Anyone Up For Teen Chowder?

I have had a very difficult few months. I was sick for over three months, lost my singing voice for the majority of that time, my three year old dog, Joey (aka “my furry child”) was hit by a car and died, I hadn’t written in over a year…things were not going well for me. I think I’ve only been to church maybe five or six times on a Sunday morning during the past three months. I usually go on Wednesday nights to help with our middle school youth group, but I’ve been out more than I’ve been in church. That is very unusual for me. It has actually created another problem…detachment. I think that feels worse than the illness did. People make assumptions about why you’ve been gone. “She just needs to get back to Jesus.” “I never thought I would see the day that she quit being faithful.” “We need to pray for her. She’s getting away from God.” People can say the most hurtful things when they don’t know why you’ve been gone. My thought was, “Why would they know? It’s not like a single person asked me where I’d been.” People I thought were good friends even doubted that I really was ill. My sister-friend even told me to pull up my big girl panties and get over my stinkin’ thinkin’ when I tried to talk to her about what I was feeling. None of it helped with my feelings of detachment. Satan works so hard to separate us from our fellowship. I had gotten to a point where I began wondering if God knew where I was, or worse, He was finished with me.
Long story short, I was allowing Satan to win. As I sat in my seat Sunday morning and decided my usefulness was depleted. I wasn’t part of the worship team anymore and no one cared. I wasn’t the middle school youth leader anymore and no one cared. My heart was broken and no one cared. I was dying inside and no one cared. Sure, I love God. I talk to him daily. I read the word. I read my devotions. I have a relationship with God. I desperately want to sing again. I live for worship! I’m a girl who loves church. Loves people. Loves fellowship. Nevertheless, I was allowing Satan to wreak havoc on my mind!. He had convinced me that no one cared if I darkened the door of the place so what’s the point of ever coming back? I wouldn’t.
Let me say that it is very difficult to put this in writing. I wasn’t just having a pity party, I sincerely believed those things. Losing the dog was difficult, but losing my entire church family was about to kill me. I only share this with you to honestly explain where I was. I was in a painful place and completely heartbroken over it.

Insert dramatic turn of events here.
As for the title of this essay of babble, I know that parents of teenagers will instantly understand the meaning, but for those of you who still have little angels gazing lovingly at you on a daily basis, it references animals that eat their young. I know it’s terrible! I am usually a very loving and supportive mother…really! I just have to say in my defense that NO ONE tells you how difficult the business of parenting teenagers can be. If they were able to adequately portray the frustration that it can entail then the human race would be in danger of becoming extinct because no one would have children...not on purpose anyway! I love my children so much. I am just having a day where parenting is one of those things I’m not particularly enjoying at the moment. I’m still glad to be a parent. I’m just not feeling overjoyed to the extent that I want to do a silly leprechaun jig when I think about it.
My son and I have not been seeing eye to eye lately, mostly because he is 6’ tall and I am a mere 5’6”. Seriously, though, we don’t agree on things and it does not matter if I am talking until I am blue in the face, he is never going to acknowledge my supreme correctness of, well, anything! WHY wasn’t I nicer to my mother?!? Dad swears that he is hearing a lot more than I think he is, but my response to that is, I don’t care. I want him to act how I want him to, when I want him to, with the level of passion with which I want him to do whatever it may be that I want him to do! I may have issues regarding control…the jury is still out.
Today was a particularly difficult day. My son and I had had one of “those” talks on the way to school that made me 30 minutes late for work. I remember driving to work thinking, “Everything I’m dealing with and now this!” I talked to my husband for a few minutes on my way to work, but worried most of the way. Five minutes after I got to work, my cell phone buzzed with a message from the hubster. It quoted Psalms 56:8. “You keep track of all my sorrows. You have collected all my tears in your bottle. You have recorded each one in your book.” …and immediately following that, another message that read, “What strikes me so much about this word is that if He counts every tear of mine, then how precious is my blood to him? My livelihood? My needs? God is Great!” That made me smile.
A few hours later, I was trying to parent, of all ways, via text message. I only have a few breaks at work and they are very short so I didn’t want to engage in a long conversation so I was using the “textversation” he had initiated. It literally left me trembling with what I assume was something akin to an anxiety attack. I was annoyed with myself for allowing it to upset me so badly. The phone vibrated with what I thought was a response from him. It was a message from a friend that read, “We cannot rely on our own feelings. We have to rely on God.” As I read it the trembling subsided but the whole ordeal was still in my mind, eating at me.
Later in the day, I called my dad after a feeble attempt at a “textersation”…we both have too much to say to text! As we ended our conversation, the trembling returned, and again, my phone buzzed. Another message from another friend, one I haven’t seen in years. “No real reason for the post... Just thinking of you this afternoon!” Now, I’m one of those people who believes you don’t just randomly think about people. God puts people on your heart. Again, the trembling waned.
School rocked along and the final bell rang, I did my after school duty, and was able to leave after making up the 30 minutes I missed this morning. On the way home, I was thinking about my son, concerned, and what do you know, the phone rang again. This one was from one of my closest friends from my college years. “Don’t know why, but I’m thinking of you today and praying for you. I guess we can all use all the prayers we can get! Love ya!” I almost cried.
I walked into my quiet house, glanced at the computer and felt God impress up on me, “Write.” Having not written in over a year, I almost hesitated, but sat at the desk and began to type. Then I deleted everything I wrote. I started again and the words began to flow. After a few paragraphs it occurred to me why I was writing. It was not to gain some epiphany about parenting. It wasn’t to figure out the trouble I’ve had with detachment from my church family. The realization of how very much God loves me completely overwhelmed me and my eyes filled with tears. I am one person out of what Google says is 6,907,453,953 people on this planet. I had a fantastic day at work. I was just worried about one of my children who made some decisions I think are unhealthy. Nothing major. God saw me where I was emotionally. He saw that my heart was hurting for my baby and His heart felt it. He felt my physical reaction to stress, and HE cared. He used something as small as a cell phone and four little messages to remind me that He still cares about me, what I am facing no matter how small, and what my heart is feeling. Roughly 7 billion people and He felt compelled to fulfill my heart’s desire to know He will never stop loving me or taking care of my needs…all of my needs. Whether they be emotional, financial, physical, psychological, every single need that I have is covered by God.
So what about my son? I don’t know. God’s got it under control. What about church? There are a lot of people in that place with a lot bigger troubles that I have. He has them all under control, too. It will all work out. I’m gonna be just fine because God loves me. Oh! And incidentally, I wore my big sparkly heart ring today…probably just God showing off! :o)

Time is a Relative Thing

Okay, so I am notoriously late wherever I go. I still remember the day several years ago when I actually dorve up to the church "on time" for a youth event I was sponsoring. My best friend and her husband were the youth pastors at the time and she had told me the time that we were leaving. As I pulled into the parking lot and around the building, I was surprised to see that none of the young people had arrived yet. After questioning my friend, she informed me that we were not leaving until 30 minutes later.
"BEK!! WHEN did I become one of those people?!?!" I cried!
"What people," she asked.
"Those people you tell we are leaving 30 minutes earlier than we actually are so they will be there on time!"
Go ahead. Laugh. She and I still laugh about that day. I am so pathologically late that Chad felt the need to make a statement on the 5th of this month. We were pulling out of the driveway in completely enough time to arrive ON TIME to a funeral we were attending. Let it be placed upon the record that I did not make us late. We were on time...even a couple of minutes early. Chad, however, is one of those people who believes that if you are not 15 minutes early, you are late.
So, back to the driveway...he says to me, "Honey, I've just decided something."
"Yes, dear..."
"Well, if you go before I do, I have plans for your funeral."
"Okay...?"
"We will start the funeral on time, but ten minutes into it, we are going to stop everything and wheel you into the sanctuary and place you in front of everyone, because, honey, you will be late to your own funeral!"
I was not amused. Okay, so I was mildly amused, BUT WE WEREN'T LATE TO THE FUNERAL!! Granted, it was in a gymnasium and we were paraded in front of EVERYONE and seated on the bleachers to the side and in front of the family. I was embarassed, but seriously, we were there on time...and I looked good so it wasn't like the family had to look at a troll or anything. I suppose I should have gotten there a half an hour earlier. Point taken.
But, that is not even the main point of this bit of rambling. Yesterday, my oldest son, Alex, was scheduled to play in the Stephens County Basketball Tournament in Marlow. That is about a 25 minute drive from my front door. I dropped Jonathan and Christopher off at work at 3:45, exactly one hour and 15 munutes before I intended to arrive at the gym. I took my time, returned the movies, stopped for gas, got a soda and still arrived ten minutes early. I was feelin' good about myself. I was finally going to see a tip off! I grabbed my book and headed for the door, paid my entry fee and headed for the bathroom...I had been on the road longer than 15 minutes and my bladder knew it. As I walked passed the entryway to the court, I noticed several girls were shooting baskets...halftime of the previous game, I assumed. As I exited the restroom a couple of minutes later I heard the announcer say with gusto, "Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to the Stephens County Tournament," and that's when realization slapped me down, pointed, and laughed at me. Alex's game was NOT starting in a few minutes. I hurriedly sought out a bracket only to realize I had looked at the wrong one at home. I had looked at the girls bracket, and clearly, Alexandre is not a girl. Upon further scrutiny, I found that his game was not scheduled until 9:00 that evening! NINE O'CLOCK!! I couldn't even play it off like I'd just wanted to get there early to support our girls team. Our girls weren't even playing in the game that was being sung in by some girl belting out the National Anthem a few yards from where I stood. That game wasn't even until 7:40. I WAS FOUR HOURS EARLY!! I tried to retreat, but was met with a sign on the door that read, "If you leave the gym, you will have to pay to return." Following an exasperated sigh, I had to tell the gate worker what I had done, confess my stupidity, and beg for leniency. She attempted to stifle a giggle and handed me two things: a ticket to return to the later game and a copy of the bracket...exactly like the one I had looked at earlier in the day to determine my timeline for attending the game would be! There is nothing like having to tell someone at a rival school what an idiot you are! As I drove out of the parking lot to drive the 20 miles home, I tried to call Chad and tell him I was early to the game, but when I couldn't reach him, dialed my best friend's number. I didn't even tell her who I was I simply said, "I just thought you might like to know that your best friend is an idiot!" I managed to make it back to Comanche relatively unscathed. I casually made my way to buy a newspaper, picked up the boys from work, drove home, waited for Chad to get home so I could regale the story yet again, listend to him laugh, ate a salad for dinner, and proceeded to tend to farmville on the computer. Then Chad said to me while attempting to disguise his amusement, "Ummm, Honey, have you noticed the time? You're going to be late if you don't leave pretty soon." In my head I screamed, "I DON'T CARE," and stuck my tongue out at him. Outwardly, I ignored him, fertilized three more friend's crops on Farmville, and then rose to leave. I listened to the girls game on the way over to Marlow...for the second time. When the clock struck 9:00, I was three blocks from the gymnasium and the radio announcer said there was a minute and a half of play left in the girls game. I walked in late. Completely unashamed. Feeling somewhat entitled to the belated entrance. I was able to find a seat BEFORE Alex's game began. I did see a tip off...somehow, seeing it did not improve my enjoyment of the game.

