hj's haunt

Rain, for heaven's sake!

2011-10-03T13:26:00.000-07:00

Friday afternoon around 2:30pm it started getting cloudy and then…thunder! Thunder, glorious thunder. Then…raindrops! Praise Jesus, it rains in Los Angeles, I thought, giddily. (I think the last time we had rain was in March?)

I ran outside and let the drops make big spots on my T-shirt.

I did a little rain dance. More, please! More!

I texted mom, "It’s raining here!!!!" She texted back, "you’re a weirdo."

I texted B, "It’s thundering, sprinkling! What about where you are?" He texted back, “I hope God washes away the dirty, dirty sins of L.A.”

And then, as quickly as they came, they went. The sprinkles were gone, and I could see the sun, and the spots on my T-shirt were already drying.

The end of the rain.

And L.A. is still sinful.

Doin' up some fall

2011-09-27T08:17:00.000-07:00

It is fall. It is fall. It is fall.

I'm trying. B and I have taken to eating fall-ish dinners--stews and soups--despite 80-degree temps.

I brought a small pumpkin over to some friends' house Saturday night as a hostess gift. It didn't really seem to go with the bright yellow and pink flowers decorating her table (mums, people, where are the mums?!), but whatever. I liked it.

Yesterday afternoon I made a batch of pumpkin scones, and the smell of warm cinnamon and nutmeg was amazing. I just tried a random recipe I found online and would recommend. I made them slightly healthier by reducing the butter from 1 stick to 3/4 of a stick. And I'm enjoying one right now--no problemo. 3/4 is just fine. Maybe you could even go a little less!

Guess what was for dinner? Pumpkin pasta. Following another recipe found online, I made penne with mushrooms and arugula in a pumpkin cheese sauce. Nummy!

And I start a fall class tomorrow. I'm thinking of wearing a sweater, even though school's in Pasadena--inland about 40 minutes--which means hot. But the air conditioner will be cranked, so a sweater or scarf will probably work! I'll take first-day-of-school picture for you, mama!

Worthy Headline

2011-09-26T13:36:00.000-07:00

I spent a lot of time with grandpa at the nursing home center on my recent trip to Arkansas. We’d sit in grandma’s room and talk while she slept. Or we’d walk the halls and he’d introduce me to all the nurses, who adore him and actually already knew that his granddaughter was coming out to visit. He’d already told them all about me.

The center is depressing though, in my opinion. It’s everything a nursing home always is. The smell of urine and poop waft through the hallway every now and then. Processed food is being rolled on carts under blue plastic domes. TVs are turned up super-duper loud and play the news or some out-of-season ice-skating competition. Random outbursts from alzheimered patients sometimes break the monotony. Loud beeps alert nurses that someone needs help. Healthy spouses push sick spouses around in wheelchairs. One husband pushing his wife came up by me and said he had some advice: never get old. (Thanks. Very helpful.) On the bulletin board in the “activity room” are old black and white photographs of the current residents from when they were in high school, the military, college. Old John Wayne VHS movies line one whole shelf. Board games from a long time ago are stacked up on another one, dusty. For nursing homes, I have to admit, this one is very nice, but I had a difficult time seeing the people behind the age. I couldn’t reconcile the high school photos on the wall with the hurting, broken people lining the hallways. For everyone except my grandma, I saw the age, and I felt bad. As I watched three nurses take grandma to the bathroom and get her dressed, I was overcome with gratitude for those who take good care of the sick and elderly in a way I can’t.

On a break to step outside and check in with B, I ran into Nurse Karen. She likes my grandparents a lot. She asked how long they’d been married because the love they demonstrate—mainly the love my grandpa demonstrates with his vigilance—is pretty amazing. She said she knew grandma was in good hands and being taken care of, but she asked how grandpa was doing at home alone. Did I think he was taking good care of himself? During this conversation, she shared that she’s actually left the nursing home center a few times, gotten into her car, and driven over to my grandparents’ house (about a mile and a half away) to check on my grandpa when he hasn’t arrived at the center at his usual time in the morning—6:45am—with donuts for grandma. Each time it turned out he had merely overslept. But her kindness took my breath away. To go so far out of her way, to leave work, to check on my grandpa… I came to three quick conclusions. It takes a special person to be a caregiver—a good one who sees the person first, not the age—in a nursing home center. Second, we should all question how we can show that kind of kindness and go that far out of our way for others. And third, Karen deserves a headline. Sometimes the work B is involved with makes headlines in the newspapers. My friends and I joke about what the headlines would say about our jobs. For me perhaps “Female Editor Discovers Misplaced Comma” or “Split Infinitives Reunite.” Karen’s? Maybe “Nurse Leaves Work To Do Her Job Well” or “Caregivers’ Hearts Determined to be Huge!”

“Editor Greatly Appreciates Nurse”

Fly much?

2011-09-22T15:39:00.000-07:00

“Do our suitcases come on a different plane?”
This was the question the 23-year-old girl next to me on the flight from L.A. to Bentonville, Arkansas, asked me as we landed.
“Mmmm, nope. They’re on this plane,” I answered, trying to keep my eyebrows from going up.
Next question: “Do we have to go through customs?”
“Mmmm, nope. I mean Arkansas does feel like another country, but no.”
“Can they see us?”
"Who’s they?"
"Oh, the people picking us up."
"Can they see us right now?" (I don't understand.)
"No, I mean, when we’re getting off the plane can they see us?"
"No."
"Is it dark here right now? Should I wear my sunglasses?"

It was an interesting flight to be sure. The open, free-for-all seating Allegiant provides for the cheap-os who won’t pay for an assigned seat rendered me in the middle seat, aisle 40, between a 19-year-old girl who had never flown before and a 23-year-old girl who had flown before and still asked me if her suitcase was on a separate plane.

When I sat down the 19-year-old by the window was visibly anxious. She reeked of cigarette smoke. She had short, short cut-offs on and her mid-section showed below a short, short, loose-fitting tank top revealing her zebra-print bra. She asked me if I had flown before. I said yes and asked "you?" "Nope," she told me. She’d only driven between Los Angeles and Las Vegas. My first thought was…NIGHTMARE. L.A. and Vegas? Could it be any worse? And then my myriad, global travels began playing through my mind, and I couldn’t imagine having never been on a plane before. What would that feel like? I suddenly felt really lucky and caught myself taking for granted the opportunity to fly! On the aisle seat on the other side of me was a 23-year-old girl who resembled the deceased Amy Winehouse. She wore black, heeled boots that went above her knees to mid thigh (Julia-Roberts-pretty-woman style!) and she kept her cell phone between her boot and thigh. Her eyelids were rainbows…five perfectly drawn stripes of different-colored eye shadows. Her carry-on? One large Louis Vuitton bag containing all makeup. In fact, there was even a separate trifold wallet of sorts containing just makeup brushes!

Upon reaching the desired altitude and making sure the virgin flier next to me was OK, I put my iPod on and began to doze, until the girls struck up a conversation with me in the middle. Come to find out…the 19-year-old virgin flier was heading to Oklahoma to visit her friend indefinitely. She had bought a one-way ticket and only knew she was going to get drunk the second she got off the plane. Her mom is in prison. She doesn’t know where her dad is. She’s been on her own since she was 13. She goes to raves all the time and does hair for money. The 23-year-old is Mexican, going to school to become a nurse and told her parents she was going to a nursing conference (in Arkansas?) when in reality she was going to visit a guy she recently started dating from a distance. It was the guy who she was concerned may see her as she was getting off the plane.

They turned to me and asked me what I was doing—me in my comfy travel outfit of leggings and flip flops (all body parts covered), my iPod in a little ankle sock because I’m too cheap to buy a fancy case for it, and chapstick and a little mascara for makeup (the eye shadow I do have comes in one small case and has two options, beige and a darker beige). "I’m visiting my grandparents," I say. "And no, no. I've never really frequented the L.A. rave scene, nor the reggae bars in Hollywood, but thanks for the heads up on the big rave taking place on New Year’s behind the coliseum."

The contrasts of our lives seemed to create expansive divides between the seats of aisle 40. But apparently I was still cool—cool-ass to be more precise. Upon landing, the 19-year-old called her boyfriend to tell him she had survived her first flight. That she was nervous but thankfully she had some pretty cool-ass people sitting next to her.

I got off the plane, walked to baggage claim, and began descending the escalator and there…standing at the bottom, both arms outstretched and waving was my grandpa, beaming.

I turned and waved goodbye to my cool-ass flight buddies and went to hug grandpa. He asked how the plane ride was; I just answered "fine."

Chasin' waterfalls

2011-09-09T08:07:00.000-07:00

With friends who were in town over Labor Day weekend, B and I went hiking up in Topanga Canyon—L.A. County guidebook in hand. We chose the Santa Ynez Waterfall trail. When it's pushing 90 degrees and dry and deserty, who wouldn’t choose the option featuring water? We got started and slowly made our way down.

Odd. I questioned how we’d hit a waterfall if we were going down…don’t you normally go up for that?

About 25 minutes in, we pass a young family towing a two or three year old. They’re sweaty and squinting into the sun. We asked how the waterfall was. The dad doesn’t make eye contact, only grumbles, shakes his hand and rolls his eyes, mumbles there’s no water. Committed, we continue on anyways. Another 20 minutes in, it seems like we should be there by now. We pass two more hikers. We ask how much further to the waterfall. The guy actually laughs. "Uh, there’s no waterfall." (Like duh! Why would you think there’s a waterfall?!) He continued that there’s no water, but the fall is just up and around the corner and if it were raining we may be able to see something.

I’m thinking ok, when does it ever rain in L.A., and when it does, why would I be hiking in Topanga Canyon?

We continue on, now fully convinced we’re searching after a make-believe waterfall, and I’m wondering why our guidebook says "waterfall!" We go up and around the corner and…nothing. Just more dry creekbed. No hint of a place where water may fall if there was water to fall. B, the ultimate Eagle Scout, is floored. We cannot go on a hike without a destination! There must be a point at which we say "We’ve arrived… And now we go back." The trail we're on seems to stop and start in fits now, but B presses on. Trailing behind our friend says, "anyone else find it ironic that we’re in search of a waterfall that has no water in the first place?" I start singing TLC: “Don’t go chasin’ waterfalls, please stick to the rivers and the lakes that you’re used to…”

We never found a waterfall or anything that resembled the site of a waterfall, and ultimately turned around sweaty and squinting into the sun. That’s so life though. You always think you’ll hit a point of arrival. Once that happens… When we get this or that… After we’ve accomplished that… But the trail never ends. It may turn, but then you’re just in search of yet another point of arrival.

Even though we didn’t find a waterfall, we had a great time in each other’s company and enjoying a break from the oppressive L.A. congestion. We smelled warm eucalyptus and wildflowers, saw quick lizards zigzagging in front of us, and watched birds soar high above us…

"You're blessed when you're content with just who you are—no more, no less. That's the moment you find yourselves proud owners of everything that can't be bought.”
Matthew 5:5 (The Message)

Where the fall has no leaves...

2011-09-01T08:56:00.000-07:00

It’s September 1, and I’ve been throwing an internal tantrum the past week or so. Facebook posts from friends and family (who don’t live in Cali) talk about the onslaught of all things fall—cinnamon, leaves changing, cooler temps for sweaters, pumpkins, fresh pens and pencils for school. Oh, they’re so excited for the change of seasons. I want to cry. Food blogs are now apple ciders, soups, hearty stews, breads—“autumn delights.” I want to cry some more.

I look outside and see pavement. The sun glares 85 degrees. People are in their swimsuits and flip flops. And southern Californians will try to tell you that we do get fall out here. But don’t believe them. I’ve been through this before. People walk to the beach barefoot to surf on Thanksgiving day. It ain’t right! Temps that are 10 degrees cooler don’t cut it. And just because you wear your scarf doesn’t mean the weather requires it! In some places it’s a necessity, not an accessory.

I’m not joking when I say I’m crabby about it. Fall has always been my favorite time of year, but living in California renders it a sad, homesick time of year (experience has told me this!). I’ve tried to think of creative ways B and I can round up some fall around these here parts, but everything seems a bit superficial against the backdrop of palm trees and blinking L.A. billboards.

Last fall though B and I had to send pics to each other of our respective falls—Virginia and Minnesota. Newly married and miles and a timezone apart, the autumn months passed by in a lonely blur as we spent hours on Skype and mailed each other endless packages. So, despite this whining post, I must tell you that a fall-less autumn with B brings more color to the season than an autumn without B. And to help us weather our lack of fall this month—dear friends arrive this evening for a visit over Labor Day weekend, and our three sibs fly in together in a couple of weeks for what will most assuredly be a raucous, laugh-filled weekend. And with these thoughts…my internal tantrum subsides as the colors of love and comfort outshine the colors of changing leaves.

Sigh. I suppose I’ll pull out my scarves anyways.

Probably Jesus

2011-08-29T11:26:00.000-07:00

What can be sickening is that we never get sick of each other. B and I are together all the time, and we haven’t tired of each other’s company yet. At the end of a great weekend in which we never separated—I mean we even went into the same fitting room to try clothes on—I crawled into bed wondering how someone could not get sick of me and my idiosyncrasies. And I was sad that the weekend was over because that’d mean, sigh…we’d have to go our separate ways for work on Monday…
Sickening, I tell you!

So, I turned the light off and asked B as I rolled next to him: “how is it that we never get sick of each other?” Without a moment’s pause he said—in a simple, no-duh way—“Jesus.” Ha! The Sunday School answer, indeed, but I think probably the right one in this case.

And completely unrelated…
At LAX, a woman headed to China tried to get through security with live yellow birds stuffed in socks and taped to her body. Say wha?!! Read. I have to ask, why is this on the front page of LA Times right now, and how exactly did she think her avian friends were going to make it China?
Jesus maybe.

Take your much and do something little

2011-08-24T13:56:00.000-07:00

I’m working on a catalog of success stories for a Christian non-profit that feeds starving children around the world, and I’ve spent the past four hours reading up on and writing about these children. Children so hungry and so malnourished that when they finally get food, they actually can’t eat it. They vomit—their body rejecting it, having forgotten how to digest. With time, if they can fight through the vomiting, their bodies will eventually readjust and begin taking in the nourishment again. A 13-year-old girl in Liberia wrote a thank you for the food that she received. She’s so happy now to be getting three meals a week. Three meals a week!?!

Meanwhile, my kitchen timer goes off, and the lemon blueberry muffins I made this morning are done…
I don’t want one anymore.
The injustice brings nausea.

These children’s stories make another timer go off. They alert us. They snap us out of our grocery-shopping, restaurant-going bubble. We have much; many have little. We should take our much and do something little—sponsor a child, volunteer to pack food, drop off canned goods at nearby pantry. Or do what my momma does well…bake cookies and deliver them to someone who could use the compassionate attention.

Love, deep and long

2011-08-23T13:12:00.000-07:00

Last November, I sat in the corner of the hospital room watching my grandpa stroke my grandma’s cheek, softly, shakily combing her hair back with his hand. Grandma suffered the first of what has now been many little strokes. And thankfully, mom and I happened to be visiting when it happened. But what came to mind as I sat there watching my grandparents was the photograph of my grandma on their honeymoon. Stunning, absolutely stunning, in her swimsuit. The first time I saw that picture, my grandparents became real people, not just my grandparents. They became lovers. They became 20-somethings. New parents having their first baby--my dad. People who had struggled through the very things I’ve struggled with.

Grandma’s lower lip quivered and my grandpa bravely smiled, patted her hand, and the doctor came in…

The hospital released my grandma a day later, so we took her back to the care facility where she was staying. Grandma clutched the rocky road ice cream that grandpa had stopped to get for her at the grocery store. It was her favorite, so he wanted to make sure she had some when she returned to the facility—where she did not want to go. She just wanted to go home, she said. She wanted to go home and eat her ice cream. She just wanted to go home. Why wouldn’t we just take her home?! I so desperately wanted to fulfill her wishes. I wanted her to go home with grandpa and eat her ice cream! I wanted her to make beef stroganoff for dinner. I wanted her to roll her eyes and say "Oh, Bob" when my grandpa would get sentimental and tell a story about them. I wanted to go home too. Instead, holding back tears, I tried to explain why we weren’t heading home.

After we got her situated back in her room, I plopped down on a chair while grandma dozed off, ice cream completely forgotten about in the hubbub of getting her back into her room. Mom and grandpa went to talk to nurses. I was left to beeping of machines and grandma’s uneven breathing. On the armoire in the room was a note alerting the nurses not to take my grandma’s clothes because “patient’s family” did them. In the armoire was a plastic bag containing some of my grandma’s clothes and underwear. It then registered that grandpa was taking grandma's things home on a regular basis, washing them, and bringing them back, even though they could do it at the facility. Even though he battles his own physical disabilities.

A few months later I returned to visit with my dad. Grandma had declined more. Grandpa, dad, and me went to visit grandma, and as we walked down the hallway to her door, we could hear her crying out for help. Grandpa tried to quicken his pace with his walker. Once to her, she clutched my grandpa’s arm and cried that she had had more nightmares. Grandpa stroked her face, calmed her down. Said he was there now. Not to worry.

But what about when he’s not there?! When she’s not there?! Their love is so so deep and so so long. But with that comes pain, loss, deep and long. I lose my breath sometimes looking at B, wanting the longevity and depth of grandma and grandpa’s love, but so afraid, too...

Grandma is headed to her real home soon. And if you ask grandpa, he’ll smile with watery eyes, and tell you that he and his bride--that stunning woman in her swimsuit on their honeymoon--have had an amazing life. What shines through is not the pain, but the love.

We don't yet see things clearly. We're squinting in a fog, peering through a mist. But it won't be long before the weather clears and the sun shines bright! We'll see it all then, see it all as clearly as God sees us, knowing him directly just as he knows us!

But for right now, until that completeness, we have three things to do to lead us toward that consummation: Trust steadily in God, hope unswervingly, love extravagantly. And the best of the three is love.
--1 Corinthians 13:12-13

Come hang and...

2011-08-19T08:54:00.000-07:00

Happy Friday, friends.
Whatcha up to this weekend?
If you came over to hang with us, you’d:

Hear Josh Garrels. Our current music obsession.

Download his new album for free here.

Eat peanut butter oatmeal sammich cookies.
I made ’em for B as he cannot get enough peanut butter. And now he can’t get enough of me either. I guess he’s the envy of all his squad mates too. Their wives have never made peanut butter oatmeal sammiches! Check out the recipe.

Sit against our newly covered throw pillows. Just sewed some crazy-easy envelope covers using this site for help. Jill, you could do these too! I promise.

Hear me saying “fuhgeddaboutbit” because I’ve suddenly turned into a mobster. We recently watched the movie Donnie Brasco (with Johnny Depp and Al Pacino) about real FBI agent Joe Pistone who went undercover for six years in the mob. His work led to hundreds of convictions. After watching the movie, I read the book. Donnie Brasco: Unfinished Business: Shocking Declassified Details from the FBI's Greatest Undercover Operation and a Bloody Timeline of the Fall of the Mafia. Just finished the Unfinished Business. Fuhgeddaboutit.

Pray with us for little Levi, who is still recovering.
http://lovinglevidaniel.blogspot.com/

Wonder who Shelby is because we’ll be talking about our friend. She is entering the Minnesota State Fair baking competition this weekend, on top of selling her sweet goodies at the New Hope Farmer’s Market and a food/wine event called The Homegrown Experience.

Brew a Petite Saison with us. B ordered the kit from Northern Brewer in St. Paul and has been checking its FedEx status religiously. It should arrive this afternoon. We should brew this evening. Wanna know what a Petite Saison is? Check it out.

Maybe help us put together a photo album for our 1-year anniversary. I ordered the pics and hope they arrive today. I love B. Madly.

Wanna hang?

Things to do in L.A. ...

2011-08-14T11:24:00.000-07:00

Great news! After a longer-than-expected surgery, doctors were able to remove all of the tumor from Levi without damaging any of the optic nerves. An MRI confirmed that it appears they got it all!! WOOOO!!!! So, he is now crazy swollen, but recovering well, only on tylenol for the pain, and drinking chocolate milk. For more: lovinglevidaniel.blogspot.com

For fun, I thought I'd share the suggestions that the L.A. Times gives in their Calendar section for things to do this week around town. Lord, help us...

National Go Topless Day
"A rally and march for women's topless equal rights. March proceeds along OceanFront Walk from Navy Street to Windward Circle. Venice Beach Pavilion..."

World Gyoza Eating Championship
"The L.A. Nisei Week Japanese Festival welcomes Major League Eating's top superstars for its 5th Annual eating competition. Competitors will have 10 minutes to eat as many Japanese potstickers as possible..."

Fight Club OC
"An innovative series featuring boxing and mixed martial arts competitive fights with ringside luxury suites. VIP access for season ticketholders..."

Annual Watermelon Festival
"Free watermelon slices, carving demonstrations, eating contests, greased watermelon relay races, seed spitting contests, growing contests, wearable art contests and nightly prize drawings..."

So...this week you can find B and me hiding in our house...

More on Levi

2011-08-12T13:34:00.000-07:00

It's Friday afternoon, 1:35 Cali time, and I can't stop thinking of little Levi currently in surgery. Because so many of you have emailed and texted wondering more about him...THANK YOU!...I wanted to share a bit more...

