Cribbin' it

I’m working on a crib sheet at work, not the kind that babies sleep on. So, I asked my boss why we call it a “crib sheet.” He said because it’s like a little cheat sheet. I said I know what it is, but why is it that?! (Do I sound like a three year old?) How the heck did it come to be called a “crib” sheet?

I did some research. And after sifting through many links to Babies R Us and Pottery Barn for Kids, here’s what I found:

Originally in the 1600s, crib—or cribbe—was Olde English for “manger or fodder bin” (what is a fodder bin? I also ask) At some point, I guess mangers started being used for children. Maybe Jesus started that fad. Crib was also used to refer to a basket, which somehow led people to start using crib as a verb meaning “to steal.” Use your basket and steal.

So, it’s believed that our current slang use of the word (the one referring to cheating of some sort, not the one in Pimp my Crib) comes from this. We’ll often refer to “crib sheets” as a form or plagiarizing or stealing information. Like, a student uses his or her crib sheet—cheat sheet—on the test. But, that still isn’t what I’m working on at work. I’m working on a completely legal, helpful piece of information!

Also, there are nine different noun forms of “crib.” A person could take their crib (basket), go to someone’s crib (house), and crib (steal) a teddy bear from the baby’s crib (barred bed for little ones). And if your British or Australian, after doing this you could take a rest with your cribbed (stolen) teddy bear and eat your crib (snack).

Taters for thought

Yesterday my jeaned knees found themselves in some Green Isle, Minn., mud. My hands in a large bucket of dirty water, scrubbing potatoes. I was harvesting spuds in a small farming town just outside of the cities on a gloriously sunny warm late-September Saturday afternoon. A friend and I drove out to volunteer a few hours of a our time to an organization called Hands for Harvest which plants and harvests a variety of potatoes for local food banks. City girls, our noses needed a few minutes to accommodate the smell of manure. We threw our hair up, put our old tennies on, and as quick learners…we dug right in. Literally.

The process: the potatoes need to be dug up; then sorted between worm-infested, too small, too green, sliced up by potato harvester tractor (not the technical name) and good; the good ones are washed in large buckets of water by hand; these are then brought to and laid out upon a large trailer bed to dry; once dry someone does one final sorting and puts them in boxes, readying them for the food banks and shelves. We did some washing, and then some final sorting and boxing.

Two things struck me.

First, I originally learned of Hands for Harvest a few months ago when I was told that a recent grad of my school had started up this cool organization, and I might want to write a story on it. So I did, and it appeared in a school publication. Last weekend, while sipping my coffee and reading the local newspaper, I came across another story about this graduate and his organization. The Star Tribune had picked it up as well. And then, lo and behold, there was a small segment on KARE-11 last week too. And yesterday, a reporter from the Mankato Free Press was in the fields gathering stories and photos to run a story in today's paper.

Now, what they're doing is very cool. I mean, I, too, wrote a story on it. But it hit me that such a simple, kind thing should be so news-worthy. They're planting potatoes, picking them, and giving them to people who need them. It's not rocket science. It's just kind and generous. And when coupled with large numbers of people and time...it's news. I just wish it wasn't news. I wish it was more commonplace to give. My friend and I discussed what would happen if everybody gave just one hour of their time a week. What would that look like? What would happen?

Second. We were told to only wash and sort and box the good potatoes. If one was more than 1/3 green, put it aside. If one was super small--too small to peel--leave in the field because it can be used as seed perhaps for next year. If one was sliced or hacked by the potato machine tractor thingy, put aside. Only the best ones were to be given to the food banks. I found myself thinking...if people are hungry, pretty sure they can just cut off the bad section of the potato. Or they can eat a slightly green one even if it maybe doesn't taste as good. I mean, they shouldn't be picky! After all the picky of potatoes we've been doing! We're not going to waste potatoes! Well, turns out, they're not being wasted. The family running the organization takes the not-good-but-still-edible potatoes for themselves. Volunteers are also welcome to take the iffy ones. And the rest of the questionables the family brings in to their church to give to friends. They're not wasted, and I was humbled. Of course we should give the best to the needy. Of course we should take the bad ones. How could I have thought otherwise? With so many taters, I saw the good ones to spare and keep, but Hands for Harvest sees the good ones to give.