So, this morning I was thinking about it all, and it occurred to me that GOD is never late. He doesn't rush to necessarily fix things fifteen minutes early. He is ALWAYS right on time. I'm so thankful for that. If the tip off of an extremely difficult battle occurred without God right there on the sideline cheering me on I would be without hope. I suppose I do need to make a greater effort to be on time more frequently. It would probably eliminate a great deal of stress in my life. The fact of the matter is, though, I am currently of the mind that if I am indeed running ahead of schedule at any given point in time, I have obviously missed a step somewhere along the way. Something must be off kelter in the universe. I may arrive three towns away, four hours early, or possibly on the wrong day. I'm just so thankful God has his head screwed on straight and His timing is always perfect. I also think it may be possible that he created me to provide humor for him. Think about it. It does make sense! :o)

Money from a Motor Mouth

Okay, so there I was, lying in bed somewhere blissfully between asleep and awake, contemplating the amazing aspects of life when the most horrible thought EVER came to mind. What if they put a tax on TALKING?!? I would be completely doomed if such legislation were ever put into place. Seriously, it’s not a major stretch. Crazier things have happened. Until just this year, government had even managed to tax a person for venturing to die! I can just picture it. Me, standing at the pearly gates about to cross the threshold into eternal perfection when I stop and say, “Hey, God, so I’m totally psyched about worshipping at your feet for the next few millennia, but could you please excuse me for a moment while I run down to the bank and write a quick check to Uncle Sam?” The absurdity of that scene was just too much! So, you can imagine how horrified I was at the concept of a talking tax. Just like dying, everyone does it, so they could make a mint off of ramblers such as myself. They could call it the Money from Motor Mouths Law.
I’ve always been a talker. Pretty much every report card I ever received as a child read as follows: “Grade: A Comment: Veronica talks too much.” I remember my mother telling me on more than one occasion when I was younger, “Veronica, let people wonder what you are thinking. You don’t always have to say what’s on your mind.” I disagreed. What can I say? I love to talk. I talk to myself when I’m alone. I’ve been known to occasionally answer myself. My dog, Joey, is a terrific listener. Other drivers could benefit from my commentary. My husband, Chad, says I even talk in my sleep. If the Money from Motor Mouths Law were to go into effect, I would be BA-ROKE! I’d be broker than broke. My family would be paying back taxes for years following my death. I’m just a woman who speaks her mind! I think parmesan cheese tastes like the smell of feet, taxing dead people is ludicrous, and sagging jeans just look ridiculous…I don’t care to see your Superman boxer briefs thank you very much. I also think teachers should be paid more than professional football players, we should make an effort to know the names of the people in our lives who clean up after us, and ultimately, that I have the greatest husband and kids in the world! Yes, people, there are a lot of random thoughts rattling around in this head of mine, and I’m pretty sure at some point in my life I have spoken every one of them! I’m just so thankful to live in a country where that is legal and completely FREE to do so!
After the initial wave of horror following the thought of a talk-tax, I really began to think of what could follow such legislation. The hubster texted me on his way to work this morning, “You need to read K-LOVE’s encouraging word of the day.” So, I hurried to my e-mail inbox and it read, “Make it your goal to live a quiet life, minding your own business and working with your hands... I Thessalonians 4:11, NLT.” I giggled as the realization of its implication sank in. I responded with, “How fitting for my talking tax concept,” and he came back with, ”I know, right!?” That man! Whatever will I do with him? I suppose someone has to keep me in line!
You know, I assume the state of our world would be very different if we had to pay every time we opened our mouths to speak. In essence, we really do pay, if not with currency, with consequence. Countless times throughout my life I have thought immediately following something I said, “Man! I wish I hadn’t said that.” I’ve had to apologize many times. I’ve even been smacked across the face for allowing myself to speak what was on my mind, and why? Simply because I didn’t gage the affect of what I was going to say before I spoke the words, or didn’t care. Either way, things would have turned out better for me if I’d chosen to take the advice of my mother and allowed them to wonder what I was thinking rather than offering them the benefit of knowing.
You see, words are very powerful. Once they are out, there is no reeling them back in. They cannot be erased like they can be when written. We can’t call, “Do over!” Once spoken, words are out there, crashing thru whatever situation that may be occurring. One can bolster or destroy a person with words alone. I would like to think we would further consider the implications of our comments before we speak should we be taxed for the privilege, but most likely we would all merely adjust our budgets to accommodate the new mandate. It’s sad, really, to think that we would rather pay than change, because what an opportunity we would have if we seriously chose to censor our speech. I hope I would speak more life into my family and friends, infuse them with encouragement and with love. I should hope to hear less criticizing, argument, and insult…a decrease in gossip, lies, and hate. But why wait until a tax is issued? Why not start today? If we simply decide to use the power of words to uplift one another, a change in our world can happen out of desire and not out of necessity. A kind word can soften an angry neighbor. A compliment could help the confidence of co-worker. A heartfelt “I still love you” could literally save a marriage on its way downhill. All too often, we use words to cut and disarm others. If we consciously choose to use those powerful little nouns, verbs, adjectives, and adverbs to benefit others, how much better would our world become? You never know when something you say may completely turn a situation around for someone, improving their day altogether. We simply have to choose to use our words for good rather than hurt.
Let’s do it! Let’s take that adventure together, you and I. Let’s challenge each other to use the things we say to improve someone else’s day, to improve ourselves. Who knows? It may be contagious!

Mama Bears Anonymous

Have you ever wanted to chase someone down on the turnpike and physically inflicted pain upon his inconsiderate body. Now, allow me to make this claim before I type another word about my story. I am not a “road rager”. I am usually the one who waits at a stop sign and lets someone else to go ahead of me causing screams of honking horns behind me. I have not always been the meek driver I have worked at being now, but I would consider myself a considerate road dweller. I normally simply refuse to allow another person to ruin my day when they neither are aware nor do they likely care about my screams of insanity. Yesterday, however, was an entirely different story.
So there I was. Rocking along on H.E. Bailey Turnpike minding my own business with my daughter Brenna Grace sleeping peacefully in the passenger seat. We had just made a trip to Oklahoma City for a few things and had stopped by what I fondly call “Fat Freddy’s” for super yummy frozen custard. I had taken Brenna to the doctor earlier that day and she wasn’t feeling well, so the custard had pleasantly filled her tummy with sugary sweetness and she was content in her deep snooze on the way back home. I occasionally glanced over at her during my drive and just smiled thinking, “God, She is so sweet. Thank you for giving me such a wonderful little girl.” It’s funny how I seem to forget that when she is awake from time to time. It’s just that when she is sleeping, all I can see is that little cherubic angel I used to hold and rock to sleep to the lullabies I made up. Innocence. There is just nothing more precious to me than watching one of my children sleep. At that particular moment I was all warm and fuzzy, nostalgic, near misty eyed. It was indeed a sweet moment…and then stupidity swooped in on its ugly broomstick shaped like a green SUV and smacked me back into reality. Imagine my surprise that “stupid” greatly resembled a man behind the wheel with a Dale Earnhardt, Jr. complex and a chip on his shoulder!
So there are many driving injustices I have grown accustomed to during my years of recovery from ranting like a lunatic while driving. I have even grown much more tolerant of little inconsiderate drivers who behave as though the roadways were built for their use alone and think how DARE I venture onto them to inconvenience their driving adventure. The thing I am currently working on is not reacting to those people who speed up frantically to cut you off just before you pass another vehicle on a two lane highway. You know, as thought it did not occur to them that the tractor driving 12 miles an hour might be driving too slowly for their liking before you are 20 feet from passing them. As though the extra 30 seconds it would take them to allow you to pass and get out of the way would make them miss their own wedding or something. I struggle with that. Something in me before my steps of recovery simply wanted to slow down to the exact speed of the car anyone would want to pass and just ride along beside it just to let the guy know he was acting like an idiot. I know, I know! It was juvenile, but that is how my brain worked before I realized it was just stupid to act that way. I’m at the stage in working on that pet peeve that I just maintain my current speed and if they have the space and time to pass before I do then I don’t try to keep it from happening. That was NOT what took place on the road yesterday.
I had cruise control set to the speed limit. I have learned the hard way that it does not pay to speed, but that is in and of itself an entirely different story all together. Speed limit set. Driving with hands at 10 and 2…well, actually, one had was on the cell phone, but my eyes were on the road and I knew the green SUV was beside me. This guy had sped up and passed and slowed down several times over the course of 30 some odd miles. An annoyance I had overlooked time and time again. I hadn’t even thrown him an annoyed look when he’d passed me for the fourth time. We were approaching another vehicle who was driving probably 10-15 miles an hour under the speed limit. I was in the passing lane and Mr. Offensive Driver was in the right lane behind me. Cruise control still set. Phone call ended…hands now at 10 and 2 positions. Apparently this man did not appreciate the fact that I was not slowing down so that the “king of the road” could move on down the road to offend legions of other drivers because he did not cut me off, but rather sped up to within mere feet of the bumper of the slower vehicle, turned to look me square in the eyes as if to say “you had better move, woman”, and proceeded to blatantly change lanes to move me out of his way. His passenger, who I assumed was his wife, had the same wide-eyed look of shock as I did on her face as I had to swerve to the left and slam on the brakes to avoid being broad sided by the lunatic. I nearly hit the concrete wall dividing the two directions of traffic. At that moment all my steps toward recovery flew out the window.
I blared my horn and screamed, “What are you doing, you crazy person?! Oh it’s on, you maniac!” I pointed at him, adjusted my ball cap, and gripped the steering wheel with new purpose. The 10 and 2 positions have permanent indentions now. Not only did he try to run me off the road, once he passed the slower vehicle, he tailgated the car in front of him refusing to return to the right lane. Apparently the car in front of him had seen the commotion and refused to get out of his way as well. When I had safely passed the slower vehicle, who, by the way, was an elderly gentleman who looked terrified by the whole ordeal, I returned to the right lane to pass the crazy “king of the road”. As I passed, I noticed his wife was hanging on for dear life, eyes wide, head glued to the head rest. I pointed at the man and said very slowly so that he could read my lips, “You need to learn to drive,” and drove on. Ladies, now might be the time to inform you that insulting a crazed man’s driving skills at a moment such as that is probably not the best approach. You see, it is now my understanding that some men pride themselves in being the better drivers in the great universe of vehicular mobility, and such profanities as indicating otherwise send them into bouts of vindication of that title of “master of maneuver”. The man promptly changed lanes, wife screaming frantically, and attempted to catch up to me. Either his wife won the argument or he realized he was acting insane because he suddenly slowed down to the speed limit and maintained a two car length space between us. Several miles down the road he signaled to take an exit, and for a split second I considered whipping over into the exit lane and exiting, slowing down so he could pass, and following him to his final destination. In that split second, I imagined jumping out of my car and removing his bowels through his mouth. I thought better of it and stayed the course to home. Blood bath adverted.
Now you may be sitting there thinking, “Veronica, really? …All that intense emotion over something that left you in one piece in the end? You didn’t crash. You knew the guy was dangerous. You really wanted to chase him down and confront him? Really?” The answer, my friend, is a resounding “YES!!!” I could care less that the guy was an idiot and obviously needed a stint in an adult driver’s education class. What sent me into my frenzy was the fact that when the man nearly hit my vehicle in his moment of rage, he nearly hit my beautiful, sleeping daughter who did not feel well and never saw the lunatic coming. In my mind I wanted to protect her, to end this crazy person who endangered her life. Hello! She’s my baby, the youngest of four and my only girl! I was determined to put the man in his place. I’m really glad now that I didn’t exit and follow him, because nothing good could have come from it. I debated even writing about it because I didn’t feel like I had learned anything from it, but as I sat here this morning thinking about the incident it occurred to me, my lesson in it all.
Surely God, with every fiber of his being, wanted to intervene on behalf of Jesus as He was wrongfully accused, viciously beaten, and ultimately gruesomely murdered upon the cross. The crown, the vinegar, the spear…all of it must have made Him feel incredible emotions of hurt and anger. Think about it. I know He knew everything that was going to happen before He set it all into motion, but the actual moment of observation of the actual event must have been incredibly difficult for Him. He had willingly given His son to the world as a living example, a completely pure sacrifice for our innumerable sins. They couldn’t just kill him. They had to lie, mock him, add insult to injury. I am so glad I am not God, because that day would have been a huge day of smiting and we would all be in sad shape on the eternity front. You see, it occurred to me the incredible love that God our Father must have held for us to allow the horrific events to unfold on that day. He even had to turn his head away because it was so painful. Just like many of us who are parents we would literally feel pain if we had to sit back and watch someone hurt our child, so God felt the pain of Jesus. We are wired to protect our children, to stop anyone or anything who threatens their safety. So is God. He simply saw the larger picture and the ultimate purpose for the events taking place and He allowed it to happen. So, looking back on the situation I am reminded that I am indeed fashioned in God’s image, with the same emotions and many of the same tendencies. I am also reminded of exactly why He is in control and I am not. If the world had to depend on me to allow my child to die while I watched, we’d all be planning very, very hot eternal trip. I am also completely overwhelmed by the measure of love God possesses for us…and why? Because we are His children and He will do whatever it takes to protect us, even if it is from ourselves. He sure is a great Dad!
Now, in closing, allow me to say this…Hello! My name is Veronica and I am an insane mama bear! And all the mamas in the house say, “Hi, Veronica!”