A number of years ago while living in San Diego, I went on a mission trip to South Africa with my church. Dan and Kara were on my team. For 10 days we planted gardens together throughout small villages in South Africa while simultaneously trying to teach locals to be self-sustaining. Needless to say in prepping and praying for the trip, sitting next to each other on a couple red-eye flights, hours spent down on our hands and knees together in dirt ...we all got to know each other very well. In fact, my team, affectionately called TEAM 2, got so close that we decided to do it again, going to Tijuana, Mexico, a year or so later to help build houses together. Additionally TEAM 2 would get together regularly for dinner and hang outs, and despite people moving, getting married, moving again, we've kept in relatively good contact. Shortly before I moved back to Minnesota, Dan and Kara had their first little boy Kaden. And then came Levi, now two years old.

If you've spent a little time on their blog, you'll see that they found out Sunday Levi has a brain tumor. Now, just six days later, he is in surgery which I guess could last 6+ hours. It started at 11am Cali time, I believe. I haven't heard anything yet. Kara did post on Facebook this morning that Levi just wanted some FOOD! Poor guy couldn't eat because of the surgery. But not understanding, he just kept rattling of food! Hot dog? Waffles? Chocolate milk? Hot dog? Waffles? Chocolate milk? And then his big eyes in the pictures on their blog today...my own eyes filled with tears. Life just isn't fair.

I have to admit...last night when B got home from work, I said, "Do you think the more people who pray for Levi makes a difference?" The second the words came out of my mouth, I cringed because I knew I was getting caught up in the things of THIS world. B said "yes, yes I do, because we cannot put God in a box or in our worldly concepts." He's right. I'm thinking about the number of hands folded and the outcome of Levi's surgery in a very transactional sense. 5,000 hands will maybe = positive outcome? 500 = not-so-positive? I want the black and white of it. Tell me, God, how many hands you need to heal Levi because I'll go out and get that?! This way of thinking gives me the control and diminishes God's power. B's point was less about the numbers and more about God's power.

Later last night I read Dan's most-recent post in which he said that they were choosing to hope and to trust in God. He said:
As I have wrestled with God trying to comprehend all that has passed this last week I have come to realize that even my own child is not my own. Each of us is created with a purpose. A purpose that is so much greater then ourselves. Because of that I cannot choose how God will use my child for his purposes. I do believe that God has a purpose in what is happening right now. This is no accident, this did not take the Creator by surprise. While in our limited scope this floored us, in God's grand view of things this is all part of the process of showing Himself to the world. If God's whole purpose in this is to show off His church and his miraculous power, then I am okay with that.

I was reminded of what I already knew. God hears our prayers--whether there are 500 or 5,000. He knows. And in praying to God, we acknowledge His power and give up our own. This world is messed out, so the outcome may not always be what we want in earthly terms, but God is there. He is here. And Dan and Kara have testified that in the midst of their horror, God has held their hands.

Will post again when I hear something.
Pray.

What's your currency?

2011-08-11T18:49:00.000-07:00

At Target the other day I saved us $15 between the coupons I cut out from the Sunday paper, 5% off thanks to Target RedCard, and an additional 5% off for reaching so many points through our Target Pharmacy rewards. $15! I was stoked. When I told B of my awesome savings, he says, “wow, that’s like almost 3 six-packs of beers.”

The next day I suddenly heard the street cleaners. I jumped up from the couch in my pjs, running outside and up to the street in my bare feet to move the car before... BLASTED! We forgot to move one of our cars. I was too late. The ticket was already there, smiling on our windshield. Here in Hermosa Beach you can’t park on one side of the street Mondays from 8-noon. You can’t park on the other side of the street on Tuesdays 10-2pm. C’mon! Remember this 52 weeks of the year? I called B to tell him of our $38 mistake. We commiserated later that we had to have lost about eight trips to fro-yo (frozen yogurt, for those of you just tuning in) in that $38.

And now that freelancing has picked up for me, I see the cost of everything in terms of how many words, articles, I’d have to write to cover the cost. My camera’s screen went dark…the “screen of death,” I guess. Fixing it will cost about $100. I immediately calculated the necessary word count to cover that.

Our currency? Beer, fro-yo, and words.

1 point for FB, endless prayers for Levi

2011-08-10T09:11:00.001-07:00

I recently helped mom get on "the" Facebook. I have to admit, her concerns and hesitations reminded me of the weirdness of it. Having been on for a few years now, I guess I've become immune to the lack of privacy, which is creepy in and of itself. But recently I've become more and more annoyed with others' statuses and have even taken to de-friending a few oh-so-distant people. Interestingly, for one of my classes right now, I'm working on a group project in which we're researching the intricacies of Facebook...what it says about our culture (scary!), what it doesn't say about our culture, and what it can and can't offer in terms of ministry application. All this to say, I've been shaking my head and rolling my eyes at Facebook over the past few weeks until a couple days ago...

A post from a dear friend alerted us: doctors had just found a brain tumor in their little 2-year-old Levi. Connected to the post were 20-some comments, friends and family saying they were praying and asking how they could help. A short while later, my friend posted that they really needed someone to pick up a signed insurance document at the hospital and take it somewhere to overnight it. Was anyone available? Two seconds later, someone said, "I'm on it." My friends have since set up a blog that they update regularly...I've been glued it. And they let people know via Facebook when there's a new post. Recently my friend wrote that she literally feels lifted up and carried by all the people praying for her Levi. Alright. I give. Kudos to Facebook on this one!

Anyways, little Levi goes in for some pretty major surgery Friday morning. Doctors will try to remove the tumor that is wrapped around both optic nerves and his pituitary gland. Ugh. Pray.

Find out more: lovinglevidaniel.blogspot.com.

Embrace the yeast

2011-08-07T13:31:00.000-07:00

I guess it’s a common fear—the fear of yeast. Two friends have now said it scares them…It’s needy and finicky and…well…scary. It’s ALIVE!, they say. They’re not alone. I’ve come across a few food blogs recently in which the blogger is bragging about his or her recent act of overcoming a yeast fear with the miracle of an amazing bread or cake. But they were afraid of yeast.

Well, we are not afraid of yeast in our house. This morning I helped B transfer a homebrew from one glass carboy (think massive jug) to another. We mixed a batch of beer a week ago with some friends—a dark, sweet Porter—and since then it’s been ALIVE in our guest bedroom, bubbling and active with yeast. In fact, in the first 48 hours, the yeast was so active it sounded like coffee was brewing and dripping in a coffee pot. Really it was just our brew, which we’re calling the “Icebath Porter” because we had to initially cool it in a bath of ice in the tub. When we picked up the ingredients from the brewing store, the guys there asked B if he had a chiller. B said no—We’re from Minnesota. We could just throw the thing outside half the time! But in the absence of a Minnesota winter, an icebath in the tub did just fine.

After helping B, I got my own yeast going this morning. I’m now obsessed with five-minute artisan bread. Apparently it's a revolution. Check it out! In a big Tupperware, I mix yeast, warm water, flour, salt. Let it rise (go yeast, go!) for two hours at room temp, then cover and throw it in the fridge. It’s good for the next two weeks! I can make bread, pizza dough, cinnamon rolls, and more bread…all out of one batch.

So, anyways, the two hours is up. I need to go throw my dough in the fridge. But dear friends, for some seriously good beer and bread, please embrace the yeast. Or, just come visit. We'll share.

For the freshman haze

2011-08-05T09:18:00.000-07:00

B and I hit the beach Wednesday night to catch the sunset. Armed with blankets, a Nalgene of beer, a travel mug of wine (that sounds bad—they were less than half full!), and beach chairs, we walked a mere 5 minutes before our toes found themselves wiggling in sand. I know I rip on Los Angeles a lot, but this is definitely a huge plus of our location! We can catch sunsets over the ocean on a regular basis. Anyways, that night everything was crystal clear. We could see for miles. In fact we could almost make out trees on top of the Malibu mountains, and the horizon line was so sharp.

This morning, still in my pjs and bed hair, I walked three blocks to the nearest mailbox to drop off a few letters. The same sky today is a heavy gray, and I couldn’t make out where the sky stops and the ocean begins. There's just a wall of gray at the end of our street. The Malibu mountains are nonexistent.

Life’s like that. So clear sometimes. So gray and hazy sometimes. I recently edited a devotional booklet for college freshmen—specifically devotions for each day of their first week on their new campus. A crazy time to be sure. The devotions were actually written by older students who knew all-too-well the fears and excitement their underclass men and women were feeling: Where the heck is my classroom? My roommate seems weird—what if we don’t get along? I suddenly miss my mom. What is my major going to be because that’s going to determine MY WHOLE LIFE? One of the upperclass students referenced Paul’s letter to the Philippians. Paul basically says, look, I’m not an expert in all of this stuff, but I’ve got my eye on the most important goal. “I’ve got my eye on the goal, where God is beckoning us onward—to Jesus. I’m off and running, and I’m not turning back.” (Phil. 3:14).

The student told incoming freshman to keep their eyes on the one thing that never turns gray or hazy. The one thing that is always crystal clear amidst life’s lack of clarity.

Good advice for this cloudy Friday morning if you're feeling like a freshman.

How to be happy?

2011-07-31T22:29:00.000-07:00

It’s a Sunday night. I am fighting the residual effects of a nasty cold that has over the past few days left me wanting to yell rather stuffed-uppedly—“man down!” I haven’t spent this much time horizontal in I don’t know how long. But I lay here on the couch blogging, Bon Iver singing in the background, and my hot husband checking his email, drinking a beer at the kitchen table. Despite my clogged head and raw nose, I look at him, I feel the cool Cali night breeze coming in through the door, and I am happy.

This morning we rummaged through the LA Times (horizontally, mind you!). A two-page spread in PARADE magazine stopped me. It was a quiz: "Do you know how to be happy?" Question #1 asked if cheerful people A. only do the things they like, B. try to boost their mood each day, or C. generally don’t give happiness much thought. The answer? C. People who place a high emphasis on happiness and actually pursue it on a regular basis can do more harm than good. You can actually become more depressed in your pursuit of happiness! Those who aren’t caught up with being happy are actually happier.

B and I got to talking about how it’s a mindset. It’s an internal mindset. Not based on external factors. A friend recently shared something another friend asks her frequently…”Does life suck? Or do you suck at life?” It’s a little harsh, but the sentiment rings true. If you think life sucks, perhaps you need to take a step back and ask if it’s your perception of life that sucks instead! Place your happiness barometer in the bags of material goods, the relationships with others, or even on the scale in the bathroom and chances are you’re not going to get the reading you want. Another friend who has battled obesity was recently sharing with B and I that he had an epiphany…he can no longer base his sense of accomplishment in the numbers of weight loss—the number of pounds he’s lost or the calories he hasn’t taken in. Inevitably that disappoints and drives him crazy! Instead, he needs to choose to focus on how he’s living a much healthier lifestyle overall. And if the scale happens to show two extra pounds one day? Who cares because he’s eating healthy now, working out, living actively. For him, the pursuit of weight loss had actually started working against him!

The quiz went on to say, among other things, that people who return from vacations are no happier than those who haven’t been on vacation. Point? Things of this life are not happiness-bringing. And I think it’s because this life is ever-changing. One day you’re healthy. The next day you’re not. One day you have a spouse. The next day you don’t. One day you have a job. The next day you don’t. It's never the same. The second you buy something, the new version of that something has hit the shelves (or the web), so now you need the latest version to be happy. It doesn't stop.

Do I know how to be happy? Probably not. I mean, who does in L.A. really?! (sarcasm) But I think a pursuit to know a God who doesn’t change brings some serious peace—no matter what the news, the scale, or bank account says.

Possums, raccoons, and crows. Oh my.

2011-07-27T12:11:00.000-07:00

"Why must our yard be Jumanji?” B asked me the other night. As I stepped over some blood and a large crow’s black feather on my way to the get the mail yesterday, I wondered this too, especially because we have not one blade of grass to call our own. What is so attractive to creatures about our cemented patio?

1. There’s Hoover. A busy, bustling hummingbird that B and I named—I thought vacuums and B thought J. Edgar. Hoover built a nest that held her (I just realized she has a man’s name) three eggs before they hatched into mini chirping hummingbirds who recently learned to fly...or hum.

2. There’s a very, very large squirrel that ate my first tomato, chomps on the berries in our tree and spits them out on us while we sit outside, and basically thinks he owns the joint. He laughs in our faces as we spray the hose at him. B put out these sticky, gooey traps. When we returned from vacation last week, one trap was peculiarly hairy, and we haven’t seen him around lately.

3. While chillin' with some company late at night on our patio, we heard what we thought were footsteps on the front walkway. Turns out it was four raccoons, bug-eyed in B’s flashlight, but again…nonchalantly turning away as if they had every right to be there. B grabbed the hose again.

4. Two raccoons attacked a big black crow on our patio. We heard the most agonizing cah-caws coming from the crow. By the time we got out there, two proud raccoons were strutting away and the crow was laying belly up, blood splattered, feathers everywhere. To put it out of its misery and to save our ears from the cah-cawing, B grabbed the shovel. Suffice it to say, the thing would not die, and I’m pretty sure B scared the neighbors with his antics. But I think the crow who seemed to keep coming back to life was scaring him too.

5. I was up early Monday morning to take a friend to the airport. "Watch out," B said, as he returned from loading the car with luggage. "Why?" I asked. "There’s a big possum out there."

Jumanji I tell you.

So many things wrong...

2011-07-20T20:10:00.000-07:00

with this ridiculously contradictory sign!

It was guarding one lone parking spot in a completely open parking lot. Does Jack in the Box really draw such a crowd, more specifically a crowd that likes to DRIVE THRU and then PARK? Is this sign necessary? I don't think so.

But if it truly is necessary, at least put a hyphen between "drive" and "thru"!

And for the record, no, we were not at Jack in the Box. We were at Starbucks next to Jack in the Box when we spotted this sign. We parked and walked in--Starbucks didn't have any designated drive-thru parking spots.

A God-breathed Genealogy

2011-07-14T15:53:00.000-07:00

In class yesterday, we considered the differences between the beginnings of Matthew and Luke, specifically the differences in their genealogies. Matthew starts with his genealogy, and Luke does his at the end of the third chapter because they had very different agendas. Additionally, Matthew starts his genealogy with Abraham and works his way through 14 generations back to Jesus. Luke, starts with Jesus and goes all the way back to Adam who he calls “son of God.” (Luke 3:38)

And then just a few short verses later, Luke calls Jesus the “son of God.” My prof stopped and asked us how the heck Luke thought he could make such a huge comparison between Jesus and Adam. Good question, I guess. I didn’t really know the answer he was looking for and last time I checked, Adam was pretty different from Jesus.

The answer? The Holy Spirit.

Luke knew God had breathed His Spirit into man and woman—Adam and Eve—at the very beginning, back in Genesis. He also believed that Jesus, too, was filled with God's spirit. The next verse after calling Adam a “son of God,” Luke says, “Jesus, full of the Holy Spirit, returned from the Jordan and was led by the Spirit” (4:1). They’re both sons of God because God has breathed His Spirit into both.

I was reminded in a unique way that we’re all made in the image of God. We're all God-breathed, all part of the genealogy. At some point that genealogy would say HJ, the daughter of God. I like that. I like Luke.

Why the tan?

2011-07-12T11:05:00.000-07:00

Someone at B's work asked him what he'd been up to over the weekend because B was a little tanner than he had been on Friday.

Seems to me like asking a Minnesotan in January why he or she is so pale!

Somewhere in the middle

2011-07-11T15:40:00.000-07:00

L.A. is not fond of the middle.

It does water without end. Oceans that stretch into nothing but more ocean leaving you feeling lonely and uneasy. Turn the other direction, and it does pavement and concrete without end. 16-lane freeways, houses upon houses upon retail stores upon office buildings upon more houses, leaving you feeling claustrophobic and gasping for anything green and real (not just the green turf many put in their 2-feet-by-10-feet front “yards”).

It does obscene wealth. People who wear jewelry that costs more money than B and I could make in five years. Outfits that cost more money than B and I will probably ever make. Cars so sleek. Houses so huge, so cold and expansive. And then it does obscene poverty right next to its obscene wealth. Homeless people whose faces are a shade of deep red verging on purple because they have nowhere to go to get out of the blaring sun, except maybe the shade created by one of the sleek cars. They smell in front of the expansive homes. They talk to themselves. And they carry empty, holey plastic bags as people pass them by with full Neiman Marcus, Lululemon, and Chanel bags.

Even L.A.’s trees aren’t fond of the middle. Tall, skinny, smooth, empty palm tree trunks reaching for the sky. Reaching just so high they almost tip over and then poof…green, lush, spiky branches (or are they the leaves?). Such stark contrasts.

For those in the middle, those wanting a little natural beauty, but some of the comforts and fun of city living, those who have more than enough to get by, but never want life to be money, those who want a good ole' maple or evergreen every now and then…L.A. leaves you wondering where to go.

One year ago...

2011-07-09T07:51:00.000-07:00

"My response is to get down on my knees before the Father, this magnificent Father who parcels out all heaven and earth. I ask him to strengthen you by his Spirit—not a brute strength but a glorious inner strength—that Christ will live in you as you open the door and invite him in. And I ask him that with both feet planted firmly on love, you'll be able to take in with all followers of Jesus the extravagant dimensions of Christ's love. Reach out and experience the breadth! Test its length! Plumb the depths! Rise to the heights! Live full lives, full in the fullness of God.

God can do anything, you know—far more than you could ever imagine or guess or request in your wildest dreams! He does it not by pushing us around but by working within us, his Spirit deeply and gently within us."

Ephesians 3:14-21

Holy Schmoly

2011-07-06T15:34:00.001-07:00

Yesterday I started a two-week intensive course at Fuller Seminary in Pasadena. After eight hours' worth of lecture, I’ve decided that my prof is definitely one of my favorites, and he is most decidedly the funniest with a serious dry sense of humor. I chuckle at least every five minutes, and I started keeping track…my chuckles most often occur with his use of the following phrases (and note, he is usually deadpan as he says these things):

Good golly
As he points out a picture on his PowerPoint of a rather funny-looking scholar who studied papyri back in the day
“Look at this papyrologist…good golly, he’d scare my grandson. I’ll wait a few years before I show him this PowerPoint, I guess…”

Holy schmoly
As he jokes about some of the mistakes that have occurred in the printing of various Bibles throughout the ages, like “Go and sin on more” instead of “Go and sin no more”
“I mean, holy schmoly. Go on! Sin some more! What are people to do?! Ay yay yay. holy schmoly.”

Goood night
As he talks about the stuttering emperor Claudius
“Gooooood night! This guy liked food so much they had to poison him twice. I’m not kidding. I’m not making this stuff up. He ate the food his wife poisoned. But then visited the vomitorium and came back ready for more. So, gooood night, the wife had to run in back and make more poison!”

And my favorite...
Shazam!
Like, "Where was Jesus? Shazam! Vanished, disappeared from the grave. Risen from the dead. Shazam!"

Good golly, it's gonna be a fun two weeks.

God's country?

2011-07-05T17:07:00.000-07:00

The F bomb and alcohol flowed freely yesterday in our beach community. I mean, not for B and me. At one point in the evening, I realized that B was playing the banjo and I was reading an Introduction to the New Testament for class today. I told you—we are cool! But earlier in the day we hit the beach, and it was filled with debauchery of all sorts. I physically cringed as I saw moms and dads building sandcastles with their kids as their beach neighbor two feet away swore up a storm and drunkenly dropped their red cup of rum and Coke into the sand. I also cringed at some of the swimsuits (or lack thereof!).

From our blanket on the beach, we could look back at the row of beach houses and see numerous parties going on—vulgar dancing, loud music that didn’t speak too highly of women, and at one point, guys getting into a fight. (Yes, my prudishness is growing.)

Woo! Happy Independence day! I found myself wondering what Abe Lincoln, George Washington, Andrew Jackson, and the like, would think of us celebrating the 4th of July in such fashion.

In church on Sunday (a new one B and I checked out), pastor made a startling comment for some. He said, “This is not God’s country.” Wear your red, white, and blue, but know that the United States is not God’s chosen. (And neither is northern Minnesota, even though they screenprint those T-shirts for certain areas: The North Shore, God’s Country). I mean, if anything, God’s country would likely be the area of modern-day Iraq, Iran, Syria, perhaps? But even those areas are not just God’s country.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I am proud to be an American and very, very grateful to have the liberties I have. I feel bad sometimes that I was lucky enough to be born here and not elsewhere. But after seeing what our good ole’ U.S.A. country looked like yesterday, am glad that God’s true country is yet to come! In John 18:36, Jesus tells Pilate: “My kingdom is not of this world.”

My spider hunter

2011-07-01T09:08:00.000-07:00

If B had woken up between 7:50am and 8:30 yesterday morning, he would have found a pair of big blue eyes two inches away, expectantly staring at him. By placing my head mere inches away from him and staring, staring, staring, I willed him to wake up and come play with me, drink coffee with me, start our day. It didn’t work. And finally the longing for coffee pulled me out of bed. Knowing B was tired, I just didn’t have the heart to wake him.

So, I made coffee, plopped on the couch in my usual spot and flipped open the computer…do do do do, just reading the paper, checking my email…and all of a sudden, from somewhere underneath the blanket crawled a nasty, fat, black spider. He headed up the back cushion. I gasped, jumped up, and fought the urge to yell for B all at once. Having lived alone for a long time, I do kill my own spiders, thank you very much. I lunged for a sandal and came back to the couch, pulled up the cushion, and of course the thing is gone. Just as quickly as it came. Gone.

