during my mission time, and I often find others from films I saw years and years ago. I collect movies, but my collection is paltry, indeed--working on it. My most current collection craze, though, is lip color. I purchase more lip-gloss/stick/balm than anything else. It's almost crazy how I can't pass up a color I adore, and what's worse, putting on make-up is NOT one of my favorite things. The effort it requires . . . ARGH! Yet, my purse floweth over!

And that's just what is in my purse! I have more in my car and around the house.

I also seem to observe and compare rather odd things, like public restrooms. The two coolest restrooms in town are at Ocean's Massage Therapy and Little Red Riding Hood nursery. No, I don't have pictures of them--that would be weird! Erm . . . Yesterday I was at the brand, spanking new Walmart out on 82nd, the "upscale" side of town. I confess myself disappointed in their restroom arrangement. The store is huge and there are only 3 stalls at the front portion of the building. Maybe there's more at the back, but 3 just seems unrealistic. Everyone knows the first place to look for a restroom at Walmart is at the front. Not only that, but I expected nicer toilets for that side of town. They looked like they came from an 80's roadside rest stop and were re-fitted with state-of-the-art sensor-automated flushing mechanisms. The combination was less than visually-pleasing. I have a thing for showers, too, and would like to take this time to thank Sarah for including pictures of the showers where she's been staying: You SO rock!!! I have a nice shower, thanks to the talents of The Brother. My favorite showers are the ones at the gym I used to frequent last time I was in Glasgow. There were great showers at the General Walker Hotel in Bertchesgaden, Germany--some of you may recall. I've recently started collecting the little sayings I find on church signs. I find them pretty interesting. I'd include some here, but they are truly worth their own post, so stay tuned. As you come across them in your own worlds, if you would be so kind as to send them to me, I would most appreciate it. Let us not forget the Peanut Butter Cookie Crisp. No moron or genius bought them up that disastrous weather weekend. Some moron at General Mills decided to take them off the market! I found them on a CLEARANCE shelf at Target!!! Naturally, I bought 4 boxes when I first made this discovery. Last night they were marked down to under $2 and I grabbed 6 boxes. Fortunately, good sense kicked in and I couldn't justify throwing needed funds away on cereal, no matter how good it tastes. So, I made my peace with the impending future without Peanut Butter Cookie Crisp and left the store with just two. How bereft I shall be!!! Intriguing indeed.

Birthdaze & Other Ramblings

2007-01-30T18:16:00.000-06:00

I'm currently listening to the song from which this blog takes its name. Can I just tell you how much I love Sister Hazel? I LOVE Sister Hazel!!!! They could easily be on the soundtrack of my life. I identify with so many of their songs. They are so inspiring and uplifting. Although, there are several that had I heard them at the time in my life of which they remind me, I'd have committed suicide. OK, probably not . . . but they would not have contributed to the healing of my broken heart at the time. You know how it is, though, when love goes awry and there are those songs out there that mirror your situation so much and you just OD on them. It's not bad enough that someone has just run your soul through the shredder, you've got to FEEL that pain and wallow in every sad song you can find. Like Sir Elton says, "They say so much." I really love Sister Hazel.

I don't know if the site will date this post January 30th or 31st. I started it on the 30th, drew a blank and am resuming it today, January 31st. If it says January 31, 2007, I turned 32 today. I have to say that this is one of the best birthdays I've ever had. All things considered, that's something. My best friend is on the other side of the globe and a lot of people from birthday parties past are scattered across the country. I typically get really depressed on my birthday. I have a good time with my friends, but the party ends, I go home alone and am left with all the thoughts that sometimes plague people on their birthdays: getting older, is my life what I imagined it'd be, will I be alone forever, will I be doing this again next year . . . etc. Well, not this year. Today was a great day. It started off with a phone call from Sarah first thing this morning, which made my morning and set the tone for the whole day. When I arrived at work there was a little cake-shaped sign taped to the entrance that read, "Happy Birthday Ms. Robertson". There was another as I entered the hallway to my classroom (and another taped to the mirror in the Ladies Restroom). When I walked in to my classroom, this is what greeted me:

The whole room was decorated with streamers, balloons and confetti. It was AWESOME! I have the best assistants EVER!!! That lovely surprise was followed by fantastic E-Cards from Sarah and Melinda, phone calls from dear friends (Jenny!) and someone whose voice I recognized, but I'm still not quite sure who it was! If you're reading this, sorry!!!! I even got a call from the car salesman who sold me my Honda two years ago! Word up, Felix! (I don't remember him calling me last year.) We had a party in class, complete with coke and chocolate cake abundant with sprinkles. That's right, I fueled those kids up and then sent them straight home--muwahahahahahahaha! (Told you I was crazy)

Next, it was a night on the town with Amanda and Elizabeth. We had dinner at El Chico--the best tortilla soup anywhere! See?

