When a friend returned from Iowa a few weeks ago, she talked corn. She learned that popcorn is actually a very special kind of corn. Your everyday kernel cannot a popcorn make. She also saw volunteer corn, she told us—random stalks of corn that grow where they’re not supposed to, say perhaps, amidst a field of soybeans. So, there they stand, lonely, high above everything else, as if to say, Here I am! Pick me! Try me! Aren’t I cool all by myself?
Well, this past weekend, driving through Southern Minnesota, I perked up when I looked out the side window and saw volunteer corn. Lots of volunteers, in fact. I felt a sense of pride for these volunteers. They’re the underdogs, so way to go you kernel you! For not following suit, for taking the road less traveled, for sprouting above the others! For being independent. And now I’m really glad I felt this way because when I Googled "volunteer corn" (I wanted to see if this was the actual term...it is), I discovered that everyone is out to get the volunteer. Words like "manage" and "control" and "oust" and "infestation" and "weed" are used right alongside volunteer corn. Farmers do not want any volunteer corn, so those green stalks can just go ahead and quit raising their hands (in fact, I’d advise wilting below the other crops so as not to be killed or maimed!).
It’s funny though, isn’t it, that if that particular volunteer corn stalk were in another field, or even in the same field at a different time, it would not be called volunteer corn? It’d be an important crop, something yielding money and worth. Farmers would want to harvest it, take care of it, water it, fertilize it. It would be a precious commodity.
I just finished the book Same Kind of Different as Me by Ron Hall and Denver Moore, a true (and unlikely) story of a wealthy, white, art dealer befriending a homeless black man. It revealed and challenged some of the mean, and even subconscious, judgments we make against those people not like us. The volunteer corns of our fields, if you will. Unfortunately, my pride for volunteer corn in agriculture doesn’t look like my pride for people in everyday life. I tend not to have time for people who are different or time to find out about their differences, and perhaps come to admire them. We’d rather "manage" or "control" them. Which reminds me of another book, Under the Overpass by Mike Yankoski, who I had the privilege of interviewing in person at my former job. He took time off from college and traveled the United States with a friend as homeless people. Literally. They had no money and lived on the streets. It was an experiment of sorts to see how others treated homeless people. What Mike and his friend discovered was sad and heartbreaking. I read the book three or four years ago, and I still vividly remember one short story. They were camped out on the steps of a church one night. A sign in the front yard of the church advertised a big pancake breakfast in the morning. Well, when the sun came up, one of the church leaders walked out the door and kicked Mike and his friend off the steps, shooing them away without so much as a drop of syrup. I’m guessing, however, they would have gotten as many pancakes as they wanted had the church known they were really college kids from a prominent, wealthy, evangelical school.
Anyways, people, like volunteer corn, are called different things in different places and different times. But they’re always the same to God, and they should be to us too. They should always be precious and worthy of care and compassion.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Monday, August 24, 2009
Pew ha ha
“I don’t think I’ve ever laughed in church before. Actually, I don’t think I’ve ever even smiled in church.”
I heard a girl say this to her friend yesterday as I walked into church and they walked out of church. I was appalled. How does that happen? That shouldn’t happen! No doubt—there are definitely things to be serious about. I think we could all use some stern teaching every now and then. But there are also so many things for which to be joyful and thankful. So many things to smile about! So much good news! (And what family hasn’t made the pew shake from trying desperately to contain obscene laughter because someone farted or made an inappropriate noise?! )
The more I thought about it, I decided that I probably wouldn’t go to church—or a church—if it never included smiling or laughing. So yesterday, I smiled as I walked out of church because I was thankful that I had laughed during church.
I heard a girl say this to her friend yesterday as I walked into church and they walked out of church. I was appalled. How does that happen? That shouldn’t happen! No doubt—there are definitely things to be serious about. I think we could all use some stern teaching every now and then. But there are also so many things for which to be joyful and thankful. So many things to smile about! So much good news! (And what family hasn’t made the pew shake from trying desperately to contain obscene laughter because someone farted or made an inappropriate noise?! )
The more I thought about it, I decided that I probably wouldn’t go to church—or a church—if it never included smiling or laughing. So yesterday, I smiled as I walked out of church because I was thankful that I had laughed during church.
Sunday, August 23, 2009
To know and be known
Yesterday my family took a “staycation” at my prompting and in the absence of a true vacation this summer. It worked. Leaving in the morning, we were able to stay fairly close to home, but still check out some new scenery, try some new things, and drive some new roads. We returned home about 9pm, concluding our staycation.
I challenged my fellow staycationers to come prepared to share one prayer request. Then, I wanted each of us to commit to praying for or about that one thing for the others. I didn’t put an end date on the praying…perhaps until God moves in some way in that situation? But anyways, as we finished up dinner outside on a nice patio, sat back in our chairs with full bellies, I asked that we go around the table and share our prayer request. Fairly certain “here she goes again” ran through some heads.
Here’s what happened though: as we went around the table sharing or talking about our requests, we discovered, that we already knew each other’s challenges or desires. And we were already, in some way, praying daily about it for that person. Before I could share mine, dad said he’s already praying for it daily. He nailed it. He knew. He knows. And when my brother shared his, I realized I’d been praying for it for quite awhile. Same with my mom’s. We all knew. We all know.
As I crawled in bed last night, I almost felt like crying. I felt too loved, too known, too cared for. And not just by my family, who knows and is praying for the desires of my heart, but also by God, who already knows too (Psalm 44:21; Acts 15:8; Luke 16:15). And there is some serious comfort in being known in this world, where being misunderstood and anonymous is much more status quo.
I challenged my fellow staycationers to come prepared to share one prayer request. Then, I wanted each of us to commit to praying for or about that one thing for the others. I didn’t put an end date on the praying…perhaps until God moves in some way in that situation? But anyways, as we finished up dinner outside on a nice patio, sat back in our chairs with full bellies, I asked that we go around the table and share our prayer request. Fairly certain “here she goes again” ran through some heads.
Here’s what happened though: as we went around the table sharing or talking about our requests, we discovered, that we already knew each other’s challenges or desires. And we were already, in some way, praying daily about it for that person. Before I could share mine, dad said he’s already praying for it daily. He nailed it. He knew. He knows. And when my brother shared his, I realized I’d been praying for it for quite awhile. Same with my mom’s. We all knew. We all know.
As I crawled in bed last night, I almost felt like crying. I felt too loved, too known, too cared for. And not just by my family, who knows and is praying for the desires of my heart, but also by God, who already knows too (Psalm 44:21; Acts 15:8; Luke 16:15). And there is some serious comfort in being known in this world, where being misunderstood and anonymous is much more status quo.
Monday, August 17, 2009
Bodies ticket
On Saturday night, I stared at a for-real pituitary gland before moving on to a smoker’s lung and on to a five-week-old fetus. After having our picture taken in front of a bright green backdrop so that we could (but didn’t) later purchase a cheesy image of us with computerized skeletons placed over our bodies, two friends and I did the Bodies exhibit at the Mall of America.
When I walked out of the dim exhibit hall back into the fluorescent mall, I had the desire to state my favorite part, or the most surprising thing, or the most disgusting thing, but truth be told, I couldn’t narrow down any of those particular groups to just one thing. I was shocked at how small some things were. Like the pituitary gland—the master gland. We’re talking a lima bean or even smaller! How big other parts were—our lungs, for instance (the lungs of the small child right behind us were also huge).
My friend was able to point out, on a real body, all the bones she has broken over the years. I was able to see what my friend’s baby probably looks like at 15 weeks. I also saw what breast cancer does to a breast, and looked away, thinking of a dear friend. Later in the night, my friends and I rattled off the strange facts that we learned to our other friends. Oh, and did you know that babies have more bones than adults? And eyes are always the same size? And we might be a little dorky for doing this on a Saturday night?
At the end, I couldn’t quite grasp how everything I had just seen in the finger-smudged glass cases somehow neatly, compactly, perfectly fits into our beings, our selves. And I was also stuck somewhere between fear and assuredness. Seeing MY body through A body laid out so systematically rendered me vulnerable. I felt like my pass to the exhibit was also a confirmation ticket that something will eventually go wrong within the walls of my skin; I will die. Simultaneously though, I was blown away by how wonderfully composed we are. How our systems work together—bones, nerves, muscles. Our digestive system? Our eyes? Unbelievable! And peace washed over me realizing that a God who does that craziness is over ALL the craziness of life. The confirmation ticket then became one for His love and His grace.
When I walked out of the dim exhibit hall back into the fluorescent mall, I had the desire to state my favorite part, or the most surprising thing, or the most disgusting thing, but truth be told, I couldn’t narrow down any of those particular groups to just one thing. I was shocked at how small some things were. Like the pituitary gland—the master gland. We’re talking a lima bean or even smaller! How big other parts were—our lungs, for instance (the lungs of the small child right behind us were also huge).