Where the Rubber Meets the Road

I have to say that I consider myself an independent woman. Now don’t get me wrong, I do like having a man around to take care of those rather unpleasant chores such as oil changes, lawn maintenance, and most recently, a flat tire. I know HOW to do all of those things, but why WOULD I do them if my wonderful hubba-hubba hubby is willing to do them.
A few weeks ago Chad and I went up to the city for our anniversary for a couple of days. The weekend had gone really well. We were enjoying just spending time together alone. We had just entered the freeway from a service road when an all too familiar vibration rocked the car, and the terrible noise of a flat tire forced a roadside sabbatical from our afternoon adventures. It was a Saturday at about 3:01, exactly one minute past the time most tire shops close. I’m not exaggerating. It was exactly 3:01 when I looked at the clock!! We were exactly 93 miles from home with a 5 year old donut spare tire on which we were supposed to drive no faster than 50 mph.
What to do? What to do? While I searched the internet for a number to a tire shop with Saturday service hours, Chad dutifully exited the car and changed the offending tire. As cars whizzed past at high speeds, I thanked God for a husband who takes care of me. I somehow managed to locate one of our tire shop workers, and was directed to a sister company in the city that would honor our tire warranty. Whew! Travesty averted! We spent a romantic two and a half hours in a Firestone store and were back on the road to fine Mexican dining before making it home a few hours later than expected. All in all, I chalked it up to another unusual adventure in my life.
About a week later, Brenna Grace and I went to the local Wal-Mart to procure the needed toiletries for kid’s camp. We had spent an enjoyable day of mommy/daughter time together, reveling in the lack of testosterone to hinder our shopping adventure. As we crossed the parking lot, heading toward home, the miserably familiar “thwap, thwap, thwap” of a flat tire sent pangs of trepidation up my spine. It was after dark and it was only Brenna and I in the car. I said, “Are you kidding me?!?! Again?!?!” I stopped the car and stepped out to the realization that the SAME tire was flat that had been replaced a week prior. I fell into my “independent woman” zone and began replacing the injured tire with the donut spare, yet again. My little girl stood looking in amazement as I loosened the lug nuts and hoisted the spare into place without struggle. I giggled and told her to pay attention in driver’s education when she is in high school, seven years from now. As I was tightening the last lug nut, a young man stopped to offer his help. “Convenient,” I thought with a laugh in my belly. I thanked him and sent him on his way. We headed home and I crawled into bed even more grateful for my wonderful husband than the day before.
The following morning, or rather, later that morning I pulled into our tire shop convinced my tire warranty would not cover two flats on the same wheel in a week. I was wrong. As the gentlemen flew into action replacing the tire, I took a seat in the waiting area and flipped through a recent copy of “Family Fun”. While glancing at the advertisements in the magazine I ran across a 20% discount code for a resort we were taking our middle school Sunday school class later this summer. I made note of the discount code and finished two more magazines before I was called to the payment counter. Feeling accomplished with the day’s activities, I headed home.
Wednesday, as I conducted my weekly trip to Wal-Mart, I remembered that I needed to get a final confirmation from our church secretary, Mel, for the expenses related to our middle school Sunday school trip. During my conversation with Mel, she relayed the final cost of the hotel rooms…approximately $150 over the amount we had raised for the trip. I was so disappointed. As we ended the call, I was concerned where we were going to get the extra money, and that’s when I remembered the discount code from the magazine at the tire shop. I made a quick call to Mel with the code, hoping the hotel would honor it since we made the reservation without the code. When Mel called back with the new total, I nearly laughed aloud in the middle of the store. The final total was $15 less than the amount we raised. I wanted to do my happy dance, but decided against it since I was in a public venue.
I will now explain the seemingly irrelevant details of my story. Today I sat thinking of Psalms 37, a passage Chad called and told me I needed to read. He does that on a regular basis. I just love that about him! I was temping for our local paint and body shop today, so between calls and estimates I read the chapter in full. Verse 25 says, “…I’ve never seen the righteous forsaken or his seed begging bread.” I love that verse. My steps are ordered by God, so I am never forgotten. He always knows where I am and exactly what I need. I was sitting there just thinking of all the wonderful ways God has provided for my family and it donned on me that the discount code was yet another of his provisions. The kids had worked really hard for the fundraising and they needed that increase of rate at the hotel to be included in our earnings. If I had not had the flat tire after midnight in the Wal-Mart parking lot, I most likely would not have seen that magazine since I had cancelled my subscription at the beginning of the year. It was a magazine that belonged to the tire shop. Romans 8:28 comes to mind…”All things work together for good for those who love God, for those who are called according to His purpose.” He will even turn an inconvenient late-night flat tire into a wonderful blessing for a group of 13 young people! That’s so precious to me. He loves us so much that even the things we encounter that are unpleasant can be turned into something good…all because he thinks we are special, His beloved. So, the next time you are changing a tire after dark, cleaning up paint that your 4 year old spilled on the carpet, or sweeping up the birthday cake you dropped on the floor three hours before the party, God is very creative. His ways are not our ways, and He will show you the silver lining in every dark cloud. I just never cease to be amazed by the methods He chooses to show me that not only does He love me, but, hey, He likes me…and He likes you too!

