Fortune Cookie

When You Are Old

2012-02-08T11:03:00.000-08:00

WHEN you are old and gray and full of sleep,

And nodding by the fire, take down this book,

And slowly read, and dream of the soft look

Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,

And loved your beauty with love false or true,

But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,

And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

And bending down beside the glowing bars,

Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled

And paced upon the mountains overhead

And hid his face among a crowd of stars.

William Butler Yeats (1865-1939)

Irony

2012-02-07T12:08:00.000-08:00

George, you've just gotten the last laugh.

2012-01-31T20:52:00.000-08:00

"My horse! My horse! My kingdom for a horse!"

Let me tell you something, I just watched Kevin Spacey roar these words into the audience in a production of Richard III at the Brooklyn Academy of Music's Harvey Theater. I've never felt the power of each syllable. I've also never seen such a beautiful orchestration of modern aristocracy and war mixed with 15th century language and social issues that still transcend even our modern democratic society (without all of the blood letting). The combination of incestuous hatred and death was almost enchanting because of the stage arrangement, which was bare wide planked hardwood floors and walls of doors, doors, doors. If you get a chance to see this play, get thee to the theater!

2012-01-27T20:16:00.000-08:00

Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition

2012-01-10T09:05:00.000-08:00

I am intrigued by the concept in this video. While we've never gotten food from a dumpster, we have definitely recovered plants from our local nursery and useful building supplies from places going out of business. I am highly unlikely to follow in this person's steps for a variety of reasons, not the least of which, poor Clare already has the "weird, liberal" parents. However, I will say that I am a little disappointed that companies choose to throw away edible food and useful items rather than make more of an effort to provide items to people in need. Those flowers, while not perfect for a party, looked like they could sure brighten up a hospital room or nursing home. The food that expires that day could be used at homeless shelters, safe houses, or for families severely in need. It appears that all it requires is a little ingenuity, a good relationship with a store manager, and a team of people willing within a community to get the stuff (maybe before it reaches the dumpster) and take it to those in need (notice, I said "team" of people). Use this blog and the video I share to inspire you to action today! In Christ...
The Perennial Plate Episode 84: Dumpster Diver from Daniel Klein on Vimeo.

2012-01-05T07:02:00.000-08:00

It seems like every time I turn around someone is touting their new book, describing the book they want to write, or discussing the idea of their book currently in progress. For the last fifteen years I, too, have been wanting to write, writing, and discussing the book I am currently writing. I've started at least five. I've finished zero. You know why? There are two reasons: One, I get bored with whatever the idea is that I'm writing about and realize that if I'm bored, then certainly any potential readers will get bored; two, I get caught up in life and decide that whatever I'm living at the moment that takes up my time to write is more important (this includes sleep). These two facts are concrete evidence of the truth that I am not a writer. I've read some books that are the most boring, self applauding, wastes of time that you can imagine. I have read interesting books, perfect books, average books, cook books, designing books, inspirational autobiographies, children's books, classics, everything. You name it, I've read it. What are a couple of common factors with every single one of them? The author never got bored with what they were writing (sometimes, painfully, not for years). The author never thought the current events of their life were more important than what they were writing (even sleep). There are certainly plenty of other factors, but these two are pretty common throughout. In light of this, I have decided that I am no longer interested in writing a book. Instead, I am interested in living the kind of life that good or better than average books are written about. I'm setting the bar low in an effort to achieve my goal. For the rest of you writers out there, enjoy! I'll grab a copy of your book one day.

I hope you have pants on

2011-12-28T11:44:00.000-08:00

After the most wonderful Christmas Eve day full of traveling, family, church, and fun, we calmly put Clare to bed at the usual time of eight o’clock. During our bed time ritual, we giggled about what Santa would bring, said night time prayers, distributed good dreams fairy dust and turned out the lights. Like every other parent of a young child on Christmas Eve, on our way out of the bedroom we sing-songed a sweet warning to her, “You must hurry up and get to sleep. If Santa comes and you’re awake, he won’t leave any presents.” Giggling, I started back toward the living room feeling the relief of knowing that it was eight o’clock and we had nothing else to do except display the beautifully wrapped and glitter embellished presents that I had prepared the night before. Oh, and to open that new bottle of wine we received as a gift. Parenting win, check! Christmas Eve win, check!

…let this perfect moment sink in for just a moment...

Ten minutes later, I hear the local fire truck racing down the street toward our neighborhood - you know the one with a fireman dressed as Santa on top of it. Before I could reason with myself, I started hysterically screaming Clare’s name and yelling for her to hurry and come to the front door so she could see Santa. Mason in a confused tone starts yelling back, “Lael, what in the world? Stop! We don’t even know if they’re coming to our neighborhood…Wait, they’re coming. It’s coming. It’s coming!” In the horrifying confusion that followed, Clare, in a legitimate state of fear, comes running to the front door. I grabbed her in my arms and ran outside with her in pajamas in the freezing night time air. Mason is right behind us with my coat. We get to watch the fire truck drive by our house at 100 mph with a coat half draped over her feet and my shoulders, as Santa hurls pieces of candy at us in the dark. It wasn’t exactly magical, but boy was it exciting. Screaming mommies and fire truck sirens should be everyone’s normal on Christmas Eve. Fourteen seconds later, we put her to bed again. This time she asked us to hurry up and get out of her room so she could go to sleep. Not a win, not exactly a loss. We’ll call it a wash.

An hour later, the excitement of Christmas got to me and Mason and we decide we needed to reinforce the myth of Santa. We created an elaborate scheme for me to go and crawl into bed with Clare, who was supposed to be asleep, while Mason went outside with bells. Mason would ring his bells and this would wake her from her precious slumber so she would think reindeer were outside of her window. I would be there when she woke up so she wouldn’t be scared. Perfect, right? However, when I went to crawl into her bed, she was wide awake. I excitedly told her that Santa was in our area and that she needed to hurry up and get to sleep before he got to our house. Next thing you know, there are ringing bells and some thump thump thumping outside of the house. PERFECT!! She squeezed her eyes closed and we both gasped because Santa was there. A minute later there was a significantly louder, and more unexpected, thud that came from the roof. It startled me, so I jumped. She immediately warned me through gritted teeth, “You’d better be asleep.” I nearly bit my tongue in half trying not to laugh. In the whisper of someone about to choke to death, I told her I was. . The next thing I know, Mason is making his way back down the hall. With all the creaking and cracking of the floor boards, he sounded like a 7ft tall, 500 lb gorilla coming toward us. Of course, she thought Santa on his way to her room. She curled in close to me and with the quietest voice I’ve ever heard her use, she breathed into my ear, “I hope you have pants on”. I lost it. I started laughing so uncontrollably that I had to excuse myself and get out of her bed without so much as a good night. I can only imagine her wondering if Mommy had ruined her chance for presents since I kept her from going to sleep (twice). We'll add this to her future therapy list.

Today I’m left to wonder why she was worried if I had pants on when Santa was on his way to her room, and if I run around without pants often enough for this to be a problem.

Put a Bird on It!

