Roger that

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

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

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

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

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

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…

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

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

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

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

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

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...

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

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

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!

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

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

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?

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

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

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

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

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

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

"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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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?!

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

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

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.

May the door be your window

*I’ve received complaints: I haven’t posted in a while. Let me say sorry and thanks! Sorry I’ve been slacking and thanks for reading. I’m humbled.

I strongly dislike the month of January, which is a shame as it’s my birthday month. But really, who does like January? It’s such a killjoy after the holidays. Especially here in the Twin Cities where we will freeze our buns off for the entire month. And you think I’m exaggerating. It’s currently 4 degrees, and windchills are expected to dip to 30 below tonight (below ZERO that is, for my cali and tennessee friends).

While on the treadmill yesterday, I was participating in the audience quiz that was on some talk show on the TV above me. The question was where January comes from. The word. The meaning. I didn’t know. Turns out it’s from Roman mythology, specifically Janus, the god of gates, doors, beginnings and endings. And I guess he’s two-faced. He’s usually depicted with two faces in opposite directions.

You know the phrase about God closing a door, but opening a window? Well, when I’ve been told this before, I've immediately gotten this Alice and Wonderland image in my head…I’m this blonde girl in some long, unending hallway with lots of doors. And the supposed window is always off to the side somewhere. Away. I don’t know where exactly, but in my head, it’s not in that hallway. And I’ve always thought this is kind of a funny saying because I don’t really think you need that window if you’re on the right side of the door. If the door slams in front of you, well, yes, I guess you’d need that window because you’re on the wrong side. You’re stuck in the past. But if the door slams behind you, you don’t need the window. You’ve followed God enough that…even if the door hits you on the rear end, you’re already into something new. A new part of life. A new era. Right? Make sense? The door is the window!

Anyways, when I looked up Janus to find out a little more about him and why my birthday month is named after him, and I discovered he’s the god of doors, I got the Alice and Wonderland image again in my head. And I decided that as 2010 kicks off, I want to be facing forward, I want God closing the door behind me. I want to be beginning, not ending.

And I pray God closes the door behind many dear ones in my life this year, leaving on the other side tears, cancer, job loss, heartache, fear.

Cheers to 2010 and being on the right side of closed doors!

Sharing makes spectacular

Last night I got home and had a package greeting me at the foot of my front door. It was from Grif, my old-man neighbor in Cali, who you’ve heard about before. It was rather heavy, and I desperately wanted to open it immediately, but looking at the clock, I had a very limited amount of time to shower after having gone to the gym and then get back out the door to meet people for dinner. So, I threw it over by the tree until later.

When I got home, I plopped down and opened. First, a card. He had gone to the store and picked out a very sentimental card from Hallmark. The words “Remembering You at Christmastime...” decorated the front. The inside was more text about how special I am and how much he thinks of me during this season. My heart melted. He doesn’t get around very well. He has trouble going up and down the stairs to his apartment! So, all I could think about was the fact that he had made the effort to get to the store and sift through cards to pick out just the right one. All for me.

Second. A business-sized envelope labeled in his handwriting: “Heather Things.” Inside were pens...pens I knew he had gotten for free with his Reader’s Digest subscription. But that’s not the point. The point is, he knows I write. Pens are Heather Things. So thoughtful!

Third. Another business-sized envelope labeled in his handwriting: “Heather More Things.” Inside were 10 to 15 bookmarks of various shapes and sizes and colors. One had come from a used bookstore in Carlsbad, Cali, where I used to live. One was for the 1.800 medical hotline he can call if he has problems with his diabetes meds. One was black with an orange tassel and Garfield, saying “I’m cool. I’m cool. I’m a reading fool.” Again, not the most glamorous gift by any stretch of the imagination, but oh-so-thoughtful. Indeed, bookmarks are Heather More Things.

Fourth. Something square wrapped--a black box with my name engraved on it. In the box was uncirculated, limited edition state quarters. 10 of them. The last two have yet to be issued. I may or may not have had to blink back a tear. Grif doesn’t have much to expend in terms of money. The bookmarks and pens would have sufficed! But what he could give, he gave. He even engraved! I envisioned him having to direct someone on how to spell my name over the phone. All for me. It’s too much. Too much.