Lifesavers and Other Tidbits

Patience. People, I’m telling you that patience is overrated. Sometimes you just need to walk up to the offending person look them straight in the eye, call them an idiot, and just rare back and smack ‘em real good! Okay, so maybe that wouldn’t be the most Christlike thing to do, but admit it…you giggled somewhere down inside yourself when you read that. We all have those thoughts from time to time…especially those of you who have teenagers in your house.
What is the deal with teenagers? I have three: Alex, Christopher, and Jonathan. Don’t get me wrong, I have amazing boys. They are smart. They are talented. They aren’t hard on the eyes…I mean, really, they look like their mother. I am, however, firmly convinced, though that whilst a young person approaches his or her 12th birthday, aliens from another world send spies to our planet to research the human adolescent mind. Apparently they are just as baffled with their little alien teenagers. Around twelve years old those little alien spies only buzz a round a little and occasional remove their brains for further study and return them hoping the parents of those kids won’t notice the bumbling idiotic behavior exuding from their once cherubic children. I’m on to them, I tell ya. And as the year passes, those little intergalactic spies get bolder. Somewhere around the young person’s 13th birthday, they somehow remove the brain completely. I personally think they suck it out through the ear while they are sleeping or something. This deduction was only made after the three time experience. Here’s what happens: one night you will kiss little Bobby good-night, and the following morning, a strange shell of a creature will emerge from the bedroom. Now apparently what really occurs is that in place of the human brain that once resided inside his gorgeous little head is secured an expanse of knowledge exceeding that of Solomon, Arostotle, and Einstein combined. Let’s face it, we as parents become stammering, drooling morons when that transformation occurs. When you have three teenagers living in your home, one can only imagine how incredibly lacking in mental capacity you feel. I’m telling you,. I’m considering quitting my job, withdrawing my boys from school, investing in some sort of research lab and letting them find the answers to all of the problems in the universe, thus securing my financial security. I think it will work, and that little log cabin secluded out in the woods with a pond and three horses sounds really great right about now. It is my understanding from speaking with other parents whose children are now adults that I need to strike while the iron is hot because this window of heightened intellect eventually ends when the aliens return the human brain somewhere around the age of 25. I’m thinking they could solve a lot of problems in 10-12 years. Cure Cancer. Reverse Global Warming. Clarify a reason why men can’t bring themselves to put the toilet seat down after they use it during the night…I’m telling you, a wet tushie following a plunge into the toilet really tries that patience I’m supposed to possess as a wife and mother. Can I get an “Amen!” from all the wives and mothers, please? These are serious issues, people. We need to utilize the vast knowledge and wisdom of our teens while they still know everything. Okay, so maybe I’m exaggerating a bit, but you know that some of these thoughts have crossed your mind.
If you are approaching this particular era in your life, or if you are already smack dab in the middle of raising teenagers, I beg you, no, I implore you…DO NOT PRAY FOR PATIENCE…and I’ll tell you why. You see, the only way to develop patience is to try your patience. Trials and tribulations must be endured and dealt with in order for that little patience well to fill up. Some people have patience by the bucket load, but with all the stuff I endured whilst filling only a thimble of patience, I am pretty sure I’d spend a stint in Levenworth Prison for committing murder or worse in a padded cell for losing my mind if I endured the trials worthy of bucket loads of patience. I pray for wisdom. I mean, Solomon did it, and he is still known as the wisest man in all of history. I’ve not found a sinister plot of trials and turmoil attached to that particular prayer, yet, so for the time being, that is my suggestion. Wisdom. That’s what you pray for, not patience. Wisdom, yes. Patience, no. Are you picking up what I’m laying down, here. Although, if I find out that “Confucious say, in order to swim in wisdom, one must first clothe himself in the suit & flippers of patience,” I’m going to hunt that little dude down and refer back to the opening of this chapter and beat the improper English out of him.
Unfortunately, I’m afraid our children sometimes make decisions that seem insane to us because of the way we handle situations. My dad used to say that children will do in excess what parents do in moderation. Uh Oh!! I’m in trou….ble! I distinctly remember a few times that I called some one a crazy person for cutting me off in traffic. I may have put it in words that aren’t as polite as that, but I made the assumption that they did what they did on purpose. I could have taken it as an opportunity to teach my children something. I could have pointed out why it was dangerous for a driver to make that sort of mistake so maybe when my children get behind a wheel they will think better of it. Better yet, I could have taught them by example to let things that are not important just roll off their back, but, no, I didn’t think before I reacted. That was my problem. I reacted when I should have responded. A good response would have been to simply slow down a bit and let the person pull in so he could make his needed turn to go home to his family. By reacting, I made an assumption about a complete stranger and I taught my children that you handle stress by blowing up. I also remember a time when I came home from a long day of work in dire need of peace and quiet. On that day, the boys had a track meet, and my daughter had a super terrific day in preschool and all four of them were excited to tell me about the day’s events at the same time. Instead of simply asking them to talk one at a time and listening intently to them, hanging on every word, I was impatient with them and spoke a bit too harshly. Okay, so I raved like a mad woman, but I should have handled it differently. All the while, my children were watching and learning how to handle a similar situation when they are parents. I taught them to worry only about what they needed that day. Shame on me. Patience sure would have been handy then. Other parents deal with different issues of moderation: drinking, spousal abuse, overspending, gossiping, demanding perfection, pornography, verbal abuse, and the list can go on and on. What we as parents have to realize is that everything we do will one day be played out in the lives of our children in one way or another with our grandchildren as the recipients of those behaviors. Of course they have the option to make a different decision, but what if their thought process is, “My parents did it, and I turned out okay.” Our kids, even though they go thru stages of thinking we are complete flaming imbeciles, value our system of parenting. We are their greatest teachers, and we don’t require a four to twelve year college degree to claim the opportunity. We certainly need to make an effort to better understand the impact our actions have on our children.
So, the next time you scream like a maniac at some unsuspecting violator of your vehicular space on the highway, keep in mind that little Susie and Bobby are in the back seat soaking in the way to handle situations. Okay, so maybe it would be okay to pray for a bit of patience if you are careful in your prayers, but if you do, allow me to make this disclaimer: If you pray for that thing that is such a virtue, strap yourself in for the ride of your life, honey, because God is faithful to hear and answer your prayers. I still pray for wisdom…wisdom for the right words to say in a difficult situation, wisdom for the best way to handle a hurtful situation with my teenagers, and wisdom as to how to get my seven year old to clean her room. That is a whole other issue. If you have a teenager who has solved that universal problem, please call me. Yes, patience is virtue. It is very important. Wisdom, on the other hand is a life saver. The bible says in Proverbs 3:15, “Happy is the person who finds wisdom. Wisdom is more precious than silver; it brings more wealth than gold. With her right hand, wisdom brings you long life, and with her left, wealth prosperity.” Wisdom. That’s the ticket…anyway, that’s my story, and I’m stickin’ to it!

My Journey Back To Toddlerhood

Are you aware that airline pilots are elusive little creatures? I was unaware of that snippet of knowledge until the end of 2007. I had surprised Chad with tickets for the two of us to visit his parents over the New Year holiday and his birthday. With great excitement and anticipation we boarded our flight in Oklahoma City bound for the Quad Cities Airport in Moline, Illinois by way of Atlanta Georgia. For the record, the geographical route made absolutely no sense to me, but the connecting flight saved us a couple hundred dollars, so I jumped at it. That flight left the runway just a little late due to a necessary de-icing of the plane. Now I must admit that it unnerved me somewhat to know that if that pink foamy stuff they were spraying all over the plane were not being utilized that our plane could hurtle to the earth ending in a fiery mass on the runway. I was so not loving that mental image, so I sat patiently and willingly as they removed the ice from the big metal tube with wings. After all, my wonderful husband and I were together…alone, and without parental responsibility. Nothing would spoil my mood. The flight landed late in Atlanta…just late enough that our connecting flight gave up on us and left without our seats occupied. They obviously didn’t know who we are. My thought process was, “It’s okay. We are adults and we can handle this.” We headed for the phone station to receive further instruction from our airline. How fortunate we were to be connected to a very sweet woman who seemed sensitive to our plight. We searched for another flight north, but the airport to which we were flying had completely closed for the day due to a northern snowstorm.
Now let me fill you in…Chad and I had been married for nearly ten years and had never been to see his family around the holidays. Why? He was concerned that we would get caught in bad weather. I always responded with, “Don’t be silly! We’d be fine.” At that particular moment in the Atlanta Airport, I was gagging on the bitter taste of crow. He was right. The weather was an issue. I just hate that!
Anyway, we were to be rerouted to a city we had never heard of, but apparently was only a couple of hours from his parent’s home. Fortunately we had taken Chad’s new Garmin GPS on the trip with us…no doubt a quickening of the Lord. Feeling there was still hope for a wonderful trip, we took what was offered to us like children facing a plate full of spinach and brussel sprouts and headed for our gate. Within 30 minutes that green “on time” notation next to our flight number changed to a daunting red and the words morphed into the dreaded word “delayed”…30 minutes, then 45 minutes, and then two hours. After eight hours of waiting through various delays, we were told the reason for the delays. They were looking for our flight crew! HOW do you lose a crew of FOUR PEOPLE?!?!? With each delay, my nerves grew as frayed as a string in a 2 year old hooded sweatshirt on a college dorm room floor. My emotions were dammed up because I am, after all, the “eternal optimist”!! I had to keep my cool! I was considering a carefully but sternly worded letter to the corporate offices of the offending airline…a letter that would never be penned. I’m not certain what the trigger was, but something very minor blasted a gaping hole in that dam of emotion, rendering my face an aqueduct of mascara infused waterfall. I cried and cried and cried and cried…and then I cried some more. ”They’ve ruined your birthday trip,” I wailed. Imagine, if you will, a toddler crying without inhibition, head thrown back, mouth agape, howling an infantile dramatization. Of course that wasn’t the actual scene, but it certainly was the movie playing in my mind. I felt like the victim of a serious injustice. Fueling that emotion was my stark raving calm husband, who had transformed into a rational and comforting lunatic. How dare he! There I was amidst my emotional meltdown, feeling fully entitled to the moment of insanity, and he was saying everything was going to be okay. ”After all,” he crooned, “we are here together and isn’t that part of the beauty of this trip? We never get time alone together.” I felt much like our oldest son must have felt when I walked away from him mid-fit in Wal-Mart when he was 2 years old, exposed and completely ridiculous. He was right. Man! I really hate that. I sniffed, gathered my breath, wiped my snotty nose on my sleeve (not really), and decided to be a big girl. The flight was finally successful. We were able to locate a ridiculously overpriced rental car, which almost sent Chad into a similar downward spiral, and after a well guided tour of southern Illinois, arrived safely in Princeton, Iowa around 3:00 a.m. There was no less than two foot of snow on the ground and I was absolutely in Heaven!! We sneaked into the house of his parents who had no clue we were coming for a visit, hoping to avoid the business end of a shotgun. We creeped up the stairs, strategically avoiding the noisy steps. We stealthily maneuvered our way into the bed with moves like a sleek black jungle cat only to be found out by the resounding “SQEAK!” that the offended bed released upon our rest upon it. My father-in-law was up the stairs and in the doorway in a flash…okay, so he very cautiously approached the door, popped his head around the corner and whispered in a raspy demand, “Who’s there?!” Chad gleefully answered, “Hi, Dad! Merry Christmas!” His parents were overjoyed, although, I fear I should prepare for a surprise visit sometime in the future since turnabout is fair play. Oddly enough, my “flight plan” had placed us at our final destination about 8 hours later than a road trip that would have cost about a third of the cost of airline tickets and a rental car would have.
Today as I write, I am sitting in the airport in Phoenix, Arizona. I have been here since 7:30 for a flight that was to leave at 9:30. I take that “arrive two hours early” suggestion very seriously. It is now 11:00 a.m. Why the delay? They can’t find our pilot and one of the flight attendants. Upon the announcement, I felt that toddler begin to rear her over-emotional head. Thoughts began to run through my mind…”Hello! We’re in an airport! Grab a pilot and let’s go! I’ll even give up my fizzy drink and quarter ounce bag of peanuts…leave the flight attendant behind!” I quickly decided another emotional meltdown would do no good and sent the toddler back to bed with a cup of warm milk. Awww! I’m growing up. Chad would be so proud! Even though I miss my sweet husband and kids desperately, I know I am going home today. My anticipation will endure. Funny that our relationship with God can be much like these two very similar situations. We have two choices when faced with daily circumstances—one is positive; the other is negative. We can choose to throw our sucker in the dirt, convincing our selves that life is just out to get us. Or we can view it as a mini-vacation from the outside world, an opportunity to just relax and accept what has been placed in front of us. In December, I chose the first. Today, I chose the second, catching up on some reading and doing some writing. Now, before you get the impression that I had a three-month transformation from the toddlerhood to adulthood, allow me to clarify…I haven’t. Just ask my family. Today was just a good day. The maturity fairies found favor in me and equipped me well. Tomorrow could be an entirely different story. But for today, I am embracing that verse in Proverbs 5:3. “Lean not on your own understanding, but in all you ways acknowledge him and he will direct your paths.” I know there was a purpose for my experiences, I just don’t understand them. God does, though. He knows it all, every bump in the road, every curve, and every hill. You see, there is plenty I would do differently if I were in charge. Today, my goal is the same in regard to spirit and personal geography—home. I want to go home. God is gracious enough to lead me toward both earthly and heavenly home. I am blessed. I have an internal GPS, so to speak…now if I would just always turn it on. I am, however, still going to submit my suggestion that pilots and flight attendants be equipped with bells around their necks, because this business of losing full-grown people, especially really important ones like pilots in airports, simply must stop. Are we certain Amelia Earhart wasn’t an airline pilot? Check the logs, people! She may be held captive in some remote airport terminal somewhere. It’s just all a mystery to me.

