Prepare Him Room

Our feelings about the holiday season can be complicated. Shaped by childhood memories, tradition, and beliefs, tempered by joys and sorrows, even reflecting the diversity of our personalities and preferences, there is no one size fits all. Nor does there need to be. 

So, while all around me the festivities are in full ramp and twinkle, Christmas and all the trappings will come slowly and sparingly to this minimalist’s heart and home. Sometimes - some season’s of life - I need to clear space in my head first. Most often I don’t take the time. But this year I’m determined to exchange the baggage of holiday expectations for the clarity of my “whys.” What choices, inward and outward, will stifle them and which will breath life and peace to the reason for the season in my heart? 

While I work this out, one choice is simple. I chose Christ decades ago. 

He is all my heart needs. At Christmastime, to me, all the rest is window dressing. 

Lights, trees, and wreaths will add adornment soon, 

but for now I will gaze upon this unassuming scene, simple and quiet, 

reminding me to let my heart and mind prepare Him room.

Day Off Musings

Sitting outside Paper & Cup with a cappuccino and a rare "day off," watching professionals walk by and reflecting that I've never been a professional anything. Not really.

I'm just an English major wannabe with a smattering of part time work experience who's raised three stellar humans, can pull off a mean haircut after thirty years experience and no formal training, is adequate at a piano and mic, can toss out medical terminology well enough to be continually mistaken for a nurse, is a decent caregiver and amateur social worker, though I aspired to neither of those roles. Some say I can write.

I guess I'm good at absorbing skills well enough to fake my way through most things, self-taught being the kinder term. Forever finding a way to be whatever life needs me to be.

Will I ever be a professional anything? I don't know. Does it matter? Probably not. But what would I choose if I could? I have a few ideas. Will life ever grant enough breath and space to pursue anything? Will I be brave enough to go for the gap if I see one? Will I be too tired of being brave to care?

These are my day off musings.

My cappuccino is long gone. The petite professional in the cute black and white dress and sweet heels caught my eye as she walked by for the third time. We shared a smile. It's easy to imagine that her life is as amazing as those shoes, but I'll bet she has to be brave every day too.

Portlandia: There and Back Again

I have a recurring nightmare where I'm driving on a freeway ramp that is literally the height and length of a crazy roller coaster slope, and it's launching me out over a vast, turbulent body of water. When it becomes clear that this ramp to nowhere good is going to plunge me into the cold, dark depths, a clawing, heart-climbing-out-of-my-face feeling pretty much panics me awake to an adrenaline charged sense of dread. (Analyze this!)

For the record, I hate roller coasters. Both heights and deep water still hold serious freak out power. I am Jimmy Stewart in Vertigo, and I'd rather be caught dead than 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea. I'd die of fright anyway.  

Last week I took my dad to Portland and gutted through terrifying deja vu as we climbed a ridiculous, curving, two-lane ramp held up by stilts. (Just calling it as I saw it.) Higher and higher we crept only to be sent plummeting toward a mammoth, arching, four-lane bridge over the Willamette. Holy white knuckles, Batman! 

Who dangles a Matchbox track in mid-air and calls it a freeway ramp?! Who sets the speed limit at 50 - or whatever ungodly high speed mocked me from the starting gate? Can I just close my eyes till we get to the other side? Can I wake up now and make this all go away?!

As I'm squeezing the life out of the steering wheel - 15 mph under the speed limit - my dad, the perpetual commentator, was completely silent. God bless him! He knew I was terrified, and he let me know later that he was none too enamored with our precarious state of suspension. So, as I'm clinging to the wall of the left lane willing normal people to "pass me on the right, already!" I am muffling an anxiety attack while simultaneously picturing myself as a white-haired, 90 year old granny creeping along with a death grip, eyes riveted on the center line. Somewhere in the recesses of my rational mind, I find this funny, but rational was not winning at the moment. 

Surviving this gauntlet and, thankfully, merging into a middle lane on the bridge, we navigated through the remaining tangle of Portlandia hillside streets without incident. 

Arriving at our destination, Dad checked in and we settled ourselves in a quiet corner of the sky lit waiting area. Adrenaline still washing over me, I begin texting my husband about this heart-arresting experience. His humorous response was met with, "No. You don't understand. I'm seriously traumatized and am trying not to cry!" 

