We Remember. Let's Roll.

(Originally posted September 11, 2010)

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.
And we roll.

Crabs. Yeah, You Know The Kind I Mean

If you left children to interpret all of our adult jabberings, someone would end up having crabs.

For real.

When I was a kid, my mom (sorry, Mom, gotta' out ya' here) used to have this one woman I remember she particularly didn't like. At all. Any time she head that gal's name (come to think of it, I don't even know what it was), she'd commence her death spin of name-calling and curse-uttering, usually ending with a muttered chorus of "She has it all." (You're going to have to imagine the tone of disgust).

I din't know what that woman had. But I will tell you that my somewhere-near-9 year old mind grasped that "it" was something one "had" and that "having" it was bad. I mean, B-A-D. Now, it pays to know here that my brother was four years ahead of me in school. Which, for the purposes of this little narrative, meant he was taking Health class. Which also meant he and his friends were lazing around the house one afternoon discovering the horrors of having "it". The only word I could make out before I was resolutely relocated from the room was "crabs." 

And the association was born.

Is this what my mother meant when she said the poor woman had "it" all?

Shivers.

It was a rough next 4 or 5 years, I tell ya', always fearing the claw-footed creatures would infect me in some way. That museum visit to the crustacean exhibit was particularly rough. But then came my turn for Health class - and an especially growdy slide show that proffered the pictorial debut of (among others) crabs. Don't pretend you don't know the kind I mean. The guest speaker, who was probably either fired or relocated to the lunch room, cautioned us - full screen shot behind her pointing finger - on all the manners and methods by which we might contract "it". 

By the end of the school year, my friends thankfully enlightened my ridiculously stupid innocently naive mind that, no, the mother-nemesis was not suffering from an infestation of crabs. Of either kind. Don't pretend you don't know that other kind I mean. If you want total honesty (as if you haven't gotten a serious dose of THAT in this post), I'm not sure I completely grasped the meaning of "it" until...well...right now.

Yep. And this time, I can't even blame it on my mind - whatever its state. Oh, I've long known what my mom  meant by "it": that singular combination of measurements (wallet, house, husband, kids, and 36-24-36) women obsess about. 

Okay, so maybe gals like my  mom might, in that same death spin, mutter about me having it all. I do have a house. I do have a husband. I have a kid; in fact, I've three of them. (The measurements I discard: they're total poo and have been always). I am blessed with shelter, with provision, with love. Isn't that the "it"?

But I'd refuse their premise. "It" isn't any of those things, for that definition centers on status. On materialism. On the temporal. I suppose I do have it all, if by "it" you mean purpose and place. If you mean love and acceptance. If you mean value and vision. That definition centers on identity. On the best depths. On the eternal.

I have it all because I have Him.

Now, if no piece of that story convinced you and you're guffawing, "Nah. I'm not buying. What's one got to do with another?" Well in return, let me ask you this: Who else but God could get a ridiculously stupid innocently naive sold-out-for-Him mind from child to adult by using crabs - and you know the ones I mean - as a stepping stone?

Yeah. 

Think about that.

Make This Place Your Home

Yeah, you already know it.
Because you're cooler than I.
You actually watch American Idol.

No, not really.


But, if you do watch, you already know this guy. I just met his music. It was during a cool-down after a gym beat-down so, since I was practically unconscious anyway, I figured I'd pay attention to the Ipod spin a bit more than usual. And what did my little ears hear?

Hold on, to me as we go 

As we roll down this unfamiliar road 

And although this wave is stringing us along 

Just know you’re not alone 

Cause I’m going to make this place your home 

Settle down, it'll all be clear 

Don't pay no mind to the demons 

They fill you with fear 

The trouble it might drag you down 

If you get lost, you can always be found 

Just know you’re not alone 

Cause I’m going to make this place your home 

Settle down, it'll all be clear 

Don't pay no mind to the demons 

They fill you with fear 

The trouble it might drag you down 

If you get lost, you can always be found 

Just know you’re not alone 

Cause I’m going to make this place your home

This summer's theme has been friendship. I didn't plan on it. I'm not even sure I could have planned on it: it has been too good to be anything other than Him all the way. 

Boy, did I need it. I needed to recover, to heal, to remember that friendship - in its best and purest form - is...well, this song. 

On the tablet of my mind, I've written a hundred times over what I've learned about friendship in the last few months. Each time, my feeble attempts go the way of the giant pink eraser, accompanied by a subconscious "tsk, tsk" - and I know I'm not even close.

Then, laying on the floor with eyes closed and body on fire, I heard them. The words I wish I'd penned, appearing at exactly the moment I was supposed to hear them.

Did you know that most writers use home not as a literal noun to indicate a structure of residence but, rather, as a metaphor for safe haven, for belonging to place...for being part of a family? Too often, home shifts in life. We move where our address dictates, and that's a reality we can't always avoid. Change your zip code enough, though, and you learn a fact you won't soon forget: Home truly is where the heart is. 