Anyways, the contents of that little box yesterday reminded me of the true reason for the season—to be cliché. Like my pens and bookmarks, Jesus’ birth in a manger of some sort was not exceptionally glitzy, sparkly or spectacular. What was spectacular though? the angels proclaiming the birth of Jesus to the shepherds:

At once the angel was joined by a huge angelic choir singing God's praises:
Glory to God in the heavenly heights,
Peace to all men and women on earth who please him.
…all who heard were amazed.(Luke 2)

Jesus’ birth became pretty glitzy and sparkly when it was shared, when it was given away! When it was told!

In business-sized envelopes labeled “Heather Things,” Christmas became spectacular for me last night.

Wintery songs for wintery week

I'm totally stuck on winter songs this week. This is a good thing as here in the Twin Cities we are expected to get--potentially--two feet of snow on Christmas Eve into Christmas Day! Bring on winter! Let us sing winter songs together!

Like a little girl, I'm crazy excited for vacation, for presents, for singing Silent Night at church, and for fresh snowflakes! I'm scheming ways that I can coax my brother outside to make a snowman and woman (perhaps some snow angels?) Christmas Eve night with me. I'm also dreaming of waking up in my old bedroom at mom and dad's on Christmas Day and looking outside to snow, beautiful snow! One of the things I most appreciate about waking up at home-home is the sound of voices, the thuds of mom and dad moving around upstairs, and the smell of coffee and breakfast. Living alone, I wake up to silence. But at home-home, I wake up to my peeps.

I'd like to share with you some of these winter songs that I speak of. Some truly are "winter," thanks to their title and/or lyrics. Others are just made wintery by me. They feel, speak, or are winter to me.

First. Winter Song by Sara Bareilles and Ingrid Michealson, off a very wonderful and highly recommended Christmas album: "Hotel Cafe Presents...Winter Songs." This song and cartoon can make you cry and smile at the same time. It makes me miss my bestest friend in Cali like no other...and wish we could spend the holidays together.



Second. Lump Sum by Bon Iver off his "For Emma, For Ever Ago." Please tell me you not only know who Bon Iver is, but LOVE him! He actually wrote "For Emma, For Ever Ago" while huddled up in a Wisconsin cabin in the deep of winter. And for the record, I've met him, and even have a photo of me and him. We're tight.



Third. December by Norah Jones off her new album "The Fall," which has been stuck in my CD player since I bought.

Fourth. For my dad's birthday last week, I bought him the new Sting album, which is 1. amazing and 2. technically Christmas, but can probably be played legally until March? At least. It's called "If On A Winter's Night." I'm sharing with you The Hounds of Winter.

Fifth. I've loved Sarah McLachlan's version of Song for a Winter's Night for years. I can remember studying for finals on the top floor of the St. Thomas library, as it snowed outside. (note: This particular youtube video is uber cheesy. Just enjoy the music, please.)

Happy Winter to you!

A good good week

“I’ve got a feeling…tonight’s gonna be a good good night…”

Heard the song? I’m sure you have. It’s the Black Eyed Peas.

But I bet you haven’t heard it in church! I have. As in played by the worship band during the service on Saturday night. As they started playing the instrumental intro, I thought to myself…oh, that’s funny, they’re kind of playing off of the Black Eyed Peas song. I wonder what hymn it’ll break into. They are very creative here at this church.

But then they started singing "I’ve got a feeling…" And I froze. Really? We’re singing Fergie in church? The song says jump off that sofa, not the pew, people! What are you doing?! And the line fill up my cup is not referring to communion! I looked around at others. Did they hear what was going on?

Thankfully, they didn’t go into the full song. Just the chorus. And then it quickly flowed into a "normal church song." But it totally made me uncomfortable. I didn’t like it one bit. I instantly started judging whoever it was that made the decision to sing that song. Who thought that was a good idea? How irreverent! Inappropriate!