Elizabeth's Taco Salad really looked like a giant taco!

Pass the salt, Amanda.

Dessert!!! Unfortunately, that's not real whipped cream.

The other unfortunate thing was our server. The poor guy was seriously lacking in enthusiasm for his work. We must have sat for 15 minutes before we got our chips and salsa and then another 5 before we got our water. Then he disappeared for what seemed like eternity. Other patrons found his service frustrating. One group of people at the table next to ours got up and left because he took so long to even come take their order. We actually started to feel bad for the guy. It gave us plenty of time to gab and be silly. There's always a lot of silly at my birthday celebrations. Finally, I opened my presents and then headed for home. I was so excited, though, because I was finally going to have something to post about. And ever since I got my digital camera, I've been snap-happy. I got 3 movies:

And this fantastic card from Faye (she signed John's name to it, but I'm pretty sure he wasn't involved in the selection process):

The inside reads: Aren't you glad we've outgrown wishing for a pony?
Man, I love Faye!

Yes, it was a fantastic day. I don't feel depressed, I'm not pondering my life--I'm just glad to be living it. I'm thankful to be so loved by the people in my life, no matter where they are. In all the years since I've been able to grasp the concept of prayer, I've thanked God for the blessings in my life. This was the first year, though, that I actually thanked Him for giving me life, for letting me be born. In spite of everything I have experienced that I wish could be different, in spite of any regret or painful recollection, I am thankful for my life and that I get to be the one living it. I think the gift I'll be giving myself this year, apart from the two tubes of lip gloss, the metallic writing pens, and the new Sister Hazel album, is to leave the plaguing thoughts to God this year and go to bed happy.

The View from the Top

2007-01-26T10:15:00.000-06:00

If you've been following Sarah's blog, you know that she mentioned having difficulties keeping her computer charged. I hate that for her because you really need to be able to connect when you're so far away and pretty much on your own. However, I'm quite selfish and am not thrilled about it for myself. I talk to Sarah in some shape or form every day when she's here, and if I don't I know I can quite easily. Since she's been away, we've still managed to communicate everyday and some times even talk over Skype. The thought of not being able to do so is anxiety-producing for me, and I'm trying to fend off my initial instinct to succumb to that anxiety.

I was praying this morning about these things, and as I did something came to me. I work at a group home on the occasional weekend. My favorite time is bedtime. I love tucking the children in and saying prayers with them. I love hearing their little voices directed towards heaven as they are developing their own communication with the Father. I believe you can learn a lot about a person from listening to him/her pray. When it's my turn to pray, I use it as an opportunity for a number of things. First as a model for prayer, second as model for faith in God's unlimited power and omnipresence, and last as a way to communicate that I care about them no matter what happened between us during the day, albeit indirectly. It's the modeling faith in God's power and omnipresence that came to me as I was praying this morning. A lot of children in care are separated from their families and miss them desperately. I want to impart comfort to them, so this is what I typically say in prayer:

"Father, please be with Sonny and his family. Help him to know that You are watching over him and his family. That he doesn't need to worry about them because You are so big can see them both and are taking care of them all. They are safe in Your hands."

I realized I needed to be applying to God for the same comfort in my own situation. He is all-powerful and He is omnipresent. He can see me and He can see Sarah simultaneously. I know this and I must trust that He is watching over her and that we're going to be alright even if we can't communicate for a while. Realizing that comforts me. He will continue to hear our prayers for one another although we are unable encourage one another daily. Knowing that encourages me.

Writer's block, a Cookie Crisp shortage, & other ires of my existence

2007-01-23T20:46:00.001-06:00

I've been having all sorts of epiphanies lately. They've been so staggering that just when I wrap my brain around one, another comes along and flattens me . . . like being struck by the epiphany Mack truck. I wish to expound on these thoughts with you, but my head is so overwhelmed that I can only sit and stare blankly at an even blanker screen or page. Not to worry, though, I'm slowly unraveling them. Rest assured (or be afraid), you'll be sharing in them soon. Needless to say, writer's block, or in this case suffering from mental constipation (you heard me), is the pits. WAH!