You see, this day's episode had been preceded by yesterday's nail-biting drive on a pitch black, rain-slicked I-84 West, where I had also hugged the left lane divider to avoid the right lane's vertigo-inducing drop off to the river, while driving at or below the posted trucker speed to avoid hydroplaning, and realized much too late that, with all the rain, headlights, and lane divider reflectors, my night vision is pretty whacked. So we'd pulled in to the hotel around midnight with me thinking I'd already faced the worst.

Now, sitting in the waiting area I'm hit with another sinking thought. We'll have to return to the hotel... No way am I going back the way we came! So, I began searching for an alternate route. Did you know there are eight bridges spanning the Willamette in Portland? Fancy that! An eight-fold crapshoot to either pass over with ease or certain terror. Therefore, and literally at the end of a day that saw us through a harrowing drive, a successful appointment, and a lovely dinner with my niece, I chose none of the above. 

Needing to travel from the southwest side of the city, over the river somehow, and up to the northeast outskirts of town, we headed even further south until we met up with another freeway that let us circumvent the entire city and all it's suspect ramps and bridges.  

Sometimes you just gotta do what it takes! 
Go for it! 
Get 'er done!

So, mastering the map instead of my fear, I drove us thirteen, blissful miles out of our way, and motored into the hotel parking lot, safe and decidedly more sound.

The next day's long drive home held two more historically troublesome bridges for me. I tucked all thought of them away as we took in the beauty of the Columbia gorge on the now wonderfully sunlit I-84 East. 

A few hours later after lunch and a fill up, the bridges loomed. 

But, you know what? Even with my dad teasing and trying to rile me, I cruised on over them with nary a wince or white knuckle. Maybe I did manage to toss a few fears into the Willamette. 

And later, as we crested the hill for that first glorious glimpse of downtown Spokane, I was never so happy to be safely wedged in with a bunch of frantic, lane-changing yahoos trying to race each other through rush hour. 

Home sweet home! This is my town! Bring it on! 

The Pull of Sin: How Laughter Won The Day

At an event this Saturday night, we were reminiscing with a hometown friend about the haunted house we'd grown up attending, Hagel's House of Horrors. Seems the iconic building is finally being torn down. We all had memories, including our friend who talked of being so startled that he literally punched the ghoul that tried to scare him. Fight or flight, right?

My husband, Ty, and his dad both spent some years working there. His dad often got to be an ankle grabber.

Man, I hated the ankle grabbers! Didn't you? I hate being scared!

But I digress.

The line around that place would often stretch a block or two long and they'd stay open into the wee hours. Sometimes his dad didn't get home till 2 or 3 in the morning. He had all kinds of stories. Ty shared the most memorable with us: One night, amidst all the crowds and screams and running, his dad grabbed an ankle and instantly felt something warm and wet run down his hand.

Yes... exactly.

"Ooooh! Gross!" we all exclaimed. I've heard this story many times and it's still pretty nasty.

On to Sunday... At church we began a new series about our life in Christ. As he taught through the points of who God is, who are we in relation to God, and what our purpose is, our pastor spoke of the pull of sin. How, even with the Spirit in us, there is this type of gravitational pull toward evil. (Like wanting to go to haunted houses - when you hate being scared?) It was a great, foundational message.

(Don't worry. There's a point here.)

Fast forward to Monday morning... I drove Ty to work and as he prepared to leave the car he referred back to the sermon in regards to this pull of sin. He talked of the heaviness he sometimes feels at work. The tugging. The negativity. We're supposed to take our thoughts captive, he shared, yet it's so difficult. The tug is always there... like those hands reaching out to grab your ankles...

As his tale of frustration wound down, a thought came to mind. So I looked him right in the eye and said,

"Pee on 'em and run!"

Yes, I know. I truly am this spiritual.

Well, you know what, Ty laughed so hard as he grabbed his gear. He kept saying it over and over as he chuckled, "Pee on 'em and run!" (I love it when he laughs. He sounds just like his dad.) And off he went with a wave and a smile and a nod that said, "Good one! Really good!" (You know guys and their nods.)