My friend was able to point out, on a real body, all the bones she has broken over the years. I was able to see what my friend’s baby probably looks like at 15 weeks. I also saw what breast cancer does to a breast, and looked away, thinking of a dear friend. Later in the night, my friends and I rattled off the strange facts that we learned to our other friends. Oh, and did you know that babies have more bones than adults? And eyes are always the same size? And we might be a little dorky for doing this on a Saturday night?
At the end, I couldn’t quite grasp how everything I had just seen in the finger-smudged glass cases somehow neatly, compactly, perfectly fits into our beings, our selves. And I was also stuck somewhere between fear and assuredness. Seeing MY body through A body laid out so systematically rendered me vulnerable. I felt like my pass to the exhibit was also a confirmation ticket that something will eventually go wrong within the walls of my skin; I will die. Simultaneously though, I was blown away by how wonderfully composed we are. How our systems work together—bones, nerves, muscles. Our digestive system? Our eyes? Unbelievable! And peace washed over me realizing that a God who does that craziness is over ALL the craziness of life. The confirmation ticket then became one for His love and His grace.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Right to be left
In elementary school, my mom drove me all over the place looking for special scissors. I was starting to learn how to write my letters, and I was doing it left-handed. Thus, they assumed I needed left-handed scissors. I guess we finally found some. I brought them in to school, and then brought them right back home telling mom and dad that they did not work! My dad, a pure lefty, tried them out. They most certainly did too work! Well, turns out I cut right-handed. And we soon discovered that my dominant foot in soccer is the right. And in basketball, I shoot with my right hand. And although I eat with my left hand, I slalom water-ski right-footed. I crochet right-handed, and I throw a baseball with my right hand.
But I am left-handed. And so today I celebrate my right to be left-handed, along with 7-10% of the world’s population. August 13 is International Left-handers Day! Apparently I can designate my personal space as “LEFTY ZONE” according to the day’s official web site (www.lefthandersday.com). And if you enter my LEFTY ZONE, you must do everything left-handed.
Us lefties (I’m among Prince William, Marilyn Monroe, Leonardo da Vinci, Jimi Hendrix, Nicole Kidman, and Bill Clinton, just to name a few) tend to excel more in fencing; we can see better underwater; when doodling or drawing, our figures tend to face right instead of left; and we’re generally more good-looking.
But I am left-handed. And so today I celebrate my right to be left-handed, along with 7-10% of the world’s population. August 13 is International Left-handers Day! Apparently I can designate my personal space as “LEFTY ZONE” according to the day’s official web site (www.lefthandersday.com). And if you enter my LEFTY ZONE, you must do everything left-handed.
Us lefties (I’m among Prince William, Marilyn Monroe, Leonardo da Vinci, Jimi Hendrix, Nicole Kidman, and Bill Clinton, just to name a few) tend to excel more in fencing; we can see better underwater; when doodling or drawing, our figures tend to face right instead of left; and we’re generally more good-looking.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Can you hear my sigh now?
I’m not big on waiting, and who is, really? Especially when we’re waiting on more than traffic or the security line at the airport. When the waiting involves medical test results, or job interviews and acceptances.
Quite often recently, I’ve found myself asking the question: Well, when do you find out the results? When will you hear? I want certain family and friends to know NOW. I want to know now. In fact, as I type this, I am eagerly anticipating a phone call from someone and an email from someone else, both of whom will hear good news or bad news about something this week. I’ve been praying for good. When will they KNOW?
I love Psalm 5, especially in the NIV.
1 Give ear to my words, O LORD,
consider my sighing.
2 Listen to my cry for help,
my King and my God,
for to you I pray.
3 In the morning, O LORD, you hear my voice;
in the morning I lay my requests before you
and wait in expectation.
I have this ongoing joke with one of my coworkers. She’ll ask me to edit something. I do, and I send her the edited version. It never fails...she emails me back a compliment. "You are awesome, HJ." "You do wonderful work, HJ." "You are fantastic, HJ." I’ve told her she better stop or I’m going to get a big head! I am, after all, just doing my job!
But seems like this is sort of like David here. Verse 1 and 2, he’s asking of God, imploring of God, to please hear him. Listen to Him! But just like my coworker already knows I’ll do what she needs me to do when she asks, David knows God will do just as he asks. In verse three, he simply states that God does, in fact, hear him. And later in the Psalm he calls God merciful and righteous. Basically, you are awesome, you do wonderful work, you are fantastic.
I love that this translation of the Psalm uses the word "sighing". How often do we sigh?! In fact, I just texted a certain someone with simply: "???" knowing full well, if this person had heard anything he would have already called me. But still. Just wanted to check. And of course I got the response: "Nope."
Sigh. More waiting.
I love that David is sure that the Lord hears; he doesn’t say, "I think you hear my voice." He says "you hear."
And, I love that he waits in expectation. Not suspense, not frustration, not doubt. He anticipates a response. He believes there will be a response—maybe what he requested, maybe not, but a response nonetheless.
Another sigh.
I would like to know, however, David, when exactly this response comes. If you send your request out in the morning...I mean...it’s 3pm. The evening is fast approaching.
Sigh.
God does do good work though.
Quite often recently, I’ve found myself asking the question: Well, when do you find out the results? When will you hear? I want certain family and friends to know NOW. I want to know now. In fact, as I type this, I am eagerly anticipating a phone call from someone and an email from someone else, both of whom will hear good news or bad news about something this week. I’ve been praying for good. When will they KNOW?
I love Psalm 5, especially in the NIV.
1 Give ear to my words, O LORD,
consider my sighing.
2 Listen to my cry for help,
my King and my God,
for to you I pray.
3 In the morning, O LORD, you hear my voice;
in the morning I lay my requests before you
and wait in expectation.
I have this ongoing joke with one of my coworkers. She’ll ask me to edit something. I do, and I send her the edited version. It never fails...she emails me back a compliment. "You are awesome, HJ." "You do wonderful work, HJ." "You are fantastic, HJ." I’ve told her she better stop or I’m going to get a big head! I am, after all, just doing my job!
But seems like this is sort of like David here. Verse 1 and 2, he’s asking of God, imploring of God, to please hear him. Listen to Him! But just like my coworker already knows I’ll do what she needs me to do when she asks, David knows God will do just as he asks. In verse three, he simply states that God does, in fact, hear him. And later in the Psalm he calls God merciful and righteous. Basically, you are awesome, you do wonderful work, you are fantastic.
I love that this translation of the Psalm uses the word "sighing". How often do we sigh?! In fact, I just texted a certain someone with simply: "???" knowing full well, if this person had heard anything he would have already called me. But still. Just wanted to check. And of course I got the response: "Nope."
Sigh. More waiting.
I love that David is sure that the Lord hears; he doesn’t say, "I think you hear my voice." He says "you hear."
And, I love that he waits in expectation. Not suspense, not frustration, not doubt. He anticipates a response. He believes there will be a response—maybe what he requested, maybe not, but a response nonetheless.
Another sigh.
I would like to know, however, David, when exactly this response comes. If you send your request out in the morning...I mean...it’s 3pm. The evening is fast approaching.
Sigh.
God does do good work though.
Wednesday, August 05, 2009
U.S.P.S. R.E.S.P.E.C.T.
It’s recently come to my attention that not everyone is like me.
The mail person drops off mail on Monday. When I get home from work on Monday, I get this mail. And because it was sent to my attention, someone wants me to open it. I oblige and open it. That is, after all, what mail is. And I open it that day because guess what? The mail person is going to come on Tuesday with mail that someone wants me to open on Tuesday! Same for Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, and Saturday.
Well, supposedly some people don’t do this. Some people actually leave their mail in their mailboxes until it’s so full that their mail person has to leave them a note saying... “Um...here’s how mail works: I leave it in this here box and you pick it up from this here box! Or else you don’t get anymore mail.” Others will let it go three or four days because after all, they say, it’s usually junk mail. Still others go through the effort of getting the mail each day, but then they let it stack up on their counter, or a special (or not-so-special) “mail basket” of sorts, for days, even weeks, at a time.
I was shocked! I didn’t know that some people treated the U.S.P.S. system so cavalierly! And what if they’re missing something important in not opening every piece?! Like a call to jury duty?! A letter from a friend? A rebate check? A traffic ticket?! (In Cali, they take your picture, unbeknownst to you, and then send you a nice photo of yourself along with the ticket). Or how about a notice that a third-level sex offender has moved on to your block? Perhaps a save-the-date? A birth announcement? Coupons?!
I mean sure, sometimes it’s addressed to the current resident in addition to you and it’s crap, but not always!