There is currently a Cookie Crisp shortage in Lubbock. Upon hearing the threat of heavy snow, some genius or moron went to the new Target and bought up every last box of Peanut Butter Cookie Crisp!!! ARRRGH!!! If you've never tried Peanut Butter Cookie Crisp, you are missing manna from heaven in your life. It is truly a divine cereal experience. It apparently is so rare, though, that I don't recommend you trying it because you won't be able to find it anymore once you're hooked. I've checked WalMart, I've visited a couple Uniteds. It is no where to be found, but by golly, there is plenty of Double Chocolate Cookie Crisp! I settled on ordinary Cookie Crisp because I was so determined to leave the store with a box of sugary cereal, but I'm incensed. There is no substitute. When you want what you want, it is all you want.

It wasn't very nice of Fox to air 4 hours of "24" over two nights and then expect us to subsist on a single episode a week, particularly after I've been OD'ing on the DVD's for the past 6 months. I watched it last night, completely engrossed by the new twists and connections I've made to previous storylines. (Fear not, Sarah, no spoilers here!) Then it was over. I have to wait a whole week to know what will befall Jack in the next hour of his saga. It's a cruel world. By the way, if anyone comments on "24" here and spoils it for Sarah, who is downloading the episodes as they become available, I will go Jack Bauer on you . . . pain, lots of pain!!!

The Dog Days of Winter

2007-01-21T11:37:00.000-06:00

Being cooped up this weekend because of the weather, I have been able to spend some quality time with the dogs. Enjoy!

Sophie the Devoted

Addy the Faithful

Sophie the Destroyer

Casualties

Fun in the Snow

Tug-O-War

Be Prepared

2007-01-19T09:30:00.000-06:00

Whenever I think of being prepared, two things come to mind: the Sweet Potato Queens and MacGyver. In her book, The Sweet Potato Queens' Book of Love, Jill Connor Brown devotes an entire chapter to being prepared. (It's a fun book with pearls of Southern wisdom, but I recommend it with caution. If you're easily offended, you probably won't enjoy it. Along with the good stuff and tasty recipes, there is plenty to find offensive. Consider yourself warned.) Then there's MacGyver, and we all know he is the most prepared man in the history of the world, needing only his trusty of Swiss Army knife and a roll of duct tape. After 7 seasons of creative preparedness, you'd think we'd have learned something. Either West Texas has forgotten or missed the message entirely.

If you've been following the weather at all, you know a major cold front has been approaching the South Plains promising sleet, ice, and the heaviest snow in 7 years. We've known about it around here for a few days, but have we been preparing for it? The city road crew might have been, but I'm not so sure about the citizens. In an area where the only thing you can count on is the inconstancy of the weather, you'd think preparedness would be second nature to the folks around here. The truth, though, seems to be that whenever there's the threat of severe winter weather, gas price increase, or Y2K people are stricken with a sudden bout of mania. There was not a generator to be found at the end of 1999 as people prepared for the end of the world. Last night, you could have gone to any grocery store in town and not found a scrap of meat or a single bottle of water; and that was if you could even have gotten into the parking lots. It's like the people of this area have never experienced a heavy snow . . . ever. Granted, it's always good to err on the side of caution, but how much meat do you need to get through a weekend? Do you really need to steal hot dog buns from someone else's shopping cart? I'll admit I picked up some extra water and batteries, and a few toys to occupy the dogs over the next couple of days. As a tribute to "Mac", the father of modern resourcefulness, I have my handy leatherman tool to cut down the trees in the backyard if I end up needing firewood, as I fashion a woodburning stove out of the dumpster in the alley. If things get really bad I can also use it to spear squirrels to sustain me and the dogs while we wait out the famine that apparently is inevitably going to happen. I can even make us lodgings out of the squirrel pelts when the house has been pillaged and burned by looters. There's nothing left in the stores, so you know they'll be hitting residences. I'm also a crack shot with the blowgun that I can make from the PVC pipe in the garage to fend off assailants. Bring it on.

I may be eating crow later when my electricity goes out and my pipes freeze. (You may not be hearing from for a couple of days, so if you live around here come and check on me!) The preparedness question is a legitimate one in my mind as I remember the Great Deluge of 1998 (or '99?). It rained so much that the playa lakes overflowed and a prominent golf course on the south side of town turned into a lake itself. Did anyone see that one coming? If MacGyver had been here, he would have dug another storm drain with his Swiss Army knife and built a damn using duct tape, a paper clip, and piece of chewing gum and saved the back 9th. It may sound far-fetched to you, but that's what I call "prepared".