In a world of transience with little hope and lots of fear, there are still great friends left. They're the ones who promise, "You're not alone. Don't back down. I'm not going anywhere. Go ahead and blow it. Get lost in your fogs and fears: I'll hold the light. I'll be at the end of the long and narrow road. And when you're done with the demons, the troubles, the tough spots that wear you thin...come on home." 

They're the heart of wherever you are. Near or far. Now and later. 

They'll stand the test of time. 

If you've got 'em, stop looking around.

You've got the best.

You've got a place to call home.

Red-Hot Tongs of Hell Just Ain't Worth the Burn

I ran across this a bit back. Now and again, I've been re-reading it, chewing on it as I usually do with such items. I remain unsure as to what I think about it. I certainly respond to its honesty. I relate fully to some of its content; to other, not as much. And, given that it is, after all, Hurston, I think it's beautifully written.


Aside: Their Eyes Were Watching God. Stack it near the top of your bedside table queue.

What strikes me most, though, is the raw good. The brutal bad. The bruise of sin and the banner of saint. The truth that relationship is hard - most largely because we arrive broken, live redeemed, and die (hopefully) refined. Somewhere exit left on that life freeway, endings become necessary. Enemies may result. Joy will be tainted by stretches of selfishness. In that way, I suppose it really is living.

Still, as for me and my house, we'll be tossing the tongs. Too much of that living just ain't worth the burn.

What thinks you?     

I have known the joy and pain of friendship. I have served and been served. I have made some good enemies for which I am not a bit sorry. I have loved unselfishly, and I have fondled hatred with the red-hot tongs of hell. That's living.  

                                                                       Zora Neale Hurston

A Seriously Itchy Bum

I slip from workaholic to bum real easy.  ~Matthew Broderick

Okay. Not that kind of bum.

I was going to go on (and on) about the uber-relaxed pace of summer.
But then Matthew Broderick (What the French, Toast?!) took the words right out of my mouth.

As I age, I know I'm increasingly in-touch with my bum alter ego - for which I make no apologies. Which is yet another sign I'm aging. Within those two statements, you'll need to wipe away the slime of two predilections - the one to work and the one to please, equally insatiably - to find the nugget of clean. Under all that gunk grins the me who shrugs a "Eh. Why not? It's summer!" to all the otherwise "No!" requests the kids pander. Under all that gunk laughs the me who checks Amazon Prime weekly until - Slap the dog and spit in the fire! - the second season of Downton Abbey makes its debut. Under all that gunk stills the me who gets up at 5:45 to kiss The Man goodbye...and then crawls back into bed with coffee, Bible, book, and blanket.

For us, summer is only two months of time. Then it's back to the real world, whatever that is.
I used to schedule and box and border and boundary those precious 60 days with all that we could do, might see, should go. And, don't get me wrong: you can rest assured I haven't become an entirely different gal between the 20-hoo yah's and the 30-are ya kiddin' me?s. We still have goals and trips and plans and dreams. Those are all good things, don't you  know.

But the other nine months are tightrope walks between work and play, volleying betwixt nose to the grindstone and head in the clouds. Why not be a bum in June and July?

Summer- and its seriously itchy bum - will be over soon enough. 

Pushing Daisies

Have you ever looked fear in the face and said, "I just don't care?"

The first time I ever heard that lyric, I thought back to a sermon some years back. I know, right? What's P!nk got to do with the pulpit? Turns out, a lot  - if you venture into the cobwebbed canals of my brain vault, anyway.

"Control isn't about confidence. It isn't about capability. It's about fear. You want control because you don't want to be afraid." Yep. That's what he said. Not what you want to hear if you are, in fact, embroiled in a great love affair with control (like moi). Moreover, some fibers of your weave you just can't change - you can only snip and retwist and wind in better strands, hoping the tapestry changes for the better. There I was, Control Freak freak, wondering, "Does that flask hold water? Am I really afraid?"

Uh huh.
You already know the answer.
Two clues: I'm writing this post. I also know I'm not the only control freak out there.

Then we had this year. This 365-day (almost on the dot) cycle of hell. Life became a b*&$% on a lawnmower looking to raze our hitherto daisied meadow of love and joy. She did a pretty good job. Now, I interrupt this programming to announce to you - da da da DA! - I'm for Jesus. I don't believe in coincidence. I can't buy random twists of fate. There is no Mother Nature. And destiny doesn't turn on a dime. I believe one God is in control. I believe He does the best job, even (especially?) when I don't get Him. Which is usually when He's messin' with my fascade of control.

That year was a knock-you-while-you're-down stretch of one of those times. We survived. We even thrived. How come?