A tad irreverent perhaps, but I'm thinking it'll be a great visual reminder for him to douse a few flaming arrows - with truth, and thoughts taken captive, an anything else the Spirit brings to mind. Scripture is full of strategies to stand firm and combat the enemy.

While you won't find mine in there specifically, perhaps it'll lighten up a dark moment and remind you to go to your real armor.

Resist the devil and he will flee. James 4:7

There are many ways to resist.

Laughter for the win, again.

The Dad, The Daughter, and The Depend-able Airman

I originally posted this story on Facebook, then decided it was too fun not to chronicle here as well. Family stories should be...passed on. 


Once upon a time a young airman was dating our daughter. We'd all gathered for her dad's birthday and, no doubt, had a grand time. Later that night, Dad headed to bed only to find a surprise gift nestled in front of his pillow...a 12-pack of Depends. So hilarious! 

Well played, young airman.

A few months later, while Airman was out of town, Dad talked Daughter into letting him set up a little payback. With painstaking care and devious creativity, Dad hid every single pair of whitey-not-so-tighties all over his apartment...and truck. For months after his return, young airman would find plastic puffy pants wedged in the oddest places...his guitar case, ski boot, zipped into a flight suit... Nothing's quite as fun as a prank that keeps on pranking. "Touché!"

That was seven years ago. Airman is now Captain and married to Daughter.

Today a package arrived from the couple addressed to Dad. Considering they've been in the throes of packing and moving, we had no idea what it could be. As Dad ripped open the parcel, what to his wondering eyes should appear...but nearly a dozen tightly packed pink Depends. 

Hahaha! Dad could hardly stop laughing.

Well played, Captain. Well played. All I can add is...

To be continued.

Keepin' It Real

Sometimes I don't get a day's worth of work done in a week. 

Other times I get a week's worth of work done in a day...like today. 

How ever life lands, I've often felt weighed in the balance and found wanting...by myself and others. How about you?


As a recovering procrastinator, I've spent most of my life with a non-task orientation, given to long stretches of living outside any list, and excelling at general dilly dallying, but one can't entirely muzzle one's pesky firstborn responsibility gene forever. 

Speaking of which, I often dream of retiring from being firstborn. 

Then again, I often dream of retiring from adulthood. 

In a particularly whiny moment I began an email to my siblings offering one of them first dibs on firstborn before I posted the job and hired from the outside. Well, of course I deleted it before hitting send once I'd vented and re-dedicated my life to wearing big girl pants. 

Sigh...

Am I conflicted? Yes. Daily. 

Do I often wish that I was someone else? Someone more efficient and driven? Yes. 
Yes I do. 

Do I know that comparison is a joy killer? Only too well. 

I've spent a lifetime working new habits into my life; ways of doing things that work for me. They streamline as often as they trick me into accomplishing more. (Tricking yourself into getting things done is good practice for parenting.) I manage my time and my life way better than my 20-something self and, truth be told, there are many grownup tasks that I've learned to enjoy or at least not lose sleep over.   

But through those same precious decades I've also wasted a lot of energy comparing myself to other women who are stronger, faster, and able leap tall buildings in a single bound. You know the ones I mean. Those other women. They look like Super-women and surely if I only tried harder I could be super too. 

You been there?

Yeah...I go there way too quickly. But I'm learning. One thing I see clearly is that I love my jeans and cozy cardigans way too much to trade them in for spandex and a cape. I am me, not [various unnamed women I admire] and at two score and twelve, I need to choose more wisely between investing and wasting...energy, time, thought, breath.

Life is too short. Besides, I rather enjoy my kid-at-heart tendencies, even when they're clumsily tripping over my inner-firstborn.

It seems I may be finally growing into my thumb print of a life and it's about time. There's no one else like me...or you. We're all one of a kind with a one of a kind purpose. (Ephesians 2:10) And don't even think about declaring any thumb wars on me.  
I probably already think you're way beyond cool and I've got no time for girl drama. 

I'm not the strongest or the fastest, but who's comparing? (smile) I may not be able to leap over a pile of shoes in a single bound, but somehow when the dust settles there's still coffee and prayer and clean laundry and laughter and writing and groceries and reading and weeding and taxiing and friends and dates and chores and, most of the time, there's dinner. 