The World Outside My Door

2007-01-17T19:41:00.000-06:00

It's cold out there!!!!

And now it's time for Lisa's Favorite Fun Words!!!

2007-01-17T11:52:00.000-06:00

Someone asked me the other day if I had any real passions. That was exactly the way he phrased it. Sounds insulting on the face of it, but I knew he meant "What things really capture your interest?" My response was "books, writing, and internet shopping" (I should be getting a commission from Amazon for my fervor and fierce loyalty). Being an English major, though, you pare it down and subtract the internet shopping and we're just left with words. I love words. I love the versatility of words. They can be evoke powerful emotions of joy, sorrow, anger, or peace. I also like the way certain words sound when I say them. So I present to you now my "Favorite Fun Word List" . . .

Ukulele, muffler, surreptitious, effervescent, jubilation, plethora, ingenue, tempestuous, iridescent, deluge, lugubrious, felicity, malfeasance, clutter, epiphany (no, I didn't forget that one!), salacious, serendipitous (Tim Rush included that word in a note to me once in AIM), carousel, decadent, cacophony, drizzle, buffer, lucid, clairvoyant, calliope, kaleidoscope, trepidation, fleece, poltroon, cahoots, bellicose, befuddled, exuberant, opulent, recalcitrance, perfunctory, penchant, pan-galactic-gargleblaster (I didn't say they were all dictionary words), exacerbate, antipathy, exegesis, paradigm, zephyr . . .

And this is the SHORT list! I know I have tons more written down somewhere, these were just off the top of my head. I hope these words make you look for your dictionary and make you a smarter person for reading them. Start using them daily in sentences and you too can confound people with your hyperintelligent eloquence.

An Epiphany: From the Mouth of Babes

2007-01-15T12:48:00.000-06:00

I love the word “epiphany”. It’s on my “Favorite Fun Word” list. Webster has several definitions of epiphany, but I like this one best: an intuitive grasp of reality through something (as an event) usually simple and striking. I don’t always like getting epiphanies because they sometimes reveal to me that I’m not doing all I can to be the woman God wants me to be. I’m usually aware of that fact anyway, but it can be staggering when you feel as though God has just told you so.

When I began my career in education, I was a behavior coach with just one student. A 5 year-old boy I’ll call Sonny. What a job, huh? To be responsible for just one little kid, right? Wrong. He was beyond challenging. He threw tantrums like I had never seen a child throw. He screamed, swore, was destructive, and sometimes would carry on until he made himself physically sick. My job was to help him change his behavior. Now Sonny had some health problems that contributed to him throwing fits the way that he did, so I had my work cut out for me. Over time though, Sonny improved. His fits diminished, he could exert more control over himself, and was starting to learn things that his condition had prevented him from doing before. However, one of Sonny’s signature behaviors was the “standoff”. It was a maneuver he would resort to in an effort to control his surroundings a given moment. In a standoff he would be throwing a tantrum while running away. I learned that if I didn’t chase him, he’d come looking for me because he needed to be engaging with me in order to achieve his goal. As long as he could see me, he’d stay put while screaming his head off--”Come to me! Help me stop crying! Talk to me!” If I tried to move closer to him, he’d move away. So I had to get him to come to me instead. What I would do is speak to him calmly and say to him, “When you come to me I will help you.” Then I would wait. Eventually, he would come on his own, we’d process and move on.

He is now 8, and has come a long, long way from where he was before. But every once in a great while he resumes some of his former behaviors. A few months ago, we saw an encore of the standoff. I found myself with him out in the hall, waiting for him to come to me so I could help him. As I sat there waiting and watching him, I had an epiphany. I looked at Sonny and saw myself. Over the past several years, I have wrestled with different issues and have been terribly frustrated over my lot in life. I would ask God, “Why me? Why did you have to give me this affliction? Why don’t You just fix me?” I wanted God to help me, to heal me, and everytime God moved towards me, I moved away while crying and pleading for His help. I wanted it on my terms. What Sonny had to learn was that he needed to take some responsibility in the process of getting his needs met and that was by ending the standoff and submitting himself without force or intervention on my part. In that moment I realized I must do the same thing. God has been waiting patiently to heal me. I must take some responsibility in the healing process and submit myself to Him so that He can. The words of Isaiah 55:8 swept over me, “My ways are not your ways.” In all those pleading prayers, I hadn’t really wanted to do what was required of me to achieve restoration and renewal. I knew that it would be hard and painful and I wanted to skip to the the completion phase. The only way to truly heal, be restored, and find renewal is God’s way. While it is hard and hurts, as all true healing must, He sustains us and provides times of comfort.