No sirree was I going to return to the couch; I moved to the chair across the room. A few minutes later, B comes into the living room, yawning. He looks around, slightly confused. Where was I? Not in my usual spot?

“Uh, what’s going on?” he asked when he saw me.

“Well…there’s a nasty spider over there somewhere in the couch.”

“So you’re never going to sit there again?”

“No, maybe not!”

Without skipping a beat, he went to the couch and pulled out all the cushions. There was B in his underwear digging through the nooks and crannies of our sofa sleeper. Next thing I know he’s got a flashlight. “Really, babe, it’s OK. I’ll get you some coffee.” He’s silent. Rubs his eyes. Keeps looking. Nothing.

Leaving everything amiss (sofa sleeper pulled out), we eventually left to go for a walk. When we returned I intended to put the couch back, but B said he had an idea for finding the spider and that he’d be back. He walked outside and up to his car. Huh?! What the heck? Is he going somewhere? Spider bait of some sort? What could he possibly have in his car to help in this situation? He comes back with a long, skinny metal tool that my dad gave the boys for Christmas last year. At the end of this tool is a little circular mirror. When the boys pulled this out of their stockings, they acted as though this was the greatest thing ever. Like at some point in the near future, they were going to be hiding in a sewer and would need to extend this metal thing up above their heads with the mirror above ground to see if it was safe to come out. I didn’t get it. But now here B was with his special tool, suddenly using it to find a spider in our sofa sleeper. “Ok, babe, really, it’s OK, you need to get going to work. I promise I’ll sit there again.” Silence. He keeps looking. Mirror here. Mirror there. I go to start some laundry.

“Babe?” he yells.

“Yes?”

“Was it hairy?”

“I don’t know and what does it matter?"

“I see something but can’t tell if it’s a thread or a hairy leg, but…it’s not moving.”

“Yeah, I don’t think it was hairy. Forget the stupid spider. It’s OK. Really.”

At this point, I’ve lost all hope of finding the spider and am fully prepared to wake up the next morning with a sick spider bite somewhere on my body.

And suddenly I hear a loud “AH HA!” I round the hallway corner, and there’s my grinning knight with his shining metal mirror tool slowly standing up with a wadded-up paper towel. I smiled; his persistence and patience paid off again. I gave up hours ago. I went to kiss him.

But then he says, “I thought we were talking like tarantula.”

“No,” I said, thinking maybe I should take the kiss back. And maybe if it was the size of a tarantula he would have found it sooner. “Tarantulas are hairy. I said it wasn’t hairy! And I also told you that you could stop looking a long time ago!!”

:) I love my spider hunter.

Cake bars for the brudder

2011-06-23T12:06:00.000-07:00

I just pulled out a pan of “cake bars.” My brother and I love these. We used to make them all the time as kids and eat like ¾ of the pan in one sitting. They’re ridiculously easy, and we prefer them a little doughy. Sometimes we sprinkle powdered sugar on top. I generally only eat them when I’m with my brother now, and guess what? I’m gonna be with my brudder tonight! He’s coming out to hang with me and B for a long weekend, and there’s a fresh batch of “cake bars” ready to go (and maybe his favorite homemade mac and cheese too)!

1 yellow cake mix

2 eggs

1/3 cup melted butter

chocolate chips as you wish

Mix it all in a 9x13. Bake at 400 degrees for about 17 minutes. Voila.

Learn how to die

2011-06-22T16:48:00.000-07:00

A dear friend faces death today. Not her own, but the death of someone so close to her that surely the flowers, the happiness, the sun, of her own heart will die for awhile.

The church I went to in Minnesota held a service each year dedicated to recognizing the pain and loss that comes with the death of loved ones and then also remembering them. One year they played “Learning How to Die” by Jon Foreman (of Switchfoot). I already owned the EP (Winter) with this song on it and knew the words, but as I heard it that night among people who were hurting and remembering, it took on new meaning.

I actually played that EP a few weeks ago and remembered how good it was. B and I have been listening to it over and over again. Thus, as I think about my friend today, the words of “Learning How to Die” run through my mind.

We tend to distance life from death. In our minds they oppose each other. In fact, we arrange our lives to avoid death at all costs. Actually though they’re intricately linked. Shouldn’t we live today—say the words, do the deeds, ask for forgiveness—as though we’ll die tomorrow? Then, at death, like the person in my friend’s life, we can look back and say it’s been good…it’s been real good. You do life well, you do death well.

Learning how to die. I don’t presume to know exactly what Jon means with his words, but for me, learning how to die means fumbling along this faith journey on this earth...learning how to grow closer to God because I know dying means living with Him. In that way, I need to learn how to die.

So, anyways, a hug and a song to my friend.

With a side of avocado, please

2011-06-21T10:47:00.001-07:00

We’ve maybe become a little more Californian over the past few weeks.

1. We hit up a guy in Westchester who was selling a few boogie boards on Craigslist. We got two for $15. One pink. One blue.

2. B went surfing Sunday morning for the first time ever. He joined the myriad of others who thinks its great fun to get up early on a weekend, put on a wetsuit, and then jump into the freezing cold water. I stayed nice and warm cuddled under the covers. B did catch a few waves though and now has the itch to go again. He saw sea lions and thought this was cool, but was told...not so cool because sharks love sea lions.

3. Don Johnson passed us on the road, driving a pretty darn expensive vintage white convertible of some sort. I slowly turned to B and asked, "Um, was that…Don…" And B finished, "Johnson? Yes, yes, I think it was."

4. We also saw (on the same day) Isaiah Washington of Gray’s Anatomy in Barnes & Noble looking much blacker and much more distinguished with glasses and a little gray in his beard than he ever looked in scrubs on TV.

5. B and I watched Sideways and got all excited that we’ve now (after doing some tastings up north of Santa Barbara with mom and dad recently) been to the wineries in the movie! Although I suppose if you're true Californian, you don’t get super excited to see a place you’ve been to on TV…it’s just normal.

6. We seem to be eating a lot of avocados. I’ve discovered that at restaurants if any dish is made California-style, it's got avocados in it. A California omelette will have avocado. Cali eggs benedict, avocados. A Cali grilled cheese, avocados.

7. We had an earthquake. A small one, but an earthquake nonetheless. My brother who’s coming to visit on Thursday asked if we are still connected to the mainland. "Nope," I told him. "Once you land at LAX, you now have to take a ferry to get to our house."

Zeal to play

2011-06-16T11:56:00.000-07:00

Last night as I waited for B to get home—he was stuck in nasty South Bay traffic, ugh—I turned on the lamp sitting atop the piano. I pulled out the bench, which I can’t even get shiny with a serious coat of Pledge, thanks to so much use. It is matte-finished while the rest of the piano is still shiny. I opened the bench and pulled out four books, my favorite ole’ standbys of classical music. They are scuffed and marked up in pencil from my piano teacher in Tennessee. I plopped down and turned to Beethoven’s "Six Ecossaises."

I winced. I was so out of practice it wasn’t even funny. I sighed and continued. I found myself focusing hard and long on the notes…was that the right note? I’d pause to look at the fingering that was circled on the pages. And then I’d stop to make sure I had the beat. My teacher had penciled…"1, 2, 1, 2 with gusto"…was I doing that right? After about 10 minutes of frustration and switching songs every 15 measures to see if I’d be better at the next one, I realized something somewhat hesitantly. If I gave in a little bit…if I stopped thinking so hard, I played better! The music came back to me, if I didn’t get lost in the details. And suddenly, it was more enjoyable. Now, don’t get me wrong. I was still disappointedly rusty, but it had turned fun. I could close my eyes for seconds at a time and get lost in the music and remember why I liked to play.

This morning I talked to a pastor of a massive church in Florida for about 45 minutes for a magazine feature I’m freelancing. At one point, as we talked about churches getting lost in the minors (music, buildings, names, how we do communion, etc.) instead of the majors (Jesus! His love for us! Our responsibility to share this!), he said we’re all like musicians standing over a piano…

“Asking , ‘Is that really an A? Who determined that was an A? Why is that an A?’ When really we should just use our zeal to play! Stop questioning the notes. Analysis leads to paralysis.”

Fro-yo on Cali time

2011-06-14T13:22:00.000-07:00

B and I may or may not be obsessed with fro-yo (frozen yogurt). We go at least once a week to Fro-Yo Life or Tutti Frutti, depending on which place we have coupons for. B’s a sucker for peanut butter. I’m cookies ‘n’ cream or cake batter. We love the control—we get to pull the yogurt lever and make our own fat swirls to fill the cup that we selected as high as we want with as many ounces as we desire.

A few Saturday nights ago I called Tutti Frutti just minutes after 10pm.

Me: Hi, just wondering how late you guys are open tonight?

Tutti Frutti: 10pm

Me: Oh, bummer. Ok thanks.

Tutti Frutti: But, I don’t really know when we’re closing tonight. When do you think you’ll be here?

Me: Oh? Um, well, we can be there in like 5 minutes.

Tutti Frutti: Sure, we can be open.

I got off the phone and told B they closed at 10pm…but they were open. He raised his eyebrows questioningly. I shrugged…I don’t know. Don’t ask questions and don’t ask for explanations. That’s the best way to go in Cali.

Last night, we hit up Tutti Frutti again. This time 9pm. As we opened the door, I noticed the hours listed said it closes at 9pm on Mondays. I kind of cringed and asked the two tanned surfer high school boys working behind the counter if they’d still let us come in? The one whipped his long dark curls out of his eyes and looked at me confused, like yeah, duh. I said, "oh, well, we noticed it says 9pm on your door." He said, "oh yeah, we don’t really do that. Close at 9pm." His coworker turned to him and asked slowly, "Oh really? We’re supposed to close at 9pm? Are we closing at 9pm tonight?" The other guy shook his head like Nah, not tonight, we have better things to do than close at 9pm.

I've heard people use the phrase "on Cali-time": "oh, he operates on Cali-time" and "yeah, well, not on Cali-time." It always has a negative connotation and is usually used when someone's waiting impatiently for someone or something who thinks clocks are over-rated. But as I enjoyed a spoonful of nummy cake batter fro-yo last night after 9pm, I realized that I think with Tutti Frutti, we're actually benefitting from Cali-time.

Waiting to be picked up

2011-06-09T16:26:00.000-07:00

When I was little I went to a babysitter named Iris. She lived on Regent. She was married to Gary and had a daughter named Holly who at the time was in her teens. I wanted to be just like her—just like “Howie.” Iris had a dog named Benson, and she made buttered noodles (elbow macaroni and straight-up butter—still one of my comfort foods) and egg salad sandwiches (Sick! Still won’t eat ’em.) Because I didn’t wet my pants, she let me take naps on her bed while the other kids had to sleep on the floor on mats. My memories of Iris and my time there are quick, unrelated snapshots. None are particularly long or complete. They don’t make stories with ends or beginnings. They’re just unique images and smells and sounds.

One of my memories is kneeling on the couch in the front room, elbows on the back of it, peering through the sheer curtains waiting…watching…for mom in a white station wagon. I don’t remember mom ever picking me up—although she must have. I just remember waiting for her on that couch. Sometimes it'd be dark outside (must have been winter) and sometimes it was still light.

That image came to mind today as I am once again that little girl waiting. Mom and dad are currently in the air on their way across the country to visit me and B in our new digs!!! I’m 30 years old, and yet I’m eager, expectant, and excited to be with my parents.

Maybe they’re peering out the plane window, waiting for me to come pick them up in my silver station wagon.

I'm on my way...off to LAX...

To the alley and beyond!

2011-06-06T12:22:00.000-07:00

When we first moved in, our landlady told us that if we had stuff we wanted to get rid of, we should put it out in the alley on the weekends before the trash comes on Mondays. People, she said, drive through the alleys and take stuff. It’s a very convenient way to get rid of things you don’t want. Really? I thought. I mean, I was slightly disturbed that sketchy people basically drive through our pseudo-backyards and take stuff. And I also didn’t really believe her. You should see some of the stuff we have and want to get rid of, I thought. I highly doubt throwing it in the alley will make it disappear!

Well, as we continued unpacking, B and I tested the process. We threw our “trash” into the alley. Like these ridiculously huge size 14 traditional wooden clogs B picked up on one of his Europe trips. I swear, I probably could have crawled into one of those things and used it as a kayak. Like a straw Chinese rice hat (no comment). Like a huge dirty rug we had in our garage. Like a bug zapper. The list is endless. Guess what? It was all gone within minutes, or hours, in some cases. But gone nonetheless! Genius! This is a brilliant little thing they got going on here, we thought.

Still, I was just a little alarmed thinking of strangers driving through our neighborhood for stuff. What's to stop them from seeing what we have behind our alley gate? My fears have since subsided though. During one of his visits, our next door neighbor, the one with the airhorn, told us that he actually took our bug zapper and a few other things we had sitting out…he hoped we didn’t mind. I guess he’s a dancer, so I wondered if he also took the clogs?

Then, a week later, B and I were returning from a run, walking through the alley, and we saw these really cool, old, white wood-framed windows that someone was throwing away. We thought they’d look great hanging on our fence outside. So we snagged them. And as we carried them home, it dawned on me…our neighborhood…really, we’re all just trading trash. WE are the sketchy ones, just taking each other’s stuff!

And I took it to another level the other day. Once again, we were on our way home from a run and we passed the garage of the KISS neighbors. They had a box of books and magazines that caught my eye. I stopped. B continued a couple steps before stopping and turning to look at me with his eyebrows up. On top was a stack of May 2011 magazines. I proudly and quickly snagged Glamour. "Really," B asked? "Did you really just do that?" I said "Heck yeah, Who needs a subscription to a magazine when you live in our neighborhood?!"

Mock. ING. Bird.

2011-06-01T09:03:00.000-07:00

We’ve had a reprieve the past few days from the construction across the street. I’m not sure why, nor am I asking why! We’ll take it, but we have new sounds at new times now.

As we crawled into bed late last night, I felt like we were in the bird building at the zoo. “This is tripping me out,” B said. “It feels like it should be 5:45 in the A.M.!” Yet he promptly conked out as usual, while I lied awake listening to a bird singing away.

So, after some research, it seems we are home to a bachelor mockingbird singing desperately for a mate. (Instantly I think Dumb and Dumber’s Mock. Ing. Bird.) All mockingbirds sing throughout the day, but only bachelors sing at night, and usually they only have to sing for two to three weeks before finding a wife.

Maybe I should warn him…he’s singing from a home where it took 11 years for girl and guy to get together! Maybe he should go next door. I mean there’s an airhorn over there, but his chances might be better!

Carry on...to the bake sale!

2011-05-27T12:30:00.000-07:00

Here’s why I think I have the absolute coolest friends ever…

One very dear one turns 30 tomorrow, and what is she doing? She’s hosting a bake sale fundraiser at her local VFW and all the proceeds will go toward vets…you know, because it’s Memorial Day Weekend and all!

She is a fantastic baker, so if you’re in the Twin Cities, I strongly urge you to hit up the New Hope VFW Saturday! If you do, please give her a huge hug for me as I’m incredibly sad to not be there to enjoy the event and to tell her in person that I’m happy she was born.

And if you can’t go Saturday, check her out in the upcoming weeks on Saturdays at the New Hope Farmer’s Community Market. She and her scrumptious cake pops will be there throughout the summer.

She has helped carry many things for me in the past, including my heart during sad times, and everything from hairspray and ibuprofen to my purse and nerves on my wedding day. Because I can’t be there to help carry things for her on her special day, I made and sent her a farmer’s market tote. HJ will be there to carry in spirit! Happy birthday, friend! Love you.

I got moves

2011-05-24T17:54:00.000-07:00

I was talking to a friend a few weeks back on the phone. I asked about a situation in her life. She hesitated and said there really wasn’t much new. She hadn’t done anything yet about said situation. I corrected her with what I believed to be true. Just because she hadn’t taken external, visible steps didn’t mean there was nothing new or a lack of movement. Rather, I truly believed that since the last time we had talked, a lot had probably happened inside—in her heart—thanks to God. I knew she and many others had been praying about the situation and God was probably readying her in ways others couldn’t see and maybe understand. And that kind of readying is perhaps the most serious kind of movement there is. Often though, it doesn’t happen overnight, and it’s not externally visible, which is what we like to base everything on.

Certain emotions must shift. Particular experiences need to happen. Confidence must be gained. Insights need to be had. Assurance must be provided. And all of these things require some prayer, time, and patience. Then you might be ready to make a visible move.

This morning I felt overwhelmed, lost in the pressures I place on myself, wondering what my next move is and why that move isn’t happening faster! I should be moving faster! But then I remembered what I believed to be true for my friend and realized I needed to recognize its truth for me. The next move for me might not be mine. It might be God’s. He might have my next few moves covered, and they may not be visible. He might be moving within me through emotions, experiences, confidence building, insight, and assurance. I just need some time and patience.

The Obscure Murphy Ranch

2011-05-23T13:50:00.000-07:00

B and I kicked off this past weekend with a hike—an obscure one that was featured in a recent L.A. Magazine feature “10 Great Walks.” To get there we wound up through swanky Pacific Palisades neighborhoods, parked, and the article gave careful directions on where to walk to get to the Rustic Canyon entrance of the Topanga State Park—Don’t take the wood steps, those are private property. Walk up the paved path about 15 minutes and be on the look out for the break in a chain link fence on the left...

As we began, we smiled. Finally, at long last, we weren’t in the middle of traffic, and we couldn’t see any other people! The view from the top of the canyon was incredible. We could see the city, Santa Monica, the beach all the way south to where we live.

We smelled honeysuckle, heard the soft gurgling of a stream at the bottom of the canyon, saw lizards zig zag in front of us, and saw some beautiful, strange flowers that they don't have in Minnesota. It felt good to be off pavement and quiet. But we also learned why this hike is obscure...

Turns out we were hiking on what used to be Murphy Ranch, owned by Jesse Murphy in the 1930s, but not really. Jesse Murphy was made up by Winona and Ramona Stephens who bought the land under that name to create a home, a compound, for the Fourth Reich, which was sure (they thought) to begin in America once WWII was over. The mastermind behind this, and the one who persuaded the Stephens to buy the land was a guy named Herr Schmidt. Ironically, Schmidt was arrested by the FBI the day after the U.S. joined WWII. So, he started work on Murphy Ranch with a greenhouse, a water tank, and power plant (now super creepy with lots of graffiti), but his big dreams never came to fruition. Rumor has it the FBI caught him transmitting short-wave radio messages to the Germans.

As the sun began to set, I started wondering if we maybe should have done the not-so-obscure Hollywood Pub Walk instead? We did make our way out of the scary iron-gated Murphy Ranch entrance though and continued on our merry weekend way.

Fighting Noise with Noise

2011-05-19T09:21:00.000-07:00

L.A. has some serious noise pollution. There are sirens—ambulances, police cars, fire trucks. The Good Year blimp motors slowly, high above us at least every other day (sometimes at night, one whole side of the blimp is lit up with moving advertisements). We are 15 minutes south of LAX, so we hear jets. We are two minutes to the beach, so we hear the Coast Guard helicopters as they patrol the shore.

We have an alley that happens to go downhill, so we hear skateboarders rolling by. There is also a big metal drain in the alley directly behind our place. Every time a car drives by, we hear the metal drain go up and down, unevenly, as the tires run over it.
We can basically touch our neighbors’ house on either side, which means, we can hear when they’re playing Lenny Kravitz. We can hear when they get home, leave, or simply are home.

And we are fortunate to live across from the one guy on the street who is remodeling—rebuilding—his house (and will be for the next eight months we’re told). So, every morning at 8am sharp, the pounding begins, mixed in with some cement trucks churning, lumber being dropped, drills ZZZzzzzzing, and Mexican music blaring over the lunch hour.

So, when my neighbor asked if I wouldn’t mind keeping an eye out for the air horn he ordered, I thought, really? You want more noise around here?

Our neighbor on the east side has taken kindly to us. First to B, now to me. He helps himself into our alley gate without knocking and comes right up to our open, sliding glass doors with his L.A. Lakers hat on and yells into the house… “hello?” I’ll come out from the kitchen, he’ll take a step inside, and ask if it’s OK to have a seat as he’s taking a seat at the kitchen table. Ok, I think…I guess I’ll take a seat at the kitchen table too. It’s such a departure from the oh-so-proper Minnesota way of doing things that you can’t help but smile a little. It’s slightly endearing. One of the recent times he did this, he asked if I wouldn’t mind moving his paper each morning from the front sidewalk to his front doorstep. Needing to help his girlfriend who is sick, he will be gone Monday through Thursday for the next six weeks. Sure thing, I said. No problem. I asked if there was anything else I could do? He said, well, actually yes. He just ordered an air horn because…

The neighbors on his east side have three dogs and did I know that Hermosa Beach has a city ordinance that you’re only allowed to have two dogs so he’s considering filing a complaint but he’s a nice guy and doesn’t want to do that so he’s already warned the neighbor that if she doesn’t get her three dogs to stop yipping practically in his windows he will do just that, call the city, but right now his next step is to try a air horn which he will kindly blow in the yippy dogs’ faces when they bark. That should stop them.

So, would I mind keeping an eye out for it and if it happens to be delivered while he’s away, bring the box in and protect it until he returns.

Are you tracking this? One neighbor’s dog starts barking probably because it heard the metal drain, the blimp, the Coast Guard, a siren, a skaterboarder, or a hammer, and then another neighbor blows his air horn at the barking, so then, I wonder, what do we do to combat the air horn? What should we order to add to the linked cacophony? …actually B can do a pretty mean loon call.

