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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.
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
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.
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.
Sunday, August 3, 2008
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?
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?
Friday, June 20, 2008
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!
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!
Sunday, June 15, 2008
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!!
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!!
Saturday, April 5, 2008
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?
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?
Tuesday, January 1, 2008
An Explaination for the Title of my Blog
For those of you who know me, this is entirely unnecessary, but for those of you who do not, allow me to explain the title of my blog...
Okay, so if I said, “think of a person you know to whom ‘things just happen’,” who would you think of? My friends and family would say without hesitation that I, Veronica K. Tuttle, am a person to whom “things just happen”. Really, I’m not exaggerating. I generally survive them with all sanity intact (My family would argue that point as debatable), and eventually am able to find the humor in the situation, but I’m firmly convinced that I am some sort of drama magnet, or target if you will.
I am reminded of a teacher I had in the sixth grade who upon her exit from the parking lot one afternoon had the unfortunate experience of her motor falling out of her vehicle. I don’t mean that the car died or that she had a bit of motor difficulty. THE MOTOR LITERALLY FELL OUT OF THE CAR!!! Fell out…onto the ground…sparks flying everywhere…fell out. Do you have a clear picture? This is who I believe I am channeling now in my adult years. I will withhold her name to protect the humiliated.
Thusly, I dedicate this blog to her, Mrs. C. Also to my children, to whom many of the following stories can be attributed, or rather, on whom they should be blamed…however you choose to interpret. They are my greatest source of joy as well as my greatest source of insanity…I cherish each of you, Alex, Jonathan, Christopher and Brenna Grace. I would also like to dedicate a portion to my wonderful husband, Chad, who has kept me around even whilst I clamored, ranted, and raved about the array of “stuff” to which I was subjected. I adore you, my Superman and very best friend. And finally, but certainly not least, my parents, who I am certain somewhere down my overly eventful path had the audacity to pray for an increase in my level of patience. I mean, really, the absolutely unbelievable GALL. I know for a fact that I myself never prayed that prayer, because we all know God increases patience with trials and tribulations. I am no simpleton. I would never willingly request the “stuff” to which I will later refer. I haven’t discovered the true culprit, but I do believe whole heartedly that they do indeed feel “entitled” somehow to serve me penance for my many great shenanigans from my youth...and my teenage years…and adulthood…and parenthood. Okay, so I’m still subjecting them to shenanigans, but really, why the revenge? So, I do dedicate a portion of this literature to them, albeit with a certain tone of suspicion. I love you both and thank you so sincerely for all you invested into my life, for showing me God’s love, teaching me what a great marriage looks like, and for never giving up on me even when I really deserved it. No girl could have ever asked for more devoted parentage. I am truly blessed.
As for you, the reader, brace yourself. Every single story is true. I thank you for at least taking a second look at the cover and taking a chance on this crazy girl from Oklahoma. You will the success of this blog, and to you I am grateful. I do hope your adventure into my life is enjoyable. Honestly, I hope you feel the need for a quick run to Wal-Mart for a box of Depends undergarments. That would just make my millennium!
God Bless!
Vee
Okay, so if I said, “think of a person you know to whom ‘things just happen’,” who would you think of? My friends and family would say without hesitation that I, Veronica K. Tuttle, am a person to whom “things just happen”. Really, I’m not exaggerating. I generally survive them with all sanity intact (My family would argue that point as debatable), and eventually am able to find the humor in the situation, but I’m firmly convinced that I am some sort of drama magnet, or target if you will.
I am reminded of a teacher I had in the sixth grade who upon her exit from the parking lot one afternoon had the unfortunate experience of her motor falling out of her vehicle. I don’t mean that the car died or that she had a bit of motor difficulty. THE MOTOR LITERALLY FELL OUT OF THE CAR!!! Fell out…onto the ground…sparks flying everywhere…fell out. Do you have a clear picture? This is who I believe I am channeling now in my adult years. I will withhold her name to protect the humiliated.
Thusly, I dedicate this blog to her, Mrs. C. Also to my children, to whom many of the following stories can be attributed, or rather, on whom they should be blamed…however you choose to interpret. They are my greatest source of joy as well as my greatest source of insanity…I cherish each of you, Alex, Jonathan, Christopher and Brenna Grace. I would also like to dedicate a portion to my wonderful husband, Chad, who has kept me around even whilst I clamored, ranted, and raved about the array of “stuff” to which I was subjected. I adore you, my Superman and very best friend. And finally, but certainly not least, my parents, who I am certain somewhere down my overly eventful path had the audacity to pray for an increase in my level of patience. I mean, really, the absolutely unbelievable GALL. I know for a fact that I myself never prayed that prayer, because we all know God increases patience with trials and tribulations. I am no simpleton. I would never willingly request the “stuff” to which I will later refer. I haven’t discovered the true culprit, but I do believe whole heartedly that they do indeed feel “entitled” somehow to serve me penance for my many great shenanigans from my youth...and my teenage years…and adulthood…and parenthood. Okay, so I’m still subjecting them to shenanigans, but really, why the revenge? So, I do dedicate a portion of this literature to them, albeit with a certain tone of suspicion. I love you both and thank you so sincerely for all you invested into my life, for showing me God’s love, teaching me what a great marriage looks like, and for never giving up on me even when I really deserved it. No girl could have ever asked for more devoted parentage. I am truly blessed.
As for you, the reader, brace yourself. Every single story is true. I thank you for at least taking a second look at the cover and taking a chance on this crazy girl from Oklahoma. You will the success of this blog, and to you I am grateful. I do hope your adventure into my life is enjoyable. Honestly, I hope you feel the need for a quick run to Wal-Mart for a box of Depends undergarments. That would just make my millennium!
God Bless!
Vee
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