And those people who let it sit out on their counter not to be touched for days, how can you stand it? There it sits right in front of you just begging to be opened and either enjoyed or thrown in the recycling.
I guess I take my cues from my dad. He is mail master. He usually eats lunch at home, so before pulling into the driveway, he will do a quick pass at the mailbox—still in the car—to get the mail if it should happen to be there that soon. If not, he will do the same thing on his way back to work after lunch—checking it from the car before pulling away. This meant, when I lived at home, that if I checked the mail at 5pm like a normal person, there wouldn’t be any mail in the mailbox OR the house. Rather, it was still be in dad’s car and he wasn’t home from work yet! I relished the days when for whatever reason I got the mail before he did! HA! Beat ya!
So do you get your mail every day and open it every day? Do you get your mail every day but only open it once a week? Do you never get your mail and thus, never open the letter I sent you? Do you leave a big, fat mess in your mailbox for your mailperson? I ask you: How much do you really respect the U.S.P.S. system?
The mail person drops off mail on Monday. When I get home from work on Monday, I get this mail. And because it was sent to my attention, someone wants me to open it. I oblige and open it. That is, after all, what mail is. And I open it that day because guess what? The mail person is going to come on Tuesday with mail that someone wants me to open on Tuesday! Same for Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, and Saturday.
Well, supposedly some people don’t do this. Some people actually leave their mail in their mailboxes until it’s so full that their mail person has to leave them a note saying... “Um...here’s how mail works: I leave it in this here box and you pick it up from this here box! Or else you don’t get anymore mail.” Others will let it go three or four days because after all, they say, it’s usually junk mail. Still others go through the effort of getting the mail each day, but then they let it stack up on their counter, or a special (or not-so-special) “mail basket” of sorts, for days, even weeks, at a time.
I was shocked! I didn’t know that some people treated the U.S.P.S. system so cavalierly! And what if they’re missing something important in not opening every piece?! Like a call to jury duty?! A letter from a friend? A rebate check? A traffic ticket?! (In Cali, they take your picture, unbeknownst to you, and then send you a nice photo of yourself along with the ticket). Or how about a notice that a third-level sex offender has moved on to your block? Perhaps a save-the-date? A birth announcement? Coupons?!
I mean sure, sometimes it’s addressed to the current resident in addition to you and it’s crap, but not always!
And those people who let it sit out on their counter not to be touched for days, how can you stand it? There it sits right in front of you just begging to be opened and either enjoyed or thrown in the recycling.
I guess I take my cues from my dad. He is mail master. He usually eats lunch at home, so before pulling into the driveway, he will do a quick pass at the mailbox—still in the car—to get the mail if it should happen to be there that soon. If not, he will do the same thing on his way back to work after lunch—checking it from the car before pulling away. This meant, when I lived at home, that if I checked the mail at 5pm like a normal person, there wouldn’t be any mail in the mailbox OR the house. Rather, it was still be in dad’s car and he wasn’t home from work yet! I relished the days when for whatever reason I got the mail before he did! HA! Beat ya!
So do you get your mail every day and open it every day? Do you get your mail every day but only open it once a week? Do you never get your mail and thus, never open the letter I sent you? Do you leave a big, fat mess in your mailbox for your mailperson? I ask you: How much do you really respect the U.S.P.S. system?
Sunday, August 02, 2009
Down, but not away
Blessed is the man who does not fall away on account of me.
This is what Jesus says in Matthew 11:6.
The people in my life who have shined with God’s peace and grace most brightly are those who have not fallen away even when the path was slippery or treacherous—when God appeared not to act. When, despite falling desperately on their knees with arms outstretched and sobs wracking their bodies and endless prayers uttered—the cancer did not go away, a family member died, babies were taken away. They fell down, but they didn’t fall away.
I recently told a friend, one who is not so sure about God, that I was praying for his family. I am, but I cringed because what if God does not do that very thing that I’m praying for in the situation of this particular family. What will my friend think? He will think: Some God that is! And truth be told, so will I, because I tend to fall away when God doesn’t do the things I know He can do. The great things He has done in my life as well as the lives of others close to me sometimes actually work against Him because I look at those things and think…you did that, so why aren’t you doing this?!
I simply cannot fathom what He’s doing! Interestingly, the word “fathom” means “to penetrate to the truth of.” And there it is! The hook by which I hang my faith! I believe there IS truth. We may not be able to penetrate it or understand it, but it is there. We will always be wondering and searching, but there is eventually an X that marks the spot. It’s not a joke without a punch line or a maze with no way out, even though it feels like it sometimes.
I feel like Jesus knows. He’s like, look, I know I’m confusing, and I know I won’t always make sense, but don’t fall away because of that! His ways are unfathomable—but somewhere in that unfathomableness is His love, a truth that can be believed.
I will still ask why, but I don’t want to fall away when the answer isn’t apparent. I may fall down, but not away.
This is what Jesus says in Matthew 11:6.
The people in my life who have shined with God’s peace and grace most brightly are those who have not fallen away even when the path was slippery or treacherous—when God appeared not to act. When, despite falling desperately on their knees with arms outstretched and sobs wracking their bodies and endless prayers uttered—the cancer did not go away, a family member died, babies were taken away. They fell down, but they didn’t fall away.
I recently told a friend, one who is not so sure about God, that I was praying for his family. I am, but I cringed because what if God does not do that very thing that I’m praying for in the situation of this particular family. What will my friend think? He will think: Some God that is! And truth be told, so will I, because I tend to fall away when God doesn’t do the things I know He can do. The great things He has done in my life as well as the lives of others close to me sometimes actually work against Him because I look at those things and think…you did that, so why aren’t you doing this?!
I simply cannot fathom what He’s doing! Interestingly, the word “fathom” means “to penetrate to the truth of.” And there it is! The hook by which I hang my faith! I believe there IS truth. We may not be able to penetrate it or understand it, but it is there. We will always be wondering and searching, but there is eventually an X that marks the spot. It’s not a joke without a punch line or a maze with no way out, even though it feels like it sometimes.
I feel like Jesus knows. He’s like, look, I know I’m confusing, and I know I won’t always make sense, but don’t fall away because of that! His ways are unfathomable—but somewhere in that unfathomableness is His love, a truth that can be believed.
I will still ask why, but I don’t want to fall away when the answer isn’t apparent. I may fall down, but not away.
Friday, July 31, 2009
How about a suscription to "Modern Marriage"?
Recently, I’ve found myself thumbing through bridal magazines.
I’ve checked out the dessert options; want something other than cake? why not cookies and milk in bottles that have customized stickers “From the Smith/Johnson Dairy Farm.” I’ve seen many wedding dresses—trendy, country, girly, beachy. I’ve contemplated menus—if you’re going casual, semi-formal, formal, casual but want food to look like formal, formal but want food to look like casual, Italian, seafood, etc. etc. And then of course there’s the party favors, the decorations, the bridesmaid dresses, the tuxes, the blah. Blah. BLAH.
Don’t worry. I didn’t meet someone, fall in love and become engaged and not tell you. I have a dear friend who’s getting married in February, so my girlfriends and I have had fun picking out what we like or don’t like and then telling our friend—the bride—what we would really like her to do. Unfortunately we will not be dancing down the aisle to Chris Brown. Sad. We will, however, each be wearing different gorgeous navy blue, floor-length dresses that we got to pick out!
Anyways though, as I waited in line at Wal-Mart the other night, I found myself staring at two bridal magazines, one of which I had already scoured with my friends. Oh yeah, that’s the one with the couple who had the most hideous orange and pink decorations. Awful. Who was their coordinator, anyways?
Interestingly though, not one of the magazines I’ve looked through recently has had substantial help or advice on real stuff. And granted that’s not what they’re for. They’re supposed to be about the wedding DAY. The aesthetics, appearances, prettiness. But what about the marriage? Shouldn’t there be just as many magazines at Barnes & Noble about how to have a healthy, happy marriage on days when you’re not in a dress and he’s not in a tux? Or how about for the bridal party, how to support and encourage a marriage through tough times...illness, money problems, infertility, depression? Not just how to pin the bride's train.
Well, ‘tis the seasons of weddings...for family members, friends, and coworkers, and I’m excited to celebrate the weddings, but I’m praying for the marriages!
I’ve checked out the dessert options; want something other than cake? why not cookies and milk in bottles that have customized stickers “From the Smith/Johnson Dairy Farm.” I’ve seen many wedding dresses—trendy, country, girly, beachy. I’ve contemplated menus—if you’re going casual, semi-formal, formal, casual but want food to look like formal, formal but want food to look like casual, Italian, seafood, etc. etc. And then of course there’s the party favors, the decorations, the bridesmaid dresses, the tuxes, the blah. Blah. BLAH.