Bottom line, somehow it all works out...even with a little extra dilly in my dally.


My favorite goals are hard to quantify anyway: Live each day as a worshiper of God. 
Be thankful, prone to love, and just a little wiser than the day before.  

#lifeaccounting #keepinitreal

If only...

If only I were a daily journaler I might capture thoughts before they crawled into some dusty corner of my brain. I tend toward the reflective in all things, but those reflections don't just bounce to the page on their own.

It's likely the same reason that I'm not a photo taker. I find myself busy living life - truly being caught up in the moment - and so very content to just be that I don't always record things in picture or print. I live them, feel them, think, and process. And, inevitably, I will joyfully sit with others, soak in conversation and watch children's antics...instead of snapping pictures.

I have never been and never will be "say cheese" mom or the scrapbook mom. God bless all of you who are, but I just wasn't cut from that pack of paper. 

Writing is a different type of chronicling. It's own embellishment and interpretation of a snapshot...a thought, experience, or journey. It takes uninterrupted time...which usually means begging and borrowing from what should be spent on other, often needful, endeavors. Sigh...

Thus the dream persists of a cozy attic studio where I hole up with my laptop while my delightfully good-natured live-in housekeeper wrestles everything of house and shopping and cooking into perfect order...and, most importantly, keeps the coffee hot....

(phone rings)

And now, even as I'm formulating thoughts and editing what I've written so far, I receive a phone call from my granddaughter who wants to tell me that she folded up her big rug during nap time, that daddy is flying on an airplane today, that sandwiches are yummy, and would I "please" talk to her on the computer?

(insert: happily resigned shake of the head and an inward chuckle...)

And so she appears, via Skype, snuggling with bear bear, bobbing her cute pigtails, and after a hearty, "Hiii Gramma!" tells me that mommy is making her a sandwich and that she'll be taking a nap later. When I tell her that I like her pigtails, she says, "Tan too." (thank you) And after a long sip on her water she declares, "Deeewishus!" And we talk about how her plate is green and her bib is yellow and her socks are gray...Then Mr. Crying in the Background appears, tears gone, and smiling at his sister. Despite his mom's persistence, he is definitely more interested in sucking his thumb and watching sister than eating his mushy rice cereal...

And on it goes for quite a while longer...until we finally say goodbye...because I really do need to shower now and get to my dad's to cut his hair....

Now I think I know why writing remains only a wish some days. (smile)

But, again, I am living and being. Being with my "kids" who now live many miles away. This happens a lot actually...these texts or calls, "Wanna skype?"

Do I usually stop what I'm doing to snatch a few minutes with these precious little ones, or with my daughters who still like to hang out with mom? Yes, you bet I do! Do I take those phone calls and texts from them...and from my son and his wife...and treasure the chance to share life? As often as I can!

Truth is, I'd always rather be than do
...especially when I can be with them.

And so all my thoughts today about how "life is a kaleidoscope lately...and how it's hard to focus on any one color, shape, thought, feeling...impression"...blah, blah, blah... and how "my brain feels tired"...yada, yada, yada...will wait for another day.

I never want to come to the end of my life with the people in my life as part of the "if onlys." 
And now I'm running late to get to my dad's house. Gotta go!

Life is a story too, even if it remains unwritten,

and I want to live every page. 

An Autumn Tale: Warm & True

Once upon a time when chill came to harken the change of seasons, Husband bought an electric throw blanket. All fleecy and green, it held great potential. But Wifey with the chilly hands and popsicle toes kept forgetting to use it.

Then one night she crawled into bed and her little toes met sweet warmth under blanket and flannel. Husband had covered the foot of the bed with lovely blanket set on high well ahead of nighty night time. And every evening after that, as long as chill persisted...and because her memory was not what it used to be...she was surprised and delighted anew by the warmth and would shout aloud or to herself, "Oh what a precious husband!"

Last night it happened again for the first time this season. 

Wifey is so grateful that Husband thinks ahead to slay the cold and give her tender covering. A good man is a blessing indeed. 

And they lived cosily ever after.