I learned to look fear in the face and say, "I just don't care." My brother would probably correct me and say, "You mean, you told fear to just f- off?" Ya. That, too. Sometimes you just have to get ugly. Crass. Dirty. Foul. This is war: in the absence of random kismit or strange fate, you have to face that bad must have a reason, must be providential. You've only got one or the other, you know? And life is hard - not always because you blew that choice or misjudged the outcome of that action. Nope. Sometimes life's just the b*&$% on the lawnmower, gunning for you from six yards over. Sometimes there's nothing you can do but say goodbye to your daisies, with a chaser of  "I just don't care. Do what you will. I have purpose. I have meaning. You can't beat me. You can't ruin me. He controls what's meant to be."

These days, I don't need to be in control...as much. Hey, I told you - didn't you read the whole snip, twist, wind bit? I find I need the control less because the fear doesn't dominate anymore. Not a bad ratio to tender come end of the day.

Know what else is true?
When I'm less afraid, I notice one, teeeeeeensy detail...that packs a pert good wallop.

There aren't as many lawnmowers out there.
Quite a few more daisies, though.

That Elf Got Axed

The other day, I checked in on this here blog and realized that sketchy little elf I hired to write it hadn't been doing her job.

I fired her.
You're stuck with me again.

I also noticed that, history shows, I'm more than a skosh absent in the month of May. Since I'm all for the boring and mundane - but not that mundane, I figured I'd mix it up and take most of June off, too.

How was it for you?

That jest isn't too far from the truth though. When I started blogging, I made only three commitments to myself. One: Always tell the truth as best you know it in the moment of writing. (True for all writers, I'll point out). Two: Always be a wordsmith: if you cannot write it well, don't write it (for now) at all. (Here's to hoping you've found that to - er, mostly - be the case). And three: Never make it an obligation. You'll just stop writing it altogether.

Which lands us near July with me typing this to tell you it's not that you don't matter - it's that you mattered too much (there's #1) to leave you stuck with frantic drivel leftover from the battering ram called my life (#2), never mind how much that drivel would have been contrived from just another "must do" rather than "want to".

But what a May and (almost) June it's been! I'm the mom of a now 6th and 3rd grader. Judd starts preschool in the fall. I finished another semester of teaching with only two fails. Hey, you no come, you no pass. Craig and I got some great butt workouts sitting through an array of piano recitals, soccer matches, award ceremonies, and even a graduation. (Parents of school-aged kiddos - Cheeks Unite!) I'm a year older, and I'm four pounds lighter. Of pounds, that is. Not brain cells. But, then again, that may be debatable as I daily fail to recall the simplest bits of data once so readily recalled. Perhaps I should fire that little runner who lives inside my brain, darting through its alleyways to retrieve any given request.

Nah.
He's probably related to that sketchy elf.

And anyways...One axe a month is enough, methinks.

Not Just a Fairy Tale

A picnic lunch outside before chasing butterflies in the sunshine.

A line from a children's story?

I suppose it could be.

But it was actually my day.

Courtesy of being a mommy.
How amazing is that?

Now, Would I Lie to You?

I could lie to you.

I could tell you I am not usually uncomfortable with time. That I don't attempt to wrest the minute hands from God at most inclinations, either to wind time round or to turn it back.  I don't always care which. I could tell you that it is easy to live in any moment, never wondering what's ahead or regretting what lies behind.

Maybe I should tell you that.

But I'd be lying.

My friend, Lynne, shared this quote today because she thought it was powerful.
I agree with Lynne.

"Patience is not waiting passively until someone else does something. Patience asks us to live the moment to the fullest, to be completely present to the moment, to taste the here and now, to be where we are. When we are impatient, we try to get away from where we are. We behave as if the real thing will happen tomorrow, later, and somewhere else. Let’s be patient and trust that the treasure we look for is hidden in the ground on which we stand." - Henri J.M. Nouwen

Patience is active.
It's tasting.
     Being.
         Trusting.
               Looking.
                     Standing.

It's the now.
This moment.
This presence.
This treasure.
This ground.

I could tell you the this is what gets me to forfeit the wresting. I can't win anyway. Besides, guessing and regretting have never brought good times - not a single one.

I could tell you that now's the best I'm going to get.
For now.

I wouldn't be lying.

Cowboys, Shame Fests, and Neon Monikers

I'm copyediting four manuscripts. Right now. Which means I'm stuck at a computer screen, dividing my time into the categories of "Must Get Done" and "Must Take Break". I like the work, but it's tedious with a dose of mind-scrambling. Which means my thoughts are random.

A new and disturbing trend?

Nevertheless, we're now on the subject (nicely done, me). Why not cast a few query logs onto the fire?

 Pandora, how do you go wrong? So...so...SO wrong?

Are you attempting to Captain Obvious me into a tortured state by emphasizing what the likely entire world already knows - British people shouldn't rap? I'm quite serious and borderline rabid when I ask you, "Where did you find that song? And how did it make my playlist?" 