2011-12-22T13:07:00.001-08:00

Disneyland

2011-12-14T10:58:00.000-08:00

Rattle within wooden bones
Look through impassive eyes
Searching the shadows

Sallow reflections
Bear a rigid truth
An elastic simulation
In the happiest place on earth

Blind obstruction
Pulleys concealed
A sleight of hand

--Lael Boyd (2011)

Thank you Contagion

2011-12-12T06:46:00.000-08:00

Working Hard

2011-12-09T13:26:00.001-08:00

Bye St. John!

2011-12-09T13:08:00.001-08:00

Who?

2011-10-22T18:42:00.000-07:00

I bought an O magazine tonight at the drug store. I blame Clare's teacher since Clare and I are required to find pictures in magazines that begin with letters of the alphabet for Clare to cut out and present to class each week. Not having many of these (Runner's World is surprisingly lame in the alphabet picture arena), I am forced to buy them. Magazine covers are temptresses. With the fabulous jeweled greens on the cover and cover story that read "Find Your True Calling: A Guide to Discovering Who You're Meant to Be," I quickly threw it into my basket and rushed to get out of the store. I was partly excited and partly ashamed. Neither emotion really mattered because for $4.50 I was about to be enlightened. After I put Clare to bed, I started my journey. I read the first article. I completed the first brainstorm. I asked my husband to describe me in three words. I took the motivational style test. I read the successful sidebar stories. What did I find, you ask?

I love to run (ok, come on Oprah. You can do better than that). I love photography - mine and other people's (Still a cheap parlor trick since everyone does). I love to sing (so what, who doesn't?) I want to play the piano again (You are right, O, I did really love that and I really have been thinking about taking up lessons again). Then she did it...her crafty little test produced one interesting result. I really love unique paper and want to learn to make my own paper art to combine with pressed flowers and poetry, mine and other people's (What? Hello crazy, where have you been hiding?).

The truth is that I didn't find out too much that I didn't know, but it also wasn't the worst way I'd ever spent an evening alone. The interesting thing is that I did very much feel the -

girl, you're amazing. Get out there and do what you love - you have our permission and encouragement to do so - vibe once I finished and was pretty excited about taking these talents or passions of mine a little more seriously. The experience also challenged me to sit down and not just figure out what I like, but to match it with situational goals that I am to discuss with a friend (Nice touch, O, accountability does help motivate people to do)

I'll give it to Oprah, it was worth $4.50 to get cracking on my personal to-do-list. I'm accountable to Oprah now so I have to do something. Someday soon I'm going to call about piano lessons, look for more updated camera equipment on craigslist, and pick up some flowers and homemade paper. Anyway, it all sounds like a really fun way to spend some time and to give me something useful to fill up the winter nights coming up. Oh, and If you get crappy hand-made gifts from me this Christmas, just understand that I've simply discovered "the me" I've always meant to be.

Do you want to get well?

2011-03-30T09:35:00.000-07:00

“Do you want to get well? Get up! Pick up your mat and walk” (John 5:6,8, NIV).

Do you want to get well?

That seems like a strange question, doesn’t it. But sometimes we can get so used to being soul sick, we don’t even realize that we are not truly well. Sometimes the chains we wear shackled to our hearts become so comfortable, we get used to the pain and forget what it is like to be well. Perhaps some of us have never known. But the big question is – do you want to get well?

Do you want to be free?

"Of course I do", I hear you say. But do you really? There was a certain man that Jesus encountered who faced the same crossroads in his life. In Jerusalem, men and women with various infirmities congregated at the Sheep Gate Pool. Surrounding the pool were five porticoes or shelters, where sick people clustered, waiting for the “moving of the waters.” They believed an angel of the Lord came down from heaven at certain seasons and stirred the pool. When the people saw the waters ripple, they all made a mad dash to jump in. They believed that the first one to make it to the pool would be healed. One man, an invalid, had been waiting by the pool for thirty-eight years. When Jesus saw the man lying there and learned that he had been doing so for thirty-eight years, he asked him, “Do you want to get well?” (John 5:6). That seems like an unusual question – or does it? Sometimes we get used to being “sick.” We become attached to our wounds. They become a part of who we are and we can’t imagine life without them. For this man, healing meant a drastic life change. He would have to get a job, become a responsible adult, and stop lounging by the pool all day.

Oh, we say we want to be free, but do we?

Pain can become an idol. Not that we worship it in a good sense. But we worship it as an awesome force and allow it to control our lives. When we allow our past to control our lives and dictate our future, we are giving it the power of a god and making it an idol. Author Richard Exley wrote: “We can hug our hurts and make a shrine out of our sorrows or we can offer them to God as a sacrifice of praise. The choice is ours.” Did the invalid want to get well? He had not asked for Jesus’ help. It seems he clung to his illness and blamed it on those around him – a victim of circumstance. “I have no one to help me into the pool when the water is stirred,” he said. We don’t know if he had lost the will to be healed, was afraid to lose the income of a beggar, or simply had accepted lameness as his lot in life. In any case, he came face to face with the one who could set him free. The man never did answer Jesus’ question. Jesus simply said, “Get up! Pick up your mat and walk” (John 5:1-8). And he did. Thirty-eight years is a long time to be immobile, and yet, in my own life there were some things that had held me back for the same amount of time. I was paralyzed by feelings of inferiority, insecurity, and inadequacy because of messages from my past. Then Jesus asked me, “Do you want to get well?” Satan wants to use our past to paralyze us. God wants to use our past to propel us! The choice is ours.

Sharon Jaynes is the author of this devotional, which I have posted separate from my daily devotional that I receive daily as part of "Girlfriends in God"

because today I needed to laugh, and momma always provides...

2011-03-10T07:52:00.000-08:00

I asked God for a bike, but I know God doesn't work that way so I stole a bike and asked for forgiveness.

Do not argue with an idiot. He will drag you down to his level and beat you with experience.

The last thing I want to do is hurt you, but it's still on the list.

Light travels faster than sound. This is why some people appear bright until you hear them speak.

The early bird might get the worm, but the second mouse gets the cheese.

Evening news is where they begin with 'Good evening', and then proceed to tell you why it isn't.

How is it one careless match can start a forest fire, but it takes a whole box to start a campfire?

Some people are like Slinkies - not really good for anything, but you can't help smiling when you see one tumble down the stairs.

Dolphins are so smart that within a few weeks of captivity they can train people to stand on the very edge of the pool and throw them fish.

I thought I wanted a career. It turns out I just wanted pay checks.

Whenever I fill out an application, in the part that says "If an emergency, Notify:" I put "DOCTOR".

Women will never be equal to men until they can walk down the street with a bald head and a beer gut and still think they are sexy.

(It's perfectly ok to laugh at silly little sayings that belong on bumper stickers. Enjoy)

2011-02-08T04:02:00.000-08:00

Drink Me

Stick

2011-02-06T12:18:00.000-08:00

Clare picked up a stick today that resembled a divining rod and started walking toward the road. Sugar, her pet cat/guerrilla warfare enemy, started running toward us. Clare saw him , smiled broadly, and ran back toward him (with the stick).

"Hey, Sugar, let's play stick" she yelled.

As she darts down the driveway with the thing, I'm thinking to myself, "Wow, she's about to wail on Sugar." I was right. Not such a fun game. I tried to explain that being hit with a stick, even if the person hitting you is happy and laughing, really isn't a lot of fun. What I didn't realize at that time was that he was waiting for his opportunity to play his game with Clare. Oh, it was on.