The End

This morning in Cleaver-ville...

Doorbell rings...little neighbor girl and her friends standing on the porch...

"Well hi, Sophia!"

She fumbles with a piece of paper and finally gets it all unfolded..."We were wondering if you've seen any of these spiders at your house?" Holds up small chart showing photos of the local usual suspects..."We're asking the neighbors if they'd like us to inspect their houses for spiders."

"Well actually Ty sprayed our house for spiders, so I think they're all dead."

"Hmm...Have you ever seen a wolf spider?"

"Yes I have!"

Turns to little journal-holding boy next to her..."Ok, write that down..."

(Insert laughing out loud on the inside, while keeping a straight face on the outside.)

After commending them on their lack of fear for the aforementioned eight-legged varmints and recommending that they not get too close to any of them...I sent them on their way, but the smile they left behind lasted me quite a while.

 

I remember when it was my kids and their band of friends embarking on similar escapades: Sidewalk chalk cities complete with bank, grocery store, and...drive-thru espresso stand. Battalions of army men fighting the good fight. Bike riding in and around the driveways of the "friendly" neighbors. Street hockey. Slip n' sliding, and in the winter, sledding down the backyard slope. 

And Sophia? She is the daughter of one of that "band of friends." 

So on these sunny summer days when I hear the outdoor laughter and see kids huddled at play or rallying on bikes, I muse at the passing of time. We've lived in this house for twenty-one years. Wow...I'm one of the old moms now! And I may be tempted to feel my years...just as I now have to feel around for my reading glasses...but most days it makes me happy to be one of the "friendly" neighbors whose house surely needs a spider inspection. 

On Being June Cleaver

It all started one Friday morning while I was fighting off a case of “Oh my word! I’m going to cry again!” Ugh! Seriously.

Two days before I’d stood outside the Little Rock airport having one of those tight-squeeze-that-lasts-forever hugs with my daughter Jillian. Why can’t all Air Force families whose wives happen to be my daughter just automatically get stationed to Fairchild AFB…for life? Why must adorable grandchildren live so many states away? My thoughts were as bleary as my eyes as I continually remembered those sweet little faces…the smiles…and the morning cuddles that I’d left behind. I can’t even linger there too long now…

Anyway…

After having spent a wonderful Thursday on an all day date with my husband, I was suddenly facing Friday...alone. In the quiet. In my stretchy pants. Only a pot of coffee to keep me company.

So I started tackling my most hated travel chore: unpacking. Stacks of clothes lay strewn about in the spare room and I was determined to get things in order. While sorting through the piles, starting laundry, having another cup of coffee - with some dark chocolate this time - and frittering on Facebook... 

...I hatched a silly plan.

Silly plans and silly days of frittering on Facebook do well at keeping the “I miss them so much, I think I’m just gonna sit here and cry” paralysis at bay. 

I remembered the red and cream skirt from the earlier unpacking, thought of a fun new outfit that would include the sweet black wedges I’d bought, and the new-millennial June Cleaver was born. 

What better way to spend the day than with June Cleaver? Perpetually put together. Perpetually cheerful. Perpetually in pearls. What could be better than done up hair, new shoes, and a sweet red skirt to chase away the blues? Who says that dress up and make believe are only for little girls?

And you know what? The rest of the day was a whirlwind of prancing around on those platforms, happy as a clam to be doing housework. Bantering June-style on Facebook. Coining the new WWJD – "What would June do?" 

...And meeting the laughing, approving eyes of my husband when he returned from work.

After having texted him the photo of the new June that afternoon he said I’d need to help him pick out a tie and sports coat for mowing the lawn on Saturday. Good man, that Ward. 

Ward and June are now not far from our consciousness. We bring them out when we need a little silly. And on Tuesday night Ward took June out for frozen yogurt. #wardandjunearedating

To be continued...

IRRITATING

So how does a nice girl like me get so surly on such a lovely spring day?

(bats her thinning lashes)

I mean, I was just sitting there minding my own business, eating an apple with peanut butter. So far, so good. Granted, I had missed my sweat producing, stress-reducing workout this morning. I was all good intentions and black stretchy pants, but my black-clad bottom stayed on the couch a bit too long lingering over coffee and status updates.