The Beautiful Butterfly

Allow me to begin by saying that I am not always a barrel of monkeys and my world is not always this outrageous and endless cycle of insanity that this book may imply. I just rather enjoy writing about those tales of wild happenings and finding the humor in them all. I am on a regular occasion quite subdued and introspective. The following is a wonderful experience I had not long after the first visit from “the girlfriend”.
To say that the visit did not go well would be of mixed truth. We enjoyed dinner. We made homemade pizza and the two “love birds” piled the toppings of their choice on the culinary delight of which they were to share. We decided to watch a movie after dinner. Throughout the night I caught myself in limbo. I wanted to document the occasion, and yet, I was struggling with my handsome son turning down a road of eventual suffering. After all, whether together or split, a relationship can be painful, right? I took pictures. I relentlessly teased my son’s object of affection and she hung pretty well...I was pleasantly surprised. The evening was rocking along smoothly without sudden bursts of livid behavior to disembowel either of them. I did, however, notice things that gave me cause for concern. I became increasingly aware of an intimacy that I personally feel is not appropriate between young people of their age, and it absolutely broke my heart. At one point during the movie I had to get up and walk to my computer with my back to everyone. There I sat with tears streaming down my face as I fought every urge I had to “flip out” as my son so eloquently put it earlier that afternoon. I refused to play into the baited trap. At the end of the evening we took her home and I remained silent on the trip home. He made useless chit chat. I knew he felt my tension, but I didn’t feel I was in a proper state of mind to address my concerns with him.
I deliberately waited a few days before I spoke with him about that night. He had been to a work auction for his basketball team that evening and when he walked in it was apparent that we were in a place that we could talk alone. He was in a great mood, and I was in a great frame of mind for the conversation. So I had him sit down beside me and we talked…really talked. It was a two sided conversation about which I felt very good upon its completion. He rose from his seat, asked me to stand up, and proceeded to hug me as he said, “I love you, Mom.” I knew God had intervened, because Alex had kept me at arm’s length for a couple of months and he had initiated this hug. It was pure bliss. My little boy hugged me and I was on cloud nine as he left to go to bed.
As I prepared to lock things up for the night, I opened the front door to the most beautiful night. It was a crisp and yet comfortable temperature and it smelled like the transition from autumn to winter. The smell drew me out into the dark night, further and further until I stood in the middle of our yard gazing up at a most glorious display of twinkling stars. I always feel so close to God when I see the vastness of the beauty He has created. I just stood there noticing the silence. It was so unusual. No dogs were barking. No cars were passing. The wind was not blowing. It was just me and God standing there in each other’s presence. It always amazes me during those times how peaceful I feel. It truly passes my understanding. As I breathed in the cool air, I felt emotion creeping up from my toes, past my waist, and through my heart, causing it to skip a beat in that wonderful “flip flop” nature associated with complete wonderment. It traveled even further up, up, up, until it escaped my eyes forging a trail down my face in the form of glistening tears. They were happy tears, peaceful tears. I just whispered, “God, please talk to me.” What happened next was so wonderful! The gentlest breeze began to softly blow. “God, speak to me.” The wind rose in strength, enveloping me like the arms of the purest love. I looked up to the sky and whispered, “What do you want from me?” I waited. “God, what do you want from me?” His response, “Everything.” He spoke of the things with which I was struggling, and reminded me that He had all of those things under control, that I could stop spending so much time trying to figure them out. I dropped my head in shame, “But, God, I don’t know how to stop worrying about my children, they are the world to me.” Complete silence. I was about to open my mouth and speak again when I heard, “My son was the world to me, also.” Now, I’ve heard others speak of similar conversations with God, but it somehow felt more difficult for me to let go. “I’m not as strong as you are, Lord. I could never share my son the way you did. How do I stop worrying?” I looked toward Heaven, and there it was, a larger-than-life butterfly. The constellations were all in place. They had not miraculously changed location, but God had opened my eyes to the collective arrangement that formed a perfect butterfly. “Let me change you,” He said. “Let me mold you into what you need to be for your family.” I was overcome with emotion and the realization that I cannot even be what my family needs without God’s intervention.
As I stood there in continued amazement of the celestial butterfly, I envisioned myself as the fuzzy caterpillar that knows she is not living her ultimate existence. She knows there is more, a much more extraordinary being, but completely oblivious to the method of transformation. Through this time of insecurity, she feels an eventual pull toward a cocoon of change, allowing God’s hand to form her into a beautiful, fluttering jewel of the air. I was humbled by the realization that I am that which is akin to a worm. “I’m a worm,” I said somewhat defeated. He whispered again, “Let me transform you into a brilliant beauty, both inside and out.” At that moment I could think of nothing that I wanted more than just that. “Make me the mother that they need, God. Make me the wife that Chad needs. Transform me. Make me your masterpiece and daily rekindle my love for you and my passion for your plan for my life.”
I stood there in the yard, surrounded by the loveliest fragrance of a waning autumn, completely peaceful, hopeful, and full of anticipation. The stars seemed to shine brighter. The trees seemed to quietly applaud in celebration of my contentment. I stayed out there under the moonless night until a chill urged me into the house. I headed to my slumber with thoughts of that beautiful butterfly, and found myself to be excited about what God wants to do with me. I don’t know when. I don’t know how. What I do know is that God wants a more abundant life for me, and if I allow him, he will make me into something more beautiful than I could ever imagine, a mother whose children rise up and call her blessed. I’m looking forward to the transformation.

The Hairy Wart & Big Bird

Quick question: Why is it just when we think we are doing a pretty good job parenting that something happens to let us know just how inept we are? Why this particular question? Well, I have three teenage sons in my home. I know, I know! You feel sorry for me. Feel free to send flowers, advice, chocolate, any kind of food, and monetary support to my home address.
Today is the day before Thanksgiving, 2008. My oldest will be 15 years old in January. He is responsible far beyond his 15 years. He keeps his grades up, participates in sports and holds down a job. He has already purchased his first vehicle with cash. He is at church every time the door is open and worships openly during worship time. He’s a wonderful young man…a dream in many ways. All of my boys are. Anyway, I have to enroll him in Driver’s Education in January to prepare him to actually drive on our great American highways. It’s a frightening thought, but that is not my most recent dilemma. I know you are thinking that it must be a “doozie” if it is more frightening than imagining my firstborn behind the wheel of a 1994 Chevrolet pickup truck. You thought right!!
Oh my goodness! He has a girlfriend, and I’m failing miserably with the mental and emotional processing of this horrific and yet historical event. Even worse, he is firmly convinced that he is true blue, head over hills in love with this young lady. (Insert dramatic eye roll here) I mean, it’s not that I want to discount his feelings, but HOLY COW!!!! He’s still a pup, a mere boy, my baby!!! When I think about it the world kind of slows down, bright lights flash uncontrollably, and I get tunnel hearing rendering me a dizzy lunatic that kind of feels like vomit is trying to escape the throat but is just hung there in limbo. Okay, so maybe that is a bit dramatic, but I’m NOT handling it very well. Actually I think I’m handling it in the worst possible way. I feel my nose morphing into an ugly green witch nose with a hairy wart to match my feelings as I share this story. Serious drama here!
At first, I forbade him to have a girlfriend. He had one anyway and just didn’t tell me for fear that I would “flip out”. Then I agreed to let him have a girlfriend but told him he couldn’t talk on the phone, go anywhere, hold hands or kiss. He did it all anyway and just didn’t tell me for fear that I would “flip out”. Then I read a text on his phone…”I love you baby.” I flipped out. I gave him the whole “love is for marriage, a mature adult emotion, a decision to commit” speech. His eyes glazed over after the word marriage. I may have been too passionate in the delivery of my speech.
The other night I was crying to Chad about it all. There I was in our little kitchen ranting and raving about teenagers these days, screeching about low morality of that generation and the deterioration of the parental structure in America when out of nowhere Chad slapped me in the face. Not literally! I mean he hit me right in the forehead with a truth so real that I wanted to smack him. I love this man like no other. He is my very best friend in the whole world, but he occasionally steps across a line that should not be crossed! I mean, honestly, how dare he interrupt my rant of insanity? He had the nerve to look at me and ask this question:
“How old were you when you got your first boyfriend?”
“13. Why?”
“…and how old were you when you got your first kiss?”
“13. So?”
“…and how old were you when you thought you were in love for the first time?”
“13…”
Then it occurred to me…a terrible revelation. I was almost two years younger the first time I felt the things he says he is feeling right now. I think I must have looked something akin to a witch flying on a broom stick being bright lighted by a southbound semi in the northbound lane on Highway 81 because the stark realization of my recent transformation into a perfect combination of both of my parents way back in the 80’s finally hit me square in the forehead...splat! HOW did that happen!?!
“That is not the point!!! I am talking about my son, my baby,” I wailed.
That is the point at which I revved up the pity party with me as the guest of honor. I started crying, declaring that my son hates me and that he just doesn’t need me anymore. My lip was even dramatically quivering. Real tears were trickling down my face. Chad politely declined my invitation to the party, hugged me, dusted me off, and set me straight. Sniffle. Sniffle. Sigh. I must say that it is a bit difficult swallowing a truth such that I have turned into my mom…the mom I accused of over reacting every time she disagreed with me as a teenager. Furthermore, I have taken on the previously annoying quality of my dad to justify my strict demands on my child by having “pure motives”. Then he did it again! Chad smacked me with another truth…”Veronica, do you remember the dedication we had where we dedicated Alex at church? The reason we did that was to let God have him and give us wisdom in raising him.” Kick a girl while she’s down, already! I just hate it when he is right! I mean, I’m supposed to be the psychologist in this relationship. I’m supposed to be the optimistic one, right?
That’s something about myself I just don’t like very much. I really mean it when I hand things to God. I want Him to take control of it. I want Him to give me direction. And then I take it back. I feel the need to “help” with the situation when I honestly don’t have a single clue how to approach a successful resolution of the problem! Hello! God knows it all! He knows how to fix it all!! He doesn’t need my help. That’s a lesson I need to learn full well. He is faithful. Even when I’m being ridiculous, he’s faithful. Even when I’m scared to death for my son’s little heart, He’s faithful. Even when I don’t deserve it, He is faithful. That should help me sleep better at night, right? Well, I did sleep better that night, but I do need to work harder on the letting go and letting God.
The following day I pulled up my big girl panties, called the girlfriend’s mother and we met for lunch. I walked into that little diner convinced of the worst. Funny, I discovered that she has all of the same fears I do. She is as concerned for her daughter as I am for my son. We made a pact. We vowed that the four of us parents would stay on the same page, work together to get these kids raised with God in the middle of every situation, and rest a lot easier. We agreed to chill out a little and save ourselves the stress. I had to take a deep breath through my green witch nose with the hairy wart. We compromised by agreeing to offer limited, structured, and supervised together time for the two kids. Honestly, how much trouble could they get into sitting in the same room with us eating homemade pizza and playing Monopoly? Guess what I’m doing this weekend. Alex’s girlfriend is coming over for dinner. I think I’m going to retire my broomstick and have rhinoplasty to repair the nose. I’m sure I will still make mistakes, but I’m going to try to be a better mother and a better daughter and trust my Heavenly Father more.
One last thought I had before I fell asleep that night: “If those twins put me through this next year, I will tar and feather them!” I envisioned a long lost second cousin twice removed of Big Bird from Sesame Street on one knee trying to propose to his big bird girlfriend. I hit him over the head with a cast iron skillet, stuffed him and stuck him in the oven for Thanksgiving Dinner. It made me giggle as I drifted into one of the best nights of sleep I’d had in a very long time.