Doing Church v. Going to Church

2011-05-17T17:23:00.000-07:00

In my class right now (Acts and the Pauline letters), we’ve spent a lot of time considering the early Christian church—what it looked like, what it didn’t look like, and what it means, or might mean, for our church today.

The early Christian church was a departure from what people had known. Everyone was used to going to the temple (one central location), and suddenly Jesus is telling his disciples to go into peoples’ homes wherever they are welcomed? And while they’re there, teach! No longer was everyone just going to Jerusalem; they were to go to the ends of the world to proclaim the news about Jesus—that he had come to fulfill the laws by which they had been living. Church was not just done where 100 or 1,000 people met, but “where two or three gathered” (Matthew 18:20). And it wasn’t at the temple. It was in peoples’ kitchens, living rooms, hallways.

Many argue that Paul saw little difference between priests and laity (or pastors and congregants). Basically all hands were on deck to spread God’s word. I mean, if three people were meeting in a kitchen, who was going to be the pastor, really?

I believe the early church challenges us today. I’m not arguing that we do away with pastors or church leadership. But in a paper I’m about to begin for class, I’m going to argue that pastors, perhaps, need to put more emphasis on equipping others to do church. And Paul’s letter to Christians living in Rome acts a study guide.

In Romans Ch. 12: 3-8, he says:
“Do not think of yourself more highly than you ought, but rather think of yourself with sober judgment, in accordance with the faith God has distributed to each of you. For just as each of us has one body with many members, and these members do not all have the same function, so in Christ we, though many, form one body, and each member belongs to all the others. We have different gifts, according to the grace given to each of us. If your gift is prophesying, then prophesy in accordance with your faith; if it is serving, then serve; if it is teaching, then teach; if it is to encourage, then give encouragement; if it is giving, then give generously; if it is to lead, do it diligently; if it is to show mercy, do it cheerfully.”

Everyone should do church. Church cannot just be something done—conducted—by one person while everyone sits and listens and then leaves only to hold what they just heard in their heart, but not show it in their actions. Sure, this might mean pastors have to relinquish some control, but I think it also means pastors gain a lot of responsibility! They have some serious project management in their job description because people need to be equipped with knowledge, encouraged to use their gifts, and nudged to the ends of the world!

KISS our neighbors

2011-05-16T08:38:00.000-07:00

Our new neighbors? They’re KISS. As in the hard rock band known for their scary obnoxious face paint and even more scary, obnoxious outfits.

It was a Thursday night, and B and I—normal, ordinary, Midwestern B and I—were returning from a run on The Strand, which you’re sure to hear more about. The Strand—German for “the beach” or “seaside”—is a wide sidewalk between the sand and stunning ocean homes located in what we now like to call “our neighborhood” with our noses just tilted slightly upward. The Strand has also become our favorite jogging route.

On this particular night, sweaty and a little out of breath, we were making our way down 29th Street to our much more modest abode, the bottom of a rather small duplex with no ocean view. I could see that our neighbors were having a gathering. Actually, with the sun going down, I could just hear them and make out a few images sitting on the front patio as we neared. Oh, I thought, it’s the house that I think is uber cute. They always have their big French doors wide open onto the front patio, and they have the thick, white, wide wooden blinds, and the guy who lives there—I’ve seen him working on his sleek new Mac. He must be about our age. Probably hip like us. Probably likes coffee and beer. Maybe his wife likes wine like me. Maybe we could get to know them and maybe hang out with them. Drink a few beers and a glass of wine with the….

And as I looked up contemplating this pleasant possibility, there they were. Four people. Sitting at the table on the front patio that I think is so cute. And they were KISS. Like full-on wigs, makeup, costumes, shoes.

“Uh…hi,” B and I both stammer. And to our surprise and confusion, they said hi back normally. As if sitting outside on a random Thursday evening socializing, dressed like KISS as neighbors pass by is the most normal thing ever. I mean, couldn’t we even get a chuckle and a I-know-this-probably-looks-silly nod? Nope. Just a normal “hi.”

B and I had three more houses to go before we got home, but I could hardly contain myself. Once we were safe inside our patio area, I just stared at B with wide eyes. Did you just see that? Did you SEE OUR NEIGHBORS?! This is where we've moved?! This is what it’s come to!

For the record, I did check KISS’s website for their tour dates. I mean, perhaps, maybe, it would be somewhat acceptable if there had been a KISS concert in L.A. that night (although, my friend and I decided even that is a little like wearing the band T-shirt to the band’s show…not so cool). No luck though. Their last concert was March 17, and we were well into April.

And B and I are well on our way to learning more about life in L.A. ... like the real KISS could just live a few houses down from us!

Thoughts, Rays, and Time

2011-05-13T09:35:00.000-07:00

I just finished reading Unbroken by Laura Hillenbrand (highly recommend). She tells the story of Louis Zamperini, an Olympic runner and a WWII pilot. His plane goes down, and he’s stuck in a raft with two other guys for something like 47 days. To pass the time, he would describe some of his mom’s famous recipes…how much of this, how much of that, what to do, what not to do, how long to bake. Having run out of recipes and repeated them so many times, he began testing his audience of two (they had no choice but to play his game!). He’d leave ingredients out or switch up amounts and see if they’d notice. Even with his mom’s many recipes, he could not pass all the hours of 47 days. Louie was left to his own thoughts, the sun’s rays, and time. He actually began to conjure up memories he never had before—experiences he had as a little boy, conversations he suddenly remembered for the first time. Supposedly, his mind, finally free of so much other stuff, was able to tap into these.

Last time I blogged, I was in Minnesota. Alone. Working (and quitting) a fulltime job while taking two grad school classes and trying to sell our house and trying to keep the driveway shoveled because the snow Would. Not. Stop. And trying to spend every second of extra time with family and friends before I moved across the country.

Stop…deep breath.

Now, I write from California. Not alone. Finally with my amazing man of a husband. And I have time. Time to breathe. Time I’ve not had in years. Time to read for fun. Time to sew. Time to cook. Time to journal!

It’s not until some things leave your mind that you realize how full it really was. I haven’t had room in my mind for awhile to blog. I’m rusty and a little hesitant. But slowly as some things have seeped out of my mind, I’ve been able to recall glimpses of creativity and inspiration. And thus , you should start hearing from me more often. Please, bear with me for a bit as I consider how to give my blog a little facelift. I’m fully aware that the colors, font, and photos are currently out of whack.

Nevertheless, I am here with my own thoughts, the sun’s rays and, finally, some time.

Recent strangeness

2010-10-20T13:03:00.000-07:00

In the lunchroom today I waited for my soup to warm up in the microwave. Facing the microwave, holding my spoon, thinking about mom always saying not to stand in front of the microwave and wondering what it was doing to me at that very second, I overheard a comment at the table behind me.

“I just wish the sun would come up once a month as a black light.”

Say what?

And then…
“Think of what that would do to your teeth.”

I decided I should maybe snag my soup sooner rather than later and leave. Maybe there’s something to those microwave warnings!

At JoAnn’s last Friday night (that’s how I spend my Friday nights), I waited in line to get my fabric cut. The woman next to me—in all seriousness—asked if she could ask me a question. Sure. “If you were poison ivy, which color would you be?” And she held up two glittery hues of green. I pointed to the dark one assuredly. She said, “yup, me too.”

And I wondered why I opted for the darker green? Why not the lighter one? I probably wouldn't have gone glittery either way. And more importantly, how the heck is she going to dress up like poison ivy for Halloween?

On that same trip to JoAnn’s, and in fact, at the same counter, the woman cutting my fabric was incredibly grandmotherly and friendly—exactly what you’d expect a woman cutting fabric at JoAnn’s in the Midwest to look and act like. She pushed her glasses a bit further up on her nose and suddenly exclaimed that there was a new movie out that day and she really wanted to see tomorrow. I asked which movie, thinking it was probably Nicholas Sparks’ latest tearjerker or perhaps a cartoon for her grandkids? Instead, she excitedly and proudly said “JackAss, you know, the 3D version!”

Yesterday on the way to work I saw a cop car and a regular car pulled over on the shoulder. One naturally thinks the cop pulled someone over and would be at the regular car’s driver-side front window taking information. Except this particular cop was sitting in his car, and regular guy in baseball cap and Vikings jacket/black jeans (what else would he be wearing, really?) is standing at his window, chatting him up.

Huh?

I promise a more meaningful, thought-provoking post next time.

What's the scuttle, butt?

2010-10-07T20:40:00.000-07:00

A friend of mine is a teacher, and she recently used the word “scuttlebutt” in telling me a story about her kids.

I have to be honest. I got stuck (which I’m prone to doing) on that one word and didn’t go any further with my friend’s story…my mind wandered. Did she say shufflebutt? Is that the right word? How is it spelled? I suddenly thought of Ariel, from Little Mermaid using a dinglehopper (a fork as a comb). And then I recalled that it was her friend Scuttle who pointed out to her what a dinglehopper was. So, did my friend say scuttlebutt? But then my mind jumped back to shufflebutt, and I got an image of a bunch of highschoolers doing a dance down the hallway…you know, the shufflebutt. (People, this is how my brain works! Scary! Why can't I just follow my friend's story like a normal person?)

So, I had to look the word up. Shufflebut? Scuttelbutte? How is this thing spelled and how should it be used? Where did it come from?

Well, it is, in fact, scuttlebutt. Its initial definition was from the late 1700s and meant an open cask of drinking water that was used for sailors on a ship. Then with time, the word’s meaning transformed; it became “gossip” or “rumors,” because that’s what sailors shared around the cask of drinking water—the scuttlebutt.

Ok, friend. Sorry. I’m good now. Continue your story. What were your kids doing a few days ago?

Garments of love

2010-10-06T13:29:00.000-07:00

For class I just read the book of Genesis in its entirety in one sitting. It took me more than three hours, and when I was done, I wanted to go for a run and cleanse my mind of the dirty soap opera! When you only read chapters or verses of Genesis at a time, you miss out on the oh-so-tangled web that the patriarchs of Genesis wove. Woah! Like one of my classmates said, “If we had to provide therapy to that family today?! That is one messed up family system.”

But reading the book in its entirety also made me see a reoccuring cycle: God promises and gives; His people doubt and reject; God loves and redeems (even though “love” is rarely associated with the God of the Old Testament).

One of the first times we see this is with Adam and Eve. So, God gives Adam and Eve a beautiful garden. They’re naked, and they don’t notice, let alone care. It doesn’t take them long, however, before they disobey God. Really disobey God! As soon as they do, their eyes are opened, and “they realized they were naked; so they sewed fig leaves together and made coverings for themselves.” I’d kind of like to see these fig-leaf outfits, by the way. What did they sew them with? How did they stay on?

God, of course, finds out about their disobedience and scolds them (and us). The ground we walk on? Cursed. Child labor? Horrible. Work? Tough.

But after he scolds, we’re told in in Genesis 3:1 that the Lord “made garments of skin for Adam and his wife and clothed them.”

Really? He made them garments? I mean, he could have easily let them continue traipsing around in their fig leaves. After all, they just terribly disobeyed him! He could have let them make their own garments out of skin. But he didn’t. He made them garments, and he clothed them. Don't get me wrong. God is not a softy. He banishes them from the garden, but he clothes them first in garments of skin.

This day

2010-10-01T09:51:00.001-07:00

It’s an Alexi Murdoch kinda day here in the Twin Cities.

A cool, quiet, turning fall day. Burnt orange and yellow leaves slowly swirl and make their way to the ground, and you pull your sweater a little tighter around you. It’s a day for strolling through used book stores, drinking coffee, and wearing brown corduroys.

I post this song for the one I love who is so far away, and yet fills all my days.

Like a child

2010-09-30T14:14:00.000-07:00

Recently I’ve had numerous friends ask me to pray for them. I, of course, say sure, and I have been praying for them. But I have to admit, I think “why me?” I am not a prayer “warrior,” as they say. I’m more like a prayer “fraidy cat.”

I’ve been around some really eloquent pray-ers. People who can make one small request last for three minutes! People who can make “Dear Lord” sound like the most eloquent plea ever. I once was on a mission trip in South Africa, and I got a pretty nasty head cold. I was miserable. One of my fellow travelers asked to pray over me and for four minutes straight asked God repeatedly to “remove the demons making me sick.” Now, I had some serious issues with her thinking demons were making my nose plugged, but I envied her resolution and enthusiasm and persistence. When she was done, she asked if I felt better. I did not. Par for the course for my colds, it moved through my head to my chest and landed in my ears.

In contrast lately though, my prayers have been short and whispered under my breath while driving to and from work. “Lord, help me.” “Lord, help my friend.” Which is precisely why I have found myself wondering why my friends really want me praying for them. There have got to be some better pray-ers out there to pray for them. I feel small and inadequate, and even doubt that I’m heard sometimes.

I don’t always feel this way. Like most things in life, my prayers ebb and flow. Sometimes the connection to God feels crystal clear. Other times, I can only hear static. I get frustrated, and I want to hang up!

So, I recently pulled out Philip Yancey’s book Prayer that I read a couple years ago. With down-to-earth and real words, Yancey addresses the very things any pray-er has got to think from time to time. Is anyone listening? What if I can’t find the right words? Does it even matter? Quantity versus quality? What if it just feels like a chore to check off the list? I flipped through the book and suddenly remembered something: Jesus prayed! Ha! Of course he did. I realize this is a pretty elementary fact, but what a great reminder when you’re wondering why the heck we pray.

Hebrews 5:7 says “During the days of Jesus’ life on earth, he offered up prayers and petitions with fervent cries and tears to the one who could save him from death, and he was heard because of his reverent submission.”

I don’t know if his prayers lasted three minutes or were said under his breath super quickly on his way to preach. But we’re told that he prayed and he was heard. Thus, we pray, and we are heard! Even if we can't see or hear answers.

And interestingly (or maybe not so interestingly), I overheard two women in the bathroom the other day talking about prayer. (I work at a Christian institution so this is not as odd as it would be in most places!) The one woman was telling the other woman that it’s “all about praying like a child because really, that’s what we are, children of God.”

I smiled behind the door of the stall. How does one pray like a child? They say, “Lord, help me.”

Give an art, take an art

2010-08-27T12:45:00.001-07:00

Recently I went with a friend of mine to an “art swap” down in Uptown.

How it works:
Bring $2 and a piece of art—one you did maybe, or perhaps one you were given and don’t want! You show up and they take a photo of you holding your artwork as well as a sign that says “I Brought.” Then you turn in your art and $2 to begin browsing what’s at the swap: someone’s sketchy (and I don’t mean sketched) home video, a three-year-old’s crayon masterpiece, a painting of a woman who looks like she’s dying in serious pain, a hollow mannequin leg filled with sticks, a doll, etc. When you’ve selected the piece of art that you want but someone else didn’t want, they take another picture of you. This time with the art you selected and a sign that says “I Got.” Then they post the photos in an online gallery and you go check periodically to see who snagged the art you brought. And you can also see who made the art you selected, which is, I think, both fun and disturbing.

I won’t tell you what I brought. I mean, what if it’s artwork you gave me?! But I will tell you that I got a pair of homemade earrings out of the deal.

As we walked out the door of the small store front on Lyndale, the woman who took our $2 and photos said, “thanks for swappin’ by!”

Remembering a neighbor

2010-08-25T07:05:00.000-07:00

The late afternoon Friday phone call from a “310” area code took me off guard, as did the news that came from the other end of the call. It was a manager at the apartment complex I used to live at in San Diego. He tracked me down, found my number in the apartment records (thankfully, I have yet to change it even after three years), and wanted to let me know that my old neighbor Grif died.

My heart started beating faster, and I could feel the tears well up.

Many of you have heard me talk about Grif or read my blog posts about him. Old man. Diabetes. Married and divorced three times. No children. No living family. I checked on him nearly every day, and he did likewise with me; our front doors were about 10 feet apart. I usually wouldn’t go to bed until I heard his TV turn off (usually set on MASH very very loudly!). That meant he was OK and on his way to sleep.

Since I’ve moved, he and I continued our correspondence. I last sent him a little note along with our wedding announcement. I have visited him on trips back to Cali, and he has sent me packages, most recently a set of coins. I found it odd that I hadn’t heard from him after the wedding announcement and fully intended to send him some pictures and a letter telling him all about it. Additionally, I’m headed back to San Diego next month and was hoping to swing in and give him a hug.

These plans were stopped with the phone call. The guy on the other end told me that Grif had been getting increasingly sick. He urged Grif to go to the hospital. When he finally did, they discovered a large tumor in his stomach. He went home for a bit, but quickly landed back in the hospital. He died July 5—a Monday, four days before our wedding. This guy visited Grif a number of times and told me that Grif talked about me and all of my letters were lined up on his kitchen table. This guy said he knew I was important to Grif and wanted to let me know.

So disconcerting is the quiet and speed with which Grif left this world. I was told that his ashes were being sent to some fort, along with an American flag; he had been in the military. I heard the news—that he was sick, in the hospital, and now dead—seven weeks late!

What about a funeral? What about people crying outside his hospital room? What about a long line of cars driving to his grave? What about giving money to a memorial in his name? It seemed odd—eery—that life had continued on for me as normal for seven weeks without knowing that someone dear to me was gone.

Recently, as BJ and I were organizing, I came across the set of coins (in a nice case, engraved with my name!) Grif sent me last. They were not cheap, and I was touched that he would have spent this amount of money on me! It was a gift that will last; the coins will be worth a lot more at some point in the future. Chances are good I'll never cash them in.

Seeing myself

2010-08-23T12:11:00.000-07:00

It’s amazing to me how BJ has acted like a mirror in places of my life where before...there were no mirrors.

On a humorous note, he has pointed things out about my habits that I was unaware of. I did not realize that I brush my teeth like a teapot. The elbow of the arm with the toothbrush goes up very, very high, and my other hand immediately goes on my hip. I promptly start brushing my teeth! And apparently should be humming “I’m a little teapot...” BJ comes behind me, laughing as he brushes his teeth “normally.”

I also did not realize that I never quite shut any of my drawers—bedroom drawers, bathroom drawers, kitchen drawers. For some odd reason, they’re always slightly open...just an inch. I can’t explain why. When I tried, I suggested that it’s because I don’t want to make a lot of noise. Now, BJ quietly comes behind me and shuts them all. I didn’t realize that I could easily burn others with the temperature of my water. I apparently have no nerves because I can wash dishes and shower and wash my face in 200-degree water. BJ comes behind me and yelps. Alone, I never saw...never knew these things. I didn’t know how weird I was.

When we went through pre-marital classes, I discovered, as BJ and I compared each other, that I internally process. I knew that I was an introvert, more quiet than loud, and generally prefer to be alone than in crowds, etc., but I hadn’t realized that much, if not all, of my thinking and processing and decision-making takes place in my head. Or maybe what I hadn’t thought about before is that others do all of these things out loud for the world to hear! After 15 minutes in front of pastor, BJ talk talk talking about our love and future and me silently nodding, pastor said he was going to go out on limb...he was going to guess that I internally process and BJ externally processes. Um, yes. BJ will walk you through his decisions. You will know the hills he went over, the wrong turns he took, the options he considered and the transportation he chose to get to his decision before he actually tells you his decision. And then he might very well change his mind. I, however, will take that same journey alone in my head, and then just tell you only what I think you need to know at the end...my ultimate decision, which will most likely be final. What we also learned is that BJ sometimes gets nervous in my silence, wondering what I’m thinking, where I’m at, what’s going on in my scary head. I sometimes want to tell him to cut to the chase: what is he wanting, what is his point?!

All this to say, with BJ around, I’ve looked in mirrors that I hadn’t been able to see before. And these mirrors are only possible when he holds them up. Alone I can’t see much. I will tell you that sometimes the mirror reveals things about myself that I don’t want to see. My selfishness suddenly seems big and ugly, when before I didn’t really notice. My little habits and routines look silly and funny and unnecessary!

Anyways, I started thinking about this concept in terms of God too. The things we don’t or can’t see about ourselves when we don’t have God next to us, holding up a mirror. Without God, I tend not to see that I’m a sinner. I’m self-centered, I turn inward. The things of this world are all I can see, and they become most important.

I lose perspective, slipping into the mindset that the world revolves around me and my family and my friends. I’m currently reading a book called Crazy Love by Francis Chan, a pastor of a large, growing church in Southern California. The title refers to God’s crazy love for us. Chan likens our time on earth to playing an extra in a movie for two-fifths of a second. In the grand scheme of things, we are nothing! We are like the back of a head the shows up in a movie for .35 seconds! Chan says bluntly that we need to get over ourselves! There's much more to living than the car we drive, the money we make, the house we own, and the job we have.

When we sit close to God, we are put into our place, like it or not. Perspectives become much more realistic. We are not the world, and the world does not revolve around us or our two-fifths-of-a-second part.

Now, having BJ in my life, has not just made me see my downfalls or idiosyncrasies or ridiculous habits. I have also seen good things that I’ve never seen before in myself. I recognize a capacity to love and accept and forgive unlike I have before. I didn’t really know I could spend 24/7 with someone and still want more of them. I didn’t know that a person could draw out my laughter and goodness in this way. I didn’t know that I could do so many nice things for a person, and it still wouldn’t seem like enough. I still want to do more nice things for him.

It’s the same with God. Sure, next to him, we’re put into our humble place. But next to Him, we also see a much more complete, much better, version of us. A version of us that we’re unable to see when He’s not around. We see how beautiful and precious we are to him. We see that we can be loving and servant-like, despite our selfishness. And although sinful, we are clean. When we see ourselves next to God we become a “glorious inheritance.”

