You Really Ought to Know...

Let me introduce you to a lovely new friend.

On this cite lives simple definitions (that include phonetic breakdown and part of speech references, just like a "real" dictionary), curious quotations, and a sign-up for the Word of the Day via email, iPad, iPhone, Blackberry, or Android...so there's no sound technological reason you cannot partake. (Today's word, in case you're curious, is "lucifugous", an adjective meaning "avoiding light").

And if that's not enough to either send you into a coma or dance a jig - and don't pretend you're not one or the other - there's a daily crossword and thesaurus tab to engage all spheres of your lovely cranial space.

But here's my favorite feature: the FAQ column for all wonder of the English language. For all the reasons grammar confuses you, Dictionary.com has an answer. Here's today's issue Word FAQs | Frequently Asked Questions on Dictionary.com - a problem plaguing - yes, plaguing - Standard Spoken English every day.

Do I sound sufficiently like a snob? Well, where words are concerned, I suppose I am. Why not say exactly what you want in precisely the way you mean it? Doesn't communication have enough road bumps without you lending errors to misunderstanding?

Besides, why shouldn't you explore something new...because, really, you ought to know.

Walking Tacos

So easy.
So good.
Make a batch today.
(I sound like Rachel Ray. Shudder).

Here's how you do it.

Get the snack size bags of Doritos (any kind you'd like). I've heard tell Fritos can also be tasty, btw.

Cook up your tasty meat: I use a taco-seasoned ground turkey to take the edge off...rather like ordering a Diet Coke with your Big Mac, I know. But there you go, anyway.

Cut open the side of your snack bag: this will act like your "plate". Now, my friend Jessi, from high school, reminds me that you should crunch up the chips a bit: I don't do this, but she makes a valid point since crunched are a bit easier chips to manhandle into the mouth.

Layer on your meet, cheese, sour cream, rice, taco sauce - whatever frivolities you love to stack high onto your normal tacos.

Then stick a fork in it: you're done.

Walking Taco.

Famous at midwestern fairs, monster truck rallies, baseball games...and, yes, Colorado dinner plates.

(And just in case you didn't catch it, the advice of the sign is free...but nonetheless valuable. Take it from someone who lives with words in her belly. Wink.).

"Fun-Dooooooo!"

The title says it all: that's exactly what our kids shout when they see me pulling the fondue pot from the upper cabinet.

They know that the pot means ooey, gooey chocolate and piles of nothing but sugar as they dip and smear to their hearts' delights.

As a mommy, I'm not that good at wild and silly play: it doesn't naturally occur to me to jump down on the floor and roll around in a tickle fest. So, I've taught myself - through the avenues of contemplation and decision - to be more about that than what comes easily.

But stuff like "fun-doo" I do do well. (Smile).

I do make our house a home by creating an environment of nurturing care. I do remember to seize the every day moments and make them seem extraordinary - not in how much money we spend or how far ahead we plan, but in how much love pours from the spontaneous.

That's the joy of an unplanned fun-doo night.

Where I can see all my children's hands...and notice they resemble mine. And Craig's. Where I can see their unique personalities in his silly, chocolate-laced grins

or in her deepening dimple - in exactly the same spot as her Daddy's.

Of course, those same personalities want to show you their marshmallow...

because what would your day be without THAT lovely image!

And sometimes, the messy giggles and chocolate-laced smile tendencies don't skip a generation so much as they're shared between members of the same one.

 
But fun-doo's best part is the simple experiencing - that of a Mommy and a Daddy looking at their legacy...


before they grow too big

to do much more than recall...in love...
the memory of fun-doo.

Sunday Glory

What makes a good day?

Perfect weather? Money in the pocket? A date with a pretty lady or a dapper gent? Good friends, great laughs, even better memories?

One of the first components of any good day, I've found, is having it fall on a Sunday. Something about this first day/feels like the last day of any week proclaims, "Yes! Go ahead and take that nap you've been craving; eat an extra helping of pie; gather friends for an impromptu dinner; watch a long movie; go to bed early with a cup of tea and a scintillating tale." It is permissive, isn't it - that Sunday-grand?

This morning, despite fighting an ugly cold and resisting the temptation to nap the ante meridian well into its post, I prepared for church. For reasons I won't go into here, I felt it necessary to be with this family, especially today: so I donned my comfy jeans, boots, and new blouse - and out we went.

And what can I say? Sunday Glory began: the children's church check-in line was short, the baby pottied before class, and I refrained from lengthy waylaying lest Craig had to wait patiently (again) for me to rejoin him. Before even making it to our main theater (did you know our church building was once a theater?), we greeted no less than five families and gripped our pastor in a hug and honest conversation - before we uttered even one word of the service. We found a line of friends who, upon first spotting us, waved and smiled and hugged and kissed - affections we were quick to return in kind. We sang, we watched a hilarious clip from American Idol. We listened to heady words of success and failure, good news and not-so. We sat with family - immediate and extended.