Fast forward twenty minutes. She's sitting next to him, while he is calmly draped over a railroad tie, in a moment that can only be described as angelic. Mason and I are commenting on their love for each other and how she'll never have a cat love her as much as Sugar does. She's rubbing his head and he's loving all of her affection. It was a really sweet moment right up until the moment when she left her arm near him, but turned her head toward us with a smile that said, "isn't he just perfect?"

With one single swipe, the love was gone and she was screaming with a gashed and bloody arm. Sugar got up and sauntered into the garage with what I can only imagine was a look that said, "How do you like that game, huh? Claws with Clare is my favorite. Next time you better check yo'self with that stick." Meanwhile Clare, between her gasps and screams, was asking me why Sugar would do this because she was being so gentle and sweet. At this point, I might mention that I am laughing uncontrollably. It was such a horrible parenting moment. I'm not sure what was sadder, the fact that Clare was screaming crying with a gashed and bloody arm, or that we were both laughing so hard that all we could do was comfort her as we laughed. We'll just write this one down in her book for her therapist later on.

All you need is love?

2011-02-04T08:31:00.000-08:00

Oh man it’s been a tough week. I understand that every parent has them, but man-oh-man I had hoped my precious little girl would be different. It’s been the solid gold week of “I don’t care about you Mommy.” Not simply the “I don’t care about you”, but the “I won’t listen to you, I will try to hurt your feelings over-and-over, and I will smile while doing it to show you I really do not care about you” all freaking week. Does anything hurt more than your child hurting you? I think not.
I mean, I love my baby. L-O-V-E her. None of you other mothers can possibly understand. You certainly do not love your child/children as much. That is why your children do not worship the ground you walk on. See, I exist to make her happy. I worry about her well being, take care of her, and think about her morning, noon, and night. I wash her clothes and buy her new ones when she outgrows the old ones. I make sure she is well fed and buy her the special snacks and treats that she likes most. I wake up every-single-night to cover her back up and calm her when she’s had a bad dream. I buy Valentines and help her write her name. I plan birthdays a year in advance and Christmas, too! I kiss all of her boo-boos and make everything better. If she says jump, I often find myself jumping. I’m trying to think of something I have not or would not do for her. It’s a give and take relationship. I give and she takes. So obviously she will love me because I am the best mother in the world and she will feel compelled to love me deeply for the rest of her life, right?

What’s that?

What did I hear all of you other mothers collectively say?

Wait…did I hear you correctly?

You mean…we all do this?

You mean…it’s not your fault that your child snubs you and turns his or her nose at your love and affection?

You mean…this is universally what it means to be a mother?

I am truly shocked!

Tongue-in-cheek aside I walked about this week like I’d been kicked in the heart, while my little one kept finding new ways to kick me harder. By Wednesday night, after putting her to bed early for the fifth night in a row because of her behavior, I had to excuse myself and go hide in my bedroom. In there, I fell on the ground moaning and crying so hard and loud that, at one point, I wondered whose voice I was hearing. I imagined Mason running to hide. I imagined myself running and hiding. I imagined Clare smiling in her bed enjoying the whole scene.

“JESUS!” I cried out, “Please, help me.”

It is my experience that Jesus kind of does and kind of doesn’t help in these situations. It depends on my definition of help. I want the cool, sparkly, fairy-wand help. I want a fairy godmother to come and make everything bloom and give me a beautiful dress to wear and send me to the ball with a catchy song. I want some giant hand to come and pat my back and wipe my tears and tell me it’ll all be ok. I don’t want to be the mommy for a minute. I need my God, my heavenly father, to help me. I want my baby to need me. I want my baby to love me. I want this week to be over. None of these happen while I’m crying. So, I cry louder and longer.

Jesus isn’t Disney.

He’s a listener and a whisperer.

After awhile I collected myself, went back into her bedroom, turned on her light, and gently asked her to sit next to me. I pulled her tiny little body as close to my tired and hurting heart as I could. With all of the love I am capable of, I told her that I didn’t care if she loved me or not, that I loved her and I always would love her no matter what. I promised her that she could never do anything to make me not love her. Even as I said those words, I knew she would make me prove them over and over in our life together. I guess she needed to know that because all of the ugly stopped and she was my baby again. I mean it came to a complete stop.

Thank you for that little call to action, Jesus. You whispered just the right words and gave me just the right answer even if there weren’t any magical sparkles, a dress, a ball and a catchy song to go with it. Thanks for being plain old Jesus for me.

Jeremiah 33:3
Call to me and I will answer you and tell you great and unsearchable things you do not know.

Ugh Pugs

2011-02-01T03:56:00.000-08:00

Clare has been wanting a puppy for the last year. Our dog, Molly, really isn't a great dog. She's kind of like a stuffed animal that eats and has to go to the bathroom. It's not that she's not wonderful, she's just not the right fit for our family. But if you adopt a dog and give her a second chance, you're committed for the long haul, right? Even if she hides 231/2 hours a day under the sink and shivers in fear each time you walk in the room. Anyway, poor Clare needs a four legged friend to love her back, when she's trying to hard to be lovable. So, puppy has been on the tip of her tongue for most of her life now. Recently she's been very specific with her request, requesting not just any puppy but a Pug (my word they are cute). Mason and I have researched the breed, looked at the logistics of bringing another life into the house, and decided this is a reasonable dog for her to set her sites on. (I should note here that we never 'priced one out'). Since I do not want to bring another thing into the house that is my responsibility, I've told her that she must make sure to help take care of Molly every day in order for Santa to seriously look at getting her a pug puppy for Christmas next year. Her new job each day is to feed Molly, which is going very well. I am now counting on the fact that she'll get bored with it. After listening to her tell yet another person that Santa is bringing her a Pug for Christmas, and this person responding with how she has had Pugs all of her life and they're so wonderful....lalalalala...squeal...lalalala...yay....I decided to look for breeders in Alabama. Whew, we have a few thank goodness. At that moment, I also decided to price them out; you know with the whole five year old birthday Disney World trip and all in October, I might want to go ahead and put a little money aside for the precious little bundle of Christmas present. HOLY CRAP! Rarely, and I mean R-A-R-E-L-Y, does the price of something take my breath away. This took my breath away, literally. I was thinking a couple of hundred dollars, maybe five hundred at the max, but no! In order to get Clare a puppy from a reputable breeder and not a puppy farm it's going to cost us around two thousand dollars all told. I felt a little sick to my stomach. I still feel a little sick to my stomach. Like I said, I'm kind of hoping the feeding the dog thing peters out because I need a reason to get her an off brand puppy...you know the cute ones at the pound that cost $75 dollars. Bet you that I won't be reminding her every day to feed Molly. I might actually start feeding Molly before she wakes up just to stunt her little Christmas dream, "I'm sorry Clare, Molly doesn't eat any more either." If that doesn't work, I'm starting the Christmas fund. Don't be surprised when you see me standing at the end of the interstate exit with a jar and a sign that doesn't ask for food, but shows a graph of how much I have left to collect. Oh and all of you Pug owners out there, if you see a four year old little girl coming and asking you questions about Pugs please tell her they're mean little bitey things and that she needs a mutt instead. Thank you in advance!