So I made up the fictional Lazy Bottom Lounge “where middle-aged women come to drink coffee, laugh it up, and swap aches & pains. And where dust bunnies come to retire. Open most days from whenever I get up till about 4pm. Please call ahead,” posted the aforementioned silliness on Facebook, then went to a friend’s house for fellowship & prayer. She even gave me coffee & a low-fat, whole wheat banana muffin. (She’s a dietitian, you know, and every recipe will have the fat squeezed out before baking! …I love you, Diana!!)

Friends, prayer, coffee, yummies. What a great start to the day! So what happened?

I came home, it was all sunny and warm, and I was lunching on my usual apple snack when I felt this subtle chafing inside, like some sort of attitudinal heartburn. Then time slipped by, again, and I found myself throwing on non-gym clothes and sprucing my wavy day-before-hair that picked up some extra bounce from last night’s pillow perm. “Gah! I look pale and dead!” Blush, blush, blush! A touch more cover up on the dark circles. Throw on my favorite green jean jacket…yada, yada…and I’m off!

Yes, I’m off. In more ways than one. Off kilter. Off balance. In a hurry and secretly wishing that I could stay home at the Lazy Bottom Lounge and be silly in my comfy workout pants, or finally fold the sheets in the other room, put away the laundry from two days ago, and get my bed made before 3. I could even chase a few dust bunnies with the Swiffer that’s been prepped and ready for action since last week or just take a walk in the sunshine.

But I had places to be and people to see and worthy things to do. So I held my tongue and was outwardly fairly patient. Nothing that needed doing was hard. No one I was with was difficult. Yet even the offer of coffee and goodies at the end of the journey didn’t stop the simmer of irritation. This is not the kind of bubbly that gets you a Miss Congeniality award.

Do you ever have days like that where you’re thinking, “What is wrong with me?!”

A. Am I tired?

B. Am I a jerk?

C. Have I been hijacked by mid-life hormones? …or

D. All of the above, so

E. Will someone please just take me some place quiet where I can’t hurt anyone?!

And can I take a nice long nap…until May?

Ah, May. Mid-life is approaching. At least the numerical marker that is the traditional and much joked about top of the hill that you’re now going over. (No pushing!) But surly, and cranky, and tired? Seriously? Being irritated is just, well…irritating! And I’d rather be silly, goofy, or even the butt of some you’re-getting-old joke than “surly.” Surly is for weathered-faced bandits or the mean old hag in some Dickens novel. I might be getting old, but I’m not that old. I’ve just never pictured myself as surly.

I’m pretty much a certified goofball (the only certification I have). I am a klutz in the kitchen (there are witnesses). I love making up silly puns and sillier faces. I speak in various accents whenever appropriate (or inappropriate). And I am prone to pursue laughter (yours and mine) even more passionately than dark chocolate. Cross my “eyes” and hope to die…

Ok, maybe that wasn’t the best choice of words.

All I can say is, this girl is not going down without a fight! Crankiness…be gone! Surliness…get a life! Hormones?! Don’t make me come over there! Don’t make me use my mom voice!

There are some former kids from a youth camp many years ago that can tell you how scary my mom voice is! Ha! Can I get a witness?

Wow. What am I saying? (pause)

Maybe I have been cranky all along. (longer pause)

Now THAT is irritating.

Let Me B

My list is long. Well, it would be if I put everything on it that I really am supposed to be getting done. I think I need to hire a Type A personal assistant who knows how to kick butt. My inner Type A is primarily a figment of my imagination, as in, "I imagine that I'll get to that very soon."

I am a classic Type B. After all, B is for Bernadette. B is also for Be and Brave and Barbecue! Ooo, I like that! A is for Action, Ambition, and Accountant. Let me just say that ambitious for a Type B is as foreign as spontaneous is for my Type A companions. I can only manage it under extreme conditions such as getting rid of head lice. (That is nightmare I do not wish to ever re-live and comes under the category of "home invasion." Mess with my family and you're dead meat. Think female Incredible Hulk minus the green face.) And, getting back to my original story, let me just say that if you made me an accountant, I would wither up and die.