Spiritual Steroids

Steroids. What do you think of when you see that word? I’ll tell you, I’ve always envisioned muscle bound weight lifters with huge biceps and small brains. My guess is that it’s the same picture a lot of people see in their mind’s eye. I also see those overly-muscular women who lift weights, too, but that disturbs me and I change the channel. But that’s another story.
Okay, so I had to go to the doctor today for an uncomfortable infirmary of the mouth. For two months I had stubbornly dealt with the annoyance and pain thinking, “I can lick this!” Chad looked at me last night and said, “Veronica, it ain’t normal. Go to the doctor…or do I need to take off work and take you myself?” Now let me give you a bit of background on that man…that infuriating, wise-beyond-his-years man. Chad Tuttle does not take time off of work. I’m pretty sure that if his vacation time could roll over from year to year and accumulate that he could take time off, work that 6 month stint in Iraq doing some rebuilding job for $100,000 of tax-free money, come back to the US, spend a couple of months with the family, take me to Europe and on an Alaskan cruise, spoiling me shamelessly with that tax free money and still report back to his vibration analyst job before his vacation was depleted. So, when he threatened to take time off to escort me to the doctor, I knew he meant business. I figured I’d better go to the Urgent Med before he got home from work today or I was gonna get it! I’m not sure what “it” was, but I didn’t want that particular gift, and I’m a girl who likes to get stuff!
As I sat in the waiting area with Jonathan and Christopher stationed vigilantly by my side, I thought of every unimaginable disease known to mankind and even a few that mankind didn’t know of. What if I have some flesh-eating disease that attacked one orally, rendering a person completely speechless so she couldn’t verbalize her agony and pain to the well-educated physicians sent to her rescue? What if one of my precious sons had been kissed, victimized by one of those vial creatures otherwise known as “teenage girls”? What if in that victimization, they had become carriers and in one of their nightly displays of affection of a kiss on the cheek accompanied with an “I love you, Mom” they had unleashed this unholy debilitation that headed straight for my mouth. I envisioned a vicious, rapidly metastasizing virus that would ravage my young soon-to-be 35 year old body, leaving me a helpless heap that Chad would have to admit to a nursing home where they would feed me chocolate pudding intravenously because I no longer had a mouth! “Oh, God, PLEASE don’t let it be….cancer!!!”
At that moment of near insanity, I felt a nudge from Jonathan. “Hey, mom, you got a dollar? I sure could use one of those Snickers bars.” In my head I screamed, “I’m dying and all you can think of is a Snickers and your stomach?!?!?”I’m not sure what my outward response was, but his calm reaction of, “Okay, that’s cool,” I was certain my words hadn’t frightened him into the fetal position searching for a happy place.
The nurse called me into the inner sanctum of the doctor’s lair to check vitals, ask a long battery of useless questions, and essentially pre-prod me before the doctor got his chance to do the same. The boys followed dutifully. I was finally seen by the doctor. Well his little white jacket said he was a doctor, but I’m pretty sure he was there on a “go to work with dad” field trip, because I’m pretty sure he was still in pampers. He looked so young. I’m pretty sure Doogie Howser could have been his roommate and that they both would have had to be supervised to the dance their senior year of college. Anyway, his diagnosis: stress. Stress, you say? STRESS?! What do I have to be stressed about? I have an amazing husband who works very hard all the time to support our family, three teenage sons who are awesome in every aspect except that I have suddenly become the stupidest person on the free planet, a near-8 year old princess who refuses to clean her room, but she knows every word to every worship song ever written. By the way, if you figure out how to get an 8-year old daughter to do anything she doesn’t want to do, be sure to e-mail me with the particulars. I also have the cutest, sweetest Morkie puppy, that’s a Maltese/Yorkie breed, that for some reason I cannot to save the life of me get completely potty trained. He is currently at the vet being neutered. He’s going to love me tomorrow, I just know it! I get to teach swimming lessons this summer, six classes a day Monday thru Thursday. It’s great!! I just love all those little fish! I am also blessed to get to sing on our worship team at church on a regular basis. I really love doing that…I live to sing. Chad and I have an amazing Middle School youth group of 30-40 pre-teens and young teenagers who are all entering puberty on, well, last Wednesday night, apparently. I’m waiting to see if the State of Oklahoma is going to renew the grant for my really great early childhood parent education job for the next school year. I’m also hoping to hear from the local hospital about an overnight job because I’m a night owl and I want to utilize that time in an economically advantageous way. And, the twins are wanting their new best friend, Nick, to stay the night this week and the house is in pre-garage sale disarray, but Nick is an incredible kid…the type you really want your kids to be around. Again, I say, my life is wonderful! What do I have to be stressed about?
Obviously I didn’t verbalize that bit of ranting, but when I asked the doctor what sort of things could trigger that sort of stress, he basically said that the day to day stress of being a mother of four, overexposure to the sun, having too many irons in the fire, worrying about the future and even having an overactive imagination could trigger stress in the body resulting in a virus that causes painful mouth legions. I was stumped. I just couldn’t think of a single instance of serious stress in my life at that moment. He gave me three prescription: an antiviral medication to stop the virus, a pain reliever to stop the pain, and the third reverts us back to the start of this chapter. It was Prednisone, aka, steroids…a seven day regimen. I was sitting there thinking, “Okay, young padawan doc, I’ve been trying for TEN months to lose weight. I’ve lost somewhere around 50-60 pounds and you want to give me a little pill that can pack on the pounds!? You’ve gotta be kiddin’ me!” I felt a new legion pop up right then and there. I took the scripts, smiled, said, “thank you,” and left. We headed home.
On the way home, I dropped Jonathan and Christopher off at the pool, went to the pharmacy to fill the prescriptions, went home, gave Joey the dog a bath, got dressed for swimming lessons, painfully ate a quick bite of food so the medicine wouldn’t make me sick, drove back to town to drop Joey at the vet and reported for duty at swimming lessons where I had to sit on deck for two and a half hours because one of those blessed little pills had rendered me a jelly-legged, stammering lump. I was assigned paperwork. I think I did it all correctly, but now that I think about it, I don’t remember doing any of it for the last class. After all of the festivities, we finally made it home. I jumped into the shower only to feel the steroids kick in full force and the exact moment that I recalled the conversation I’d had with the pharmacist. His suggestion was to wait until the following morning to take the pills because they have a tendency to give you an increase in energy. In some robotic daze I had nodded and left. However, my brain and the pain in my mouth registered, “Take the pills now. Right now. Do not pass go. Do not collect $200.” The robot brain won at 3:00 p.m. between two slices of day old pepperoni pizza. I felt like I could run a marathon right then…at least a 25 mile marathon, easily. At 11:30 p.m. Chad and I went to bed. At 12:30 a.m. after an hour of really wanting to go to sleep, I was up writing. It is now 2:30 a.m. and I am finally feeling a touch of sand in my eyes. Whilst I ponder the day’s events, I’m reminded of a refrigerator magnet that a friend gave me a while ago. It read, “What part of ‘rest in me’ do you not understand? --Love, God.” Wow. I feel ashamed of myself. I am also remembering a plaque that a former colleague had hanging on her office wall. It read, “Hello, this is your captain speaking. My name is God, and, no, I’m not in need of a co-pilot today.” That’s what we try to do, isn’t it? Especially we mothers. We are so
determined to be superwoman or the number one candidate for woman of the year that we forget that God has it all under control. He doesn’t need our help. I suspect that there are many of you out there who share my short-coming of refusing to wait.
Wait? I don’t wait. I’m like a new runner in track who is so intent on reaching the finish line that he spends his cache of energy too soon only to wind up in an exhaustive state long before his goal is met. I know I sometimes leave God three states behind me hoping he will pick up the pieces I’ve dropped along the way. Fortunately he always takes care of me.
Did you know that eagles carry their young on their back while trying to teach them to fly? They carry them high into the sky and roll over so that the eaglet falls. The hope is that he will fly out of necessity. If the eaglet gets too close to the ground, the parent swoops down to catch it and carries it back to the heights for another lesson. I’m like that eaglet that has to be caught on the way to catastrophe and be carried back up over and over again. He is so faithful to do that, but how much easier my life would be if I would just slow down. If I would just realize that I am one of those heavy laden people the bible speaks of that need to lay all their burdens on the Lord, for his load is light. He is so much bigger than anything I could possibly be facing or carrying. He can handle it in a snap if I only hand it over and just rest in him. Just thinking about it relaxes me. It is sobering to think that I have been so stubborn and self sufficient that it took two whole months of pain, frustration, and a mouth full of stress-induced legions to understand such a simple lesson that God was trying to whisper to me. Unfortunately, I tend to be of the “beat it into her thick skull” variety. It usually takes a load of bricks being dropped on my head to grab my attention. In this particular instance it took a bottle of little pink pills, also known as steroids, to jump start my spiritual awareness. I’m going to carry that awareness into slumber tonight, or rather this morning. I’m going to dream of soaring the heights on the wings of my Heavenly Father. Hopefully in my dream I will learn to fly when he rolls over and I will carry that success into my tomorrows. Won’t you come fly with me?

Revelations of God's Faithfulness

The following is a writing I did at a particularly difficult time in my life several years ago. I remember feeling so overwhelmed by what God showed me that day...