2010-11-10T10:28:00.000-08:00

We assemble
Singular moments
In silent memories

Time shifts
We understand everything
And nothing

For us
Pine trees are babies
Beads are lives

We swing
Straight into the sky
Like Birds

Shoes transposed
Speak
I love you

2010-11-04T04:41:00.000-07:00

The Rain

All night the sound had
come back again,
and again falls
this quiet, persistent rain.

What am I to myself
that must be remembered,
insisted upon
so often? Is it

that never the ease,
even the hardness,
of rain falling
will have for me

something other than this,
something not so insistent—
am I to be locked in this
final uneasiness.

Love, if you love me,
lie next to me.
Be for me, like rain,
the getting out

of the tiredness, the fatuousness, the semi-
lust of intentional indifference.
Be wet
with a decent happiness.

--Robert Creeley

Apalachicola

2010-10-23T15:00:00.000-07:00

There are places that I visit that make me wish I could write with more skill about the world I experience. Apalachicola is one of those places. I came down here with my family and friends to run a scenic half marathon, but the run ended up being secondary to the natural gifts of beauty I've been granted. I don't have enough descriptive words for the sun setting over the marshy rivers below my balcony, and a full moon revealing itself as the day collapsed into the water. I want to describe the moment where the night turned into day as I ran across a bridge over a bay this morning. I want to explain how the passion of the sea and sky combined with an inner gratitude to my Creator for being able to run into, then out of, that moment. How I was overwhelmed and brought to tears that I haven't cried before. I want to describe the inner courtyard garden, where I write these words, to somehow invite everyone into the mystery of three hundred years of architecture and trees protected from angry storms. The same garden my daughter and I call secret and play in and would play in forever if allowed. There are so many other places and things that I have seen. I don't have enough words. Or, maybe I don't have enough time because I'm ready to see more before it's all over.

Autumn

2010-10-15T14:14:00.000-07:00

Him: Do you want an apple?
Her: No.
Him: Are you sure?
Her: No. Why are you always trying to feed me? I'm not hungry.
Him: Do you want it?
Her: No, I do not want an apple.
Him: Will you marry me?
Her: No.
Him: Yes you will.
Her: No I won't. I really won't.
Him: You will.
Her: It's not really my thing, you know?
Him: Do you want an apple?
Her: No.
Him: Are you sure?
Her: Yes, I'm sure.
Him: I love you.
Her: Actually, I would like an apple.
Him: Yes you will.
Her: <bites into the apple>

What Now?

2010-10-12T03:51:00.000-07:00

I sit in the dark of the morning and wonder silently through all of the 'whats' that are 'now'. My mind twists over options, realities, imaginary ideas of what life will be like if this or that, and I grow confused and frustrated, and lash out at the ones I love. I cry out to God in anger and frustration, or in my heartbreak, because I know the only thing that will relieve me is going back to Him and peacefully settling into prayer and the Word. In my prayers, I have never heard a no or a yes about anything; I have only ever received a gentle reminder that God knows all, and as his child, I am promised that he loves me more than I can ever imagine. His answers to me are always simple in that I all must do is what He asks me to do to become more like Christ. I hear him whisper to me words of comfort and patience. I never feel condemned by Him even though I should feel like the trash I am always afraid that I am to others. But not God, His mercy and grace flow freely, and I am the undeserving recipient. I weep loudly because it isn't easy to wait. I weep loudly because it isn't easy to endure heart ache or heart break. I weep like a child who doesn't get her way and I lash out at the ones I love some more because I do not know how to handle everything. I do not go back into the Word. I quit praying. I turn around and stick my fingers in my ears and close my eyes and continue to walk blindly down dangerous roads with my patient creator at my side letting me trip and fall at my own insistence, but never alone. All the while, He tenderly whispers of His love and continues to be right beside me. Again, like a child, I get scared and come back and He is there waiting with unending patience for the day when I come to understand that it truly is His will and not mine that will bring me peace.

I do not know what today will bring and I never will. I know this fact irritates me because I wish to be in control. I do not know how all of the sticks that I have dumped on the ground will become a safe and sturdy bridge. I do not know how to get to the other side of the rivers I meet in my life. What I do know is that there are rivers and bridges and other sides. I know that if God means for me to cross it, I will and there will be no end to the blessings and peace that go with me and to those that I encounter along the way. I know that if I try to control the process without Him, then my bridges will be unsafe, my passing treacherous, and hurt will follow me.

So, I pray for safe passage, lean on the Word of God to mold me into the person that I know God wants me to be, and hope that one day everything will be revealed to me when I am the right person to enjoy, honor, and appreciate the gifts that lay ahead of me.

Always

2010-10-09T04:14:00.000-07:00

The Peace of Wild Things

When despair grows in me

and I wake in the middle of the night at the least sound

in fear of what my life and my children's lives may be,

I go and lie down where the wood drake

rests in his beauty on the water,

and the great heron feeds. I come into the peace of wild things

who do not tax their lives with forethought

of grief. I come into the presence of still water.

and I feel above me the day-blind stars

waiting with their light. For a time

I rest in the grace of the world, and I am free.

--Wendell Berry

October 2 at 10:58 a.m.

2010-10-03T17:53:00.000-07:00

I never thought I would be the mother that repeated the original birthday story year-after-year to my husband and child, but yesterday was Clare's fourth birthday and that is precisely what I did all day Friday and Saturday morning. The point wasn't to be nostalgic. I think the truth is I am surprise at how vividly I remember everything leading up to the beginning of my little one's life. I remember that the night before she was born was a Sunday night and we ate take out chinese food, Pings, for dinner. I had hot and sour soup and crab angles. The day had been cool outside and the wind was blowing all day with the most beautiful blue autumn sky. I remember that, earlier in the day, we had purchased a huge maroon mum to put on the front porch so that when we got home from the hospital Clare would come home to fresh flowers (my not-so-secret little indulgence in life). I remember how meticulously I walked through her nursery to make sure everything was in its place, not knowing if I was bringing home a little boy named David or a little girl named Clare. How I straightened the sheets, checked the monitor, laid out necessaries and somehow believed I was prepared for what was about to happen to me. I remember packing my hospital bag and choosing the shirt and pants I would wear home and the robe and pajamas that I thought I would wear in the hospital. I remember the uneventful little onesie I picked out for her to wear home, not knowing how little she would be and unable to wear even the smallest article of clothing that I had purchased. I remember wanting to go to bed as soon as possible so that it would be morning faster. I remember calling my mother in the darkness of the morning and telling her I loved her and hearing the tears in her voice because she might not make it to the hospital in time to give me a kiss and tell me she loved me by saying, "I'm not going to be able to give my baby a kiss before she has her baby." I remember the morning at the hospital and the excited anticipation I felt at meeting my new little one. How Mason and I laughed and laughed and smiled and couldn't wait to get our suite, and how scared I was because I knew giving birth would be hard, but how much more scared I was for my baby because he or she should would be alone for a little while and unaware of what was going on. At least I had people around me and I knew what was about to happen, she didn't. I remember the terror I felt when the heart rate monitor stopped registering her heart beat and the quick response of the birthing team around me to remind her that she was almost here and to hang on. I remember her safe arrival at 10:58 in the morning and how I had to ask if I had a boy or a girl because no one thought to tell me when it all happened so quickly. I remember almost every detail, not because I mean to, but because those moments are now a part of my blood and bones...she is as much a part of me as I am of her. Anyway, so I remember, and I tell her because she lights up with joy when I tell her the story of her first birthday. I skip a few details, but I get the major ones and she giggles and makes me repeat how daddy told everyone in the waiting room and how we wouldn't let her go into the nursery and kept her in the room with us. She thinks it's so very funny that we woke her up all night that first night because she was so quiet and we just wanted to make sure she was alive; How we would listen to her little sleeping breaths and squeaks and think we would never forget them. One day a year I get to relive the best day of my life and celebrate her!