I do not despise all "A" words, however. "Alas" comes in very handy. Such as, "Alas, I do not know what is for dinner...Alas, the weeds are taking over...Alas, I have frittered away another day by writing lots and doing little." But, hey, my bed is made! And the laundry's half done! Perhaps I should go write those on my list so that I can cross them off. 

And getting back to imagination, I find it a very handy tool. Over the years I have thought up many ways to trick myself into accomplishing things, or into doing as much as possible as quickly and painlessly as possible. I keep paper towels and cleaners in every sink cupboard in my house. That way if I decide one morning that the bathroom mirror looks a bit spotted and shabby I can easily grab my trusty bottle of Windex and a paper towel and spritz away the smudges. Then, since I hate wasting a paper towel, I will spray down a few other surfaces and buff them into a sparkle. And golly, since I have this wet towel I might as well wipe down the floor and pick up all the hair that I'm losing daily. (Ugh!) In less than 5 minutes the bathroom looks and smells amazing and all I did was clean the mirror! Disclaimer: Cleaning the tub or the toilet bowl requires a totally different strategy. Most days I go for fresh and shiny with neatly folded towels. 

I read somewhere that I am fearfully and wonderfully made. I am taking it on faith, then, that there is a purpose for a Type B like me. Why we are usually paired up with a Type A spouse was once a very exasperating mystery to me and to my husband. Now it has mellowed to humor on both sides and a somewhat effectively functioning AB couple. His side of the closet is still as neat as a pin, but I don't feel so guilty about that anymore since I tidy mine up every 6 months or so. I do occasionally manage to act responsibly and live by my list, and he occasionally chucks his and decides to go out for coffee instead. We were born with an innate "bent" but have been willing to bend. Who are we to argue with His plan.

But now, despite my attempt at justifying my lack of productivity, I must exit my comfy couch and my reverie. I no longer hear the dryer running. Random? Perhaps. But it takes far less time to grab freshly tumbled clothes and lay them out on top of the dryer than to re-tumble them, or EEK! iron them. I am lazy. I like saving time. Thus I like folding laundry. There's a math equation or an "if, then" geometry proof somewhere in that string of statements, but that is for the Type As to figure out. For now I will submit to my trick of logic and go finish the laundry. 

Digging In the Dirt

Little sounds register somewhere behind the din of grown up conversation. Laughter, grunts, the occasional scuffle. Childlike sounds. Busy sounds. Rounding the corner of the house, there they are - shorts, t-shirts, skirts, curls, faces smudged and feet even smudgier - digging in the dirt. In this age of techno toys, isn’t it wonderful to watch children play with their own imaginations instead of someone else’s? No batteries required, just shovels and spoons. No animated world, but real earth and dirt, rocks and sticks. 

The party of adults, who would probably only get that dirty for some "real" purpose, can’t help but smile. Do those tiny miners have a common agenda or each a secret wish as they labor side by side? Are they digging an earthen fortress or looking for buried treasure? Are they still in the backyard or transported to another world where fantasy is fact and time is endless? We who only sit and watch will never know. But how earnestly they dig! Working so hard at their play. Toiling for wonder and hidden possibility. Such a simple picture that takes us back to simpler days when we too were the miners and every march to the dirt pile held promise. 

(Reflections from a visit to Timothy's backyard on the 4th of July)

Diary of an insomniac

Burlap curtain panels. A big clock. An assortment of clocks. Time. I love clocks. Where should I put the desk? Appointment. Need to print some photos. Now how did that song go?  It would be cool to frame that poem for my office. Or I could give it to _____________. "I bow to You my God. Jesus, I bow to You. You are the Holy One. Jesus, I bow to You...Your name is Holy. You reign in glory, Mighty King. I lift my hands I praise Your name, I worship You..." Oh yeah..that's it. How can I get a copy of those pictures? Especially that one. What if I found some cream and black valances and added burlap panels to the floor?