What is the next drop in the descent toward total humiliation? Losing a Words With Friends match by more than 130 points to our friend, Steve. I take comfort in knowing the herculean portion of self-restraint he showed in gloating next to nothing cost him considerably. Or else he's storing it for some equally herculean future shame-fest. One can never be sure.

Why, Senior Editor, do you pay me to tell you how your writers break the rules only to argue with me in email the merit of the rule? It is not my fault your authors can't actually, you know...write. It's not like I even brought up that little piece of damning evidence. It's a restrictive clause, I tell you! Commas are not optional. And "French fries" are not actually from France, you realize. Perhaps it's also time to shed your belief that the monarchy possesses a King Burger or that McDonald's is a name of Scottish high-birth. Want me to note that on your invoice?

 How is it that, despite its complete insincerity and obvious attempt to manipulate, vaguebooking still exists? I need a neon, blinking Dislike button for that, Mr. Zuckerberg. Yesterday. Sigh. I'm having such a hard time.

Is anyone else baffled as to how Cowboys and Aliens defied La-La-Like odds by containing the two most diametrically opposed lines in a one-hour segment? Let me spare you the other 1:24 and tell you. They're "What kind of man blows up another's man's cattle?" and "God don't care who you were, only who you are."

Did you know I'm the kept woman of a married man? But I'm cool with that. I mean, the married man is my husband, so reprehensibly immoral it is not. Course, if you're of the 2-x persuasion and married, you're a kept woman, too. Just so you know. Seems the "Mrs" moniker was first derived from mistress. Irony noted.

An Utterly Irrelevant But Predicatable Sense of Humor

Random. If you caught the title (how'd you miss it? It's bold. And at the top.), then you already read Urban Dictionary's definition of it.

But did you know that it is I who has made random famous? That's right. It's my art form. Or art malformed. Whichever.

I'm known for the tendency to rabbit-trail to parts equally impertinent and ridiculous, winding in some erratic and (kind of?) neurotic circle that changes from a spherical to ovular to elliptical before becoming a full-on egg of nothingness but drivel... Wait. What was I talking about?

My friend, Steve, paid me one of my finest compliments regarding just this subject. In truth, he was probably cutting my smarts and deriding my "get-it"s. Paying me a compliment makes me feel better. So there it is. While observing a confused listener try to muddle through the mess of my storytelling, he calmly tilted aside and whispered cuttingly encouragingly, "Just stay with her. She'll eventually bring you back 'round." An optimist, that Steve.

Today was a day of random. Probably because I'm exhausted. Like, 23rd mile of the marathon, exhausted. (Never run a marathon). As in 13k feet of the climb, tapped. (Never scaled a 14er.) Tired makes me testy. And, as it turns out, random.

Why won't my car seat conform to my every ridge and contour the moment I sit in it after The Man drives? Why can't I ever get it to be the same way it was? Car makers claim they do it in their finest models, but forward and up just aren't enough directional help. How about the tilts and the pedals and the whole bootie-contour factor? Where's that? I believe I can revolutionize the driving world with my plan. I possess absolutely no engineering abilities. I know nothing of tabs or buttons or levers or memory chips. I can't even draw a decent stick man. Still, my plan could revolutionize the driving world...if it weren't for all of that, I mean.

I passed by the nail salon in Wal-Mart (WM. Ugh.) where I noticed the clients were all old ladies. Watching a soap opera. All that was missing was a red rocking chair and a neon sign flashing "Cliche" above it.

Crystal Light has added two new flavors to their faux-drink repertoire: Appletini and Margarita. The first is as noxious as its leaded cousin. The second is not half bad. Mocking may commence in 5. 4. 3. 2...

The elderly are far more dangerous on the roads than the teenagers. Better arrogant than completely unaware. Maybe. Probably?

I can never remember if the road's called Woodmen. Or Woodman. Is it a name? Or one guy? More than one guy? This plagues me when Google or Mapquest requests that I clarify. That's just cruel of them.

Those blasted plastic cups are shoved to the back of the shelf again. Who is doing this?! I've interrogated inquired of The Other Four, but all claim innocence. Mayhap there be naughty elves who creep into our homes come the witching hour to inject menace into our everyday lives. Perhaps it is they who nudge that table leg just-so to the left, ensuring your toe will stub or your shin will bang. Not before they steal socks, move keys, or shove those glasses to the back of that shelf I can't reach, mind you. But likely after they've shifted my car seat.

Just to poke fun at me.

But that's only because naughty elves have utterly irrelevant but predictable senses of humor.
Random.

This Test Is Timed

For most, birthdays are about the happy-in-the-now and the giddy-of-ahead.
No rearview mirror to be found.
Except for when those birthdays belong to our kids.
Then my neck's a'cranin' to yesteryear.