Don’t worry. I didn’t meet someone, fall in love and become engaged and not tell you. I have a dear friend who’s getting married in February, so my girlfriends and I have had fun picking out what we like or don’t like and then telling our friend—the bride—what we would really like her to do. Unfortunately we will not be dancing down the aisle to Chris Brown. Sad. We will, however, each be wearing different gorgeous navy blue, floor-length dresses that we got to pick out!
Anyways though, as I waited in line at Wal-Mart the other night, I found myself staring at two bridal magazines, one of which I had already scoured with my friends. Oh yeah, that’s the one with the couple who had the most hideous orange and pink decorations. Awful. Who was their coordinator, anyways?
Interestingly though, not one of the magazines I’ve looked through recently has had substantial help or advice on real stuff. And granted that’s not what they’re for. They’re supposed to be about the wedding DAY. The aesthetics, appearances, prettiness. But what about the marriage? Shouldn’t there be just as many magazines at Barnes & Noble about how to have a healthy, happy marriage on days when you’re not in a dress and he’s not in a tux? Or how about for the bridal party, how to support and encourage a marriage through tough times...illness, money problems, infertility, depression? Not just how to pin the bride's train.
Well, ‘tis the seasons of weddings...for family members, friends, and coworkers, and I’m excited to celebrate the weddings, but I’m praying for the marriages!
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Yuki
"It’s YUKI!
STOP THE CAR! Turn around! Get the camera!"
A couple weekends ago, I found myself yelling these things from the backseat of my friend’s truck. Four girlfriends and me were driving through Cable, Wisc., on the way back to our condo where we were staying for the weekend. Where we had hoped to relax in swimsuits, bask in the sun, and sip cool drinks. Instead in sweatshirts and jeans, we drove 20 miles in the rain and 50-degree weather to the “largest” town to shop and catch a movie. Gotta love northern Wisconsin in the summer.
But as I was gazing out the window, content listening to my good friends chat and watching greenness speed by, I saw it. YUKI! Whiteness! The albino deer! The one Cable, Wisc., is known for. The one written up about in the town’s Chamber of Commerce “Things to do in Cable” booklet—last year’s edition—on our condo’s coffee table.
My friend did, in fact, turn around and park on the shoulder. We proceeded to take lots of photographs of Yuki. I mean, we had just read that Yuki’s been in hiding of late. Not seen too often. Locals were starting to wonder...Yuki still alive? And there we were, out-of-towners getting to see the thing. HA! But quite frankly, if I looked like that, I’d be in hiding too. It was disgusting—a cross between a very large white rat and another very large white rat with pink eyes and pink ears. Sick. But take another photo anyways because it’s Yuki—which means “snow” in Japanese. It also rhymes with puke-y.
So, there we were. Five girls. Laughing. Pointing. Snapping photos (speaking of, can one of you send me a pic? I’ll post it for others to partake of). Delighting in something out-of-the-ordinary. Something not seen everyday. It didn't last long. Yuki soon ran back into the woods, but seeing him, her, it, whatever, came to be one of the highlights of the trip. The tale and laughter live on.
I think there are Yukis each day, even amidst our monotonous routines and busy-ness. You just gotta be willing to stop and look. Or stop and listen. It’s worth a laugh or a smile.
Seen a Yuki today?
STOP THE CAR! Turn around! Get the camera!"
A couple weekends ago, I found myself yelling these things from the backseat of my friend’s truck. Four girlfriends and me were driving through Cable, Wisc., on the way back to our condo where we were staying for the weekend. Where we had hoped to relax in swimsuits, bask in the sun, and sip cool drinks. Instead in sweatshirts and jeans, we drove 20 miles in the rain and 50-degree weather to the “largest” town to shop and catch a movie. Gotta love northern Wisconsin in the summer.
But as I was gazing out the window, content listening to my good friends chat and watching greenness speed by, I saw it. YUKI! Whiteness! The albino deer! The one Cable, Wisc., is known for. The one written up about in the town’s Chamber of Commerce “Things to do in Cable” booklet—last year’s edition—on our condo’s coffee table.
My friend did, in fact, turn around and park on the shoulder. We proceeded to take lots of photographs of Yuki. I mean, we had just read that Yuki’s been in hiding of late. Not seen too often. Locals were starting to wonder...Yuki still alive? And there we were, out-of-towners getting to see the thing. HA! But quite frankly, if I looked like that, I’d be in hiding too. It was disgusting—a cross between a very large white rat and another very large white rat with pink eyes and pink ears. Sick. But take another photo anyways because it’s Yuki—which means “snow” in Japanese. It also rhymes with puke-y.
So, there we were. Five girls. Laughing. Pointing. Snapping photos (speaking of, can one of you send me a pic? I’ll post it for others to partake of). Delighting in something out-of-the-ordinary. Something not seen everyday. It didn't last long. Yuki soon ran back into the woods, but seeing him, her, it, whatever, came to be one of the highlights of the trip. The tale and laughter live on.
I think there are Yukis each day, even amidst our monotonous routines and busy-ness. You just gotta be willing to stop and look. Or stop and listen. It’s worth a laugh or a smile.
Seen a Yuki today?
Monday, July 27, 2009
Huff and puff
Yesterday while running I came up behind a guy briskly walking. He was dressed appropriately for exercising...tennies, athletic shorts, t-shirt. And then suddenly, I saw his right hand go up, and two seconds later a cloud of smoke ascend above his head. He was smoking! He was walking and smoking. As I passed, I turned toward him and smiled, really just wanting to see if, in fact, he was walking and smoking. Yup. He was.
For the next mile or so I found myself contemplating this. It would have been different had be been in street clothes, walking and smoking, on his way to a store or a restaurant or a bar. But he was dressed to exercise, and he was on a somewhat secluded part of a path filled with people who use the path to exercise—rollerblade, walk, run, bike. And he was smoking.
I mean, maybe he wasn’t really exercising per se, but just trying to release some stress. Maybe he had spent the whole day at the hospital with a sick family member and just really needed a smoke to take the edge off.
Maybe he was an alcoholic trying to kick his drinking habit, and needed a cigarette to get him through the hour.
But all the potential scenarios I came up with in my head didn’t require the walking part. I mean, you can take the edge off with a cigarette while sitting on your bum on the porch. No need to walk. It definitely seemed like a diet-coke-at-McDonald’s situation (order two Big Macs, a large fry and THEN a diet coke).
So, then I tried to think about the places in my life where I do the same thing. I somehow managed to justify and explain every situation where I may do something along these lines (obviously). That is, until I got to my faith.
Living out a faith that is not diet-coke-at-McDonald’s is not natural; it’s a constant challenge. So often we walk—oh we’re walking...we’re going to church, we’re praying, we’re doing all the things we think Christians should be doing. But then we’re also smoking (Not meant literally. See post on cigars!). Attitudes and actions—or sometimes lack thereof—completely negate the walking. We huff and puff in our worry or our selfishness or anger or fear or whatever it is you smoke. And then we wonder why we walk alone. Why some aren’t always up for the hike...
Because it’ll be a hike no matter what. It’s just a bit easier without the cigarette.
For the next mile or so I found myself contemplating this. It would have been different had be been in street clothes, walking and smoking, on his way to a store or a restaurant or a bar. But he was dressed to exercise, and he was on a somewhat secluded part of a path filled with people who use the path to exercise—rollerblade, walk, run, bike. And he was smoking.
I mean, maybe he wasn’t really exercising per se, but just trying to release some stress. Maybe he had spent the whole day at the hospital with a sick family member and just really needed a smoke to take the edge off.
Maybe he was an alcoholic trying to kick his drinking habit, and needed a cigarette to get him through the hour.
But all the potential scenarios I came up with in my head didn’t require the walking part. I mean, you can take the edge off with a cigarette while sitting on your bum on the porch. No need to walk. It definitely seemed like a diet-coke-at-McDonald’s situation (order two Big Macs, a large fry and THEN a diet coke).
So, then I tried to think about the places in my life where I do the same thing. I somehow managed to justify and explain every situation where I may do something along these lines (obviously). That is, until I got to my faith.
Living out a faith that is not diet-coke-at-McDonald’s is not natural; it’s a constant challenge. So often we walk—oh we’re walking...we’re going to church, we’re praying, we’re doing all the things we think Christians should be doing. But then we’re also smoking (Not meant literally. See post on cigars!). Attitudes and actions—or sometimes lack thereof—completely negate the walking. We huff and puff in our worry or our selfishness or anger or fear or whatever it is you smoke. And then we wonder why we walk alone. Why some aren’t always up for the hike...
Because it’ll be a hike no matter what. It’s just a bit easier without the cigarette.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Boxed in
I quickly parked and ran into McDonald’s, thankful that the Redbox line was only one person. I needed to return a movie, which takes all of two seconds, and I hate when three families, each with three kids are in line in front of me because, of course, each kid gets to sift through all the movies and select the one he or she wants. This takes 10 minutes each. That means 40 minutes later, I’m finally returning my movie.