Bookshelves. Where should I put the bookshelves? Did I save that little doodle of the kids? Wonder where those bags of old photos and stuff from the frig are? I could still put them in albums. That dresser might look cool. I could use the sheet music. So what if things don't go well? It'll be ok. "Behold the fullness of God. Jesus Christ, the Lamb, became a man. A light upon sinful sod. Redeeming love and sacrifice the plan...Crimson stain upon Your brow. All the pain that you endured for me. Your blood cleanses me now. You suffered death and rose so I could see...I could see." Now how did the instrumental part go? (playing it in my mind's eye...) Time To Go. I really should put that one up...with all the clocks. 

Blinds. I could get some different blinds, but they need to block out the afternoon sun. I can't sleep. Maybe I should just roll over. I can't believe that this is happening again. Oh well. What about a throw blanket? I could make a throw blanket. I have all those squares. Tomorrow. How will I respond? Short curtains? No. Boring. I could just get up... I think the desk should go there. I need to play those songs more often. Will I remember them? "Jesus, You are the Holy One. Spotless and pure, precious Lamb of God...." Gosh. That one was a long time ago. I should get up... What if I did that other one in a lower key? That might be weird. I love those little magnets. Maybe she would make me some. If I get up it's going to be cold. I should frame those. I could use the burlap. I need to be quiet. Where's my slippers? (feeling around in the dark) There they are. I'm kinda hungry. Gosh these thoughts are random. It is cold! Gotta close the door carefully. Don't walk on the squeaky part. Oh, man, the light's bright! Peanut butter. I think I'll write for a while...

Weirdness

Is it weird to be wide awake at 3:39am? I think it's weird. I don't work a graveyard shift. I don't have small children. I didn't have caffeine before bed. 

Jillian, awakened for the usual pregnancy pit stop, was beckoned by the light and squinting weirdly, said, "Why are you still up?" I explained how I had gone to bed, couldn't sleep and had gotten back up hoping to recapture my earlier fatigue. "Oh....(weird)." Now it's quiet again except for the whirring of a distant bedroom fan. Even the water softener that screeched into action earlier has gone back into hibernation. And here I sit prattling on and on about not sleeping.

So what is it really that keeps the brain awake when the body is aching for sleep? I should ask my son. He thinks brains are fascinating. He also gets insomnia too. *Ha* To have just typed, "He also gets insomnia too" is weird as well, and is at least some evidence of my state of sleep deprivation. 

Now, I have done my share of interceding during these late-night episodes, so I do know that they can have some redeeming value. But tonight, though I could and might do just that, I'm still thinking that it's weird. When my husband asks me tomorrow...well, later, "What time did you come to bed?" I'll explain it all again, insert the requested data, and get that look from him again that says, "You're weird." 

I am weird. This has been pretty well established through various non-scientific means and there are many credible witnesses. But I would love a world where I could be weird in normal ways, during normal business hours. I'm tired of being the Walgreen's of Weirdness.

My Sister...as written to LaVella Mae

This is just a few slivers of memories. I realized after I wrote it on a whim to LaVella, that I wanted to keep it, just like I want to keep my sister - forever. So I dedicate this to my beautiful sister, Michele. (10.05.09) 

"When I was little, I was Batman and my sister was Robin, even though she was just a baby. We did everything together. Dolls, Play Doh, Barbis, making fake fingernails with Elmer's glue (yes, we did). 

As we grew, she discovered that it was very easy to hide from me and scare me to death - hiding around a corner when I got up at night to go to the bathroom, sneaking up real close to my face as we lay in the dark talking, causing me terror at every turn. (Well, that's an exaggeration, but it sounded cool.) She also never let me borrow her clothes. 

But then we discovered dancing. Not ballet or anything. Just 'rockin' out!' Endless hours were spent with Three dog Night, The Doobies, The Commodores, Earth Wind and Fire...and our endless collection of 45s. Back in the 70s, we had ALL the moves. And she had the Farrah Fawcett haircut. We played softball together - cuz we could throw and hit as good as the boys, football, foos ball, and spent hours laying in the sun (cuz that's what silly girls did in the 70s). 

There’s not much else to say. She never did let me borrow her clothes without a fight. But we were and are sisters to the end. No one else would ever have rocked out to Van Halen in flannel pajamas with me and shared hopes, dreams, and secret loves in the bedroom we shared until high school. Sisters are the best. But I don’t need to tell you that. 

Have a lovely day, LaVella Mae."