Chan says, “The very fact that a holy, eternal, all-knowing, all-powerful, merciful, fair, and just God loves you and me is nothing short of astonishing...He doesn’t need me or you. Yet He wants us, chooses us, even considers us His inheritance (Eph. 1:18). The greatest knowledge we can ever have is knowing God treasures us...The Holy Creator sees you as His ‘glorious inheritance.’”

Still on 94

2010-07-30T08:46:00.001-07:00

As you’re nearing downtown Minneapolis from the northwest on I-94, there is a very tall pole with a car on top. Inside the car is a mannequin. I think it’s located at an auto junkyard perhaps? Or a mechanic shop? I’m not sure. But it’s been around for many years. I can recall seeing this strange icon even as a little girl.

To weirdify the car-on-pole-with-mannequin even more (oh yes, it can get weirder), there’s a Bible verse posted on the side of the car. As I sped past the icon last night, I silently repeated the Bible verse in my head—Psalm 46:10—wanting to look it up when I got home. And I contemplated what the verse would be about. Had it not been in Psalms, I would have guessed it’d be a disturbing verse on hell or something.

My car and my mind continued on last night. I rushed on to my destination, glancing at my watch. Would I make it on time? I had rushed out of work, there had been traffic, I needed gas but didn’t have time to get gas. Would I have time in the morning before work? Could I make it that far without running out of gas? What exit again was I supposed to take? Fender bender pulled off on the right shoulder. Ambulance going the opposite direction on 94. A semi passing me. A billboard for depression. Oh, I can’t forget to pay my Target bill…

And on and on and on…

This morning, I remembered to look up the verse. What I read caused me to smile.

"Be still,
and know that I am God;
I will be exalted among the nations,
I will be exalted in the earth."

Of course that's what it would be. How brilliant. The millions of people going 70 mph past the car-on-pole-with-mannequin (who, by the way, wears a rain slicker?!) each day are the furthest thing from still! Me included. What a great reminder to slow down. To be still in God’s presence. To see and hear Him amidst the busy-ness of life.

So, happy Friday, friends. Take some time this weekend to be still. Or at least a little still-er to exalt Him!

Horse of a half wagon

2010-07-28T12:40:00.000-07:00

I don’t know why, but two colloquial phrases just never cement in my brain. Other people can say them just fine. But when I want to say one of them, the other one comes to mind and messes me up, and I cannot find the right word combination.

"a horse a piece" and
"six of one, half dozen of the other"

Both phrases mean that it doesn’t really matter. Same difference, if you will.

So, a few months back, in conversation with BJ, one of these phrases would have been perfect. I stumbled..."it’s a...six dozen...um...a...horse" and then frustrated blurted out, "it’s a HORSE OF A HALF WAGON!" He looked at me incredulously, eyebrows raised, as if to say, Excuse me? YOU are the English major and the journalist?

"Yeah, Ok," I said, "I don’t know, but you know...you know what I’m trying to say!"

In thinking about these two phrases, I realized that the "six of one" makes perfect sense. I get it. But the "horse" one? What the heck does that mean? A horse a piece? And then I wondered if I maybe knew the phrase's origin, if I'd be able to verbally execute it correctly in the future with confidence.

So, I did some research. Now, I realize the internet is not always the most trusted source, but I found in multiple places the same explanation for the origin of "a horse a piece." And interestingly one place said that "a horse a piece" is just the easier way to say "six of one half dozen of the other." (for some, maybe)

What I learned: the phrase "a horse a piece" originated in the Midwest where a common game played at the local bar was called "bar dice." If you were losing in this game, you were said to have "a horse on you." If everyone was a loser and had a horse on them, then it was "a horse a piece." Everyone sucked. Now, I couldn't find out why a horse. Why not another animal? Does it go all the way back to when people rode their horses to the bar and tied them up outside?

Well, whatever. I suppose it's a horse of a half wagon. Same difference. Ok?

Old? New? Who's to say?

2010-07-27T13:34:00.000-07:00

Our house is a strange mixture of old and new. In our kitchen are bags filled with boxes containing new dishes, kitchen appliances, and more—all wedding gifts—which I’m unclear about where they’ll go or how they’ll fit! In the garage are boxes of my husband’s old stuff. His track and field jacket from high school, for example. And in efforts of making room for him, I came across my old graphing calculator (Do you know how bulky those things are?!) and dusty cassette tapes that my aunt used to make and send to me when I was a little girl. Then in contrast is a bright, shiny new copper bowl sitting on our kitchen table—a wedding gift said to remind us in the future that if not taken care of, a marriage will tarnish.

This mixture of old and new has raised questions and instigated discussions about what’s worth keeping and what should be thrown away. What has worth and merit. What doesn’t.

This then got me thinking about when things become “old.” Where is the line that once crossed means something is no longer “new”? When does a new house become an old house?At what point did my cool, new graphing calculator become bulky and uncool? When will our new food processor become just our food processor? And then at what point do we start referring to it as a wedding gift that we’ve had for so many years (meaning it's old)?

I don’t know. But in church on Sunday pastor made the comment that we all remain saints and sinners. At the same time. A strange mix of old and new.

In 2 Corinthians 5: 17-21, Paul writes: “Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation; the old has gone, the new has come...We are therefore Christ's ambassadors, as though God were making his appeal through us...Be reconciled to God. God made him who had no sin to be sin for us, so that in him we might become the righteousness of God.”

We may be old and sinful, but God--thanks to Jesus--deems us new. Forever. Always. Consistently. At no point does he think we've become old and bulky or meritless. So, I think "old" and "new" is not so much about the object as it is about the owner. And when God owns you, you're always new (even though you're old).

For the record, I got rid of the graphing calculator and kept my aunt's cassette tapes. Pretty sure that track and field jacket is still laying around though.

Construction begins April 13.

2010-07-23T09:19:00.000-07:00

Really? I thought as I drove home from work on Tuesday. Everyone knows here in the Twin Cities we spend the majority of our summer sitting in construction traffic; our roads, which suffered tremendously during the frigid months, are in desperate need of TLC. So each June, July, and August, men and women dressed in the brightest coloring I’ve ever seen work around the clock to repair them before they get ruined again this winter. The orange signs throughout the metro area notifying us of detours and closures are out of control.

But on Tuesday, a new sign had popped up along the freeway that I drive home, warning us of construction between two locations starting April 13.

April 13th? Was someone having a bad day and it should be August 13th? April 13th? I silently counted…that’s 9 months away! And then the thought crossed my mind...had it been up since before this past April 13th and I just missed it?

Just how, exactly, is this sign helpful? How would I, could I, prepare? What exactly does it do for the general public? It gives me no information. Are we talking detours? 1 of three lanes closed? 2 of three lanes closed? Nothing.

Really this sign is just causing additional stress and irritation. Oh great, more long commutes ahead! Thanks for notifying me of this nine months in advance.

And now we’re going to have a huge ugly fluorescent sign up for the next nine months.

Well, that same day I had a conversation with my momma. Per usual, I was thinking too far ahead.

“Heather, don’t even go there,” she said. “You don’t know what it’s going to look like.”

She’s right, of course. I mean I have an orange sign telling me a few things. Which I kindly pointed out to her. I know some basics about the future. But I don’t know details. I don't know lane closures. And yet, I’m worried about them!

To this day, before I fall asleep, the words of the prayers that I was taught as a little girl go through my head. I don’t officially pray them on a regular basis anymore. But their simple words still provide a sense of comfort and closure to my day.

Now I lay me down to sleep.
I pray thee Lord my soul to keep.
If I should die before I wake, I pray thee Lord my soul to take.

Jesus, Savior, wash away all that has been wrong today.
Help me every day to be good and gentle more like thee.

Last night, I was struck by the daily-ness of them. They’re not about tomorrow.
Forgive me for TODAY. Protect me through TONIGHT. They focus on one day. The immediate.

There’s enough life construction today that needs my, our, attention. I don’t need to put up unhelpful signs about the construction that’s ahead.

Post-trip volume

2010-07-19T10:45:00.000-07:00

Whether it’d be a camping weekend with friends, a 10-day trip to Israel for work, a weekend getaway with the girls, or a short trip back to Minnesota to see fam...I’d always return to a quiet, person-less apartment or home. Don’t get me wrong—I loved living alone, but I always had to take a deep breath and a big swallow, sometimes even fighting back the tears as I checked my mail and plopped my bags down.

For a brief time, I had gotten used to eating breakfast with others, sleeping next to others or at least sleeping in a room next to others, talking more than usual, laughing more than usual. More people had been around me while I was away. And suddenly I was, indeed, alone again. The sounds of myself brushing my teeth, doing laundry, emptying the dishwasher, zipping up the suitcase or duffel to put back into the closet...these things would all suddenly be very loud without anyone else around. With time, the quiet which had become so loud would fade, and my solo volume became just fine again. But I always dreaded that short transitional time after a trip.

Yesterday, I—we—returned from our honeymoon. As we walked into my—our—quiet house I had a momentary pang of dread... until I realized my best friend was right behind me, carrying his bags and mine. He went back outside to do manly stuff, I suppose. I started our laundry, but this time I didn’t hear myself starting the washer. Instead I heard BJ starting my car in the driveway to make sure I could get to work today. And later, I didn’t hear myself brushing my teeth. Instead, I heard BJ coming up the stairs.

My kangaroo paw

2010-07-02T08:55:00.001-07:00

Last Saturday, a friend and I walked through a refrigerator of flowers searching for just the right combo of colors and shapes and sizes for my wedding bouquet. It was a daunting task filled with too many options, so I was happy to have my friend, who has done this before, along.

The process: You pick out the flowers. Flower woman orders them wholesale. You pick up the flowers, and then lucky friends and family help you make your own bouquets, corsages, and boutonnieres. (Because who really wants the easy route where a florist does all the work for you?!)

After an hour or so of talking with the flower woman and mixing and matching various flowers and plants, we found a combination that we thought was really good. The flower lady held up the bunch, and we liked. But these funky, fuzzy yellow things had caught my eye in the fridge earlier, so I asked about ‘em.

"Oh, the kangaroo paws?" flower woman asked.

"Uh, yes. Those paws," I said.

She went and grabbed a stalk of the paws from the fridge and put it into our bunch and suddenly...music and bright shining light...the ensemble was complete. The paws finished our floral masterpiece.

Kangaroo paws are bright (sometimes red, sometimes yellow) and velvety and sturdy, which apparently makes them great natural perches for birds. And, as you may have guessed, they’re native to Australia, but are now commercially grown in Israel and Cali too.

The stalks of the paws were pretty expensive compared to everything else, but I decided the bouquets needed them. Much like I need BJ. He's my kangaroo paw in life's bouquet.

Best Woman

2010-07-01T11:59:00.000-07:00

Not too much time, but thought I’d hop on a little bride soapbox for a second. I realized two nights ago that I have very strong feelings about the titles "maids" and "matrons" of honor.

My dear friend is standing next to me at my wedding because she knows me inside and out, because I think we were separated at birth, because she prays for me faithfully, because my life is better and more fun with her in it.

This friend happens to be married. So, tradition calls her a matron of honor. Now, when I asked said friend to be in my wedding, she said of course, on the condition that I do NOT refer to her as my matron of honor. I laughed and thought this was funny at the time, but as BJ and I finalized our program, I realized this isn’t just funny!

Why does the girl have to be identified as married (matron) or not married (maid) when the guy can be BEST MAN forever...both before and after he’s married? That means we should get to be BEST WOMEN!

And at first I thought the word “matron” was bad. But actually what’s worse is the term “maid,” which means “virgin” or “female servant” or “biddy” (which means “hag” or “chick”). Now, for the record, I am honored to have stood next to friends in their weddings as a bridesmaid. And I realize these meanings never came close to entering the minds of those involved in the wedding. But you know I'm a word freak, and the more I think about it, the traditional titles just don’t seem all that cool. You’re the bride’s biddy? No! You’re the bride’s confidante and friend and companion!

So, anyways, the woman who will stand beside me will be there NOT because she’s my matron of honor, but because she is my dear friend. She is the BEST WOMAN!

Guest Blogger on Worry

2010-06-30T11:44:00.000-07:00

It's been a month since I've blogged. And I have good excuses (I think). I finished up two grad classes, ran a half marathon, and am planning a wedding. I get married a week from Friday, and I actually feel a bit frayed from not having time to document--write out--some of the fun and funny and humbling experiences that come with getting engaged and planning a wedding and accepting the unconditional love of another. So, I promise I will share more on these soon.

But when my mother emailed this morning and complained about my lack of blogging, I said, "well, look, since you've got sooooo much time to be reading blogs, why don't you WRITE mine today!"

She took me up on it. And, to be honest, I was surprised (and I shouldn't have been) at my mom's thoughtful, organized writing! So, here's what my beautiful friend and momma has to say today (completely unedited!). And I promise, more from me soon!

Me blog? Ha! Or at least that’s what I thought until my daughter suggested that I guest blog for her. I was giving her crap for going almost a whole month without a single blog entry. I suppose getting married and planning a wedding in 7 weeks precludes blogging. But still, isn’t she considering the rest of us out there that check in faithfully only to find May 27th still front and center?

As the mother of the bride, it’s been a hectic time for me as well, however, I will say that having a very organized, anal daughter marrying a very organized anal young man makes things go relatively smoothly.

What some of you don’t know about me is that I’m a worrier. I can worry about anything. Now only 9 days out from the wedding, I can worry about the weather. (Since the ceremony is supposed to be outdoors - in Minnesota this is a gamble!) I can worry about the color of napkins! I can worry about my dress. I can worry about shoes. I can worry about how the food will look, let alone taste. I can worry about logistics. I can lay awake at night (or early morning) and worry about any number of things that I have no control over. I worry.

This past weekend I gathered together with my college girl friends for our annual weekend reunion. One of my friends had just gotten back from a trip to Germany and other bordering countries and was telling us about a 30 year old young man and his father who were also on the trip. The young man was wheel chair bound and his father was there to carry and lift him whenever needed. Apparently, in Germany and many other countries, this was needed constantly since they don’t have handicap accessible spaces as we do here. One time he needed to be carried up several flights of stairs after de-boarding a plane that couldn’t get close enough to the tarmac. After watching for several days the incredible love this man had for his son, my friend finally asked the father how he did it. He replied that two things needed to happen. First his son had to let go of his wheelchair and trust him and second his son needed to hold tightly on to him. He said it’s the same way our heavenly Father is with us. In order for Him to help us, we need to let go of our ‘wheel chairs’ and hang on to Him.

This picture has come back to me many times since this weekend. Every time I catch myself fretting over yet another detail, I think of this young man and his father and the beautiful picture that is now painted in my mind. I need to let go of my ‘wheel chair’ (or in my case, wheel chairs) and hang on to my heavenly Father. He’s just waiting to help me!

9 days and counting!
----the bride's mom

A love better than life

2010-05-27T13:50:00.000-07:00

The Dr. Seuss ABC book sits on my passenger seat bringing perspective.

You see, on Tuesday, my office was planning on having a baby shower for our colleague who was pregnant with her first child. We were all to bring wrapped baby books. I stopped at the store on Monday before class and picked out the Dr. Seuss ABC book with lots of colors. Upon leaving class I checked my voice messages to learn from another coworker that my pregnant colleague had been in a horrible car accident on her way back to the office from her ultrasound. She—only 24 years old—was at the hospital and not expected to make it. She and her baby passed away later that night.

The book I purchased never left the Target bag. And actually I’ve now been to Target twice since my coworker passed away, and I cannot bring myself to return it. So there it sits on my seat, reminding me that life is precious and quick and important. It is also unfair and painful and sad...the ABCs of life. Not the same ones Dr. Seuss rhymes about. But the facts, nonetheless.

I’m always amazed by people who immediately turn to God in prayer in situations like this. I cannot form the words. Instead, I stare, blank-faced, speechless in His presence. I know better than to ask why (there are no reasons). So, in need of comfort, as well as in anger and sadness, I stare at God not saying anything and know that in some way this alone is my prayer.

On Tuesday morning, I opened my Bible to a random Psalm, hoping David might have some words. I fell upon Psalm 63 and was brought to tears.

O God, you are my God,
Earnestly I seek you;
My soul thirsts for you,
My body longs for you,
in a dry and weary land where there is no water
I have seen you in the sanctuary
And beheld your power and your glory.
Because your love is better than life,
I will glorify your name.
(1-3)

His love is better than life...
It is one to die for.
It's also one to live for.

Chopsticks

2010-05-13T12:40:00.000-07:00

In a recent email correspondence, I was telling a friend that I have a dead German boyfriend, and his name is Deitrich Bonhoeffer—that I’m reading him and Karl Barth for a class.

Her response...

I regret that I did not study enough Bonhoeffer in school. But I definitely fell in love with good ol' Karl. I think some of his writing keeps me a Christian when I become disillusioned or dismayed by the church. What do you think of Barth? Sometimes I find his writing so opaque that I have to read passages of it out loud, slowly and deliberately until that "ah ha" moment hits. To be perfectly honest, that ah ha moment sometimes takes three or four vocal readings. But you know, when you hit that breakthrough, it feels like Handel's Messiah ... HALLELUJAH!

To be honest, with Barth, I sometimes never hear Handel's Messiah!

Well, this is one of the reasons we're friends. Some people fall in love with sexy movie stars. Me and my friend? We like the studious theologians...preferably wearing glasses, probably sporting cardigans, usually at the pub—not to get plastered but to smoke pipes and talk philosophy over a few pints. And I guess they can be dead, too.

She's right. Barth is opaque. You know when you have more question marks than exclamation points in your annotations, you've got yourself an opaque one. And if you ever start thinking you're smart, just start reading Barth, and you’ll quickly discover you know nothing. Barth's not messin' around. Don't think for a second that you can casually skim through his Dogmatics—all bajillion trillion pages of it. Oh no.

From last night's homework, in honor of my friend, here's a little Barth on ethics:

"Before he [man, woman] was, before the world was, God drew him to Himself when he destined him to obedience to His command. But, strangely enough, it is just because of this that the impossible—sin—presses so insistently. For man is not content simply to be the answer to this question by the grace of God. He wants to be like God. He wants to know of himself (as God does) what is good and evil. He therefore wants to give this answer himself and of himself. So, then, as a result and in prolongation of the fall, we have ethics, or, rather, the multifarious ethical systems, the attempted human answers to the ethical question. But this question can be solved only as it was originally put—by the grace of God, by the fact that this allows man actually to be the answer."

What the heck, you ask, is he saying? It’s interesting. Ethics always sounds good. To pose the question, "is this ethical?" makes you sound like you’re very moral and very good. And I think what Barth is saying is...um, no. Try again. We only need ethics because of our sin in the first place. With ethics, we think we can somehow determine what's right and wrong, which means we think we can be God, who is the ultimate judge of right and wrong. This shouldn't really come as a surprise. We were told this would happen.

In Genesis 3:5, the serpent tells Eve that she will certainly not die if she eats the forbidden truth. Rather her "eyes will be opened," she will be "like God, knowing good and evil." Which is so not a good thing, evidenced by the world we live in.

It's a shame we need ethics at all! I'd rather not have to be ethical.

Barth goes on to say that Jesus doesn't give the answer, but "by God's grace, he is the answer to the ethical question put by God's grace."

I'm not sure I really hear Handel's Messiah. Maybe more like Chopsticks...but...babysteps.

Roger that

2010-05-12T09:54:00.000-07:00

Last week, I sat on BJ’s bed staring at my laptop, writing a response piece for class. A typical night together looks like this: me doing homework, BJ making me dinner, bringing me water or sometimes a glass of wine, every now and then (so as not to distract me too much) making me laugh, bringing me a bowl of cookies'n'cream ice cream. You get the idea. I don’t deserve him.

On this particular night, I looked up to see what BJ was doing at his desk. He was opening up a new pack of batteries and then pulling out these two black bricks from an old-school, red cardboard box, circa 1980.

What, may I ask, are you doing? And what are those black things?

HJ!, he turns to me excitedly, eyes lit up. These are my old walkie talkies from when I was a kid. I found them at home over the weekend.

OK. Why do you have batteries though?

I’m going to put the batteries in and use the walkie talkies.

I didn’t know whether to laugh, go back to my homework as if that’s normal—a 29-year-old wanting to use walkie talkies when our cell phones are sitting idly nearby, or continue the question game. I chose the latter.

What are you going to do with these?

As he carefully put the batteries into the black, boxy walkie talkies seriously the size of bricks, and then pulled out the long silver antennae, he said, I’m going to put them in my car for emergencies. To be prepared.

(Duh, Heather. Obviously.)

He then hands one to me, presses the button on his own, and says, Heather, can you hear me?

Uh, yeah. You’re sitting two feet away!

No, c’mon. Try it. Use the walkie talkies.

I press the button on mine. I can hear you.

I can’t hear you. Press the button.

I press the button again. I am pressing the button!

Now I can hear you.

I press the button. Ok. Really? Are we really going to do this?

I can’t hear you. Press the button.

Using the walkie talkies, he informs me that he’s now going to head downstairs and outside to change my oil (I told you...I don’t deserve him) and that we need to stay in contact.

I press the button. OK.

I’m heading down the stairs.

I press the button. Roger that.

I’m heading outside.