The guy in front of me had two movies. He inserted his first one...waited, waited, waited. "Your DVD has been successfully returned." And then he inserted—or tried to—his second one. The thing wouldn’t go in. After multiple tries and a few sighs and whispered "what?"s from him, the screen said, "Sorry. This Redbox full. Please return your DVD at another Redbox location." I think the guy was actually relieved to see this because that way he knew I was no longer thinking the problem was a Redbox user error. That maybe his wrist wasn't positioned correctly as he tried to slide the movie in or something...
But anyways, the guy turned around and looked at me with his shoulders up and a sheepish grin. "Sorry," he said. Really? A Redbox can be full? And really? Right now? I was in a hurry! He said he guessed he’d just head over to Cub and return his other one there. My mental GPS went into action trying to figure out what my best options were. I wish I had thought to give him my movie and say "here, you return this! It’s your fault that Redbox is full! You just HAD to return Transformers!"
As I walked out, I found myself trying to envision what the inside of a Redbox looks like. Are the DVDs stacked horizontally? Vertically? And how exactly are they organized? Alpha order? Release date? How many boxes could a Redbox hold if a Redbox could hold boxes? I researched. I didn’t get all my answers, but here’s what I did discover...
A Redbox can hold 700 DVDs.
On average, one Redbox kiosk is opening each hour throughout the country.
Last month, more than 4 million people swiped their credit card through a Redbox. I was one of them.
Netflix may be in trouble.
You can purchase used movies at a Redbox for $7.
When your Redbox is full (holding 700 movies because the weather's nice and no one's inside watching a movie, especially on a week night), you can head to one of the 12,899 others.
The guy in front of me had two movies. He inserted his first one...waited, waited, waited. "Your DVD has been successfully returned." And then he inserted—or tried to—his second one. The thing wouldn’t go in. After multiple tries and a few sighs and whispered "what?"s from him, the screen said, "Sorry. This Redbox full. Please return your DVD at another Redbox location." I think the guy was actually relieved to see this because that way he knew I was no longer thinking the problem was a Redbox user error. That maybe his wrist wasn't positioned correctly as he tried to slide the movie in or something...
But anyways, the guy turned around and looked at me with his shoulders up and a sheepish grin. "Sorry," he said. Really? A Redbox can be full? And really? Right now? I was in a hurry! He said he guessed he’d just head over to Cub and return his other one there. My mental GPS went into action trying to figure out what my best options were. I wish I had thought to give him my movie and say "here, you return this! It’s your fault that Redbox is full! You just HAD to return Transformers!"
As I walked out, I found myself trying to envision what the inside of a Redbox looks like. Are the DVDs stacked horizontally? Vertically? And how exactly are they organized? Alpha order? Release date? How many boxes could a Redbox hold if a Redbox could hold boxes? I researched. I didn’t get all my answers, but here’s what I did discover...
A Redbox can hold 700 DVDs.
On average, one Redbox kiosk is opening each hour throughout the country.
Last month, more than 4 million people swiped their credit card through a Redbox. I was one of them.
Netflix may be in trouble.
You can purchase used movies at a Redbox for $7.
When your Redbox is full (holding 700 movies because the weather's nice and no one's inside watching a movie, especially on a week night), you can head to one of the 12,899 others.
Monday, July 13, 2009
Yesterday, today, and forever
I have a kacki-colored, Mr. Rogers-like sweater. I got it early in college, which means, mmm, I don’t know. It’s probably 10 years old. I was shopping with my boyfriend at the time at Dayton’s. We were in the men’s section, and this sweater—size x-small—was on sale, and it called out to me. It zips all the way up. Has two great pockets. Part wool. Super warm. Simple. I wore it all the time in college and right after. You only need to look at a few photos from that era to see I’m not lying.
But then I moved to Cali. It came with me, but it hung out in my closet the entire time. I think it was partly the weather, but also I came to a point where I wondered if it actually was really ugly. Did I look homeless in it? I mean, I’d had it for so long. Maybe my love for it had made me blind, and I shouldn’t be wearing it anymore! I had some doubts.
It moved back to Minnesota with me, and I’ve recently rekindled my love for this sweater. I had it on last week and my friend from Cali—who hadn’t seen it before—told me she really liked my sweater. I smiled. Why, thank you. I told her of my strained sweater relationship, and how we’re suddenly going strong again.
This morning I read Hebrews 13:8, and I was convicted.
“Jesus Christ is the same yesterday and today and forever.”
Do I really believe this? If I’m completely honest, I don’t think I do most of the time. The Jesus who performs miracles! Who brings sight to the blind! Who tells stories to children! Who heals lepers! Who calms storms! Who loves us! Right now? That’s crazy talk!
I mean, I say I do, but I think, almost unknowingly, I put Christ on a timeline. He was that then. Now He’s this today. Sure, He did all those things back in the day, but really, on a day-to-day basis, right now, He’s more removed. He’s further away. Sure...still there, still listening, but not quite what He was. And what convicted me most about this was realizing that in doing this, in thinking these things, I decide who God is, which is absurd! I’m deciding He can and can’t do certain things or that He does or does not have certain power. THAT is crazy talk, and I have a tendency to do this when I don’t feel or see God moving in my life as much I’d like. Doesn’t mean He’s not working, I’m just not capable of seeing it at times.
We are told who God is though! It’s not for me or you to decide. And what He is today is exactly what He was 2,000 years ago. Neither His love nor His power has in any way lessened or decreased or become more removed. He is the same yesterday, today, and tomorrow. And I really liked how when I looked this verse up in a number of different translations, they all used the same. He is the same in NIV, ASV, and NAS. He is the same.
It's a bit like my sweater. Despite going through the wash many times, it doesn't really look all that different from when I first bought it. It still has it goin’ on—in a vintage, thrift-shop sort of way—despite my occasional fashion doubts.
But then I moved to Cali. It came with me, but it hung out in my closet the entire time. I think it was partly the weather, but also I came to a point where I wondered if it actually was really ugly. Did I look homeless in it? I mean, I’d had it for so long. Maybe my love for it had made me blind, and I shouldn’t be wearing it anymore! I had some doubts.
It moved back to Minnesota with me, and I’ve recently rekindled my love for this sweater. I had it on last week and my friend from Cali—who hadn’t seen it before—told me she really liked my sweater. I smiled. Why, thank you. I told her of my strained sweater relationship, and how we’re suddenly going strong again.
This morning I read Hebrews 13:8, and I was convicted.
“Jesus Christ is the same yesterday and today and forever.”
Do I really believe this? If I’m completely honest, I don’t think I do most of the time. The Jesus who performs miracles! Who brings sight to the blind! Who tells stories to children! Who heals lepers! Who calms storms! Who loves us! Right now? That’s crazy talk!
I mean, I say I do, but I think, almost unknowingly, I put Christ on a timeline. He was that then. Now He’s this today. Sure, He did all those things back in the day, but really, on a day-to-day basis, right now, He’s more removed. He’s further away. Sure...still there, still listening, but not quite what He was. And what convicted me most about this was realizing that in doing this, in thinking these things, I decide who God is, which is absurd! I’m deciding He can and can’t do certain things or that He does or does not have certain power. THAT is crazy talk, and I have a tendency to do this when I don’t feel or see God moving in my life as much I’d like. Doesn’t mean He’s not working, I’m just not capable of seeing it at times.
We are told who God is though! It’s not for me or you to decide. And what He is today is exactly what He was 2,000 years ago. Neither His love nor His power has in any way lessened or decreased or become more removed. He is the same yesterday, today, and tomorrow. And I really liked how when I looked this verse up in a number of different translations, they all used the same. He is the same in NIV, ASV, and NAS. He is the same.
It's a bit like my sweater. Despite going through the wash many times, it doesn't really look all that different from when I first bought it. It still has it goin’ on—in a vintage, thrift-shop sort of way—despite my occasional fashion doubts.
Sunday, July 12, 2009
Flat-tired Scorpio
So. Yesterday. I go to mom and dad’s. I get my brother’s bike down (hanging high in the garage). I’m sure this was a sight in and of itself because no one was around to help me. I filled the tires with dad’s air pump, got the thing in the car and drove home. I’ve been wanting to get the bike and ride for quite some time, but it’s just always seemed like such an effort, and I’ve been short on time. But not yesterday. The lazy, 80-degree, sunny Saturday provided a perfect opportunity.