I hugged a brand new mother (what a great lady you are, Mandy). I wished a friend happy birthday: face-to-face on the actual day...an old-fashioned rarity in these modern days. We looked a friend in his eyes and told him that he mattered - and watched his reaction when he saw in us it was true.

And my cold didn't bother me so much.

Then we went to lunch and laughed with old friends.
I napped.
Now I'm making dinner (spaghetti with a free loaf of bread from Jimmy John's).
And chatting with the best man to grace this planet, one who's as good and wise as he is kind...and sexy..because, well, let's not pretend that THAT doesn't matter just as much as the rest of it.

Outside, the day is fine with warm breezes and rays of sun for the two older to play with their neighborhood friends.
Inside, our little guy amuses us with his general demeanor of innocent exploration and silly antics while the din of football on the tv reminds me that fall is here, as is my husband to watch it - a blessing I remember daily was thrice nearly gone.

It is a good day.
Sunday Glory.
Richly blessed.

What He Said

"This is grain...which any fool can eat
but for which the Lord intended
a more divine means of consumption.
Let us give praise to our Maker
and glory to His bounty
by learning about....
BEER!

- Friar Tuck, Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves

Looking Around

When a puzzle vexes me, I look around. I think about it. I call this process "chewing on it." I look for answers, sure, but they tend to be much more elusive than I first imagine: like the missing car keys or envelope you simply can't remember where last you put, answers make you search around endlessly, wishing God would give a shout out of "Cold. Colder. Now warmer. Warmer still....HOT! HOT!"

But while I'm aiming for answers, I find I get a heck of a lot more...and, occasionally, that more is better than the answers. Really. What could be better than answers, you say? Comfort. Perspective. Wisdom. Experience. Shelter. Or how about bonified acceptance that, well, often life simply is what it is. And I've got to let it go.

While I'm aiming for answers, I find I stand at an array of intersections: can I or can't I? Will I or won't I? Should I or shouldn't I? And, standing there, I look around. I chew on it. Music's melodies comfort me. Wise words grant perspective. I gain experience. And I accept.

At a recent junction, I came across this poem and thought it was applicable to all kind's of life's tensions, really - all kinds of searches for answers. I found it brought comfort, perspective, wisdom, and acceptance. I like how its everyday examples couched in a profound sentiment of imagined "heaven" made me say, out loud, "Yes. That would be nice."

In short, it left me looking around. And I like what I saw.

"Notes from the Other Side"
Jane Kenyon

I divested myself of despair
and fear when I came here.

Now, there is no more catching
one's own eye in the mirror,

there are no bad books, no plastic,
no insurance premiums, and of course

no illness. Contrition
does not exist, nor gnashing

of teeth. No one howls as the first
clod of earth hits the casket.

The poor we no longer have with us.
Our calm hearts strike only the hour,

and God, as promised, proves
to be mercy clothed in light.

A Day in Music

While occupying the front chair before the big screen called my desk, my
brain is a sundry of to-do tasks - could be grocery lists or emails,
grades or blogs, loves me or loves me nots...whatever. During these
times, I click on my music shell and hit the "random" shuffle button.

An everyday action so dull as to be completely without merit of interest, right?

Except that it never - I mean, never - fails to amaze me how that
playlist ends up reflecting my inner - thing...whatever it is. Indeed, if one plotted on a grid those days of at-home desk time and matched that with the tunes spitting forth, she'd have quite the aria of my life as I knew it that day.

I chuckled when I chanced to look at today's list (I've listed it below): is it possible that, in all things, God really is Master and Lord? And, if so, is there such a thing that is too small for consideration? So, I've learned to pay attention to what I hear now... a discipline I'm trying to improve in all areas of my life - sadly, unceasingly so in some, I sometimes feel. And I know, now, that if there's lots of Glee tunes, shaken with doses of Plain White T's, stirred with some senseless Train...well, then a happy day I've surely got. Some mournful Sara Bareilles joined by the more introspective renderings of Switchfoot and The Civil Wars or Muse finds me pensive or resigned. But, now again, I'll have a day like today's - all over the place.

Which is entirely how I feel right now.

In other words, maybe the music doesn't so much make the man as it tells the story that does.
Either way, a day in music is telling...whoever you think is narrating.