I’ve been thinking about it more though…

First. It’s interesting as I’m generally on the other side of the fence. My worship preferences tend to be a bit edgier, more contemporary, more liberal (whatever term you prefer to use), than whoever I’m talking with. So, for me to suddenly think that something in the church service has been taken too far, is a switch. And it’s a little humbling. I don’t like when other people judge my worship preferences or deem them inappropriate. Who are they to say what is or isn’t worship for me? So, then, who am I to say the same of others?

Second. Ok. Fine. I can’t judge, but can I if what they’re playing is actually the music of hoochiemama nightclubs! If the video of the song is rather risqué? Let’s just say, Fergie doesn’t wear a turtleneck in it. It’s not like I’m judging their version of Amazing Grace! But, they didn’t play the video. Nor did they sing the whole song. They sang the chorus. So I should chill. And, I'm kind of a walking contradiction. If the song is good enough to chill on my radio for me to sing (dance) along to...I should probably be able to bring it into church?

Third. The song I’ve got a feeling makes you dance. I cannot hear this song without singing along, and I certainly cannot hear this song without at least boppin’ my head just a little bit (if not full-out dancing). And that is just the kind of joy I want to have because of Christ’s love for me. His goodness and grace is too good for us to remain seated in life! He is SO sacred that we should be moving! In fact, we may be disrespectful if we sit back quietly in life.

So, I don’t know. I just decided that it’s not my favorite thing to hear KDWB songs in church, but hey, if it works for others, fantastic. And if I had gotten over my shock of singing I've got feeling in church before they cut to the church song, I'm pretty sure I would have been dancing while worshipping!

It’s Jesus’ birthday this week. And I’ve got a feeling it’s going to be a good good week. One worth dancing to.

Seal training

Lest I become arrogant, I now have three seals dangling above my head at work.

Mom and dad were visiting me in California once. I lived near the large Marine base, Camp Pendleton. We were driving through the camp, along the ocean. Often as you go through, you’ll see Marines doing various training exercises. On this particular day, there was a very large chopper just off the coast. Dad said something about dropping seals. My little wheels spun for a few seconds, and I asked why the heck they’d be dropping seals?! I mean, I’m not a huge animal lover, but wouldn’t that hurt them?! And golly, think of the splash?!

Ah yes. Definitely one of my finer moments!

One of the reasons I love my coworkers is that we do not take ourselves too seriously. We laugh at and with each other, and we all know the silly and/or dumb things we’ve done. And then we don’t let each other live them down. This helps keep us humble. When one of my coworkers was being “picked on” a few weeks ago, I thought I’d distract the crowd. I shared my seal story; it of course elicited excessive laughter.

A few days later, I walked into my office. There, hanging down from ribbons above my desk were three cute, acrylic seals. They are dropping--training, I’m sure.

In like WHAT?

I just used the phrase "in like flint" and shortly after, was told that it holds sexual innuendos. And the context in which I used it should not have carried any sexual innuendos. Furthermore, I was told it's actually "flynn," not "flint."

I immediately started wondering if I’ve ever unknowingly used this phrase in a work conversation? What did people think?! Or at cocktail parties and people later, behind my backs, were like "Eegads, that girl is a little inappropriate! Even if she is wearing a turtleneck, I smell promiscuous!"

So, I researched.

The original saying is "in like Flynn." As in Errol Flynn. He was an Australian movie star in the 1940s. At that time, it’s believed that the saying merely implied speed and/or success within a particular situation because Flynn’s character in many of his movies was often quick and successful.

Then in 1967, the movie--a spy spook--In Like Flint came out. Its lead character was Derek Flint. The title was a pun on the saying “in like Flynn.” People got confused. Obviously. And Flynn and flint started to be used interchangeably.

To further complicate matters, Errol Flynn was a playa’, known for his promiscuity, alcohol consumption, and brawling. In fact, he was charged and acquitted of statutory rape of two teenage girls in 1943. So…"in like Flynn" started meaning something less than wholesome. And now people like me go around saying it!