We continued in this fashion until he had successfully changed my oil and returned to his bedroom. He was thrilled that his walkie talkies actually still worked and carefully put them back into the box to go out into his car. I was wondering if any of his neighbors were watching him talk into this thing. I was also wondering how I got so lucky...how I have someone who wants to be in constant contact with me, who wants to walk and talk with me through life.

Roger that.

My mom, the baker

2010-05-11T18:38:00.000-07:00

I make a dozen muffins on a bi- or tri-weekly basis. I freeze them in individual Ziploc bags, and then pull them out for my breakfasts in the morning. By the time I get to work, settle in, check my email, they’re ready to eat. Last week, I mentioned to mom that in between working late, the gym, and homework, I hoped to make more muffins because I was completely out. What was I supposed to eat for breakfast?!

I got home later that night and sitting on the bench in my entry way were muffins. Mom made them for me. To help me. To save me time.

Yesterday, on the verge of a tearful meltdown in part due to three looming school papers, a magazine deadline at work, and too many unknowns, a dessert was about to push me over the edge. I suddenly remembered that I was in charge of bringing a dessert tomorrow for a coworker who is recovering from surgery. And, I’m in class tonight until 10:30! And you must know that I will choose to lose sleep to bake something at home and actually have the meltdown, before I buy a pre-made dessert at the grocery store! Absurd, I know! But guess what? I blame this on mom. And so, I sent her a frantic email, knowing she'd understand. Help! Give me a simple easy recipe that I can make before work early tomorrow morning!

She came up with a better idea. She’s making the dessert for me, and I’m picking it up on my way home from class tonight.

And on Sunday, Mother’s Day, I made mom dinner, but I actually left with bread dough she made. Nourishment that I can bake later this week. As I headed home that night, I thought so typical! It’s Mother’s Day, and she’s giving me stuff!

I’m in class right now (on break, ok?). The woman next to me has five children, and she’s wearing a bright, yellow shirt that her kids made for her for Mother's Day. In puffy paint, they’ve made outlines of their hands and then written words that they use to describe their mom: breathtaking, respectful, friend, fun, loving.

If I made my mom a puffy paint T-shirt today, it’d say baker. Baker of love and help and encouragement. And, of course, muffins and desserts and bread.

Thank you, momma. I love you.
And you're breathtaking, too.

Waffles with Gordon

2010-05-04T07:21:00.001-07:00

On Saturday morning I found myself talking about the weather over waffles with old people.

I was asked to speak to a group of retirees from the university I work with. They meet quarterly for strawberries, whipped cream, waffles, and sausage links. Seriously. That’s it. Don’t even think about switching it up with bacon. And it’s been like that for 50-some years. They used to meet in the president’s house, but when the number of retirees got to be too great, it moved on campus into the dining center. At each gathering, they hear from a current university employee—this time, me.

I am not one to talk in front of people. In fact, I strongly dislike it. I’ve gotten better as I’ve gotten older, but it’s not my favorite thing to do. Especially at 8:30 on a Saturday morning at work! But I kindly accepted the offer and prepared a 15-minute talk about my background, my role at the university, what’s ahead for the magazine I edit, etc. I arrived in time to eat breakfast with the crowd of 50 or so before taking the microphone.

As planned, I talked for about 15 minutes and then with a sigh of relief, took a few questions from the crowd. I survived, and I think it went well. Afterwards, I stayed to chat and mingle. I didn’t really need to move. People came to me to thank me and ask me more questions. I had to explain to someone that I am no longer “in a grade.”

Out of the corner of my eye I could see Gordon, a 90-year-old former dean who I’ve had phone conversations with before for various reasons, slowly making his way to me with his walker. When at last he reached me, I thanked the person I was talking to for the kind words and turned to him.

With one hand bracing himself on the walker, he took his other hand and squeezed my wrist. He leaned in very close and rather loudly said: “I couldn’t hear a word you said, but you were great!”

The meant of sacrament

2010-05-03T13:50:00.000-07:00

Over the past week for class, I’ve spent some time reading about sacraments. They’re rites or oaths or activities that affirm your faith. The Roman Catholic Church decided a long time ago that they would have seven: marriage, confession, baptism, confirmation, ordination, last rites, and communion. Protestants decided they’d have two: baptism and communion.

It just so happened that my cousin, also my godson, was confirmed yesterday and participated in one of these sacraments—communion—for the first time. For Lutherans, confirmation means affirming what was said for you by others during your infant baptism.

Despite the debate over the number of sacraments as well as God’s activity in them (like, is it more about us coming before God or God coming down to us?), the author I’m reading says that they are ALL outward expressions of an internal faith.

And I got to thinking about how if that’s the case, then shouldn’t life be a sacrament? Why would we limit our outward expressions of faith to 10 minutes on a Sunday? Don’t get me wrong. I understand and respect the importance and significance of both baptism and communion. They are fundamental to the Christian faith, as shown throughout the New Testament. But, perhaps this particular author’s definition (maybe even our own) of them needs to be tweaked or clarified a bit more. I hope my life, my interactions with other people, my words, the decisions I make...I hope they are ALL sacraments! I hope they all externally reveal an element of my internal faith.

As I listened to the words associated with communion yesterday, I first recognized how odd or even creepy the “eucharist” can be. Partaking in Christ’s body and blood? Ok, that’s weird. It’s only normal to me because I’ve heard it almost every Sunday of my life, which--I did the math--is now nearly 1,500 times. But the phrase alone--drinking someone else's blood? (My eyebrows are up right now and my mouth is kind of crooked.) Also the author I’m reading uses the phrase “ingest.” As in we “ingest” the bread and wine. Weird! Can we just say “eat?”

But what’s most important is what’s behind all this wording. Christ’s body and blood refers to his death on the cross for us. His selfless love for us! I’ll ingest that and then hope to outwardly display it--continuously confirm it--throughout my life.

Some underwear and an ipod

2010-04-30T08:10:00.000-07:00

Matthew 19:21 has always left me feeling a little guilty.

Jesus says, “If you want to be perfect, go, sell your possessions and give to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven. Then come, follow me.”

Well, I want to be perfect, but how does this look today? I mean, I need a car to get to work every day. And Jesus isn’t literally standing outside my front door waiting for me to shut my windows, lock the door, and follow Him, as He was for his disciples 2,000 years ago. I have these images of me standing forlornly at the end of my driveway holding a big stick with one of my beach towels tied at the end holding a few pairs of underwear and perhaps my ipod? Maybe? I’ve gotten rid of all my possessions, am looking up at the sky and wondering...ok, now what?

In his book, Discipleship, Dietrich Bonhoeffer—my fake boyfriend who my real boyfriend is getting jealous of—has some insight.

“My faith, however, is not tied to poverty or wealth or some such thing...The main concern is not whether or not I have any worldly goods, but that I should possess goods as if I don’t possess them, and inwardly I should be free of them. I should not set my heart on my possessions. Thus, Jesus says, 'sell your possessions!' But what he intends is that it is not important if you actually do this literally, outwardly. You are free to keep possessions, but have them as if you did not have them. Do not set your heart on your possessions.”

I was recently talking to my grandmother. My grandpa was in the military as they were raising a family. So she had to move with him and their three boys more times than she can count. I told her I couldn’t imagine having to pack up and leave so many times. Having to say goodbye to houses you loved, or neighborhoods, or schools. She said that she learned quickly that it was not anything external that was important—the house, the furniture, boxes of stuff, etc. Rather, it was what was inside the house that mattered: as long as her boys were happy. As long as there was love.

I think the same is true with God. Carry that ipod in your beach towel—it matters not, if loving Him is most important, if obedience in following Him is priority.

Enter the exit

2010-04-29T16:18:00.000-07:00

What do you do when you’re walking out of Target, about to go through the second automatic exit door (not the double, sliding kind, but the single open/shut kind) and there’s someone on the other side of that door, waiting to come in. You know if you keep going, that person is going to get hit by the automatic door as it opens, and yet the person is not moving to make way? But you need to get out.

Well, I don’t really know what you’re supposed to do, but I’ll tell you what the other person does. They stare at you like you’re a moron. Like…hello?! Hit me!

As if it’s perfectly normal and even expected that one would not only try to enter through the door clearly labeled exit, but actually stand in front of that door which will hit them smack in the face. Like if you don’t hurry up and walk out the door, they’re going to get really mad.

Ok. Fine. She wants to get hit? Fine. I’ll exit. Thankfully the door was slow enough that she was able to take a few steps back before getting hit.

As I walked through the exit and passed her entering, she stared me down, disgusted.

I looked over my shoulder as I got in my car, worried that maybe she had followed me out. Silly me though. That would have required her to go OUT the exit door.

Last Saturday night…

2010-04-23T12:52:00.000-07:00

Did you know that last Saturday was Record Store Day? It was. And did you know that BJ plays in a bluegrass band called Fort Road 5? He does.

To celebrate the day, Fort Road 5 was invited to play at Hymie’s Vintage Records in Minneapolis.

BJ sang, the late-afternoon sun shone through the basement windows, good friends and family laughed, the smell of vinyl records lingered, a dog named Irene padded around...and I smiled, grateful.

Take me outside to the ballgame

2010-04-16T06:40:00.000-07:00

Here in Minnesota, we are obsessed with our new Twins baseball stadium. And for good reason. We get to watch baseball outside...the way you're supposed to. The one-million-square-foot stadium is big, new, and pretty. I imagine it having that new-car smell. It seats 40,000 fans in chairs that are supposedly wider and have more legroom than your average stadium seats.

Right now, we cannot get enough of the "firsts" associated with our new stadium.

First exhibition game in new outdoor stadium!

First real game in new stadium!

First win in new stadium!

First strike out!

First homerun!

First Tuesday game!

First Wednesday game!

First weekend game!

Come May, I’m guessing we’ll be hyping the first game played in the month of May. Woohoo!

We’re even proud of the first bad things.

First rain in the new stadium!

First loss!

First loss on a Tuesday!

First loss on Wednesday!

First loss of the second game in a series in the new stadium!

First loss of the third game in a series!

First injury!

I think we secretly like our new stadium because it makes us feel like we have good weather and we can try to convince non-Minnesotans of this (that we are not cuh-razy for living here). Winter? Oh, it’s not that bad. Need proof? Well, we have an OUTDOOR baseball field! Actually what this means is that we live in the tundra and are subsequently very tough--we will still be outdoor baseball fans in April even if it is snowing because, for us, as long as it’s above freezing at that point...we’re good!

Well, tonight I’m going to the first night game in the new outdoor stadium. And I'm happy to report that it's not snowing.

Smirking silence

2010-04-14T11:04:00.001-07:00

The thing that will ultimately push me over the edge for getting a new car is not the fact that I’m going through a quart of oil every week and a half or so. Nor is it that the muffler falls off. It’s not that there is a horrible chugging, which, in addition to giving me and passengers whiplash, scares the drivers around me. It’s also not that sometimes I can’t open my front door. And it’s not that I just spent the past five days driving dad’s car because he was out of town and preferred I drive a reliable vehicle while he’s far away.

Oh no.

It’s actually that now I can’t listen to music. My car has lost control of its volume. Try as it might to hold it in, it simply can’t help itself. It must decrease the volume to ZERO as quickly as possible all the time. And I swear it laughs as it does this.

I turn the volume up to 21 and then watch it decrease to 0 within seconds. Silence.

Try again. Turn the volume up. 21 20 19 18 17 16 15...All the way back down to 0.

Oh, you like that song? Sorry.

Oh, you actually wanted to hear the weather for the day? Well, look online.

Oh, you don’t need to know about traffic.

No matter what I do--press really hard, use two fingers, say nice things to the button--I watch the volume numbers quickly decrease. 19 18 17 16 15 14 13 12 11 10... in a matter of seconds, it’s silence.

Try again. Back up to 21. Nope. All the way back down it goes with a smirk.

So, I drove to work this morning in silence and decided that was it. The final straw. My car has gone too far. I don’t care that it’s addicted to very expensive oil. And the chugging? It’s ok. I get cramps too. I understand. But making me drive in silence? I think not. Not gonna happen.

Religion or grace

2010-04-13T14:11:00.000-07:00

For one of my classes, I’m studying theologians Karl Barth and Deitrich Bonhoeffer. Both challenge human assumptions made about God.

Last night I read an address that Bonhoeffer gave in 1928 in Barcelona. I underlined and starred the following passage. I don’t have time to dissect it at the moment, but it’s certainly food for thought on this pretty spring Tuesday in Minneapolis:

“What are we to think of other religions? Are they as nothing compared to Christianity? We answer that the Christian religion as religion is not of God. It is rather another example of a human way to God, like the Buddhist and others, too, though of course, these are of a different nature. Christ is not the bringer of a new religion, but rather the one who brings God. Therefore, as an impossible way from the human to God, the Christian religion stands with other religions. Christians can never pride themselves on their Christianity, for it remains human, all too human. They live, however, by the grace of God, which comes to people and comes to every person who opens his or her heart to it and learns to understand it in a the cross of Christ. And, therefore, the gift of Christ is not the Christian religion, but the grace and love of God which culminate in the cross.” -DB

Hm. Do we live by our religion or by God’s grace and love? What do others say we live by?

Egregious expectations

2010-04-09T13:41:00.000-07:00

I am sick of hearing about Tiger Woods. I’m tired of seeing his name and face. And when your mom knows about the latest info regarding Tiger’s sexual escapades...it’s gone too far! In a recent conversation with my parents, they shocked me by knowing the most up-to-date news about Sandra Bullock's marital woes as well as all the gossip surrounding Tiger Woods.

Duh, Heather! This stuff is all over the news! They said.

Oh, sorry. Some of us have our noses in theology books. (that nose is very high in the air as I say this!)

Anyways. The Masters. Tiger Woods. The other day Billy Payne, the chairman of Augusta National Golf Club where the Masters are, had a few choice words about Tiger: "It is not simply the degree of his conduct that is so egregious here; it is the fact that he disappointed all of us, and more importantly our kids and our grandkids. Our hero did not live up to the expectations of the role model we saw for our children."

Seriously? Our hero? Live up to our expectations?

The thing is, Tiger never raised his hand and said, yes, I will be Billy Payne’s grandchild’s role model. Had he I think I would take Payne’s point a little more seriously. The fact is Payne made him that. We’ve made Tiger that. And, I would argue that maybe that’s the problem!

Now, Tiger did raise his hand and tell his wife that he would be her husband. So, she has some serious leeway on her expectations. But me? Not so much.

I don’t agree with or condone any of Tiger’s recent "egregious" actions. But he’s human and always has been. We’re the ones who have chosen to view Tiger and a bajillion other celebrities/athletes as not-normal, above average. We've put them on pedestals, and then we’re shocked when they fail like the normal human beings that they are.

We may do well to check the placement of our expectations?

ps. I promise to make my next post happy, less ranting. :)

Oh sweet givens

2010-04-07T13:56:00.000-07:00

If.
I’m so sick of this tiny little two-letter word, that I could use a four-letter word right now. I mean, for how weighty “if” is, you’d think it’d be 22 letters.

On the condition that
In case of...
Supposing that...
If this, then that...
If that, then this...

Everything hinges upon something else. Using the word "if" means you don’t know something. You’re lacking confirmation on something. And let me tell you, for a girl who plans and confirms, plans and confirms, plans and confirms, IF is nervewracking. Please, someone, "roger that" for me!

Chances are you have "ifs" in your life: health, job, finances, relationships. But those "ifs," wherever they may be, I think, can be good and healthy because they cause you to contemplate or hold on to those things that are not iffy. The things that you know for sure. The givens—oh sweet givens. And I think maybe those are the things we should be focusing on all along! Like those people who place no conditions on their love for you. Those friends who are your best friends no matter time or distance. Like God’s forgiveness, which doesn’t suppose anything. And His grace, which hinges on nothing but our acceptance. Not our plans or paychecks or report cards.

You know how wonderful the givens are. How great it is when someone says "I'll be there no matter what." or "I love you no matter what." Do we return the favor? Where do I place "ifs"--the very things I hate!? Do I give friends "ifs" sometimes? Do I give God "ifs"? If he does this for me, then I'll be happy? Or if he doesn't answer this prayer...I'm not going to believe...

I love givens, and I want to be a better given.

If momma ain't happy...

2010-04-03T07:36:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I sat at the hair salon, eavesdropping on the conversations around me. The woman cutting hair at the station next to me was talking to her client about her two young children. “And my husband knows that being a mother is not my top priority in life,” she explained. “I need to be happy first, and if I’m happy, then my kids will be happy.” She then went on to talk about a trip she had taken to L.A. without her kids or husband.

What?! That is precisely what’s wrong in our society, I thought to myself. We only care about ourselves. Me Me Me.

Shouldn't it be the around way around? Serve others. Take care of others. Put others before yourself. And chances are you will be happy because the relationships you build—and your children—will be healthy and strong and meaningful.

I wanted to asked her if she really believed that later in life her adult children would say, "Yeah, mom was great. She always put herself before us. We really appreciated that."

Tomorrow's Easter, and I look forward to celebrating the fact that our heavenly father put us first, giving up his son to die for us.

Good night, traffic

2010-04-01T08:20:00.000-07:00

When I was little, I sometimes got to sleep on a cot in my grandma and grandpa’s bedroom. Their bedroom windows were always cracked (even when it was COLD!), and you could hear the constant whir of speeding cars and semis from the freeway just beyond the hill.

My grandpa would tuck me in by making a fort around my face. He’d take the blanket and smoosh it and fold it in just such a way that it covered my head but still left a little hole or opening somewhere for me to breathe. Then he’d shut the light off, and I’d feel safe and sound—face covered—listening to the traffic, knowing grandma and grandpa would be right next to me throughout the night.

Depending on which direction the wind blows, I can sometimes hear traffic from my own bedroom window now. Last night I could. As I crawled into bed and made my own fort around my head, I smiled—thankful for the warmer weather allowing for open windows and the sound of whirring traffic...and for a grandpa who made forts.

C'mon, make fun of me

2010-03-31T06:26:00.000-07:00

I make a lot of fun of the people who work out at the gym alongside me. Running on the treadmill affords a great opportunity to listen to the guy who grunts when he lifts weights, read people’s silly T-shirts, watch the girl in the purple spandex try to show off for muscleman. And then, of course, there are the people who leave the ridiculous requests and complaints on the bulletin board above the water fountain.

But, I have to tell you: on Monday I practically begged my fellow gym-ers to make fun of me.

As per usual, I was in a hurry as I got ready at home. I pulled on my tight black cropped pants, threw on a sports bra, grabbed a t-shirt, and because it was so nice out—no snow!!—I just wore my running shoes instead of bringing an extra pair.

To the gym I go. On the treadmill I hop. My keys go on the ground next to me, water bottle in holder, and ipod in ears. I am good to go. Bring on the people watching. As I started running, I felt something between my legs. I inconspicuously bent forward a bit and pretended like I had to scratch the inside of my leg. To my horror, there was a large, soft lump on the inside of my thigh. What you ask was this lump? Oh, my black underwear from the day before which blended in with my black pants and which I failed to notice as I got ready.

Crap! What to do? Did the five people behind me on stairmasters see this? Had they spotted the lump? Had they spotted my mortified face? Were they wondering why I had one large thigh?

What was my plan? I could pause the treadmill, get off, and go to the bathroom to dig my underwear out from my pants, but then what would I do with them? Put them down on the floor next to my keys? Hook onto my water bottle? Carry? The only possibility was stuffing them into my sports bra, but when you’re not that big on top, that’d probably be noticeable too! (I have a friend who can actually throw her cell phone in her sports bra during runs, and her phone won’t move. Oh the luxury!) I was cursing the nice weather. Had it been cold or nasty out I would have worn a coat in which I could have hidden underwear!

As these options ran through my head, my lump slowly worked its way to the back of my thigh. Trying to stretch my T-shirt down, down, down over my lump also crossed my mind. Maybe people feel sorry for me, I thought. I have an ugly growth on my leg. Or maybe people didn’t notice. Maybe they were too intent on the cable show above them about some girl who didn’t know she was pregnant until she was in labor.

Anyways, I didn’t get off the treadmill. I thought that may actually draw more attention to the situation. Instead I pretended as though I didn’t have an extra pair of underwear in my pants, and I vowed to never make fun of my fellow gymers again.

Shut up, Helga!

2010-03-30T18:44:00.000-07:00

BJ and I took a road trip this past week, driving some 1,800 miles across seven or eight states to visit our grandparents in Indiana and Arkansas.

For Christmas BJ received Garmin—a GPS who he (fluent in German) quickly programmed to “Helga,” a woman who speaks automated German. He clipped Helga to the inside of the windshield as we pulled out of the driveway. “Biegen sie links in. .3 kilometers.” (Oh good. Just in case we didn’t know how to pull out of the neighborhood.)

Additionally, I borrowed dad’s hefty atlas, which is painfully large, but so fun because you can—when things get really boring—follow town by town, often ripping on names like Effingham, Mo., and Peculiar, Mo. (Missouri has the worst town names ever. Iowa may be a close second.)

But just in case these wouldn’t suffice, BJ also printed out Google maps, including both the directions and the maps for each leg of our trip. We were more than prepared. “We couldn’t get lost even if we tried,” BJ said. “True that!” I piped in, proud of our preparedness!

Well, that was until we entered Illinois when suddenly Helga was telling us to go one way (she practically yells us!), our Google maps suggested another way, and dad’s atlas showed another way that I thought would probably make more sense. In a matter of seconds we had to make a decision. Who was going to trump whom? Which way? Which way? The exit is about to pass!