It was a hard truth to acknowledge, suddenly there right in front of me. But as I held Sonny in my arms drying his tears and soothing him, I realized the end result would make all the painstaking work worth the effort--to be complete in the arms of my God.

The Red Pepper Conspiracy

2007-01-14T10:19:00.000-06:00

In nearly every frozen entrée on the market today there is a universal ingredient. It occurs almost as often as sodium and preservatives, most notably in “diet” food. It is the red pepper (bell pepper, to be more precise). You listen to any Lean Cuisine ad and amongst the list of decadent ingredients listed by the satisfied dieter is “roasted red peppers”. Now, I have nothing personal against the red pepper, but how many meals must we include them in before we are completely sick of them? I was checking out their nutritional value on the World’s Healthiest Foods website and discovered they provide a plethora of benefits to the body, but does that justify their presence in every brand of lo-cal frozen entree, I purchase? I think moms are behind it. I think there is a group of mothers from the 50’s and 60’s “Eat your vegetables or no desert” generation that heard about the health benefits of red peppers. So they set up farms in China, Turkey, Spain, Romania, Nigeria, and Mexico (where they’ve been banished since the end of the Cold War) and have been plying the food industry with favors to make sure the future generations eat their vegetables, whether they like it or not. They have seen the push in our society to find shortcuts to health and thought, “A-HA! We’ve got them!” And they mass produce. Kind of sweet, really, if you think about it . . . Sure, these companies are taking advantage of a market that is fighting to be healthy and therefore putting all known vitamin/fiber/anti-oxidant rich veg in their products. But am I getting my RDA of red pepper nutrients when its been parred down to the size of a microchip, processed and frozen? Seems a bit of a stretch to me. And what if I don’t happen like red peppers, fire roasted or otherwise? Giving me abundant choices in entrees that contain red peppers isn’t going to make me eat them. Because, in the immortal words of the incorrigible, flappable Edina Monsoon of the BBC’s Absolutely Fabulous, “I don’t want more choice, I just want nicer things!” . . . or in this case frozen entrees.

My Favorite Things

2007-01-12T09:40:00.000-06:00

One of my all time favorite movies is "The Sound of Music". I know all the songs by heart and sometimes I catch myself singing or humming them in the most random moments. I love the song Maria sings to comfort the children during the storm, "My Favorite Things." She trills through a list of her favorite things: rain drops on roses, whiskers on kittens, brown paper packages tied up with strings, and my personal favorite schnitzel with noodle. (I LOVE schnitzel! If you've never had it, you must put it on your "to-do" list. Quite tasty!) I have some favorite things, things that make me smile, my heart race, my toes tingle . . . things that put butterflies in my stomach, a spring in my step, and any other cliche about giddiness that you can imagine.

Gerber daisies, 1000 thread count sheets (heaven on earth!), peanut butter, roadtrips, internet shopping--nothing like coming home to that brown package on the doorstep with the Amazon logo on it, Google, the word "ukelele", real butter, Glasgow City Centre, singing to the radio in the car--I like to sing all parts of the harmony simultaneously, proper British tea, movie trailers--I love it when there are so many that I forget what movie I came to see in the first place, Rosa's Beef Fajita Nachos, Pride and Prejudice, pistachios, toast, double-decker buses, traveling by train, New Mexico sunsets, thunderstorms, the Gospel of John, old fashioned hymns, acappella singing, the smell in floral shops, purses that can hold a book + all the other junk I put in it, singing "Under Pressure" at the top of my lungs (I AM Freddie Mercury), laughing so hard I can barely breathe and tears are streaming down my face . . .