I guess looking back makes the "right now" all the richer.
Lights the ahead in even brighter hues.
Because these little ones are it for me.
I'm a wife. A teacher. A friend. A leader. A sister. A daughter. And a follower of Christ in all six.
But a mother: now that's the role that has changed my world.
Perhaps it is the role that changes the world.

However you slice it, I look backward. To cherish the present. To appraise the future.
But a three foot package in the today makes me reconsider.

The tip of that hourglass to this day four years ago brings me to Judsen Ames. I love his story. I love him. Sounds obvious, no? It's still true, though. I really love him. More deeply every minute.  I mean, I grew him. GREW him!

And ahead I looked when first I held him, pondering what would make him laugh; who would make him cry; what dreams he'd dream and falls he'd fall. I guess I thought about how I'd keep growing him. Changing him.

But when I look behind, I see that it's him who's changing me.
From little...

 to bigger ...

 and biggest still...

He may be little, but he packs a powerful love punch.
On which I'm a little drunk.
Which I suppose makes him the better barometer of time.

Whether ahead or behind, now or then, birthdays are where they all collide,
   bound together by love for one little guy,
      standing the test of time.

Blue Plate Forecast?

Wouldn't it be nice if the mapping of your life was like a weather segment?
I know, I know: your "What the ?!" is my "I've got it all worked out in my blond-follicled cranium!"
So I'll lay it out for you.

As I was catching the noon news today (one step away from The Blue Plate Special that I am), the standard grammar-crushing, suave-you're-not weather fellow came on to tell me what my climatic future holds - or doesn't, depending on the roll of the tropospheric dice around here.

Anyway, the ridiculously quaffed little gent boasted "It's Springtime! Thunderstorms Return This Week!" I soon felt myself nodding along, mentally categorizing the days into jacket/no jacket, flip flops or socks, hair down or tied back to prevent face-lash (dang Colorado zephyrs!). When along came The Big Thought: Wouldn't it be nice if the mapping of my life was like a weather report?

Not surprisingly, that grand pondering came just about half-time in the segment and - alas! - I figured any possible fruit was long gone. Until I checked the website and discovered the summary. Shazam! And, yes, I copied it just for you.

Weatherwise, this will be an interesting week. It starts with more clouds and areas of fog overnight tonight. Keeping Tuesday morning's lows in the 30s/40s. After the fog thins, there's a 20% chance for showers and thunderstorms Tuesday afternoon and evening. The further south and east you are, the more likely the storms will be. Wednesday will feature a repeat performance of "fog early/storms later". Winds will increase Wednesday night, as another cold front approaches, then moves through first thing Thursday morning, leaving the rest of Thursday breezy and cooler, with isolated PM storms. Temperatures will continue to fall on Friday, with breezy winds in the afternoon. At the moment, your weekend looks breezy, with at least a 20% chance of showers Saturday, a 30-40% chance on Sunday, and a lingering 20-30% chance on Monday.

 Now, what if it had a little life rewrite? Maybe something like "People-wise, this week's gonna' suck. It'll start with that nasty little comment you won't realize you made out loud until that coworker scarfing down the garlic chicken asks what you mean by tic-tac moment. After the yelling dims, there's a 40% probability you'll clip that guy's bumper because you were too busy talking on your Blue Tooth to notice he stopped - in the middle of the street. Avoid the lines at Target during peak afternoon hours on Wednesday: your efforts to squeeze in that little errand will make you horribly late to the carpool line. Energy levels will continue to fall on Thursday when you realize you're not yet done with that work project due tomorrow...and the dog just barfed all over your bed. At the moment, the weekend looks promising - as long as you RSVP 'nay' to that dinner (the shrimp turns out to be bad) and avoid Saturday hurling and Sunday retching. Look forward to a new week holding some lingering yuck, but not too bad considering the 7 days just behind you."

Why not that, I ask you?

Yet, I know it cannot be.
So I turn the channel.
I've got a Blue Plate Special to hit.

Diarrhetics and Titivate: A Must Read?

You, meet Good Book.

Good Book, meet you.

Now, snobs of the highest literary order (of which I believe I am one) will typically tell you there there's no true good book since the term "good" is an empty term spent by relativists. And those who watch all five of the Fast and Furious movies in a marathon sitting.

My nose in the air hasn't quite reached such heights. Give me an hour or two, and I'll work on it. Yet, I do believe in a good-old-fashioned good book. (See? I just used the dry little noun accessory twice. Twice!)

While I'll admit to believing in the implausible term (I also bought tickets for the Loch Ness and Bigfoot Belief Trains, mind you), I confess I haven't the foggiest notion as to how to define it. I mean, what makes a book, in fact, good?