Broken - Lifehouse
Supermassive Black Hole - Muse
Ain't No Sunshine - Lighthouse Family
That's Why God Made the Moom - John Elefante (our wedding dance song, btw)
I'm Alive - Kenny Chesney
Poison and Wine - The Civil Wars
Kryptonite - 3 Doors Down (insert shout out to the memory of David Hames here)
Clair de Lune - Debussy
Faithfully - Journey
The Story - Brandi Carlisle
Let It Go - Fauxliage
Bridge Over Troubled Water - Simon & Garfunkel
Try A Little Tenderness - Otis Redding

If I Could Wish for a Super Power...

it would be the innate ability to know exactly what to say to every person and how precisely to say it.

That's it.

But, then again, that's everything.

Once I thought I wanted it to be "the fly on the wall" power: that opportunity to sit in, unseen and unheard, on any communication I'd otherwise lack the chance to partake. But now that I know how people - myself included - can let the hounds of hell loose through the portals of our mouths, I've decided that might not work out so great after all.

My mind has changed on this topic, probably without me fully knowing it, this year. It's been a brutal one for our community corporately, though one of my family's better, privately. The loss outside the four walls of our home has been staggering - and truncated harshly by death, time and again. And, though I mourn the loss of my father, I have such peace, comfort has now rolled over grief and come out the winner. Still, I look around and find hardship seemingly everywhere, from which I am neither fully disentangled nor entirely immune. This is how my new want for super power was born, I am sure.

Sometimes, I wish I had words like those in the movies: a precise and rhythmic score of the perfect rhetoric meshed with a most excellent delivery to equally comfort, inspire, and delight - where, pray tell, is the recipe for that?! Yes, if I could just get a great Austen or Bronte, Shyamalan or Sorkin, then I'd have delicacy and art (and let's not forget) wit, presented with a bow of love and care to wrap the gift.

But, alas, I've no such super power, and I'm left wondering if my awkward ums, uhs, and ahs have left a geyser of pain uncapped for the here and now. In the end, I'm learning that, if I could wish for a super power, I'd primarily choose this one.

But, since I can't have that one, I look for one I can have - and you can have it, too. While a well-turned phrase of love and appreciation can surely signify value and import, never let it be said that it takes no great restraint to refrain from talking at all.

For silence, when seasoned with your rapt attention and comforting arms, rescues us all in times of trouble.

I'm learning it is, undeniably, a super power in itself.

911

It does seem fitting that perhaps the most tragic day in our nation's modern history shares its digits with the nationally recognized code for emergency distress - distressed was certainly how I felt in the aftermath of that event.

In the summer of 2001, we'd just moved to the Springs with Grace in tow, just a mere 7 months after her birth. We were staying with Craig's mom and I had just gotten an unusually cranky infant back to sleep when, bleary eyed, I decide to give up the effort at sleep and head upstairs for coffee. I entered the living room to find my mother-in-law already up - and sitting in the living room with the tv on...an unusual workday routine for her. I opened my mouth to ask what was up, but then couldn't tear my eyes from the images on the screen. With her face in her hands, Mom turned to me and said bleakly, "I think a plane flew into the World Trade Center."

So we watched. And waited - with increasing scores of Americans worldwide, tuning in instantly as word rapidly spread. On that couch, sitting next to Mom, silence seemingly hanging thick everywhere, we watched the second plane careening into the second tower - and could only gasp in shock and then weep in despair as it hit its mark.

Last year, we began the process of educating our two oldest children about the events of that day. We explain to them this was a day of passing - passing of dreams and of hopes and securities and, yes, certainly of life. We tell them Satan started that day, but God finished it: we illuminate that truth with stories regaling the heroism of police, firefighters, emergency responders, and everyday passersby, giving their lives to save others. We remind them that heroes lived - and died - in two other places, as well. We explain the Pentagon. And I've told them the story of Flight 93, in as much detail as is yearly appropriate. I tell them of the anthem, "Let's Roll" and how it was the favorite of Todd Beamer who, against all odds and in the face of almost-certain death, gathered flight attendants, a wrestler, a businessman, a teacher, a coach, and a ragamuffin band of other agents to stand against their hijackers...and, in giving their lives, they spared every one of those at The White House or Capitol or some other vital mark.

We do not fill our children with hate for the souls at the controls of those four planes or for any of the master planners, for that matter; though, we certainly tell them that the want to hate is understandable and, perhaps, even practical. Yet, we saw how big the souls of mankind can be that day. We saw acts of goodness heretofore only imagined in the face of such agony. We saw good conquer evil, if only in the aftermath. And, in the end, what else can we teach them? For we do not want them to hate as we are hated, but to love in spite of it.

Because the aftermath is sometimes the only chance we've got to answer the call of 911.

And we remember.