Fester not

No matter how beautiful a sunset, there is always something eery and discomforting to me about the ocean. I don’t like its unending-ness—both in length and depth. And often the waves seem mad to me rather than gentle and rolling, as they are for others.

My friend, however, born and bred in So-Cal, thinks me and my land of 10,000 lakes are crazy. She’ll take the ocean any ole’ day over a lake—a body of water that she believes “festers.” It sits there, she says, motionless, festering, brooding, if you will. And that is just downright disgusting, and she doesn’t like to think about swimming in such grossness.

Well, I’ll admit sometimes our lakes do fester. In fact, right now, late in the season with uncanny warm temps, some parts of the lake I run around are spotted with multi-colored algae. And if the wind is blowing just right, it smells. And yes, this would be sick to swim in.

But something I love about lakes is there ability to be absolutely still—so still that they become mirrors for their surroundings. It doesn’t happen often. A boat, ducks, wind—weak or strong—can all upset the water. But sometimes, like tonight, the lake by my house, becomes so still, flat, and calm, that it replicates the trees and shoreline on its surface. You almost can’t decipher the real from the reflection.

I stopped running halfway through my lake route tonight, staring at the water’s stillness and thinking. Thinking how we, as Christians, are to reflect God, and how we, as Christians, rarely reflect God. Like lakes, we get waves when life blows stress, hardship, or pain our way. We grow white caps, curled over in our own self-pity. Or we create ripples when difficult people decide to swim in our waters. And those walking around us don’t see a reflection of God, but rather something that “festers”!

We'll never reflect God perfectly, but we can get closer with some help. One night when Jesus was on a boat with his disciples, there was a “furious storm…so that the waves swept over the boat.” The disciples freaked out and Jesus said, “ 'You of little faith, why are you so afraid?'...then he rebuked the winds and the waves, and it was completely calm.”
Matthew 8:23-26

Cure for a man

A few nights ago I sat across from a guy. He was giving me a manicure. It’s not his only job. He also does ventilation duct work, but it’s been slow-going in that business of late, and he needs more money. He comes from a family of 11 children. He’s smack dab in the middle with five older siblings, and five younger. His parents arranged his marriage when they thought he was ready to move out. He married their preferred girl, moved into his in-laws' house, and now has a nine-and-half-month old daughter. And although he'd like to move out, he won't leave his in-laws stranded. They can't speak English and need his help for the simplest of things.

I was touched by his familial commitment.

So, did it work? The marriage, I mean. I asked him.

He shrugged. It’s ok. What can you do now? He chuckled.

You can NOT have married her, I thought to myself, letting my eyes wander up to the flat screen TV bearing closed captioning of HGTV. But it was now his turn for the questioning.

Him: You have family?

Me: Of my own? Like children? No.
I mean, my mom and grandma were on either side of me. I definitely had family.

Him: No husband?

Me: No.

Him: You live at home with parents then?

Me: No.

Him: You live alone?

Me: Yes.

Him: You go online?


I knew exactly what he meant. He was asking if I was internet dating. I mean, I go online all the time. Facebook, blog, hotmail. But that’s not what he was asking.
Me: No.

Him: Your parents. They sometimes know what’s best. Maybe they pick someone.

I laughed. I’ve seen how that works. I’ve experienced that. They’ve tried. I had images of mom and dad laying in bed, dad with his crossword puzzle in front of him. Mom with a pad of paper and pencil in hand...arranging my marriage. She'd ask dad for input. Dad would "say, sure, that sounds good."
Me: No.

Him: It didn’t work out?

Me: No.

Him: Your grandma. She pick someone out?

Me: No.

Him: You go to church with your family?

Me: No. We all go to different churches.

Him: My family all goes to church together. We’re Catholic. Big families. It happens. Maybe your grandma find someone at her church.

I didn't say anything. I smiled and looked at grandma. No.

Him: You go to D&B? Dave & Buster’s?

Once. Many years ago. In California. I never want to go back.
Me: No.

Him: Maybe you should. Lots of guys.