Of course, the fourth birthday was perfect. She woke up a "big girl" and never stopped until she went to sleep. We got lots of pictures. She got lots of presents. Everyone came to be a part. We were all exhausted when it was over and went to bed happy. Sounds just like a Birth day.

Who are you and where am I?

2010-09-13T03:10:00.000-07:00

I heard this yesterday and I left the area (maybe a little too quickly): "You know, George Bush wasn't really a bad president. In fact, I miss him." I kind of choked on a grape when I heard it mid step. Maybe I almost fell down to get out of a conversation I hadn't yet entered. Maybe it was a little noticeable that I was walking toward these people and smiling and suddenly veered left into a wall. Not that I am disagreeable or anything, but I assumed no one really would want to hear what I have to say on that subject. The scary thing? Every headed bobbed up and down in agreement. I am now very aware that I might be from another planet.

Dear God,

Why didn't you just make me like everyone else?
I think you accidentally used broken pieces when you
made me. Oh, and while I'm at it, there are a few other
problems with this model. Are there any recalls on
that I am just not aware of ?
Love,
Me

2010-09-09T15:47:00.000-07:00

wandering in the cage

languid conjecture during hours of moil, trapped in the shadows

of the father.

sidewalks outside of cafes are lonely

through the day.

my cat looks at me and is not sure what I am and

I look back and am pleased to feel

the same

about him...

reading 2 issues of a famous magazine of 40 years

ago, the writing that I felt was bad then,

I still feel

that way

and none of the writers have lasted.

sometimes there is a strange justice

working

somewhere.

sometimes

not...

grammar school was the first awakening of a long hell

to come:

meeting other beings as horrible as my

parents.

something I never thought

possible...

when I won the medal for Manual of Arms in the

R.O.T.C.

I wasn't interested in

winning.

I wasn't much interested in anything, even the

girls seemed a bad game

to chase: all too much for all too

little

at night before sleeping I often considered what I

would do, what I would be:

bank robber, drunk, beggar, idiot, common

laborer.

I settled on idiot and common laborer, it

seemed more comfortable than any of the

alternatives...

the best thing about near-starvation and hunger is

that when you finally

eat

it is such a beautiful and delicious and

magical thing.

people who eat 3 meals a day throughout life

have never really

tasted

food...

people are strange: they are constantly angered by

trivial things,

but on a major mater

totally wasting their lives,

they hardly seem to

notice...

on writers: I found out that most of them

swam together.

there were schools, establishments,

theories.

groups gathered and fought each

other.

there was literary politics.

there was game-playing and

bitterness.

I always thought writing was a

solitary profession.

still do...

animals never worry about

Heaven or Hell.

neither do

maybe that's why

get along...

when lonely people come around

I soon can understand why

other people leave them

alone.

and that which would be a

blessing to

is a horror to

them...

poor poor Celine.

he only wrote one book.

forget the others.

but what a book it was:

Voyage au bout de la nuit.

it took everything out of

him.

it left him a hopscotch

odd-ball

skittering through the

fog of

eventuality...

the United States is a very strange

place: it reached its apex in

1970

and since then

for every year

it has regressed

3 years,

until now

in 1989

it is 1930

in the way of

doing things.

you don't have to go to the movies

to see a horror

show.

there is a madhouse near the post office

where I mail my works

out.

I never park in front of the post office,

I park in front of the madhouse

and walk down.

I walk past the madhouse.

some of the lesser mad are allowed

out on the porch.

they sit like

pigeons.

I feel a brotherhood with

them.

but I don't sit with them.

I walk down and drop my works

in the first class slot.

I am supposed to know what I am

doing.

I walk back, look at them and

don't look at

them.

I get in my car and drive

off.

I am allowed to drive a

car.

I drive it all the way back to my

house.

I drive my car up the driveway,

thinking,

what am I doing?

I get out of my car

and one of my 5 cats walks up to

me, he is a very fine

fellow.

I reach down and touch

him.

then I feel all right.

I am exactly what I am supposed to

be.

--Charles Bukowski

Better the Devil You Know

2010-09-02T21:27:00.001-07:00

What is it that keeps us from our dreams and cements us to the ground like stationary fence posts?

Live your way into the answer

2010-08-26T15:35:00.001-07:00

show details 2:12 PM (3 hours ago)

I would like to beg you, dear Sir, as well as I can, to have patience with everything unresolved in your heart and to try to love the questions themselves as if they were locked rooms or books written in a very foreign language. Don't search for the answers, which could not be given to you now, because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps then, someday far in the future, you will gradually, without even noticing it, live your way into the answer.

--Rainer Maria Rilke (René Karl Wilhelm Johann Josef Maria Rilke)

--Letters to a Young Poet (Letter Four) Written in Worpswede, Germany on 16 July, 1903

Won’t you be my neighbor (or Facebook Friend?)

2010-08-20T08:25:00.000-07:00

For years I have rejected the idea of social networking on the internet through Facebook. It seemed desperate and insidious to me. I did not need pretend friends, I had real ones. Honestly, I’m not sure why I thought this way; I guess (I admit) I can be an ass sometimes. But I had a million excuses for why Facebooking was not for me. Of course, each excuse was one of my standard ‘never’ statements. If you ever hear me utter the words, “I will never…,” then start looking for it because it’s happening at some point. I will wring my hands and pretend that I ultimately didn’t see it coming, but I know as soon as the word flutters out of my mouth what is going to happen. It’s as if I have little jinxing fairies listening to me that are determined to make sure I never say never.

This past weekend, I signed up for Facebook. I see what makes it so much fun and appealing. In less than a week, I have ‘reconnected’ with lost high school friends, found out that my best friend from high school is also going to be spending Thanksgiving in NYC for the Macy’s Day Parade this year (SO ARE WE! Isn’t that wonderfully ironic and strange?), communicated with other friends daily that I usually only see once or twice a week, posted pictures of my itty bitty so others can see her and coo over her, and gotten great advice on how to grow basil since I can’t seem to get it right no matter what I do (seriously, how do you kill basil. Herbs are dummy proof). I called my mom last night all excited and told her she had to sign up for this. It was a must, must, must – she would have so much fun, etc. (I realized the absurdity of the moment while living it, don’t worry.)

There are some odd things about it that I don’t get. It is addicting. I do check it much more often than I am proud to admit. Also, I’ve changed my profile picture already because I guess that’s what people do on Facebook. I have received invitations to events that I would not have otherwise known about, remembered birthdays that I would have forgotten, and I have learned a lot about the youth we interact with each week. All in all, it was a success. Now if I could redirect my effort and harness the time to get my book written and learn how to speak Spanish, then I would be well rounded and useful to society. Until then, I’ll see you on Facebook!