BJ: Heath, which way?!

HJ: I don’t know. Who do you want? Helga or Google?
(and Helga yelling RECHTS RECHTS RECHTS was not helping)

Our preparedness was suddenly useless. Having not made a decision at the beginning who or what would be our default, we became decision-less and paralyzed at very critical junctures!

I quickly became annoyed with Helga, too, who only yelled at us louder when we’d take the Google route. And when she led us astray twice—taking us to nonexistent coffee shops—I had had enough.

But anyways, isn’t that how it always goes? You think you got your ducks lined up. You’ve got life figured out, and you are prepared! You know exactly where you’re going. And then suddenly there’s road construction and a missed sign and your “preparedness” becomes laughable. Which way are you going to go?! You can’t really rely on your own sorely lacking knowledge.

There’s great comfort in deciding to let God trump all my silly plans and maps and directions and societal pressures. Admittedly sometimes I wonder, really? You want me to go that way? And I also still tend to panic at critical junctures, but I shouldn't. He’ll always get me to my destination. And he won’t even arrogantly flaunt his know-how in German!

Direct me in the path of your commands, for there I find delight.
Psalm 119:35

Genius

2010-03-10T11:41:00.001-08:00

A white screen blinked an outline of a file folder and a question mark at me.

I had flipped my mac on an hour before class last night to finish up homework. It did that introductory sound...auuummmm...and then tried and tried and tried to do something. I could hear it working, like a train going up a hill, “I think I can, I think I can, I think I can...” and then...the blinking file folder.

I wanted to talk back to it. Yes. Yes, I know. That’s my question to YOU! Where exactly is my folder of homework. You tell me. And come to think of it, please also tell me where my photos and my journal and my finances and internet “favorites” are too!

I suddenly felt naked and deprived and, quite honestly, helpless. There was simply nothing I could do, except restart a few times, only to have the same thing happen; take a few deeeep breaths; and turn to my work computer to redo the homework I needed for class. All the while, I tried to hold my panic at bay. My baby...my lifeline to the world! I wanted to stroke her and tell her to breath deeply...it’ll be OK! What am I going to do? Panic Panic Panic.

Well, I’ll tell you what I did. I immediately made a reservation at the closest Genius Bar: Apple’s help desk in the mall’s Apple retail store. A genius bar is a genius idea, really. I mean, geniuses are people with extraordinarily high intelligence ratings; they have a natural capacity for certain abilities. And they are all at a bar ready to help ME and my computer!

So, I promptly plopped my not-so-genius bottom down at the bar today at 12:20 over my lunch hour. I handed over my baby to bartender David in a bright blue shirt. Help her...fix her...do something, I pleaded with David. Make the folder go away, please! I can’t take it anymore. I don’t know what to do!

A song from Sunday school went through my head: “Cast your burdens...unto Jesus...for he caaaaaaares for you.” It’s from 1 Peter 5:6. Cast all your anxiety on him because he cares for you.

I casted some serious concerns over to Genius David, and we were about to see how much he cared for me.

David told me he’d be right back. He was going to go in back and see if he could resuscitate my baby. I waited at the bar, and with that song in my head, I started thinking about other things in my life right now in which I feel somewhat helpless and deprived. Things that I just want to cast across the bar. I’m getting frustrated with them because I keep restarting and rebooting and it’s not working. I’m getting question marks! Blinking question marks. And panic can set in if I don’t make a reservation with God to hand over my burdens.

What a relief when I realize that I can throw my biggest problems and concerns at him and say HELP...and know that he has my best interests at heart. God is a genius willing to take our work problems, our fears, our worries about the futures, our financial woes on himself!

David didn’t have the greatest news today. My baby will be breathing again very soon, but not without losing a lot of precious info. It’s not the exact response I wanted, but I am incredibly grateful for the genius bar and felt so much better the second I handed my burden over to them.

It’s genius.

Three dates a day

2010-03-05T09:13:00.001-08:00

Yesterday I chatted with a 91-year-old gentleman.

His wife is in a nearby nursing home. I found out that every day—like clockwork—he drives to the nursing home at 11am to take his bride out to lunch. Then he goes to work (yes, he still works). At 4:30pm he heads back to the nursing home to have dinner with her. He goes home and finally returns to the nursing home at 8pm to be with her as she goes to bed. She knows exactly when he will arrive and leave, and he will not disappoint.

It is a gift to be able to do this—he told me—to drive to the nursing home three times a day. It’s a treat because he feels like he gets to go on three dates every single day. He said he is lucky and blessed.

I was speechless.

Such perspective. Instead of being sad that his wife is in a nursing home, instead of begrudging the fact that he "has to" drive to the nursing home three times daily...he is happy.

And such love. Such loyalty. It takes my breath away.

So does the love of a certain someone, whom I would be lucky to visit three times a day many years from now.

Who's in front of me?

2010-03-03T12:38:00.000-08:00

A few nights ago, I interviewed a woman who has been working in a makeshift tent hospital in Haiti since the January earthquake. She has performed leg amputations. Delivered babies. Put protruding bones back into bodies. And gotten no more than five hours of sleep per night for two solid months.

I sat on my comfy couch in my warm living room and listened to her share stories. About how the patients at her hospital sleep outside because they’re traumatized. They had been buried in debris, and with recent aftershocks are terrified to sleep under a roof. About how one 10-year-old named Rosemond was pulled out from under his house three days after the quake only to discover that his mom and dad and three siblings had already died. He now vacillates between laughing and playing soccer with kids in the neighborhood--like a normal little boy--and sitting somberly in the corner, alone--like no boy should have to. His 8-year-old buddy at the hospital was amazingly reunited with his parents a few days ago. Rosemond sat in the shadows, quietly watching his friend joyously hug his momma.

I silently dabbed the tears forming in my eyes. As she told me about her average day, I couldn’t help but feel a little guilty. What am I doing for the good of humanity? What difference, really, am I making sitting in my office working on a computer? While she’s fixing a skull fracture, I’m running on a treadmill at the gym!?

An overwhelming sense of responsibility and guilt bubbled up inside of me. And it's happened before. It happened after I returned from planting gardens in South Africa for 10 days. It happened when I built homes in poverty-stricken Mexico for a weekend. I felt so bad for having so much and doing so little. I started feeling guilty about the simplest luxuries. Why do I get toothpaste when so many others can’t even get water? Why do I get to go to five different shoe stores to pick out the “perfect” boots, when so many others don’t have anything on their feet? I should be somewhere doing something helping lots of people.

And yet, logically, I know it can’t work. We can’t all drop what we’re doing and go help people in Haiti forever. In fact, we’d probably make things worse there!

At the end of the conversation, I asked my interviewee why she’s doing what she’s doing--why she intends to spend another month far from home, tending to others’ physical needs. After a few moments of silence, she said that being there right now is extremely overwhelming. There are too many people with too many needs, but she reminds herself each day that Jesus was not about quantity. He was about quality. He was about helping the one person in front of him at any given time.

I sat up a little straighter. That’s right. We are the hands and feet of Christ. And we can’t all be in the same place at the same time doing the same thing. Sometimes I think I should put those blinders on...the kind that horses wear? Or one of those silly white megaphone-looking things that dogs where. I can sometimes get so overwhelmed by the enormous size and quantity of humanity's problems that I am blind to the ways I can truly make a difference. Instead, I feel guilty for the ways I can't make a difference.

So, the question is: who’s in front of me? Right now. Right here. How can I help him or her--even if it means only getting five hours of sleep?

On BB

2010-02-26T11:54:00.000-08:00

Here’s the thing with palm pilots and blackberrys and smartphones--and whatever other handheld devices from which you can email. It may be uber speedy for you to respond to my email via this device as you walk through the airport or sit down in your meeting or wait at the doctor's office. And you may actually think you're doing me a favor by responding so speedily. But, it takes ME three times longer to decipher your blackberry response than it would to read your email response. And they're supposed to increase or enhance our communication, but I think these devices might be doing the opposite.

“I need the numbers for chart.”
becomes
“I nee the nmbersfor chart..”
Say what?

This morning, receipt letter became rect letter. And the responder sent the accompanying message “hope comes through.”
I mean, it sounds like we're dealing with the morse code.

A friend of mine requested a meeting for something.
Instead of receiving “Everything ok? Sure thing, let’s meet.”
He got “What for?”
And then was stressing about the terseness. Did he offend? Was the recipient mad? Oh no, they’re just ordering a latte as they answer your request to meet tomorrow.

I ask about a lunch date.
The response I get: “I can do T the 12 at 2 or W the 13 at 1.”
Ok. Great. But Tuesday is not the 12th; it's the 13th. And I said I could do 1pm on the 12th and 2pm on the 13th. And this is all assuming that T is Tuesday, 12 is the date, and 2 is the time, etc.

And you know it’s bad when the responder takes the time to apologize for their blackberry usage.
“Sorry. Am on BB.”

Chirp chirp

2010-02-25T07:09:00.000-08:00

Crickets.
You know the sound...the sound of no response.
Whether it be to a verbal comment (surely awkward!), a text, an email or a voice message...it’s the sound of simply not answering.

Knock knock. Hello? Anyone there? Comprende?

Even if it’s not the response you want, an acknowledgement is always polite and considerate.

With some people though, the sound of crickets triggers concerns. I told a coworker yesterday that I was worried about another colleague. His lack of response to our request was extremely abnormal. He always responds—and responds quickly. I feared something was wrong. Sure enough, come to find out, his computer was one of 30 on campus that had been overtaken by a virus. He was in the process of recovering his hard drive. Additionally, his mother had been rushed to the emergency room the night before, and was still in the hospital. Yet, he was on our request. He had gotten it and was halfway through it.

A friend recently asked me what one was supposed to do when they keep praying, keep talking to God, and seemingly hear crickets?! Hello? God? You there? Listening?! When you’re asking for direction and you’re getting nada? I don’t really know what you do. But I think the crickets mean something’s up. God’s on it. He is one of those people who does respond. So if there’s some lag time, you can be sure something's up. He’s probably very very busy on something very very good.

Chirp Chirp.

Fix the dent

2010-02-24T11:04:00.000-08:00

Another request posted on my gym’s bulletin board...

Gym user: “Please fix the dent in the bathroom floor by the drain. I almost sprained my ankle.”

Gym employee response: “State law mandates a slight slope in the floor along with a drain to prevent flooding.”

Hidden

2010-02-23T17:15:00.000-08:00

I couldn’t find my black flats this morning, and, of course, I was in a hurry. I quickly went down the shelves in my closet, feeling in the dark for the soft suede. Each time I went down the same shelves coming up black flat-less (I skipped the top shelf because why would I put a pair of shoes I wear often on the very top shelf which I can barely reach?!), these shoes began to mean more and more.

What would I do without them?
I’d have to change pants!
And they’re so comfortable.
I can wear them with anything.
They’re pretty much like the greatest pair of shoes ever!
Where the heck are they?!

In reality, they’re not that special, not that expensive, and they’re all crusty now from the winter salt. I gave up and returned to the bathroom to finish getting ready. I’d resume the search later.

The other night in church, the pastor read the beginning of Colossians, Chapter 2. Paul’s talking: “My purpose is that you may be encouraged in heart and united in love—you’ll have the full riches of complete understanding, and know the mystery of God, namely Christ, in who are hidden all the treasures of wisdom and knowledge.”

I, not surprisingly, got hung up on things completely unrelated to what the pastor was saying. God…a mystery…in which treasures are hidden….Images of Disney’s version of the Swiss Family Robinson came to mind. Hidden treasures. Pirates.

Why hidden? Why does God need to be a mystery? I continued pondering this through much of the message—instead of listening to the message.

Hidden things are all the more precious when you seek and eventually find them. Think of gift shopping. We've all done the easy amazon.com order, which takes two clicks and two seconds. Useful, practical? Yes, maybe. But super personal or meaningful? Maybe not. But then there are those gifts for which you search high and low. You look everywhere for months. When you finally find it, it's the most amazing gift ever and you can't wait to give it away. I think maybe it's a little like God.

My own faith only gained meaning when I was forced to look for it, to question it. For me, God’s mystery is far from fully revealed. The whole treasure chest has not been opened, but God often pulls out pieces of sparkling treasure when I search for him. Glimpses of his amazing love and his crazy plan and his undeserved grace shimmer clearly through people placed in my path, opportunities put before me, and even challenges to overcome. He's going to take more than two clicks and two seconds though. You're going to have to look a little.

Anyways, by the time I found my black flats this morning—on the very top shelf, mind you—I could have kissed them.

Monday morning staredowns

2010-02-15T14:19:00.001-08:00

This morning I sat on the bench in my entry way, staring out the front glass door, waiting for my dad and wishing I had taken a shower. Dad and I traded cars last night because the driver-side door handle just decided enough was enough. It snapped off, and I’m pretty sure it had a smirk on its face as it did it. So, dad was going to fix today on his day off. I realized last night though as I got home that I had left my garage door opener in my car; I’d have to go through the side door in the morning—I made a mental note.

I get up uber early this morning because I know I’m going into battle with traffic, yet again. With another 2 inches of fresh snow in the Twin Cities, the morning commute was sure to be a doozy. And the first piece of armor one can put on is to leave crazy, ridiculously early. I kind of want to pat myself on my back as I brush my teeth and start the shower: I didn’t press snooze ONCE! Take THAT traffic! Watch me beat you this morning!

I hop in the shower and immediately hop out like a madwoman. It’s freezing! What the? Towel wrapped around me, now shivering, I run downstairs and look. Yes. the water heater is still there. I stare at it. Yup. There it is. Right by the furnace. Looks good. I mean, really, what did I think I was going to do? I lean down, and turn the knob past the point where it says “Warning, May Cause Scalding.” I run back upstairs thinking to myself that scalding wouldn’t be so bad at that moment. So, I wait. Do more staring. This time I’m staring at my running water, as I wonder how much clean water I’m wasting when people in Haiti need it, and if my next quarterly bill is now going to be more than $58. Ok. Let’s try this again. I hop...NOPE. AH. FREEZING.

Fine. Traffic, not only am I going to beat you this morning, I’m going to kill you by a landslide because I just shaved like 25 minutes off my prep time without showering! I get ready, showerless, blowdrying my sweater before I put it on for warmth.

I am still smiling as I think of beating traffic and head out to my garage’s sidedoor. With my lunch bag, my work bag, my gym bag, and a gift bag for my friends who just had a baby in hand, I jiggle through my keys for the right one. Put it into the door. It won’t move. I stare at the lock. I’m staring again. Ok, I can do this, but at this point, the smile goes away. I run back inside, drop the bags off because I couldn’t just put them down on the walkway because they hadn’t plowed the fresh snow yet. Go back outside. Try the key again in both locks. They are frozen. The key will not budge either way in either lock. Frozen. Of course! I do some more staring at. the. lock...OPEN...PLEASE...before I relent and go back inside to call dad.

And as I plopped down on the bench in my entry way to wait, I had the strongest surge of desire for spring, for summer, for warmth. I also had the strongest surge of rage for winter. Suddenly, all of my problems were winter’s fault. I mean freezing cold water wouldn’t be that bad if it was 90 out! And my door handle may not have gotten so pissed if it wasn’t spending all of its time in below-zero weather. And my locks would surely not be frozen shut. Maybe I wouldn't need to blowdry my clothes for HEAT! I could go on and on. I started staring again. This time at the snow, willing it to disappear. The white landscape before me turned to luscious green. I could smell freshly cut grass. I had purple flowers hanging from my porch. My deck! I could see my deck. Oh, and a hint of fresh basil. Flip flops. Lawn chairs. Tank tops. Oh my gosh. I was in a desert seeing an oasis. Birds were chirping. The sun was shining on my face. I could smell sprinkler...

And then dad pulled up with de-icer and my janky car with the jerryrigged door handle.

Credit, please

2010-02-12T06:43:00.000-08:00

"But it’s not our trash."

Pick it up.

"Even the cigarette butt?"

Pick it up.

It used to be the lamest day of the year for me. The Saturday that ended our vacation up north. For many years, my family, grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, rented out an entire resort for one week. I looked forward to it all year long. I counted down the days until we got to go to “the cabin” and spend seven whole days sunbathing, waterskiing, staying up late, eating skittles, fishing. Because we lived down south and people didn’t have cabins and lakes were strange phenomena, this was a big deal! The week passed by so quickly though; the end would always come so suddenly. It would be early Saturday morning, and we’d be packing up the car to go home. And I knew what that meant...I’d have to spend the afternoon at the laundromat with mom. Sick.

But part of leaving was heading down to the beach to pick up trash with Grandpa. We were to leave the resort in better condition than it was when we had arrived. That meant we were picking up others’ chip bags, because we, ourselves, were a pretty tidy bunch.

I can remember thinking though that the owners weren’t ever going to know that we had done this for them! We should leave a note: “Thanks for everything. We took it upon ourselves to clean up everyone else’s mess FOR YOU. No sweat. You’re welcome!” Give us some credit for being exceptional renters!

I was thinking about this earlier this week. About the things we do when no one’s looking or listening. Knowing there will be no recognition, we should still go the extra mile even though cutting corners would be so much easier.

And then this morning, I read Colossians 3 and smiled.
“Obey your earthly masters in everything; and do it, not only when their eye is on you and to win their favor, but with sincerity of heart and reverence for the Lord. Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart, as working for the Lord, not for men.” (22-23)

What a perfect reminder (and timely for me) that we do, in fact, get credit from the only place where it really matters! Someone is most definitely watching, and He is who we work for. Who we pick up others' trash for.

Bejeweled

2010-02-11T06:16:00.000-08:00

Oh, February.

How I do love thee. You have bejeweled me every day on the way to work.

You fill my eyes with wonderfully bright red sparkly rubies. Every now and then these jewels dim, but mostly they just stay lit up, not moving. Thank you! There are so many pairs of them! They’re lovely. And they just encircle me. I cannot move.

And to the left, you offer shiny white little diamonds that go on forever and ever, as far as the eye can see. Again, thank you! So many pairs! I can hardly stand it.

Between these jewels are others who don’t seem as awe-filled as me. Their cranky, janky expressions and middle fingers seem to suggest that there are either too many jewels or the jewels are simply too bright for them so early in the morning.

Check your margins

2010-02-09T18:19:00.000-08:00

It's February 10, and I have not blogged in what, for me anyways, is a long time. And I must admit, I feel untethered by this, similar to how I feel when I go too many days without talking to my dear friend in Cali. The other morning, I left for work a bit earlier and found myself sitting behind a stopped schoolbus, and junior highers were getting on. Movement in my rearview mirror caught my eye. A boy with a very heavy backpack was running awkwardly to catch the bus. He passed my passenger side and did manage to get on the bus, but not before having to bend over and pick up his dropped cell phone in the snow.

That's me, I thought! That's how I've felt lately. Trying to catch up on life. Trying to catch up on homework, on work work, on working out, on home projects, on sleep, on returned phone calls! You know it's bad when 20 minutes of time at home seems like a really large chunk of time to get stuff done. Or when you hit up Caribou three days in a row for coffee because you've gotten home too late or been too tired to grind the beans you've got at home.

Dad emailed to check in on me recently and kindly suggested that I may need to consider building more margin into my life. Yes, that would be nice. If he could just go into Microsoft Word, click on the tools tab and show me how to set a fatter margin on my week, I'd greatly appreciate it.

I just don't think I do margins very well. I don't do white space. If my calendar is empty, I feel the need to fill it. I need to host a dinner. Meet someone for coffee. Work on my hobbies. Learn more. Life's short! So I fill and then wonder how I can possibly be so busy! That 20 minutes of time at home that I mentioned? Well, that's good for a quick shower, dishwasher emptying, mail getting, and throwing a load of laundry in. At least! I mean I could maybe even get a few pages of homework read. I can learn something!

The untethered feeling, I think, is what happens when life doesn't just seep out of the margins, because I actually prefer to fill my margins--I thrive on being busy. I think untetheredness is when life has actually gone through the margins and is now off the 8.5x11 sheet of paper on the floor somewhere.

Anyways, dad's right. A woman needs some margin, I suppose. Or maybe a woman just needs to keep life on the page. Keep a post on the blog for goodness sakes.

Real rest

2010-01-29T11:36:00.000-08:00

Jesus resumed talking to the people, but now tenderly. "The Father has given me all these things to do and say...No one knows the Son the way the Father does, nor the Father the way the Son does. But I'm not keeping it to myself; I'm ready to go over it line by line with anyone willing to listen.

"Are you tired? Worn out? Burned out on religion? Come to me. Get away with me and you'll recover your life. I'll show you how to take a real rest. Walk with me and work with me—watch how I do it. Learn the unforced rhythms of grace. I won't lay anything heavy or ill-fitting on you. Keep company with me and you'll learn to live freely and lightly."

Matthew 11:27-30 (The Message translation)

Janky

2010-01-28T13:57:00.000-08:00

Janky.
It’s a word. An adjective. Did you know that? My friends in Cali use it frequently, and on a recent visit I asked them to please clarify its meaning! Janky? Never heard of it. Well, they promptly informed me that duh, it means like...ghetto. I would have put money on it not being in the dictionary. But turns out it is! It means “messed up, bad, inferior.” Once I found that out, I decided janky most definitely needed to become part of my regular vocabulary! I just needed to find some good uses for it.

So, the other night after class, I’m headed home, driving along 694, chatting with my mom on the cell, when all of a sudden my rear end starts making this horrid noise...the car’s rear end.