I take off from home on the bike. And it's true, I think...one never forgets how to ride a bike. I haven't been on two wheels in forever, but I can do it just fine! My legs know what to do. Things are going swimmingly, and I’m thinking, wow, I can see how Lance Armstrong really likes this, and how one of my dear friends has gotten hooked on this and rides a bajillion miles everywhere. I start making a mental list of all the things I should really go out and buy because, by golly, in my quest to become more “green” and granola, riding my bike everywhere is tops on the list. I need a bike lock, my own air pump, probably some nifty sandals of some sort. Hm. Where could I get those? REI maybe summer clearance? Sports Authority? I should watch in tomorrow’s paper, I think. I mean, I’m going to become a veritable cyclist! It’s going to be great.
All this before I had even left my neighborhood.
I’m about 10 minutes in when I realize that this bike is actually not the smoothest thing ever. In fact, it’s actually kind of a rough ride, even on smooth terrain. And I see that my back tire is probably 75 percent flat. No way. No way am I aborting my maiden biking voyage already. I mean, I've already got a good hour and a half into making this bike ride possible, not to mention a bruise on my thigh from getting the thing down from the garage. These tires are thick. This shouldn’t really be a problem, and I don’t weigh a ton. They look like all-terrain tires. Nevertheless, I stop, hop off and squeeze the back tire, acting like I know what I’m checking for. Well, maybe I should abort. I don’t know. I just filled these things, so why is it almost flat already? I wish my cycling friend was around, so I could ask his advice. What should i do? But I decided I’d go a bit further and see what happens.
I hop back on and keep going. I cross 81 and leave suburb land. Or at least, that’s what it feels like because suddenly I’m in the midst of horses and cornfields, and I hop on a path that could take me miles and miles and miles depending on which way I go. I’m cruising along pretending like my tire is not flat, and suddenly I get passed by a very large man on a bike with the skinniest tires I’ve ever seen. How strange. I’m skinny and on a bike with massively wide tires. He's the opposite. How does that work?! Why is he passing me? Another biker cruises by me going the other direction. He’s wearing a fancy schmancy helmet. Hm. Is that a must? Is that a rule? Should I be wearing a helmet? Should that be on my biking list of things to get? I wonder where he got his. He was also wearing a biking jersey, like one that Lance Armstrong is probably wearing right now during the Tour de France. Why is he wearing that while he rides around the outskirts of Maple Grove I wonder? To look cool? Or maybe that’s just what all really-cool bikers wear. Well, that is something I won’t be getting. Ever. I continue on my merry way and realize that maybe if I stand and pedal, there’s less weight on the back flat tire. That’s probably a good thing. So I decide to stand a bit more every now and then.
"On your left," I hear from behind me. Somebody's passing me.
"Left," another someone passes me. They're all on skinny-tire bikes going very fast. And they're all male, and not all fat. Maybe i should bike more often, I think! Why haven't i done this sooner?!
"To your left."
About 45 minutes in, I realize I have no idea where I’m going. I’m in a massive park reserve and I’ve just been going, going, whichever direction I’ve felt like going, lost in my biking thoughts. So, at the next path intersection, I stop. Hop off. Once again, feel my back tire—yup, still flat—I get a swig of water (because of course I have a water bottle attached to my bike!). I begin to study the provided map on the side of the path. Um. I am nowhere near where I thought I was. And as I stand there trying to figure out which direction the you-are-here arrow is really pointing, other bikers are speedily zooming by, knowing exactly where they’re going. I think to myself…I should pretend like I’m not really studying the map quizzically. Merely just stopping for some water, except maybe legitimate bikers don’t actually stop for water. They can drink and drive. Sigh. I’m just not a cool biker yet, but it’ll come. I hop back on my bike and continue on, knowing that I need to take a left at the next fork in the path in order to get home some time that day.
I’m tired now though. I’ve got the gears set so that I’m actually working most of the time. My legs are getting a work out, and I don’t think the flat tire is making it any easier! I'm sweating and decide I can cut my planned 6-mile run to 3 miles for that afternoon. As I hit a flat stretch of path, I look down and begin studying my bike. Hm. What kind of bike is this exactly, I wonder? It's hunter green. A little dusty. Has a nice little attached pouch for my phone and keys. I wonder about the difference between the seven gears on the right handlebar versus the three on the left. It says “Scorpio” in black and silver letters on one of the bars. I realize that it’s probably like the “Faded Glory” clothing brand from Wal-Mart, or “Sonoma” from Kohl’s. The off brand. A wave of self-consciousness rolled in. What are the other bikers thinking of me? Look at the girl, not wearing a helmet, riding a flat-tired Scorpio! And she has no idea where she’s going?! Plus, everybody else was wearing sunglasses. I didn’t wear my sunglasses. Next time.
Well, I made it home, flat tire and all. And quite honestly, it was tons of fun, and I’m looking forward to more biking. I was reminded of how great it is to do something new and different, something you're a little unsure of. Something in which you need to learn a few things. Get a few pointers.
And I did, in fact, pick up a bike lock (because someone definitely would want to steal my Scorpio!). So, wave if you see me on the road. I'm on the flat-tired Scorpio.
I take off from home on the bike. And it's true, I think...one never forgets how to ride a bike. I haven't been on two wheels in forever, but I can do it just fine! My legs know what to do. Things are going swimmingly, and I’m thinking, wow, I can see how Lance Armstrong really likes this, and how one of my dear friends has gotten hooked on this and rides a bajillion miles everywhere. I start making a mental list of all the things I should really go out and buy because, by golly, in my quest to become more “green” and granola, riding my bike everywhere is tops on the list. I need a bike lock, my own air pump, probably some nifty sandals of some sort. Hm. Where could I get those? REI maybe summer clearance? Sports Authority? I should watch in tomorrow’s paper, I think. I mean, I’m going to become a veritable cyclist! It’s going to be great.
All this before I had even left my neighborhood.
I’m about 10 minutes in when I realize that this bike is actually not the smoothest thing ever. In fact, it’s actually kind of a rough ride, even on smooth terrain. And I see that my back tire is probably 75 percent flat. No way. No way am I aborting my maiden biking voyage already. I mean, I've already got a good hour and a half into making this bike ride possible, not to mention a bruise on my thigh from getting the thing down from the garage. These tires are thick. This shouldn’t really be a problem, and I don’t weigh a ton. They look like all-terrain tires. Nevertheless, I stop, hop off and squeeze the back tire, acting like I know what I’m checking for. Well, maybe I should abort. I don’t know. I just filled these things, so why is it almost flat already? I wish my cycling friend was around, so I could ask his advice. What should i do? But I decided I’d go a bit further and see what happens.
I hop back on and keep going. I cross 81 and leave suburb land. Or at least, that’s what it feels like because suddenly I’m in the midst of horses and cornfields, and I hop on a path that could take me miles and miles and miles depending on which way I go. I’m cruising along pretending like my tire is not flat, and suddenly I get passed by a very large man on a bike with the skinniest tires I’ve ever seen. How strange. I’m skinny and on a bike with massively wide tires. He's the opposite. How does that work?! Why is he passing me? Another biker cruises by me going the other direction. He’s wearing a fancy schmancy helmet. Hm. Is that a must? Is that a rule? Should I be wearing a helmet? Should that be on my biking list of things to get? I wonder where he got his. He was also wearing a biking jersey, like one that Lance Armstrong is probably wearing right now during the Tour de France. Why is he wearing that while he rides around the outskirts of Maple Grove I wonder? To look cool? Or maybe that’s just what all really-cool bikers wear. Well, that is something I won’t be getting. Ever. I continue on my merry way and realize that maybe if I stand and pedal, there’s less weight on the back flat tire. That’s probably a good thing. So I decide to stand a bit more every now and then.
"On your left," I hear from behind me. Somebody's passing me.
"Left," another someone passes me. They're all on skinny-tire bikes going very fast. And they're all male, and not all fat. Maybe i should bike more often, I think! Why haven't i done this sooner?!
"To your left."
About 45 minutes in, I realize I have no idea where I’m going. I’m in a massive park reserve and I’ve just been going, going, whichever direction I’ve felt like going, lost in my biking thoughts. So, at the next path intersection, I stop. Hop off. Once again, feel my back tire—yup, still flat—I get a swig of water (because of course I have a water bottle attached to my bike!). I begin to study the provided map on the side of the path. Um. I am nowhere near where I thought I was. And as I stand there trying to figure out which direction the you-are-here arrow is really pointing, other bikers are speedily zooming by, knowing exactly where they’re going. I think to myself…I should pretend like I’m not really studying the map quizzically. Merely just stopping for some water, except maybe legitimate bikers don’t actually stop for water. They can drink and drive. Sigh. I’m just not a cool biker yet, but it’ll come. I hop back on my bike and continue on, knowing that I need to take a left at the next fork in the path in order to get home some time that day.