2010-08-12T11:00:00.000-07:00

A new 'Hello Kitty' book bag sits on the back of a chair in my dining room. The bag isn't small and cute or meant to hold a toy or teddy bear for show. It is a standard sized bag and meant to hold folders and art work and letters and words that Clare is learning to read in school. The thing swallows her, but it fits her too. She put it on and I smiled and cheered and we all hugged. It was perfect. However, a knife pierced my stomach the moment I realized that piece of vinyl and mesh fit her little body. Our ladybug isn't a baby anymore. She's a little girl with the dream of a life that is all her own. Writing that makes me kind of weepy. I don't want to stop her, you know? Maybe I just wish I had had more time with her before the book bag fit...

Chew On This

2010-08-09T05:34:00.000-07:00

"Growing up in church, we were taught that Jesus was the answer to all of our problems. We were taught that there was a circle-shaped hole in our heart and that we had tried to fill it with the square pegs of sex, drugs, and rock and roll; but only the circle peg of Jesus could fill our hole. I became a Christian based, in part, on this promise, but the hole never really went away. To be sure, I like Jesus, and I still follow him, but the idea that Jesus will make everything better is a lie. It's basically biblical theology translated into the language of infomercials. The truth is, the apostles never really promise Jesus is going to make everything better here on earth. Can you imagine an infomercial with Paul, testifying to the amazing product of Jesus, saying that he once had power and authority, and since he tried Jesus he's been moved from prison to prison, beaten, and routinely bitten by snakes? I don't think many people would be buying that product. Peter Couldn't do any better. He was crucified upside down, by some reports. Stephen was stoned outside the city gates. John, supposedly, was boiled in oil. It's hard to imagine how a religion steeped in so much pain and sacrifice turned into a promise for earthly euphoria. I think Jesus can make things better, but I don't think he is going to make things perfect. Not here, and not now.

What I love about the true gospel of Jesus, though, is that it offers hope. Paul has hope our souls will be made complete. It will happen in heaven, where there will be a wedding and a feast. I wonder if that's why so many happy stories end in wedding and feasts. Paul says Jesus is the hope that will not disappoint. I find that comforting."

Donald Miller

(A Million Miles in a Thousand Years: Chapter Titled, "The Reason God Hasn't Fixed You Yet.")

While waiting

2010-07-29T18:26:00.001-07:00

We sat side-by-side on the warm concrete beside the water's edge. The sky above melted into the colors of night, fading from brilliant blue to the deepest red; the breath of summer hung in the air. We waited silently, alone, hoping to hear the deep bellowing of the bullfrogs hiding in the cattails. At first, we heard nothing. We watched the darkening sky and saw the haphazard flying of the bats chasing invisible insects; sometimes they dipped too close to us, and we covered out heads instinctively. She looked at me with her wide-eyes and whispered enthusiastically about what she saw, and I slowly raised my finger to my smiling lips. She smiled and crawled into my lap. We waited in connected silence, hearing only the throb of cicadas. After awhile, we heard a single trill of a tree frog across the pond. She pointed. Then there was another to our right, then another behind us. Suddenly a symphony of frogs echoed through the trees; the high pitched conversation swirled through my head and made me close my eyes. I took a deep breath and hugged her tightly. As quickly as the song started, it came to an end and we sat in silence again. The warm breeze pushed our hair into our faces and made us laugh. Still we waited, trying to be as quiet as possible. We watched a spider suspended in the air between two trees. Then saw another larger spider and studied it before we heard a single rrraaoowwnn rrraaoowwn rraaoowwnn coming from the tiny pool of water in front of us. Our eyes shifted from the spiders and strained to see any movement in the overgrown reeds. Nothing. One more time we heard the single bass call of the bullfrog. Its bellow combined with the trill of tree frogs and beating wings of cicadas in the dark, and created a confusing summer fugue of beautiful sound and unearthly stillness. I stood and picked her up and carried her closely to my body. We moved through the shadows of sound, our noses touching, and smiled at the secret we shared.

Dear Mirror

2010-06-04T06:24:00.000-07:00

You shifted and I see myself clearly.

The whole truth and nothing but the truth

2010-05-28T11:25:00.000-07:00

I was called out on my fluff piece. I think the comment was, “I certainly thought you would write something better after being gone for so long.” (Better here obviously meaning more "lael" – whatever that means). To the person who said it to me, I accept your challenge. Here is the truth.

The first truth is I just wrote that story because I knew I hadn’t written anything in a long time and people (a lot more than I thought would care) were complaining. It would have been better suited for Clare’s journal that I keep. I filed it in the wrong place. Chickmunk is really cute, seriously, you know you smiled.

The second truth is that I have been very nervous about posting anything but fluff here because Mason and I work with the youth now, and I don’t feel like getting in trouble because of my opinions or my words. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m kind of opinionated and bitchy some (a lot of) times. I also pepper my writing with questionable opinions and words. They live in my head; I just haven’t been letting them out. These are all really charming qualities once you get to know me, or not. A side note to my second truth is that I don’t really care if you think I’m charming or not; You get what you see.

The third truth is a few people have found my blog who I really don’t want reading my stuff. For a few months, I have considered closing this blog and getting a new one, but the somewhat bitchy side of me finally said, “Nuh-uh, no way. This is my place, you leave…not me.” If you’re reading my blog and I haven’t talked to you in oh say, seven years or more…quit... you’re not invited to my little party. You want to keep up with me, then you should call me or email me. If you don’t know how to get in touch with me, comment and ask. If you don’t want to get in touch with me to get reacquainted, you are definitely one of the “who” I am referring to. Strangers, please continue to read at will , this isn’t directed at you.

The fourth truth is that I am a disaster when I write. My grammar is questionable. My verb tense is off most of the time. My punctuation is thrown in there with very little understanding as to what I am doing. My sentence structure is convoluted. My thoughts are scattered. I love it. It’s so me. No judging allowed. I’m smart, real smart. You would never really know that by looking at what and how I write. If you want to test how smart you are verses how smart I am, we can arm wrestle. (revisted - see...look at how I spelled 'verses'. It's wrong and I didn't know until someone told me. You know what, it stays...my blog, my rules, my wrong. Also, I'm not really that strong)

So there you go. I needed to eject six months of I’m not sure what I can post here anymore. I feel less like writing fluff and more like being me; I’m sure you’re all relieved. I know I am. Part of me is now trying to maintain a little more balance between opinionated and bitchy and wise and gentle. Don’t fear. I’m still awful. I’m still opinionated. I’m still bitchy. I was born this way. Ask my mother, she’ll be delighted to tell you exactly what part of my body came into the world first and what I did to everyone around me. The story fits my personality, even to this day. (hugs mom)

Until next time, remember you probably are the armpit of God...and...you are going to have to find a way to be ok with that. Besides, where would the arm be without the armpit? It would be a disaster. I mean, we don’t have knee pits or elbow pits or leg pits; Think about it.

