Fighting Noise with Noise

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Doing Church v. Going to Church

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

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

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

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

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

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

KISS our neighbors

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thoughts, Rays, and Time

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

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

Stop…deep breath.

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

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

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

Recent strangeness

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

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

Say what?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Huh?

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

What's the scuttle, butt?

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

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

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

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

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

Garments of love

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

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

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

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

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

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

This day

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

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

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

Like a child

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Give an art, take an art

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

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

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

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

Remembering a neighbor

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Seeing myself

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Still on 94

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

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

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

And on and on and on…

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

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

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

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

Horse of a half wagon

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Old? New? Who's to say?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Construction begins April 13.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Post-trip volume

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

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

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

My kangaroo paw

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Best Woman

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

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

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

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

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

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

Guest Blogger on Worry

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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