If history - my mere 17 years of adulthood being all I've got to mortgage here - has shown me anything, it's that preference is everything. How else could we explain the greatest debates of our history? Consider good versus evil. Science or nature. TP: Under or Over?

Book boasting is no crayon of a different box. Of course, that won't stop me from dropping a diarrhetic in your soup if you dare claim Jane Austen is just another empty-minded Victorian who cottons to flights of romantic whimsy. That's right. I said diarrhetic.

For me, The Good Book better refer to The Bible or else be that needle-in-the-haystack find of crackerjack wit and content that titivates my brain while tickling m'funny bone. No short order of pancakes that.

And it should be a bit zany. Off the wall. Original without trying to be. For instance: let's say there was some guy. We'll call him A.J. Jacobs. And let's say Jacobs, although Ivy League (cough-cough, Brown University) educated, feels by the ragged age of 35 that he's "slipping in a slow slide of dumbness". Let's mix in that, to stave the steep of said slide, he decides to read the entire 32 volumes of the Encyclopedia Britannica in a humble quest to become the world's smartest man. Oh, but we mustn't fail to add that he writes about the adventure...one alphabetized musing at a time. Now what sort of book would that make?

A freakin' hysterical one, that's what.

It just so happens that it also titivates the brain while tickling the funny bone. Must make it good, then.

Want the full course and not just some lame appetizer? Okay, have another bite.

"Glyndwr: A district in Wales. Please buy a vowel."
"dance: In a tribe of Santa Maria, old men used to stand by with bows and arrows and shoot every dancer who made a mistake. The perfect way to raise the stakes on American Idol."
 "Absalom: a biblical hero, [who] has the oddest death so far in the encyclopedia. During a battle in the forest, Absalom got his flowing hair caught in the branches of an oak tree, which allowed his enemy, Joab, to catch him and slay him. This, I figure, is exactly why the army requires crew cuts."
 "Mann, Horace: In his final speech, the educational reformer told students: 'Be ashamed to die until you have won some victory for humanity.' Good wisdom. I have to remember that."

Told you it was titivating.
Go read it.
It's good.

Violent Outbursts of ...

A violent outburst, as of emotion or activity.

The dictionary lists it under tornado, but what it really means to reference are those two week or greater tapes of manic wonder called school breaks. You may mark the seasons by turn of leaves, fall of snow, springs of love, days of dog...I classify them by length of break. Round these here parts, breaks are a violent outburst, as of emotion or activity.

For a solid introvert, the flurry of sudden, well, presence in the house is overwhelming enough. Add to it the near-cataclysmic proportions of bickering, screeching, whining, and all-together nerve-breaking bouts of "I'm boooooored!", and you've got me on the verge of forced escape to a happy any other place.

Then again, sometimes the rays of pre-parenting world break on through. Back then, I thought every moment with the kiddos would be one of eye-opening candor. Of wondrous appreciation. Of almost obsessive observation.And what do you know?

When we're in the eye of the tornado (say, Day 7), we get away. On a getaway. (Get it?) They've become (to invoke a criminally overused adjective) epic in our family's fun album. Yeah, yeah, we grin and giggle. Is it so surprising to admit those are the moments labeled "best 'uns" in the album? But better than best are the ones where we learn a thing or two - or 20 - about each one of the wee ones to whom we gave life, love, and even last name.

We worry about what a child will become tomorrow, yet we forget that he is someone today.  ~Stacia Tauscher

Even when freshly washed and relieved of all obvious confections, children tend to be sticky.  ~Fran Lebowitz

 

Creative play is like a spring that bubbles up from deep within a child.  ~Joan Almon

 

 A three year old child is a being who gets almost as much fun out of a fifty-six dollar set of swings as it does out of finding a small green worm.  ~Bill Vaughan

 He didn't tell me how to live; he lived, and let me watch him do it.  ~Clarence Budington Kelland

All women become like their mothers.  That is their tragedy.  No man does.  That's his.  ~Oscar Wilde, The Importance of Being Earnest, 1895

Sometimes being a brother is even better than being a superhero.  ~Marc Brown

Dad, your guiding hand on my shoulder will remain with me forever.  ~Author Unknown
 

I find that a great part of the information I have was acquired by looking up something and finding something else on the way.  ~Franklin P. Adams

What good is having someone who can walk on water if you don't follow in his footsteps?  ~Author Unknown

 To us, family means putting your arms around each other and being there.  ~Barbara Bush

 

Tick-Tock: The Love Clock

I spend an obscene amount of my daily allotments of clock ticks considering what I'm not good at. Like ending sentences in prepositions (gah!), there are some habits my stubbed and lazy toe just refuses to give a good kick. Thinking is one of those.

While thinking, on its own, ain't so bad (hello, vapid damsels needing a shot of "Aha!"), too much thinking is a killer. It is the assassin of simple conversation, the wrinkler of a smooth line. And I am guilty of such murder.