Chickmunks

2010-05-27T05:00:00.000-07:00

Sugar, our loyal but sadistic black and white cat, brings us death presents at an alarming rate. He is such an active killer that it is nothing uncommon for our three year old to go into the garage to see multiple half eaten or mangled moles or chipmunks and calmly tell me, “Mommie…there is another of Sugar’s dead things out here.” Not only is her demeanor calm, but I am also so desensitized to the gore that I, too, calmly walk over to the creature to confirm that it is dead, pick it up by the least chewed limb, and toss into the neighbor’s overgrown yard. If there isn’t a limb left to grab, I will then try to find some other object to scrape it onto in order to toss it into the neighbor’s overgrown yard. Week after week this takes place. It is a running joke among our family and friends that archaeologists may one day excavate our poor neighbor’s yard and assume that it was a horrific killing ground for small rodents, which must have been the result of some religious ritual among the native inhabitants. (Why rodents would be a religious symbol is beyond me, but I imagine it will end up resulting in a cult like explanation for who we were and the rodents will definitely have been representative of some god of fertility)...I digress.

Anyway last week, as Clare and I are leaving for the morning, Sugar runs into the garage with a still-alive-but-soon-to-be-dead-thing (a.k.a. Chipmunk). I wish I could say that this was unusual, but even this is normal. It is literally a game of cat-and-chipmunk, and we calmly step out of his way and of the doomed chipmunk and continue on as if nothing is happening. I do happen to notice as we walk to the driveway that they both run underneath my car (great). I open the door, and briefly think, “I really hope that chipmunk doesn’t run across my foot or jump into the vehicle when I open the door. “ About the same time, I look on the ground and notice that the chipmunk is peeking out from behind the back wheel, watching us. His tiny little head is the only thing we can see and he is breathing heavily. His little eyes plead with us for help. I look away knowing that if it’s not today, then it’ll be tomorrow. Not my Clare, she leans in closer to get a good look at him. The chipmunk is so terrified of what is behind him, Sugar, that he is willing to let the bigger and less toothy thing inch nearer. Clare keeps getting closer and closer to look at it, while the chipmunk remains paralyzed behind the wheel of the car. It is a quiet moment. Finally, she stands up and declares in a rather dignified manner, “Mommie the chickmunk is cute. Tell Sugar not to kill him.” (chickmunk…I know…awww, how precious). “Of course,” I tell her. She had given the empress's’s thumbs up. It would live. From there, she hopped into the backseat with a satisfied smile, the chipmunk ran back under the car, and I buckled her in, knowing that my foot was entirely too close a terrified chipmunk and merciless cat “playing” chase. Thankfully, nothing crawled over my foot or jumped into the car, and Sugar and the chipmunk ran into the yard once I started the car. It was at this point that I heard a little voice and looked in the mirror to see Clare’s wheels turning as she asked, “Actually, what is Sugar doing Mommie? I told you to tell him he couldn't kill the chickmunk” As I backed out of the driveway, I reminded her that Sugar was just playing chase with the silly chipmunk and they were both having a great time. Then I silently prayed, “Dear God, please don’t let that chickmunk be mangled in the garage when she gets home today. Amen.” My neighbor thinks I can talk to my cat too, but that is a story for another day.

How Did the Water In The Toilet Turn Black

2010-02-19T11:01:00.001-08:00

(Mason's mom, Nana, sent this to me and it was so funny that I had to share it just exactly as she had written it - Lael)

We are very blessed to live in the same town as our granddaughter. We are also blessed that we get to keep her often and she loves coming to our house to stay with Nana and Papa. And she is blessed to have a Mother and Father who absolutely adore her and are raising her to love, laugh, and create. She is a true wonder and as her mother always says, “She is so Perfect.”

Yesterday was a school holiday and I got to keep Clare at home with me. She is now a little over three years old, has a mind which is sharp as a tack, is very humorous, and just loves life. When she stays at our house we follow the same discipline rules as her Mom and Dad so that there is consistency in her training. She definitely has a mind of her own, and sometimes is very hard-headed. This leads me to the story of the day about how the toilet water turned black.

I paint on canvas and my studio is in our master bedroom. Clare to loves to paint and I have tried to let her know she paints in the kitchen and Nana paints in her room. However, due to her adding her own little touch to a canvass in progress on a day I left my brushes out, I have learned to put as much away as possible when she comes to stay.

Our day together, when school was out, was perfect. Other than she did not take a nap, the day could not have been more fun. When my husband came home for work I needed to leave for about 2 hours. Now Ken, Papa, sometimes gets in his own world and often needs to take work related calls at all hours. So when I called home to check on things, he said, "Clare changed her clothes." I told him that was fine for she likes going in her overnight bag and trying on clothes. I called later and he said, I wouldn’t let her take a bath before dinner and Clare told me Nana was going to be really mad at him. We laughed and I began the drive toward home.

While I was fixing her dinner Ken came in the kitchen and said: “Do you know why the toilet water is black.” I was so busy I just said “No” and focused on dinner. After dinner we took our bubble bath and then put on a movie for her to watch. I went in the bedroom, where my studio is located, and started to get the bed ready for her. Suddenly I looked at the table and saw a bottle of black paint. I then saw my current painting in progress, and saw the black paint on the canvas. Upon further inspection, she had found a small flower pot, put it on my iron table, poured the black paint into the flower pot, which directly fell through the hole in the bottom to the floor. And somewhere she had found a paint brush. It was all coming together now.

While Ken was in his zone, she had time to plan out what she was going to do, how she was going to do it, and then smart enough to obviously clean up in the toilet which would be the only water she could reach. She then changed her clothes and acted as nothing had happened. But where were the clothes she had taken off. This bothered me as I could not find them…..Until, thinking on her level I looked under the bed. Sure enough there was the pink dress, panties, socks, all under the bed. Little Black Hand prints were on the dress, and the panties; well obviously she had used those as a towel.

Now, did I ask her about this? No, and I will tell you why. It was all Papa’s fault. He did not follow the carnal rule: Never, ever, let her out of your sight for more than ONE MINUTE.

So by the time I put her to bed I had solved the mystery of the Black Water In the Toilet Bowl. Just to see what she would say when I picked her up and put her in the bed, I walked over to the painting and looked at it with my back turned to her. As I turned she was watching me carefully, her eyes wide. I turned and just looked at her. And slowly a tight lipped smile began to tentatively form on her face. I gave her a small smile back and she knew I knew and yes, we will talk about this again! But for that night, it was just enough that she knew and for me the mystery was solved.