Cold and yet pleasantly crisp, the air surrounds my being as I stroll in deep concentration. The day is nearing the noon hour and already a million concerns have crossed my troubled mind. Longing to do better, to be better, I question my current course, wondering will the path veer toward sunnier ventures. I am not discouraged. I am not ill content…just wishing I’d made a few different choices through the past years…wanting desperately to end up where God initially directed my path before I chose another one, the wrong one. Why can’t I listen, or rather couldn’t I? Now all I do is listen, hoping He will be gracious in our plight. I am for the most part, really happy, content, and settled. But not knowing what tomorrow holds is as disturbing as it is exhilarating. I know my calling, His commission for me, for us, and yet, the enemy battles ferociously to bring it all to a halt. Whether a mood of sour grapes or such an attack of illness, at times I literally scream, “Enough! Back Off! Could You just give me a break?!” So, He does…graciously. Although when I reach that point, I imagine Him in all His fatherly wisdom softly smiling, looking down and shaking His head slowly and thinking, “We’ll try it again tomorrow.” I just want to cry, because yet again, I just didn’t get it. He was trying to teach me, trying to mold me and I gave up. I failed and yet still He loves me more than I deserve. He has sent encouragement thru the most surprising sources. People I didn’t think even contemplated my existence have come out of left field to speak powerfully into my life, to reassure me of His promises, and to implore my acceptance of them. I did accept them. I make a public confession of that acceptance, and then those dark, ominous clouds begin to creep across the azure expanse, large and foreboding. They crawl slowly, as if to taunt me, “What promises has He ever kept?” My reply? “Oh! I don’t know…ALL OF THEM!” So, in light of my sarcasm, the enemy mounts forces to defeat me by attacking that which is most precious to me in all the earth, save God…my family…unexplained exhaustion, illness, fear, literal fire from hell, confusion, heartache, irritation, aches and pains, tears, listlessness, financial grief. Just the mere revelation of all the enemy is attempting raises within me a spiritual indignation that wishes to plant the heal of my boot firmly in the temple of his evil being. I know he will not win, so I remind him of his final plight…eternal damnation. He smirks and yet I feel stronger and imagine him staggering a bit. Then deep inside me whispers a chorus that reminds me of God’s great power:
You made it all, said let there be
And there was all that we see.
The sound of Your voice,
The works of Your hands,
You do all things well!
That song grows in strength until it thunders across my heart and tumbles across my lips with such conviction that I am certain Heaven is cheering and Hell is trembling. God doesn’t do some things well, or even a lot of things well, but ALL things well. I am his masterpiece. Now I am reminded of God’s prophecy two weeks prior to our wedding day…”The man you are about to marry is as surely the man I have chosen for you as if I had reached into a field of wild flowers and picked just one.” I’m not off course in that sense. I suppose I was somewhat restored to my original path. Life is good. He still has a great work to do within me, but I have much for which to be thankful. He is polishing me, and He will keep true to that which He has promised. We will be used, and He will continue to work through us. His ministry will rise and come forth.
Now, the sun erupts from behind those dark clouds as if to say, “His light permeates even the darkest of life’s sorrows”, but, just as quickly, that glorious orb ducks behind another billowing grey cloud. From this I hear within my soul, “Even when the dark clouds overshadow your life, THE SUN IS STILL THERE!” The clouds will come and go, but the son, S-O-N, will never leave. He will always be there to guide, to comfort, and to strengthen. That’s just so powerful to me. I cannot operate out of a discouraged heart, or a sorrowful spirit, but rather I must operate with the assurance that I am His and He is mine and from that, gather the confidence to endure all things through Him who provides my strength. I have no fantastic circumstance that is any greater than the next wife, or mother, or daughter. We all endure many wonderful AND terrible things. It is just that if I as an honorable Christian woman acknowledge the promises of God and have faith within those promises, I have a divine advantage in this never-ending race toward my enlightenment, toward my blessed eternity, and toward the privilege of worshiping at the feet of my Lord and Savior. Now, from that revelation these songs can rise from the deepest recesses of my heart and across my lips to declare:

Blessed Assurance, Jesus is mine!
Oh! What a foretaste of glory divine!

As well as,

I love you! I love you!! I love you!
And my heart will follow wholly after you!

And at long last,

I sing because I’m happy!
I sing because I’m free!
His eye is on the sparrow,
And I know He watches over me!

Cell phones, Spiders & Crazed Ninjas

Have you ever noticed that there are just some things that should never be put together...I'm not referring to clothing, although there are some pretty poorly put together people wandering the streets of the world. This weekend taught me a few things. 1. 6 year olds have no business playing with cell phones in the bathroom. 2. Car batteries are entirely too fragile for my taste, and 3. Chivalry is not dead, but Wal-Mart is still an evil place!!
Talk about a doozie of a day...one would think the vast knowledge I gained would have come from two or three days of experiences, but NO...everything happened within 24 hours of one another. Okay, so on Saturday Chad takes Jonathan fishing...lovely picture isn't it...father and son bonding over a backdrop of a flowing river...trees encompassing the scene...the breeze blowing softly to cool them...the stench of dead fish...AWW!! Isn't it beautiful? Anyway, later in the afternoon, Chad calls and says, why don't you and the other three come out and we'll eat sandwiches and enjoy nature together. Sounded good, so an hour later, armed with 21 bottles of water and $40 worth of sandwich fixin's, all the components of s'mores, a basket of wood for the fire pit, two marshmallow sticks, a portable DVD player, and a stack of magazines, we ran out to the fishin' spot. When we get there, my daughter Brenna, who fully believes she is the reincarnation of some European princess who behaved poorly enough to be reborn into a blue collar family in Comanche, Oklahoma, USA, decided that nature was not her friend that day. She preferred to watch a movie. Now, I had NO IDEA that a simple portable DVD player used SO MUCH STINKIN'JUICE from a car battery. As I am certain you have already figured out, at 10:00pm when we were ready to leave, as I turned the key in the ignition, ....click, click, click, click, click.....nothing. DEAD...the stupid thing was DEAD!!! Suddenly, the beautiful nature surrounding us didn't seem so beautiful...it had transformed, if you will...into this looming black forest where axe murders prowled looking for an unsuspecting young family with four children and a dog named Jac. Pretty specific prrofiling, don't you think? Chad had to leave all of us to find help. Hot...the van was sweltering. I could have opened the doors, but the spiders that I dodged whilst reloading the van were most assuredly inching their way to an unlikely, but all together satisfying feast, not to mention, if an axe murder was going to take me and my wonderful children, he was gonna have to swing that axe to break the window and drag me out kicking and screaming like a crazed ninja on crack. So, we waited....HEADLIGHTS!!! Alex jumped out of the car and sprinted to catch the car...it was Chad. He had gone maybe 300 yards away and found a lake volunteer with jumper cables. The axe murderer had been thwarted for the time being... We made it home without incident, collapsing into bed, exhausted.
Cue the chirping birds and the sun peeking over the horizon while classical music twitters in the background...I open my eyes slowly to a pair of blue eyeballs mere centimeters from my face...HEART ATTACK!!! WHEN will those children LEARN? Anyway, we are awake and getting ready for church and I walk to the front of the house only to discover a near hysterical Brenna...the princess, remember....hiding beneath her "rabbit blanket", crying uncontrollably. "What is wrong with you?" I asked. "I don't want to tell you, because I'll get in trouble!" she wailed. She proceeded to tell me that she had been playing with her daddy's cell phone the day before and it had slipped out of her hand and had fallen into the toilet. Not a big deal, right? WRONG! Someone (we still don't know who), unaware of the drowned cell phone in the toilet, apparently had eaten Mexican food that disagreed with them and took it out on the back bathroom toilet, the resting place of the phone. Chad had spent a half and hour fiercely trying to PUSH whatever was clogging the toilet further down the pipes and into the sewer. He gave up once the offending stink bombs disappeared...he'd work on it tomorrow....which was now today. I will suffice it to say, my response was not one of Mary Poppins or June Clever.
Chad awoke to an even more difficult task than originally expected. It was decided that he would stay home to figure out the best approach to this newest development. The children headed for the van to drive to church. All ready running about five minutes late, I turned the key in the ignition...click, click, click, click, click.....nothing. DEAD...the stupid thing was DEAD!!! Apparently the portable DVD player had completely drained our battery, because there we sat in disbelief. After we were able to locate jumper cables, we were a good 20-25 minutes late for church....I simply refused to walk in that late, so we left the van running, changed clothes, and headed to town to pick up supplies for Chad's smelly project...Did you know that ACE Hardware doesn't open until NOON on Sundays? I didn't. We got there at 11:30. Half an hour to fill...I had a headache by this time, so I decided to go to Wal-Mart to pick up some Aleve liquigels... great stuff. Remembering a few other things we needed, we headed north...as I pulled into my parking space, I reached for the ignition, and the children became those weird slow motion people from the movies....."NNNNOOOOOO, MMMMMOOOOMMMMM, DOOOOON'T TUUUURN IIIIT OOOOOOOFFF!!!!" "What?" I asked as I turned the ignition off. "AAAAAGGGGGHHHH" they all screamed. "Oh good grief," I said, "It will start again...see?" click, click, click, click, click.....nothing. DEAD...the stupid thing was DEAD!!! ...Add "new battery" to the list. Man! That DVD player must be a parasite!! Picture it...an hour later...the boys found clothes on sale and HAD to spend some of their hard earned money on it...okay, so we are outside in what must have been 150 degrees trying to loosen the bolts on the battery connectors with a $2.22 crescent wrench...high quality tools, right? ...when I hear, "Well, hi there, BUUDROE! How the heck are ya?!" Apparently this man knew my 12 year old son, Jonathan. I was completely clueless. I found out later that he had fished for a while with Chad and Jonathan the day before amidst the beautiful father/son bonding scene. Jim, that was his name, proceeded to take over the battery changing operation, which was completely fine with me. I was about to melt away into nothing, and felt somewhat entitled to a little male intervention.
I tried to call my friend, Kurt, to tell him he didn't have to bother coming to help, just as he pulled into the next parking place. Nice Timing! Kurt, who I have to point out is one of the nicest people you will ever meet on the face of this big blue planet, proceeded to carry on a conversation with Jim while I frantically searched for the receipt I had gotten thirty minutes before so I could get the stupid battery core charge back...WHAT IN THE WORLD is that stupid core charge about anyway? Do we have some muscle bound men dressed in toxic waste suits that cost 4 BILLION dollars each staying in wait to throw my battery into a special 20 Billion dollar "Battery Waste Receptacle"? $9.00... that's stupid... I need to write a letter to someone... but I digress... Finally, after 15 minutes of looking, and a 10 pound lighter purse, I found the receipt and proceeded to wait for another half hour to get my money back. Apparently when you return a battery, you are supposed to return it in the automotive department, but I think the little lady behind the counter saw that psychotically crazed ninja on crack rearing her ugly head again...maybe just a glimpse of her in my eyes, so she refunded my $9.00 right then and there and asked Christopher if he would push the battery in a shopping cart back to automotives. I smiled ever-so-sweetly, and said, "Thank you so much." We loaded up and left.
ACE hardware was a simple trip...it went off without a hitch. We made it home with everyone intact, at least physically... I'm not sure but that I didn't leave my sanity somewhere along highway 81 between Duncan and Comanche, because the kids were arguing over which Skillet song to listen to on the way home…"#3"..."No, #10" ..."I wanna listen to #4"...so I put it on #5--Comatose, and head banged all the way home!!
Moral of the story? There isn't one. Such is the daily ongoing insanity of my life...I just love it! So, in closing, thank you, Mr. Tillman and Kurt...without you, I'd still be trying to change a battery. Whatever you do, people, don't let your six-year-old take a cell phone into the bathroom...don't let a three-year-old take a purple marble egg in there either, but that's another story all in itself! Never use a portable DVD player out in the woods while it is hooked up to your vehicle...it's some kind of battery vampire... and for goodness sake, the father/son bonding thing is overrated!!! Look at the chain of events that followed that scene! Perhaps a movie would accurately portray the horror!!