Still, I consider what I'm not good at (Preposition again), and I can't seem to kick the habit. So I think, and I think about love the most. Really. Not money: I'm a pretty good saver and thrifty by nature. Not time: most days, there's enough of it, and I'm content that I did not fritter. Really, my list of not's is longer than not. But love. Ah, now there's a rub.

I don't think I'm exactly bad at loving others, myself, and God - Who must sit atop all lists always. It's more like I'm assuming my line of good can become better; that better can increase to best; and that best is a term dependent on how far out I draw my line of definition...which means "best" can always be stretched to new limits. The danger may lie in never being satisfied and, I reckon, I'm sometimes guilty of that, too. But if I remain unsatisfied, my glass is raised to a sentiment expressed just like this:

If my definition of best be short of Yours for my heart, for my time, for my hands, God, then make me think about more. About better. About stretching my line of best.

I want to love like Him.
Here's a guy who gets that, too.
So I thought I'd share it - just in case you want to think about it, too.

“The love for equals is a human thing--of friend for friend, brother for brother. It is to love what is loving and lovely. The world smiles. The love for the less fortunate is a beautiful thing--the love for those who suffer, for those who are poor, the sick, the failures, the unlovely. This is compassion, and it touches the heart of the world. The love for the more fortunate is a rare thing--to love those who succeed where we fail, to rejoice without envy with those who rejoice, the love of the poor for the rich, of the black man for the white man. The world is always bewildered by its saints. And then there is the love for the enemy--love for the one who does not love you but mocks, threatens, and inflicts pain. The tortured's love for the torturer. This is God's love. It conquers the world.”
                                                                 ~ Frederick Buechner

Don't Go On Road Trips with An Herbalist and A Pet Detective. I Mean It.

I've lost count (hey, what comes after 4?) how many times the buddies have sent this my way.

It's so nice of you all to notice that - by extension of the Loosed Red Pen Plague called comp teaching - I'm locked in The Great Debate.

Boring? That yawn threatening to pop your jaw?

Can't say I blame you.

Wait! 

Yes, I can!

Because this wee mite of punctuation packs a powerful punch - especially if you end up in one of those awkward moments where what you meant to get was a giggle, but what you actually got was the Facebook block and email drop.

Here's a not-too-shabby lesson. But let me hit their bullseye.

Oxford: Amanda found herself in the Winnebago with her ex-boyfriend, an herbalist, and a pet detective.

No Oxford: Amanda found herself in the Winnebago with her ex-boyfriend, an herbalist and a pet detective.

Just punctuate.

If you end up on a road trip with an herbalist and a pet detective (um, or worse), 

it's entirely your fault.

Don't say I didn't warn ya.

116

The Bard penned it best.

Let me not to the marriage of true minds

Admit impediments. Love is not love

Which alters when it alteration finds,

Or bends with the remover to remove.

O no, it is an ever-fixèd mark

That looks on tempests and is never shaken;

It is the star to every wand'ring bark,

Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken.

Love’s not time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks

Within his bending sickle’s compass come:

Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,

But bears it out even to the edge of doom.

If this be error and upon me proved,

I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

But this is not a bad rendering, either.

  I hope I may never acknowledge any reason why minds that truly love 

each other shouldn’t be joined together. 

Love isn’t really love if it changes when it sees the beloved change or if it disappears when the beloved leaves. 

Oh no, love is a constant and unchanging light that shines on storms without being shaken;

 it is the star that guides every wandering boat. 

And like a star, its value is beyond measure, though its height can be measured.

 Love is not under time’s power, though time has the power to destroy rosy lips and cheeks. 

Love does not alter with the passage of brief hours and weeks, but lasts until Doomsday.

 If I’m wrong about this and can be proven wrong, I never wrote, and no man ever loved.

Disturb Me

Disturb: to destroy the tranquillity or composure of;
      to throw into disorder;
           to put to inconvenience;
                  to alarm.

About a trillion years ago (15 in real time), I was in a Bible study. I'd been a believer maybe a month. Two if I want to stretch it. I also lived in a dorm; a giant dorm, in fact, housing about 1200 souls just wading through the grit of a life season spent trying to discover what in the heck they're all doing here.

I trekked to college to get a degree. 
Maybe gain a few friends.
Discover myself.

I discovered Christ instead. 

And, one day, about a trillion years ago, I ended up in a Bible study - the singular last X I would have ever marked on my map. Into that teeny 11x11 pad, though, we all squeezed. Searching. Seeking. Gazing at each other, asking, "What the heck are we all doing here?" 

I could fill pages with what I learned in that room from Him through those young women, but this is the nugget for today.

Never - ever - ask in prayer for God to do what you do not want Him in life to actually do.

If you ask Him to break you, sturdy your back. 

If you want Him to change you, prepare to adjust your dial. 