Me: Mom, can you hear that?!

Mom: Yes. what is it?!

Me: I DON’T KNOW.

Mom: Where are you?

Me: On the freeway.

Mom: Get off the freeway.

Me: Yes. I know. I will, I have to wait for exit!

I get off at next exit, and pull into the first parking lot, which happens to be an apartment complex.

Mom: Is it safe there?

Me: I DON’T KNOW! You just told me to get off the freeway and now you’re questioning my location. You want me on the road or in the parking lot?! Make up your mind!

So, anyways. I’m in heels and a skirt (of course). It’s 10:30pm (of course). It’s zero degrees out. Windchill well below zero (of course). I get out, walk around to the back of my car...and there...just casually chillin’ on the ground, as if that’s it exactly where it’s supposed to be, is half my car’s rear end. Ok. I exaggerate. It was the muffler and some other stuff. I don’t know. Whatever it was was dragging on the ground. I had to call dad (of course). (I mean, did you read my last post?!)

As I sat in my car waiting for my knight in shining armor (or at least his warmest Columbia jacket), the only word that came to mind was JANKY. JA-NKY!

Perfect usage!

I'm full

2010-01-26T09:50:00.000-08:00

It’s just disappearing. The oil in my car.
Poof. Gone.

I’d feel better if there was a big puddle of oil on my garage floor, or if it was somehow seeping through the floorboards. At least I could pinpoint where it was going! But the oil goes in, and then a few days later, it’s gone.

I’m supposed to keep checking the oil levels, because I should not drive around without oil. But, I’m having a hard time doing that. It just doesn’t register. I don’t think about it. Or if I do, I think of a million reasons why I’m not going to check it right at that moment. The first reason is that nine times out of ten, I can’t even get my hood open. The second reason is that it’s 10 degrees below zero outside. The third reason is that I’m wearing a skirt and heels. The fourth reason is that I have the little genie-in-a-bottle light on my dashboard--that’s its job to tell me I need more oil!

So dad, always my knight in shining armor, checks my oil every time he sees me now (sometimes even when he doesn't see me). And I swear he just keeps an extra quart of oil always on hand so he can fill up my tank each time. And every time he does, I drive away feeling safe, or at least safer, because my tank is filled with oil.

But I realized that we live in a tiring state of refilling. We refill gas tanks, pantries, water bottles, savings accounts, prescriptions. We refill and refill and refill some more. It’s just neverending. I don’t want to think about that for too long. It's seriously tiring to think about!

So, this morning as I read a bit of Colossians, I got hung up on the word “fullness.” We are told that we “have been given fullness in Christ” (Col. 2:10). What a concept. To not have to refill? I actually can’t quite grasp it--to think that I have everything I need for life in Christ...

And then this got me thinking about the people in Haiti. I’m continually amazed. All of these people on the news: they have nothing (earthly, that is), and yet they reference faith or God as sustenance. Over and over again you hear that that is what’s getting them through. And I guess that’s fullness. When there’s nothing around you to refill anything...you’re still full in Christ.

And yes...I know. I need a new car.

Animals and taxes

2010-01-22T08:58:00.000-08:00

Who loves Fridays? I do, I do. Especially because I can wear jeans and tennies to work. This morning, I helped stuff letters (tax info/receipts) into envelopes for an office mailing (a fabulously brainless task for a few minutes on a Friday!).

I learned that animals pay taxes, too.

Names on mailing list:
Babie Moose
(someone should have told mom and dad this one when I was born!)

Rusty Lyon

Address on mailing list:
Walking Horse Dr. (as opposed to running horse? or perhaps galloping?)

*If you should happen to know Babie or Rusty, I know that they are not, in fact, animals.
**To devoted readers who'd prefer I post every day...this is what you're gonna get sometimes! Rusty lions and baby meese.
***Happy Friday!

No sidebar life

2010-01-20T13:45:00.000-08:00

In editing a few features for work recently, I’ve gone back to the different writers with the same comments/edits/suggestions.

Here’s what happens. They have an intriguing lead and as they conclude their lead, they tell the reader what he or she will learn if they continue. “Read on to hear how So and So is doing This.” “Learn how Such and Such is making a difference.” So, the reader excitedly continues on only to discover that what they were promised at the beginning didn’t happen. They didn’t hear about X, Y or Z. They didn’t hear from So and So, or if they did, it wasn’t what they were supposed to hear about.

Interestingly though, the necessary information hasn’t completely eluded the writers. It's not like they didn't get that info. It’s all there. They've just chosen to put it into sidebars. In editorial speak, these are chunks of text that are extra, frivolous. The feature can stand alone, so these sidebars are not necessary but they definitely spice it up. They're usually in little boxes on their own.

So, I’ve found myself pushing back, telling these particular writers that the info they’ve placed in sidebars is NOT supplementary. At least not if they want an engaging, interesting piece! Not if they want to follow through on what they promised the reader in the beginning. I’m encouraging them to go back and weave the interesting stuff throughout, which, I’ll be honest, is sometimes the hardest thing to do. You have to somehow mesh the factual—who, what, when, where why—with the emotional, personal, intriguing. It’s easier to separate.

If being a Christian were a feature article, how often do we say at the beginning that we’re Christian (I mean we do go to church on Sundays!), but then in our daily lives, line by line, we don’t live up to the claim that we’re Christ-followers? We decide to put things that should be woven throughout our days into sidebars. Spending time with the Lord--praying maybe--is just done at church. Being patient or honest is not necessary. It's nice sometimes, but c'mon, it's survival of the fittest in this culture!

As Christians, what do we claim, but then throw into a sidebar? How can we better weave joy and kindess into our life feature? How does God fit into our daily decisions? I think this would make for much more interesting reading! This reading, however, is not going to be sugar-coated. My previous editor used to challenge me by asking where "the messy factor" was. Meaning, it can't all be sweet and nice and positive. A good story is going to show the cons as well. It's going to raise the questions. So, as Christians, praying, or being honest or patient or showing self-control...or whatever may be in your sidebar is not going to make your life feature all smiley and nice. It's going to get messy. But at least you've followed through on what you claimed.

A friend was just telling me about how she visited her mom over the weekend. Her mom is in a nursing home and has been battling Alzheimers for years now. My friend visits her faithfully each week, even though she leaves crying each time because her own mom doesn't know who she is. The only glimpse of recognition comes when my friend hums or sings familiar hymns to her mom. So, my friend goes every week and sings hymns, hard though it may be. I walked away from the conversation teary-eyed and thought to myself...that is love and faithfulness not thrown in a sidebar.

Pink princess party

2010-01-20T10:59:00.000-08:00

My best friends are Flounder and Sebastien. I comb my hair with a dinglehopper, and my boyfriend is Eric. I am Ariel. As in THE little mermaid.

What could have most certainly been an episode of "The Office," my office yesterday hosted its monthly birthday celebration for those with January birthdays (me included). The hosts (each with little girls of their own) opted for a Disney princess theme. Cinderella, Snow White, Sleeping Beauty, Jasmine, Ariel, and Belle puked pink all over the conference room (and you know how much I love pink). Tablecloths, tiaras (we had to wear), magic wands (we had to hold), paper plates, napkins, even a plastic purple princess oven--out of which was coming mini pink cheesecakes. Kudos to the hosts for the theme and originality. Good thing three women have birthdays in January.

Anyways, after we all got to take a "princess quiz"--answering questions like, which princess's parents are both still living, what were the names of Cinderella's fairy godmothers--one of the hosts told us that if we were curious, there was a Disney quiz you can take to find out which princess you are.

I found it, took it, and discovered that I am Ariel. Fitting, as I'm pretty sure I know all the words to "Under the Sea" and "Kiss the Girl," and The Little Mermaid was the only princess movie my brother would watch with me.

The quiz results said that I am:

Adventurous, romantic, and just a bit headstrong. Curiosity often lands me in some sticky predicaments. I set out to discover my own way of doing things and feel the need to spread my fins. Even though this independence is great, there are still times when I would rather enjoy childlike comforts rather than exert my assertiveness. I'm true to myself and determined to follow my heart. Wherever that may lead me.

In part, I think I'm Ariel because I said I like reggae music and I'm not such a fan of ballroom dancing. But whatever. I am independent and a bit headstrong. What are you?

29, a moose no more

2010-01-13T09:31:00.000-08:00

My mom is tough. Nine months pregnant, she went to work on January 13, 1981, even though she had stomach cramps. She says she didn’t think much of them. (um, hello?) The cramps started getting more consistent throughout the day. She went home, and had spaghetti with dad for dinner before finally deciding that maybe they should go to the hospital at 8:50pm. They got behind a very slow driver on the way. I, on the other hand, was not slow. I had things to do! I arrived less than two hours later at 10:49pm. So nervous, dad put his hospital robe on backwards.

My parents lovingly referred to their daughter, their first offspring, as the moose of the nursery. At 8 pounds, 1 ounce, I was supposedly one full pound bigger than all the other babies in the nursery at that time. So, when friends and family visited, they just said look for the moose. The biggest baby. Nice.

They brought me home four days later, on a warm, 32-degree Minnesota winter day—clear, blue sky. My aunt and uncle came over to visit me, and dad left me to go buy a new stereo with the baby money. Classic.

I didn’t let mom and dad sleep through the night though until February 7. And I waited to smile until February 8—perhaps because I had just gotten a full night’s rest! Or because I was baptized that day. I was awake, but quiet during the service, which could be because my godfather’s knuckle was in or near my mouth the whole time. He was nervous I’d freak out (that wouldn't happen until a little later in life).

29 years later, my parents no longer call me moose. I can still keep them up at night for various reasons. Mom is still tough, and I still have so many things to do.

Thanks, mom and dad.

Source: hj’s baby book

Identity issues

2010-01-12T14:36:00.000-08:00

It’s back to class. Let the winter session begin. I got my syllabus yesterday and discovered I had reading and writing due today (nothing like a little lead time). Anyways, the chapter I read was about our identity. Here’s really quick summary: Ask any anthropologist and they will tell you that everyone is constantly seeking an identity of some sort. We all want to know who we are and what we’re doing here. Also, ask any anthropologist and they will tell you that no one is ever satisfied. No matter what a person acquires—be it candy, job, spouse, success—that person always wants something more or different. We just do! We want something that ultimately this world in its finiteness just cannot afford. Enter God, say many anthropologists. He (God, not anthropologist) guarantees 100% satisfaction.

I was thinking that it’s an appropriate time to be reading about this because everyone is talking about their New Year’s resolutions. People want to save money. People want to spend money. People want to lose weight, spend more time at home, get organized. Whatever. We want things. And when we have those things, we’ll want more things. Are these the things by which we define ourselves? Are these our identity? And what happens when we can’t reach these goals or acquire these things?

Anyways, at the church I’ve been attending (yes, the one that sings The Black Eyed Peas), the pastor is slowly teaching through Colossians. We’re not very far. This past week we spent a lot of time on Colossians 1:24-25. This morning I decided to read Colossians 1 in The Message translation just to get a slightly different spin on that chunk of Scripture. The words were rather fitting and timely in light of my homework. Thought I’d share.

"We look at this Son and see God's original purpose in everything created. For everything, absolutely everything, above and below, visible and invisible, rank after rank after rank of angels—everything got started in him and finds its purpose in him. He was there before any of it came into existence and holds it all together right up to this moment. And when it comes to the church, he organizes and holds it together, like a head does a body.

He was supreme in the beginning and—leading the resurrection parade—he is supreme in the end. From beginning to end he's there, towering far above everything, everyone. So spacious is he, so roomy, that everything of God finds its proper place in him without crowding. Not only that, but all the broken and dislocated pieces of the universe—people and things, animals and atoms—get properly fixed and fit together in vibrant harmonies, all because of his death, his blood that poured down from the cross."

Colossians 1:15-20

Target in MN winter

2010-01-09T10:55:00.000-08:00

Wear your big, ugly boots so that you won’t slip and fall on your arse carrying groceries out to the car. And it’s OK if one of your pant legs is half in and half out of your boot. Really. We all know the reason why: you’re also wearing gi-normous mittens that make you look like a penguin. These mittens make it extremely difficult to not only find your keys in your purse, but to also fix your pant legs. However, the penguin mittens are warm and will save your fingers. And I assure you…it doesn’t matter that your boots are brown and your mittens are black. This is about survival.

Then, wear your hat. Style schmyle. Color schmolor. Hair schmair. As you pick out your “fresh” produce, your fellow shopper will smile and nod at you even if you have the worst hat hair ever. And why? Because they have hat hair too. But you also both still have ears. Definitely worth smiling about.

Be sure to have a Kleenex in your coat pocket. I realize you won’t be able to get to it until you take your penguin mittens off, but it’s essential. You won’t realize that your nose is running into your mouth until you’ve been inside for a good 30 seconds and stuff starts to thaw. Then you’ll need your Kleenex.

Don’t walk to the door. Run (another reason you wore your good-snow-traction boots).

Coat. Just wear the biggest, heaviest one you got, and I prefer one with pockets to at least hold your penguin mittens, if not your hat, scarf, and Kleenex. If your pockets are not big enough for all these forms of protection, you’ll need a large enough purse or murse (man purse) to stuff them in. Some people think the small top front compartment of a grocery cart will do just fine holding your stuff. Not so. First, H1N1. Germs, people. And you cannot get to the Purell with your penguin mittens on. Second, there are big holes and slots in that cart. Inevitably your scarf will drag on the ground, and your hat will fall, probably into a sludge puddle made by someone else’s big boots while they compared the prices of salad dressings. On my last trip to Target, I saw a pair of nice black, leather gloves sitting on top the canned mushrooms. Owner nowhere in sight. That’s what happens when you don’t wear a big enough coat or bring a big enough purse to stash them in.

Only buy items that you can carry out to the car in one or two bags. You do NOT want to push a cart to your car, unless you enjoy trying to maneuver four wheels through a foot of nasty, gray sludge—which can no longer be called snow because it is gray and half salt—while wearing a scarf, a hat, boots, and penguin mittens and not breathing. Obviously you won’t be breathing because the whipping, frigid wind takes your breath away.

Plan ahead. If Target is not your last stop before going home, do NOT, I repeat do NOT buy bananas. They will turn black in sub-freezing temps in no time. Also, you’ll probably want to steer clear of milk. Feel free to stock up on frozen veggies and popsicles though. If you are going home, buy anything you want, but again, only enough to fill two bags!

Once your home and groceries are safely on the kitchen floor awaiting unpacking, you’ve taken off your hat, scarf, penguin mittens, and boots (which required you to sit down and grunt), do a little jig because you don’t have to go through the hassle of grocery shopping again for at least a few days! And the jig will get your blood—which froze again on the way home—flowing again.

It’s important to note that the above Target routine is much more enjoyable and slightly easier with a buddy (it means four bags instead of two). It’s also probably more important to note that the above routine is--I can only guess--impossible with kiddos. So either don’t have ’em or don’t feed ’em.

Cater to ME, part II

2010-01-08T08:40:00.000-08:00

A fellow gym member responded on a bright sticky note:
"I happen to like the music, and I’m 46 years old. That’s between 30 and 70."

And the gym responded by saying due to the myriad music preferences (they didn't use the word "myriad," but they should have), they would keep their current station on. If other music is desired, one must bring his or her own.

No. Really?

*If lost, read yesterday's Cater to ME.

Cater to ME

2010-01-07T07:58:00.000-08:00

There’s a bulletin board up at my gym, and as a gym member you can tack up a comment or question--good or bad. A mystery gym employee then will respond with an answer, also tacking it up on the board. Some of the banter is quite humorous. Yesterday morning as I filled my water bottle at the water fountain, I saw a new comment, still answer-less.

Comment: “Most of us who use this gym are between the ages of 30 and 70. Please cater to our music preferences!”

Huh? What exactly would those preferences be? I mean, that’s 40 years! I don’t understand. That’s the difference between Elvis Presley and Bon Jovi. Marvin Gaye and N Sync. Etta James and Britney Spears. The Righteous Brothers losing that lovin’ feeling and Eminem wanting the real slim shady to please stand up. You’re not really givin’ Anytime Fitness much to work with here, fellow gym member!

And, for the record, I do not fall between 30 and 70, but rather 0 and 30, and they are not catering to my preferences either. Hence ipod. So if they're not catering to 30+, and they're also not catering to those under 30...

I can’t wait to read the answer to this comment!

Really? That rock?!

2010-01-06T08:29:00.000-08:00

I was once on a hike with two friends. We were slowly making our way up a creek by stepping on rocks. My one friend would go before us testing our next rock. He’d make sure it was stable and not too slippery before we followed him. If he wasn’t satisfied with one rock, he’d test another one, even if it meant going to the left or right, rather than forward. Sometimes even backwards. If the most stable rock was a rather long distance from our current position, he’d twist around, throw his longer arms out and offer us his hand to help us to it. (this is a very good guy, by the way) In this fashion, we hiked.

In the book of Isaiah, we are told that God gives Cyrus (Persian king) some big tasks—like taming the nations and terrifying other kings. Cyrus eventually conquered Bablyon and issued the decree that allowed the Jews to return to Jerusalem with God’s help.

God took Cyrus by the hand and said:
"I will go before you
and will level the mountains ...
so that you may know that I am the LORD,
the God of Israel, who summons you by name"
(Isaiah 45:2-3)

I don’t always follow God’s lead. I stand on my rock and try to go it alone. I decide where to take my next step and often slip or fall. But sometimes, I take God’s hand and let Him lead me to the next rock that He has tested for me. I don’t often step confidently. I question. I doubt. I am shaking in my boots (or tennies). I fear that the rock before me is slippery or unstable. I wonder why the rock is to the left or the right, when I think it should be in front of me. I don’t think the rock looks big enough to stand on. In fact, it looks like a pretty lame rock to me. And sometimes I’ll stand stubbornly for quite some time contemplating whether or not I’m going to step onto God’s rock or not. I mean, it’s sketchy!

But once on that rock, I am always amazed. Sometimes it takes me a little while to catch my breath, to stop shaking, to chill. But inevitably I am amazed at how stable and sturdy it is. I can’t believe He has provided and blessed in a very specific way. And I'm in awe at how wonderfully it puts me in a better position to then take the next step He has mapped out for me!

He goes before us and levels mountains. He offers us his hand. If we take it, we discover sturdiness and come to know that He is, in fact, Lord. And He is a very good God.

You oughtta know

2010-01-04T13:09:00.000-08:00

It’s two thousand ten, people. Not twenty ten! At least in my book. In a recent discussion about this very thing, someone said "double ought nine" referencing our previous year. "Double Ought?" I asked. "What do you mean ought?" I had never heard this before. Or, I probably have, but was too busy at the time thinking about some other word to stop and ponder what ought was.

I immediately asked this person to please tell me where ought comes from. Like, is it the German word for zero? It kind of sounds like it should be. Or Swahili for the letter 'O'? Not answering me, this person instead used it appropriately in another phrase. "Yes, I know," I snottily said. "I get its usage. I need to know its etymology though! You ought to know if you’re using it!" (Alanis says so too: "you... you... you... oughtta know!")

Here’s what I got.
Ought is another way of spelling aught, which is related to the word naught, which means "nothing." Coming from Old English, naught is a mix of 'na' meaning "no" and 'wiht' meaning "thing." No thing.

How about two ought one ought?

Wordless directions

2010-01-03T08:37:00.000-08:00

Yesterday I found myself on the floor with two screwdrivers, a hammer, 25 different-shaped pieces of wood, 67 special screws, nails, or dealios, and measuring tape. I had just returned from IKEA and had a two-drawer cabinet to put together. And to give you an idea about how humorous this scene is…my drill is currently sitting on top of its case because I can’t figure out how to get the bit out of it. I don’t have a knack for non-sewing tools. Thankfully I do have a dad. And a cool one at that.

And yesterday I had IKEA’s directions. Which, if you’re familiar with them, they contain no words. None. In fact, there isn’t even a little disclaimer about being careful and not putting the plastic bag tightly around your face because it could, perhaps, maybe, cause suffocation. How interesting, I thought. I’m going to put this whole thing together without having read one single word. I will have just followed 13 pages of pictures with a little help from the smiley, simplistic IKEA direction man (who I'm guessing can't talk).

As I carefully laid everything out, I decided I was really going to like this. The directions didn’t tell me to use the hex screw, the truss, the slotted something or other, the capped thing-a-majig. They just showed me. I’d pick up a screw, inspect its shape and size, then hold it up next to the little IKEA man on the page pointing at the right screw. Looks the same to me! Perfect.

This got me thinking about other things in life that we could (or couldn’t) do without words. Imagine a recipe with no words. Just pictures. How the heck would you differentiate the spices I wonder? I think this would make trading recipes with my Cali friend much more difficult. Or how about following a sewing pattern?

And what about relationships? So often, you don’t have the correct words picked out for that person or time, or if you have them picked out, they’re not quite in the right order. They don't quite relay exactly what you mean to say. They can't quiet reach the level of ...whatever feeling...you're trying to express. Relationships and situations often have a way of rendering you speechless, I think. So, how about we just don’t use words? How could you tell someone you love him or her without saying it? How could you thank someone without writing a thank you note? What if you wanted to say I’m sorry without saying it? It’s kind of fun (and a bit challenging for a writer) to think about.

Ralph Waldo Emerson once wrote: "What you do speaks so loud that I cannot hear what you say."

Well, for the record, I successfully put together my little cabinet without any words (probably because it didn't require the use of my drill). And I’d really like to put some other stuff together without words too.