I'm going to find a guy at Dave & Buster's? And he's SERIOUS! So serious that it was endearing!
Me: No, I don’t think so.

It went quiet for a bit. And then...his conclusion:

So, maybe it is that you’re too picky.

Alright, bud, BUSTER. Finish up that pinky nail! I've had just about enough.

I went in for a manicure and got a cure for a man!
The cure? Mom. Dad. Grandma. If those three fail, then go to Dave. He can do something. And if not him, definitely Buster.
Who knew?

Girls and guys

There was great squealing and high-pitched shrills of excitement. There were bright colors, and magazine pages of extremely attractive men. Bright leggings. Green eye shadow. Hot pink shower caddies. Boxes of Easy Mac. Digital cameras flashing. And did I mention the squealing?

It was the girls’ wing in one of the freshman dorms on campus during Welcome Week. I had brought in a photographer to shoot move-in festivities. As he followed me down the female hallway, he looked at me with raised eyebrows. He could either have been wanting to know if it was OK that he—a man—was on the floor. Or he could have been wanting to know what the heck I was making him do...entering this cave of femininity! Either way, I beckoned him to keep following. I asked the squealing girls if any of them would be willing to let us take some photos of them in their new room. The response? 10 girls jumping up and down excitedly. We willSUREcometoourroomWEJUSTDECORATEDlemmeputmybethelsweatshirtonMETOOpickus.

Disentangling ourselves after much photo-taking to do, we moved to the boys’ side. It was quiet. I heard the whir of a window fan. The majority of the floor had already hit the dining center for dinner, but at the end of the hall was one open door. We peered into the dark room. There, slouched on the couch with massive headphones on, not talking, were two freshman guys lit only by the glow of a huge flat screen TV. Their bodies were connected to the massive square in front of them by cords and controllers. Their fingers were flying, and thousands of sci-fi, action-packed DVDs built a fortress around them. Uh. Suddenly, I felt out of place, wondering what I was making us do! Can we take your picture? I asked the boys. I mean after you've hit the jackpot, or killed the enemy, or drank the the secret elixir, or whatever you do on those video games. They looked at each other, shrugged, and said—or grunted—sure.

The pictures turned out very different.
Girls and guys are very different.

Off and on, on and off

Sometimes off means on and on means off.
What’s up or down with that?!

You can say “the siren went off.” What you mean is that the siren turned on—it was going, it was blaring. It wasn’t off at all.

You can tell someone to “turn the light off.” But at the same time, you could tell someone “The light went off.” And what you mean is that the light started blinking or it turned on. It wasn’t off at all.

My fire alarm went off this morning as I was getting out the shower. I mean to say that it turned on...it started REEEP REEEEP REEEEEEEPing as I tried to shut it off as soon as possible so as not to bother the neighbors. And for crying out loud, there was no smoke anyways! Why was it on?

Sometimes I wish my brain would go off. Or on.

Necessity?

I stood in the store aisle last night, contemplating my own potential purchase, when I heard a woman a few feet away say, “I really think this is a necessity.”

Really? I glanced over to see what this necessity was, but she had two teenage boys with her, muttering to themselves and rolling their eyes, and kicking the bottom shelf of the aisle. They were obstructing my view. Although I couldn’t see what it was, the woman was holding a box of something. A need, supposedly.

“No, I really do. I really think this is a necessity,” she said again in all seriousness.

Her boys were not listening or caring, so I had half a mind to pitch in and give her a little of the attention she was wanting. But instead I moved a few feet closer in hopes of seeing this necessity. I mean, maybe I needed it tpo? Unfortunately, I still couldn’t get a good look, without making it obvious that I was looking.

And a third time. “I really think this is a necessity.”

WHAT? WHAT? WHAT is the necessity? Through the corner of my eye I saw her put it into her cart and slowly begin moving my direction. At just the right time, I turned around as though I needed to look at the other side of the aisle. Completely satisfied that she was purchasing her need, and with her boys trudging behind her, she pushed her cart past me.

And there. In all its red-boxed glory. I saw the necessity: A funnel cake maker.

Volunteer corn

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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!

THIS is Yuki

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?

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.

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.