I’m tired now though. I’ve got the gears set so that I’m actually working most of the time. My legs are getting a work out, and I don’t think the flat tire is making it any easier! I'm sweating and decide I can cut my planned 6-mile run to 3 miles for that afternoon. As I hit a flat stretch of path, I look down and begin studying my bike. Hm. What kind of bike is this exactly, I wonder? It's hunter green. A little dusty. Has a nice little attached pouch for my phone and keys. I wonder about the difference between the seven gears on the right handlebar versus the three on the left. It says “Scorpio” in black and silver letters on one of the bars. I realize that it’s probably like the “Faded Glory” clothing brand from Wal-Mart, or “Sonoma” from Kohl’s. The off brand. A wave of self-consciousness rolled in. What are the other bikers thinking of me? Look at the girl, not wearing a helmet, riding a flat-tired Scorpio! And she has no idea where she’s going?! Plus, everybody else was wearing sunglasses. I didn’t wear my sunglasses. Next time.
Well, I made it home, flat tire and all. And quite honestly, it was tons of fun, and I’m looking forward to more biking. I was reminded of how great it is to do something new and different, something you're a little unsure of. Something in which you need to learn a few things. Get a few pointers.
And I did, in fact, pick up a bike lock (because someone definitely would want to steal my Scorpio!). So, wave if you see me on the road. I'm on the flat-tired Scorpio.
Friday, July 10, 2009
Lettuce? no thanks
Not cool.
In late spring I planted lettuce in a small windowbox. Within days, little, delicate green sprouts emerged from the soil. A few more days went by, the growth continued, and I woke to find my porch strewn with dirt. Someone—or something—had decided to dig around in my lettuce windowbox, but not actually do anything to the lettuce plants. Just dig in the dirt and throw it all over the place. The lettuce was still OK. Another week went by and the plants continued to grow, truly beginning to look like lettuce. Visions of wonderful salads danced in my head.
Not for long though. I woke up one morning and once again, something had decided to dig around in my lettuce box. This time digging up the lettuce plants. Whatever it was didn’t eat or even nibble the plants. Instead the plants were in their entirety—roots and all—lying lamely on the cement amidst dirt.
One morning, sitting at my kitchen table drinking coffee, I saw the culprit. A squirrel. “Why, you little...” I jumped up and ran out the front door, yelling at the thing like it was a two-year-old. “What do you think you’re doing? No! Keep your hands off!” I did feel a little better knowing what was eating my future salads. A squirrel. Not a rabbit and not my neighbor.
So, I planted some more lettuce seeds and moved the windowbox. Put it up on the deck. Up on a chair...It hasn’t worked. I got home last night and my second batch of lettuce was all over my patio. Roots, lettuce leaves and all. Dirt everywhere. So, the worst part is that the thing isn’t even enjoying my lettuce. I mean, at least eat it if you’re going to ruin it! Need some salad dressing?!
I was recently talking to a married friend and relating a “funny” dating story. Don’t you love how all sucky dating stories somehow turn “funny.” Some take a little longer to turn funny, but... She was saying that she didn’t envy me—dating does not sound fun. And no, it’s really not, at least in my opinion. I’d like to find someone without the hassle of going through other someones. But I chuckled to myself as I swept up my lettuce and dirt last night. It’s like dating! You start seeing someone. As the squirrel, you dig around, getting to know the person, asking them questions, finding things out. You go out again, dig a little deeper. But then something happens, externally or internally, big or small, and it can’t go any further. So the squirrel’s just gotta pull the whole thing out, sometimes roots and all. One person leaves the other person lying lamely on the cement with bits and pieces of conversations and dates and songs strewn about. One person just decides that they want a different kind of lettuce.
And I know the squirrel isn’t out to get me personally, but it doesn’t matter. I’m still mad at the thing! No salads for me! An eensy-teensy bit of me takes it personally, especially because it’s not even enjoying the actual lettuce! In dating, sometimes I’m the squirrel, sometimes I’m the lettuce. And I don’t want to be the squirrel or the damn lettuce!
Good thing though. The squirrel hasn’t touched my zucchini or green peppers or basil. There’s hope, my single friends! I will have wonderful grilled zucchini, nummy green peppers in my salad (made with store-bought lettuce), and some amazing homemade pesto.
In late spring I planted lettuce in a small windowbox. Within days, little, delicate green sprouts emerged from the soil. A few more days went by, the growth continued, and I woke to find my porch strewn with dirt. Someone—or something—had decided to dig around in my lettuce windowbox, but not actually do anything to the lettuce plants. Just dig in the dirt and throw it all over the place. The lettuce was still OK. Another week went by and the plants continued to grow, truly beginning to look like lettuce. Visions of wonderful salads danced in my head.
Not for long though. I woke up one morning and once again, something had decided to dig around in my lettuce box. This time digging up the lettuce plants. Whatever it was didn’t eat or even nibble the plants. Instead the plants were in their entirety—roots and all—lying lamely on the cement amidst dirt.
One morning, sitting at my kitchen table drinking coffee, I saw the culprit. A squirrel. “Why, you little...” I jumped up and ran out the front door, yelling at the thing like it was a two-year-old. “What do you think you’re doing? No! Keep your hands off!” I did feel a little better knowing what was eating my future salads. A squirrel. Not a rabbit and not my neighbor.
So, I planted some more lettuce seeds and moved the windowbox. Put it up on the deck. Up on a chair...It hasn’t worked. I got home last night and my second batch of lettuce was all over my patio. Roots, lettuce leaves and all. Dirt everywhere. So, the worst part is that the thing isn’t even enjoying my lettuce. I mean, at least eat it if you’re going to ruin it! Need some salad dressing?!
I was recently talking to a married friend and relating a “funny” dating story. Don’t you love how all sucky dating stories somehow turn “funny.” Some take a little longer to turn funny, but... She was saying that she didn’t envy me—dating does not sound fun. And no, it’s really not, at least in my opinion. I’d like to find someone without the hassle of going through other someones. But I chuckled to myself as I swept up my lettuce and dirt last night. It’s like dating! You start seeing someone. As the squirrel, you dig around, getting to know the person, asking them questions, finding things out. You go out again, dig a little deeper. But then something happens, externally or internally, big or small, and it can’t go any further. So the squirrel’s just gotta pull the whole thing out, sometimes roots and all. One person leaves the other person lying lamely on the cement with bits and pieces of conversations and dates and songs strewn about. One person just decides that they want a different kind of lettuce.
And I know the squirrel isn’t out to get me personally, but it doesn’t matter. I’m still mad at the thing! No salads for me! An eensy-teensy bit of me takes it personally, especially because it’s not even enjoying the actual lettuce! In dating, sometimes I’m the squirrel, sometimes I’m the lettuce. And I don’t want to be the squirrel or the damn lettuce!
Good thing though. The squirrel hasn’t touched my zucchini or green peppers or basil. There’s hope, my single friends! I will have wonderful grilled zucchini, nummy green peppers in my salad (made with store-bought lettuce), and some amazing homemade pesto.
Thursday, July 09, 2009
The ole' Mann
I went to the movies last night with my brother at a theaternearyou. When I was little I used to think that was one word—theaternearyou. That’s where you went to a movie. Anyways, we got to park super close, easily smuggled in our own drinks, and didn’t have to wait in any line for tickets because there wasn’t any line. We paid $3each. $3! Not $10. Then we walked into an empty theater and got to choose any seat we wanted. No one else came; it was a like a special showing just for us. We got to put our feet on the chair in front of us, and I was able to throw my purse and sweater on the chair next to me. We could have talked super loudly, burped, laughed obnoxiously. We didn’t, but we could have. My brother opened his can of pop without fear that someone would see or hear. I almost turned my phone back on thinking no one’s going to care if it goes off. And just before our movie started, a 16-year-old boy came out and directed his brief pre-flick welcome to just the two of us. Rather than walking all the way to the front of the theater, he stood in the center aisle at the end of our row. While trying very hard not to make eye contact with us, he thanked us for visiting Mann Theater, said he hoped we enjoy our experience and if we have any problems or concerns to visit the front counter for help.
It was like the whole place was operating just for me and my bro to have a great movie-going experience at a theater near us. Sounds great huh? Want to go to this theater?
Here’s the catch. It’s the old-man theater. AKA the ole Mann Theater of Maple Grove—the underdog—playing movies that are no longer playing at fancy schmancy theaternearyous. It used to be the hip, happenin’ place until the big, fancy schmancy AMC came to town. The one where you have to park super far away, wait in long lines, pay $10, be annoyed by tons of loud junior highers, follow lots of rules so as not to bother those around you. And there’s no personal greeting from an awkward theater employee.
I’m kind of a sucker for underdogs though. And so is God. With Him, you can bring your own pop, put your feet up on the seat and leave your phone on. And He really is operating just for you, just for me. He’s hardly the flashy AMC. I mean, He was human, born in a manger, rode a donkey. He was understated, subtle. Pretty sure His sandals were from Wal-Mart, not REI.