I could probably go on all day. These are just a few of my favorite things. Some seem trite, but I count them all blessings from God (yes, I'm certain God loves me when I taste nachos--He made them just for me). What makes them even more significant to me is that I have gotten to share in most of these things with dear friends. Friends have to be my most favorite blessings. Especially because "Under Pressure" is a duet and requires another voice to get the most enjoyment out of it. So until David Bowie gets back, I'm going to have to sing his part, too, even though it's a terrible strain on the old vocal chords, particularly after hitting that ridiculous high note. (Trust me, I sound ridiculous while hitting it.) I am so thankful for my friends. They love me, laugh with me, cry with me, pray for me, reproach me, sing with me, and help me better understand the nature of God's unending love for me--something I don't always comprehend on either count. That's how I truly know God loves me, He made friends just for me . . . oh, and schnitzel with noodle.

Call me "Crazy"

2007-01-11T12:23:00.000-06:00

You know, I always get the phrase, "It takes a really special person to do that" when I tell people what I do for a living (teach Special Ed and work with at-risk children). I usually come back with, "Or crazy." And even if I don't say it, I'm usually thinking it. Because I truly believe you have to be just a little bit nuts to do this job day after day. Some might argue and say, "Well, you really just need to be able to think outside the box." What better way to think outside that proverbial box than to be off your rocker? Seriously. I don't know how I do it everyday. It's exhausting and heart-wrenching, at times, and a person can only take so much of that on a daily basis. Yet I get up every single day and do it all over again and then I go for a super-sized helping of more on the weekends. That's just crazy.

However, in spite of the challenges over the years--the endless paperwork, the aching muscles from hour-long restraints, the scars from being mauled by angry children, the ache I still feel in my cheekbone when the weather gets cold from taking a small child to the face--I do love what I do. I love the kids. Because when they are not in escalated states of violent turbulence, when they're not capable of being certified weapons of mass destruction . . . they are precious! From the constant demands of a precocious redhead to "KISS ME!" to the mock frustration of my longest term student, "Aw, Mih-Leesuh! Aye, yie, yie!" to the interpretive stylings of the dancing sprite, they are most precious.

Today, as I was taking one student through the target sound of the letter 'N' and the proper mouth position for pronouncing it, there was a great moment. I asked him, "How do we make the target sound?" The answer we've been practicing all week is, "I press the tip of my tongue against the roof of my mouth and hum." What proceeded from his mouth instead was, "I put my tongue on my roof and hum." Let's ponder the mental image that conjures for a second . . . if you ever attempt such a thing, I'd really like a picture of it. I don't feel special because I can do what I do. I feel blessed. This work is a blessing. And I have to pray for the strength to do it everyday, which God continually supplies. Do I love it everyday? No. Do I wish I had the gumption to miss my exit one day and keep on driving? Often. But I keep going back. Because whatever it is that God has given me to do this job, I think He mixed in with it just a little bit of crazy.

The First Real Post . . . don't hold your breath

2007-01-08T22:53:00.000-06:00

In case you were curious, the title of my blog comes from a favorite Sister Hazel song of mine--one of many. The chorus croons, "Oh, you should see the world inside my head!" I feel that way a lot, but a feeling that closely follows is "Thank God nobody can!"

My best friend left the country today. She is probably at some lofty cruising altitude over the Atlantic by now. Shakespeare wrote "parting is such sweet sorrow" and contextually speaking, I acknowledge its truth. However, in the greater genralization of things, what a CROCK!!! There is nothing sweet about the sorrow that comes with saying goodbye. I knew the moment had to come. I've known about it for months and I have known that it'll only be for a few months, but that doesn't make the parting sweet. It doesn't even make it easier. It just hurts. But in my history of goodbyes I have learned that while the sorrow of parting is neither sweet nor easy, it is not permanent. The tears subside, the heartache diminishes, and I have a choice. I can choose to be sad and cling to that pain or I can choose to embrace each day and the opportunities therein. I choose the latter.

Today was surreal and a bit hard, but not too hard for me to notice an enormous red pick-up truck on enormous tires. I'm talking huge with huge shocks to match. The bottom of the door must be about the height of my shoulder or even slightly above that, and I'm pretty tall. I just think, "Why?" Why would anyone need such a vehicle for everday living? We live on the plains, not in the bayou, for crying out loud. Who needs a vehicle that they have to repel from everytime they want to get out of the thing? I'm pretty sure I know to whom it belonged. As I shopped, I noticed some chaps hanging around the camoflauge/hunting section. I had to resist the temptation to tell them that all the camoflauge in Wal-Mart would not make their ridiculous auto an effective deer blind.

Wow . . .

2007-01-08T22:44:00.000-06:00

. . . it's really dark in here!