Baseball, The Great Flood, and Ice Cream

Picture it. March 2008. St. Louis, Missouri, home of Budweiser, Cardinals baseball, and the great Gateway Arch. In my country-girl-gone-to-the-big-city naiveté, I decided that the opening day game of the Cardinals baseball season would be a bit of fun. No one bothered to tell me that this city reveres Cardinal baseball as some strange beer-guzzling, naked chest painting, out-of-the-park religion.
The newscaster said that tickets were almost gone and that if I had any hope of getting one of those sacred thickets that I had better be downtown and in a hurry to the ticket office. Since the stadium was only seven blocks from my hotel, I thought I’d take my chances. Hey! I had a red shirt. I’d blend…or not!
I didn’t walk two blocks from my hotel before the “crazies” came out of the woodwork. I saw things that will both tickle and haunt me for the rest of my natural life. But, I got my picture taken with Sylvester the Cat and Daffy Duck and that alone was worth the walk.
And then it appeared…out of the darkness of the gray and overcast day, this larger than life shrine, or rather cathedral surrounded with throngs of loyal followers desperate to enter its gates and worship at the feet of the all powerful beer and hot dog man! Busch Stadium, one of the most famous stadiums in the US and home to the World Champion Cardinals….duh duh duh duh! (fanfare music inserted for dramatic effect) It was definitely impressive.
Excitement filled that air and some of the fans buzzed around in a frenzy to secure one of the coveted golden tickets into this baseball paradise. The line at the ticket window must have been a mile long. I decided to at least attempt to buy a ticket, but my fate seemed bleak. I looked around at all of the fanatical worshippers adorned in Cardinals t-shirts, caps, jackets, even floppy red hats covered with pins and “danglies” and thought, “They will laugh me out of the park if given the choice to sell a ticket to me to to one of the “Cardinal Crazies”!
Drizzling rain began to fall at that moment, solving two problems. One, my hair was looking entirely too good and others were feeling unworthy in my presence. The drizzle took care of that really quickly. And two, it gave me an excuse to spend $16 on a baseball cap to cover up my unsightly hair. You see, apparently I had too much money in my wallet and the money gods of the Cardinals felt that the $16 would lighten my load and help me blend into this strange land of chaos. Thank God for rain! Sixteen dollars!?! That’s right. I’d just like to say it was the cheapest had they had, save the $14 youth cap. I considered cramming my big head into one, but I decided that $2 was a small price to pay to ward off a migraine.
As I walked away from the money pit, I noticed an older gentleman about 10 feet away holding up a lone ticket for sale. I was convinced he was sent from heaven because, really, how many people actually go to a major league baseball game…alone!?! I like to think of myself as confident and brave rather than strange. Anyway, I approached the man. His asking price, $75. Now, there wasn’t a seat in the stadium I would have spent $75 for at that time, so I immediately shifted into negotiation mode. “I’m sorry, but all I have for a ticket. Would you take that?” At least the difference would cover most of the cost of the cap. He reluctantly agreed, money exchanged hands, and the deal was done.
Now, what to do for two hours? I decided to mingle among the zoo animals…er…I mean fans. Opening Day is obviously HUGE in St. Louie because there was an entire square mile of things to do and people to see…makeshift tailgate grills, vendors handing out freebie Cardinals paraphernalia, musicians looking to make a quick buck on the corners blowing a tune of Take Me Out To the Ballgame on the saxophone, fans dressed in every imaginable combination of Cardinals sports gear, painted bodies, red and blue spiked hair.
Gates opened, fans flooded in, and I felt like either a fish swimming upstream or a pinball being batted back and forth, back and forth. Amidst the chaos, I found my section, walked up the ramp and…wow! It was surreal! At that moment I got it. I suddenly understood all the hype and anticipation. I wished instantly that my family was with me. After I waded thru the complete awe, I looked for my seat. The treasure hunt revealed that the ticket possessed access to an amazing view of the field from 1st tier seating just behind 1st base. I wasn’t sure whether to feel pride or guilt in regard to my previous negotiation for the ticket. I seated myself only to turn to face the victim of my bargain. I chose guilt. The man and I exchanged pleasantries and personal geographic information. He shared what must have been a complete history of Cardinal baseball upon learning that it was indeed my first visit to Busch Stadium. He was SO nice! More guilt.
We finally settled into our seats for the festivities, and what pomp and circumstance it was! Fireworks exploded overhead promising an unforgettable afternoon, a promise that would be kept. Now, fast forward thru a wonderful parade of pre-game activities and 2 ½ innings of Cardinals vs. Colorado Rockies baseball. The sky that previously had only been a pale grey was apparently angered, because it became a dark and snarling mass, threatening to snuff out our flame of excitement. In a strategic defensive move, I donned my new baseball cap and topped it with the $10 poncho which was little more than a glorified trash bag stamped with the St. Louis logo.
True to its threat, the sky rumbled menacingly, flashed its glaring teeth of lightening, opened up and sent thousands of Cardinal clad fans racing for dry cover as the heavens unloaded millions of gallons of water on my baseball parade. I valiantly stayed my post, defiantly calling its bluff. I had paid $60 for that seat, and by golly, my seat would not be removed! There I sat under that red sheet of recycled material, pondering my current circumstance as water trickled from the bill of my cap, plip plopped onto the poncho, and somehow found its way inside my $10 shelter. I was cold. I was inexplicably wet, and the plastic had done nothing to prevent my sweat glands from over reacting. I think I smelled. I felt like the offspring of a wet dog and a near-drowned gutter rat.
Then something strange happened. I chuckled, laughing quietly at first and progressing in hysteria. I tried hiding my giggles, but the heaving of my shoulders surely gave it away. I felt like that little teenage girl in church that caught a bout of the giggles during service, desperately trying to stifle them before my daddy cleared his throat in his threatening “you better straighten up or I’m coming down there” sort of way. I’m certain while sitting in the rain at the ball field laughing hysterically that I must have appeared to be in need of some psychotropic drug of some sort, but all I could think of in that moment was the phone call I had made earlier. I had called my 14 year old son, who loves baseball, at school, pulled him out of class, and with my own ornery flair, gloated shamelessly about my great adventure! He had not been amused, calling me a brat, and I found that fact hysterically comical. It was downright cruel. I am ashamed of myself even if my intent was only to tease him. Then the verse began to ring in my ears, “Pride cometh before a fall.” It just seemed so appropriate to giggle, or to guffaw as it were. The irony was just too much. As I tried to regain my breath, my laughter abruptly halted when the stark realization of the inevitable game cancellation hit me square between the eyes like a long foul ball past 1st base. I knew that attending a make-up game was out of the question because of my conference. Disappointment popped a tent, set up camp and taunted me shamelessly.
Tier one, 1st base ticket to the opening day game: a well-negotiated $60. Baseball cap, souvenir baseball, plastic poncho, mini-pizza and a soda: $56. Calling to brag to a very jealous son about getting to attend that game only to have it rained out less than three innings into the game: priceless! This particular fall just seemed overdone. No refunds. Come back tomorrow. CAN’T! “Yep, this one is overkill, Lord.” I sat under that red plastic tent of defeat, texting my sweet, beloved husband and very best friend hoping for a little sympathy…only digital laughter in response. “Wrong! Now that was just wrong! Did you see that, God? Get him!” There I was, two states away missing my family so much I had to resort to attending a major league baseball game by myself! I wouldn’t head home for another four days and then I’d have to fly in an airplane, aka “big metal tube of death” that may or may not make the trip home, possibly leaving him a lonely widow left to raise three teenage boys and a seven-year-old princess completely alone!...and he was laughing at me?!? The wheels in my head immediately started turning, planning my “smackdown” should that reunion occur.
Still licking my wounds, I called my friend, Rebekah. I didn’t even say “hello”. I started the conversation with, “Bek, why am I still shocked when stuff happens to me?” Her response? More laughter, cackling, if you will—that brat! Mental note: plan another merciless attack! Honestly, at that point I had reached that semi-psychotic state where my only recourse seemed to be reciprocal laughter. “Better to laugh than to cry”, or so I’ve heard. The guy who came up with that one needs duct tape strategically placed over his mouth so he won’t talk so much. I will say that our conversation ended with me still loving my friend, albeit with a hint of suspicion.
The game was indeed called and I was completely and utterly defeated. I rose from my post sending a cascade of pooled water from my poncho into…my boots—nice. As I contemplated my 7 block trek back to the hotel…in the downpour…with wet boots…smelling like a European street during the black plague, the gentleman from whom I had purchased that deceiving ticket to great all-American delight returned to the seats. He asked if I would be able to attend the make-up game the following day. “I don’t think so.” I poked out my bottom lip, pouting for effect. Suddenly, the skies metaphorically dried up and the sun beat down on me as blue birds, or rather red cardinals chirped cheerfully…the man reached into his wallet and returned my money in exchange for my ticket! He felt so bad that it was my very first Cardinals game and it got rained out. He had a friend who could use the ticket the next day. I felt such gratitude! I wanted to throw my arms around him, kiss his cheek, and call him “grandpa”, but I was afraid he may call the men in white coats to cart me away. I simply said, “thank you” with my sincerest of smiles and took my leave.
As I walked with a little bounce in my step toward 8th & Washington, I looked up to heaven with a sheepish grin. “Hey, God? Thanks!” I considered my day and its colorfully eventful display. Remembering the loyal and somewhat fanatical fans, I wondered, “About what am I passionate?”…my family, my job, my favorite sporting team, or it is my God? I want it to be God, but do my actions reflect that? What have I experienced that would make others desperate to have the same? Love, friendship, wonderful vacations, or is it a Lord and Savior who gave his very life, defeated death, hell and the grave and rose again to become victorious in securing my salvation so I could live with him in heaven for eternity? I want my desperation to enter the gates of his presence to worship at his feet to be greater than throngs of fans at a sporting event. I purposed right then to be a greater servant for God, to worship him with greater fervor and passion, to seek him more desperately and earnestly, and to share him more openly and with greater excitement.
Then another realization occurred to me. God had been the perfect model of a father that day. He had lovingly and somewhat humorously taught me a lesson and gave me time to think about my actions. Then he smiled at me, winked, and said, “Hey! Let’s go get ice cream” He even gave me sprinkles before I could even think to ask in the shape of three twenty dollar bills folded in my pocket. That was money I could use to spoil my children a little…not to mention it was all a little more material for my book. Great fun, discipline with a humorous twist, spiritual enlightenment, book material and ice cream with sprinkles…now that’s my kind of God! There just seems to be nothing he cannot do. How does he do it?