Anyways, sometimes when I’m tired or feeling lackluster at work or in friendships...when I’m feeling a wee underdoggish, I’m super thankful God’s the ole Mann. Not the AMC. Taking me as I am. Loving me where I'm at.
PS. We saw State of Play, which only increased my desire to know why some women think Russell Crowe is attractive.
It was like the whole place was operating just for me and my bro to have a great movie-going experience at a theater near us. Sounds great huh? Want to go to this theater?
Here’s the catch. It’s the old-man theater. AKA the ole Mann Theater of Maple Grove—the underdog—playing movies that are no longer playing at fancy schmancy theaternearyous. It used to be the hip, happenin’ place until the big, fancy schmancy AMC came to town. The one where you have to park super far away, wait in long lines, pay $10, be annoyed by tons of loud junior highers, follow lots of rules so as not to bother those around you. And there’s no personal greeting from an awkward theater employee.
I’m kind of a sucker for underdogs though. And so is God. With Him, you can bring your own pop, put your feet up on the seat and leave your phone on. And He really is operating just for you, just for me. He’s hardly the flashy AMC. I mean, He was human, born in a manger, rode a donkey. He was understated, subtle. Pretty sure His sandals were from Wal-Mart, not REI.
Anyways, sometimes when I’m tired or feeling lackluster at work or in friendships...when I’m feeling a wee underdoggish, I’m super thankful God’s the ole Mann. Not the AMC. Taking me as I am. Loving me where I'm at.
PS. We saw State of Play, which only increased my desire to know why some women think Russell Crowe is attractive.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
A true pick-me-up
I remember getting picked up from the airport once. I’ve gotten picked up from the airport many times, but this particular time stands out because my friend stood out. Rather than driving around the circle over and over and over (so as not to be yelled at by security for spending one too many seconds in the same spot), waiting for me to get my luggage, she parked the car, walked in, and was standing there to greet me as I came down the escalator! What a surprise!
I hugged her and said she didn’t need to park, and that I felt bad we’d have to pay a small fee (a whoppin’ 50 cents or something). It was definitely the less convenient thing for her to do, but she assured me that she wanted to see me and that it was no trouble whatsoever. She didn’t want to waste the minutes that I would spend waiting for my luggage. We could be talking during that precious time! I mean, definitely time for a few good laughs. At the Minneapolis airport, probably 10 good laughs.
And I was thankful because we didn’t have to do the drive-through pick up. You know the one. Traveler walks out of baggage claim. Driver parks at curb, gets out, runs hurriedly around car and there’s an awkward, rushed hug and hi-I-haven’t-seen-you-in-forever-but-we-can’t-really-talk-right-now-because-security-is-blowing-their-whistle-at-us-and-the-driver-of-the-massive-SUV-behind-us-is-about-to-run-us-over-or-flick-us-off-and-my-rolling-duffel-has-just-fallen-off-the-curb-and-we-gotta-get-in-the-car-NOW-OR-WE’LL-DIE greeting.
Now, I know the people who pick me up from the airport and don’t park love me. Lots. And FYI, if I pick you up from the airport and I don’t park, and get out and greet you in baggage claim, it doesn’t mean I don’t care, or I’d rather you hadn’t made the trip. Alls I’m sayin’ is that it was a small, thoughtful, gracious (and remembered) gesture, indicative of this friend’s nature. And also indicative of why I’m friends with her.
I’m picking her and her husband up from the airport today, and I’m going to park my car and greet them in the baggage claim.
I hugged her and said she didn’t need to park, and that I felt bad we’d have to pay a small fee (a whoppin’ 50 cents or something). It was definitely the less convenient thing for her to do, but she assured me that she wanted to see me and that it was no trouble whatsoever. She didn’t want to waste the minutes that I would spend waiting for my luggage. We could be talking during that precious time! I mean, definitely time for a few good laughs. At the Minneapolis airport, probably 10 good laughs.
And I was thankful because we didn’t have to do the drive-through pick up. You know the one. Traveler walks out of baggage claim. Driver parks at curb, gets out, runs hurriedly around car and there’s an awkward, rushed hug and hi-I-haven’t-seen-you-in-forever-but-we-can’t-really-talk-right-now-because-security-is-blowing-their-whistle-at-us-and-the-driver-of-the-massive-SUV-behind-us-is-about-to-run-us-over-or-flick-us-off-and-my-rolling-duffel-has-just-fallen-off-the-curb-and-we-gotta-get-in-the-car-NOW-OR-WE’LL-DIE greeting.
Now, I know the people who pick me up from the airport and don’t park love me. Lots. And FYI, if I pick you up from the airport and I don’t park, and get out and greet you in baggage claim, it doesn’t mean I don’t care, or I’d rather you hadn’t made the trip. Alls I’m sayin’ is that it was a small, thoughtful, gracious (and remembered) gesture, indicative of this friend’s nature. And also indicative of why I’m friends with her.
I’m picking her and her husband up from the airport today, and I’m going to park my car and greet them in the baggage claim.
Monday, June 29, 2009
Strong bookends
I like my days to be neat. I like to know what conversations and encounters mean. I like to crawl in bed early, not have my mind racing about things big or small, and fall right to sleep. Done. Check! But I’ve had quite a few consecutive days of something other than this. Nights have been late. Schedules have been hectic. Emotions have been high. And meaning has been gray. Because of this, I’ve written something every day since my last post, but I’ve posted nothing since my last post. I decided not to subject you to the fuzziness.
I was organizing my desk area yesterday and came across the notebook I used for my last class—one in which we studied the book of Revelation. I just skimmed my notes (wondering where that blue pen that I was using then went to) and Revelation 21:6 jumped out at me, God saying:
“I am the Alpha and the Omega—the Beginning and the End.”
No fuzziness there! Beginning. End. I love the sharpness and clarity of this statement—the bookendishness of it. And I like applying it to my days—God in the beginning and the end. Late at night, it’s OK if things of this world are confusing and hard and seeping all over the place (they always will be) because we have some serious bookends holding us together. God is stronger than all the stuff in the middle.
The end.
I was organizing my desk area yesterday and came across the notebook I used for my last class—one in which we studied the book of Revelation. I just skimmed my notes (wondering where that blue pen that I was using then went to) and Revelation 21:6 jumped out at me, God saying:
“I am the Alpha and the Omega—the Beginning and the End.”
No fuzziness there! Beginning. End. I love the sharpness and clarity of this statement—the bookendishness of it. And I like applying it to my days—God in the beginning and the end. Late at night, it’s OK if things of this world are confusing and hard and seeping all over the place (they always will be) because we have some serious bookends holding us together. God is stronger than all the stuff in the middle.
The end.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
I was getting to that
I was recently dating someone and he asked what some of my pet peeves were. (Now I think I would respond: YOU’RE my pet peeve!) But the thing is, I know I have some pet peeves, but when pressed, I can’t seem to tell you what they are off the top of my head. (Some of you are like, oh, well, I can tell you what yours are...) But I’ve realized one. When you’re talking to someone and they cut you off to ask a question. And their question would be answered momentarily if they’d only hold their horses! I’m about to get there if they’d simply let me finish my sentence...and maybe the next sentence!
Now, I appreciate that they’re listening, and not only are they listening, but wanting to know more information about what they’re listening to. But the word is listening. Not talking.
And I think the reason I don’t like this is because I come off looking like the bad communicator--like I'm not providing all the necessary information for the story to make sense--when it’s really the other person who is a bad listener!
Halfway through a sentence, someone cuts me off, asks a question. So then I am forced to fast forward to the part of the next sentence where I was planning on addressing that very thing. My communication becomes choppy because I’m having to stop, fast forward, stop, fast forward.
But, I guess I really shouldn’t worry about looking like--sounding like--the bad communicator in these cases, because often the only person there to notice and think this is the cutter-offer person. And we already know they’re too busy not listening.
Who wants to start a conversation with me now?!
Now, I appreciate that they’re listening, and not only are they listening, but wanting to know more information about what they’re listening to. But the word is listening. Not talking.
And I think the reason I don’t like this is because I come off looking like the bad communicator--like I'm not providing all the necessary information for the story to make sense--when it’s really the other person who is a bad listener!
Halfway through a sentence, someone cuts me off, asks a question. So then I am forced to fast forward to the part of the next sentence where I was planning on addressing that very thing. My communication becomes choppy because I’m having to stop, fast forward, stop, fast forward.
But, I guess I really shouldn’t worry about looking like--sounding like--the bad communicator in these cases, because often the only person there to notice and think this is the cutter-offer person. And we already know they’re too busy not listening.
Who wants to start a conversation with me now?!
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