If you want Him to move you, pack your bags. 

If you want Him to show you, take off your shades.

If you want Him to disturb you, say goodbye to your tranquility. Diss your composure. Kiss off your lovely little order and say "Pleasure" to inconvenience. Alarm is about to be your new reality.

What made me think of all that?
This. From here.

I am stirred in the deepest corners of my soul.
I am moved to move.
I am paused to reconsider.

Which reminds me of another nugget.

If you can't look away, can't put it down, can't shake it from your fingers, close your fist: He's asking you to do it.

Fishing With Moses

Yeah, that's funny.

Fishing is serious business though. It can feed you, you know - and not just in the way you're thinking. Sure, we can fish for dinner. But we can also fish for a soul. And that's where my friend, Mandy, and The Adventure Project comes in.

She - and perhaps you right along with her - are going to train a well mechanic in India.
You heard me.
A mechanic.
For wells.
In India.

Check it out.

And avoid fishing with Moses.

How to Guard a Heart

Above all else, guard your heart for it is the wellspring of life. Proverbs 4:23

The thing is, when you're a little girl, you don't know much about the heart. Which isn't to say you don't have feelings: little girls are surely aware enough of those to express them in all sorts of manners...streaming tears, stamping feet, pouting lips, and toothy grins all come to mind. But they don't know much about from whence those emotions come.
They just live.
And wonder.
And later, maybe, worry.

The thing is, when you're a little girl, you don't know much about guarding the heart. Seems to follow if you don't know much about the heart, I'd say. And what's all this talk of "the wellspring of life"? Can an unguarded heart lead to death? What, then, becomes of the befuddled lass who knows little of the heart and even less about guarding it?
She just lives.
And wonders.
And, perhaps, worries.

Well, not if you've got one of these...

       
  to teach you about this...

 

so you never end up like that.

If these are the times that try men's souls (thank you, Mr. Paine), they must be the days of absolute peril for women's hearts. Each generation seems less sure of the ins and outs of love and value and self-worth - probably because the rules of the game seem to change with each turn of daughter-become-mother.

And maybe that's where we get it most wrong. Perhaps mothers can't teach the lesson their own hearts are wearing on torn, mended, and torn again sleeves. Perhaps it be the fathers - who maybe have done some tearing of their own - who see most fully.
Teach most effectively.
Guard most rigorously.

Recently, Grace got dressed up for a date with her father, a Daddy-Daughter Dance to be exact.

 
Amidst great excitement, she painted her nails. And curled her hair. And buckled her first pair of fancy-heeled shoes.

Her earrings were dangly, her lips just a bit glossed.
She felt grand, I think - a child-turned princess escorted to a ball.

But her "date" wasn't a perfect prince: neither was he a warted toad.

You know, the stuff of the real-life heart is rarely so simple as streaks of black or ribbons of white. We are all flawed, broken, mending, and growing...men included.

So, if you're taking lessons about the heart, why not from a teacher who loves you the most? One who's flawed, true, but nonetheless captivated by your authentic beauty.
That particular curve of your jaw.
Or the way you hold your pen.
Or your giggle when he makes you laugh; your frown when he 
     makes you mad.
How he watches you so intently when you tell him your story.
And reminds you to continue when all within you longs to stop.

The thing is, this little girl is learning about her heart from the one  showing her how to guard it...one giggle, frown, glance, and reminder...one dance...at a time.
Incidentally, he's also the same one showing her Him: the Father
    who gave her a heart in the first place.

So she can live.
And wonder.
Without worry.
And hopefully a bit less harm.

For a little girl, the heart is risky business, a perilous journey of rise and fall, win and lose.

But this business of learning and guarding: well, maybe that's not so bad.

Especially if the lessons come by dancing with her Daddy.

How To Build a Boat

Too often we underestimate the power of a touch, a smile, a kind word, a listening ear, an honest compliment, or the smallest act of caring, all of which have the potential to turn a life around.  ~Leo Buscaglia

To me, parenting and mothering, in particular, is a never-ending, always-winding string of touches, smiles, kind words, listening ears, honest compliments, and small acts of caring...that don't often feel, in and of themselves at the time of their execution, like life turnarounds.

Sunday last was a good day to remind me how wrong I am.

This is Elijah.

This is Elijah's daddy.

This is Elijah's daddy baptizing him.

This was a day when the little came 'round to the big: a big decision from a big boy lived out in the hands of a big guy, both honoring a big, big God.

It was a day that turned our firstborn son's life in direction anew. It was a marker of "before" and "after". It was his day, a reminder that though children come from us, they are separate from us. They must go their own way while we stand on the docks, watching them set sail...

 and remember how our touches, our smiles, our listening ears, honest compliments, and small acts of caring have, in fact, built their boats and carved their oars and steered their rudders.

Yeah.

Did I mention it was a good day?