C'mon, make fun of me

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shut up, Helga!

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

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

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

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

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

BJ: Heath, which way?!

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

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

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

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

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

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

Genius

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s genius.

Three dates a day

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

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

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

I was speechless.

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

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

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

Who's in front of me?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

On BB

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chirp chirp

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

Knock knock. Hello? Anyone there? Comprende?

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

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

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

Chirp Chirp.

Fix the dent

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

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

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

Hidden

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Monday morning staredowns

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Credit, please

"But it’s not our trash."

Pick it up.

"Even the cigarette butt?"

Pick it up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bejeweled

Oh, February.

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

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

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

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

Check your margins

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

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

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

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

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

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

Real rest

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

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

Matthew 11:27-30 (The Message translation)

Janky

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

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

Me: Mom, can you hear that?!

Mom: Yes. what is it?!

Me: I DON’T KNOW.

Mom: Where are you?

Me: On the freeway.

Mom: Get off the freeway.

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

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

Mom: Is it safe there?

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

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

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

Perfect usage!

I'm full

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Animals and taxes

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

I learned that animals pay taxes, too.

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

Rusty Lyon

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

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

No sidebar life

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pink princess party

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

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

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

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

The quiz results said that I am:

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

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

29, a moose no more

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

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

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

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

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

Thanks, mom and dad.

Source: hj’s baby book