Minutia

2010-02-11T15:52:00.000-08:00

I run with a friend of mine, Glenn, three days a week. Over the last couple of months, we have settled into a routine that we will maintain throughout our training together. He has his water bottle. I keep my hands free by tethering my key to my finger with a pony tail holder. I run to the right of him going out and coming back, farthest from the road if not on a trail, closest to the grass when on a trail. He runs to my left, nearest the road, inside the trail and takes the brunt of any cars, runners, cyclists, or dogs coming the other direction or up from behind us. He shields me from having to do anything except talk (a lot) and run. Because I am able run without much defensive movement, I am also able to look around. Usually our conversations wander through a variety of subjects, and often I will interrupt to point out some small detail that I observe: extremely blue birds flying around, hawks screeching overhead, rock formations, the pace of the creek, the way the grass bounces when we run downhill, the smells in the air, geese flying over us (or at us?), cloud formations, blue trucks on overpasses, temperature changes, shorts that are too short, anything that catches my attention along our miles together. He always obliges my conversational whims. Yesterday was no exception. We decided on a six thirty in the morning start time in the freezing weather in order to prepare for our upcoming race. Though it was early, cold, very windy, and I had not yet had my coffee, I still looked around through my glassy eyes to point out the little details. I pointed out the ice flows in the creek breaking off of the banks, the trash that I thought was more ice that ended up being Styrofoam (he made fun of me for this one, but at six thirty in the morning when you’re blind from a cold wind blowing in your face Styrofoam looks like ice), the way the grass cracked beneath the weight of my body because it was frozen, and the brisk wind that we ran against. Our breath hung in front of us with every word. After more than three miles of my chattering and our running, we turned around to retrace our steps. He sounded off the time it had taken us to get to the turnaround point and I knew we had been running slowly because of me – slow out, fast back. Once I heard the time, I looked down and picked up the pace. I always notice more before we turn around. When I know I am half way through any run, my mind becomes a little less interested in my surroundings and more focused on form. I look down more at the trail lines and clear my mind of anything so I can think about my breathing, in and out, and the pace of my footsteps sound more like a metronome. I have always assumed that Glenn did the same thing. I found on this particular run that he does not. He is still looking up at the trail and paying attention to what is in front of him. For a few minutes after turning around, we did not talk much; we ran to make up time. The next thing I knew, Glenn pushed me over into the grass and yelled “watch out!” I looked up to see a white utility truck coming quickly around a blind curve on the trail, which is only as broad as four bodies set shoulder to shoulder. I thought it was odd and dangerous for a truck to be there, but it was worse because it was moving quickly. We regrouped, and laughed about our treacherous run, how I notice all the little things, but not the big white truck driving toward us. As we laughed, I pointed out where the truck entered the trail and the mud he tracked on to it, and this made us laugh more. I told him I was going to make up some elaborate story about how he saved me from certain death and had earned a hero’s welcome, how he pushed me out of harm’s way so that he would sustain the injuries and I would run another day. For the rest of the hour we added to this story and chuckled about my attention to details (albeit insignificant ones), and the big white truck that almost ran over us. The truth is he kept me from getting hurt. If I had been alone, I wouldn’t have seen the truck until it ran into me – I know that. We pushed ourselves the last couple of miles and in the end we had smiles on our bright red faces and made up all of our time. Another success, we lived to see another freezing cold morning! During our post-run stretch, I looked up at a leafless tree right next to us. The sky was still grey, the building grey, but this bare tree was full of bright yellow birds. They were watching us with their heads cocked to the side like we were the bizarre things on the ground. I pointed and he looked up, tired, and laughed. We discussed whether they were yellow finches and how much more fun it is to get outside even on cold, gray days and see fun things like bright yellow birds. As I watched the birds in that tree, I realized how great it is to have a friend that watches out for the big things so that I can look around at life’s little details.

Thanks Glenn! (It's not quite the hero story we discussed, but I mentioned that I reserved the right to change it at any point.)

p.s. shhhh – it’s a new year so I’m restating my running goals. Glenn and I may be training for a half marathon this fall. He is a bit of a task master though. If I can bear his fits over my insufficient and intermittent training schedule we might get a t-shirt and a sticker. If not, he’ll end up in that creek I run past three times a week. I tried to train by myself last year and it didn’t work. I hope he doesn't end up in the creek. I don’t like running alone.

Plucking fruit from trees

2010-01-24T17:38:00.000-08:00

When I lived in Mobile, I lived in the historic Midtown area and I had this beautiful Live Oak in my backyard. I remember when I first pulled up to that house that I was absolutely captivated by that tree. I think I stood and stared at it for ten minutes before walking up to my front porch. It was just the most beautiful living thing I had ever seen. I cannot fully explain what I felt, but I was immediately in love with this huge, strong, and beautiful tree in my yard. I still am to this day. For me, it embodied characteristics of a strong and wise woman, who had seen centuries pass in this lively area, and as a result, she had absorbed the laughter and revelry as part of the thickness of her bark. She had these enormous branches, the size of large trees themselves, and those branches reached out over my house, over the brilliant fuchsia azaleas, and straight up into the bluest skies. They provided a tremendous amount of shade and beauty everywhere I looked. It wasn't overbearing; it was a welcome addition. The most amazing thing was that, even though the shade was everywhere, I could still feel the warmth of the sun beaming through her branches and leaves. There was not darkness; she never kept me from seeing the sky, other parts of my yard or my house, the rest of my neighborhood, or the animals that lived within her foliage. My view was never obstructed; she was just a part of it. Once I got to know my neighbors, I learned a little more about her. One of the many stories I was told was that she was rumored to have been at least 300 years old and one of the oldest trees in the city. In the decade prior, she had been covered with Spanish moss, but Hurricane Georges had blown through Mobile and taken all of the moss in Midtown with it. Now, she was bare. I listened to their stories and looked out of their windows from across the street, where I could see her. I wondered what she would have looked like then, but the truth is it didn’t matter to me anyway. I felt pride and fell more in love every time someone mentioned her in conversation. My happiness came from that tree being alive and doing what it was created to do. It was simple. I always took people to the backyard first to show her off before I took them into my home. She was the most beautiful; the rest of the house was just an accessory for her. From the beginning, I found comfort being near the trunk and in her branches. I would sit under the canopy of leaves and smoke my cigarettes and drink my drinks with friends, laughing loudly and wondering if she could hear us. The smoke would curl into her and hang above us. I hated that I poisoned the air on those nights, but I knew she would clean up after me and make it all new again. I don't know why, but she made me feel safe. I knew I could steady myself with her strength and hide in her when I needed to. On warm evenings, I would sit with my naked back on the trunk of the tree and watch the sun set. I would lean into the bend of the trunk and feel the warmth of the wood until it was dark and time for the roaches to take their turn with her. When I was utterly alone, I would sit beneath her and cry until I had cried all of my tears. Then I would lie on my back, exhausted, and look up at the sky through her branches with my head resting on her roots. Everything made more sense in that position. It was then that I would notice the collectors and flyers and buzzing things ‘be alive’ in those thick woody arms, and I would imagine I was invited to be a part of it as her guest . When I was near her, I knew no end to my comfort and peace. It was as if I knew I was supposed to be there and she did too. When I moved from that house, I cried as much for losing her as for leaving my life for something new. She was about the only beautiful thing I remember from my time spent living in Mobile, and I remember her often. That was happiness. It wasn’t happiness born out of having something, or needing or wanting something, and finally receiving it…it was just happiness found in her shade, and in my living within her world.

Bits and Pieces

2010-01-10T11:40:00.000-08:00

First.

Extreme happiness is a terrible emotion if you're interested in writing anything other than poetry about being extremely happy with whatever it is that is making you this happy. Everything sounds one dimensional and fluffy. I see fluffy clouds with beautiful birds in them that reflect the joy of the sun. The good news is that I now know a new word for extreme happiness, which is "felicity". The bad news is that it is also a television show from my post college years that really owns that word for me. Now my mind is a broken record, and all I can see is Felicity pining for Ben and then in the final season cutting off all of those curls and my thinking, "Oh my god. She cut her hair. I mean for real, she cut...her...hair...off..."

Second.

While I'm getting ready for church today, Clare tells me as I dry my hair that I am going to die and that the fire fighters are going to carry me out of the building. Wow, who says getting ready isn't fun? When I asked her why, she answered, "because." I guess that's as good as any other answer, but still kind of creepy. Of course, I started pressing for what cartoon she saw this on, or was this in a dream, or if she was upset about something, but she revealed nothing. Rattled, I tried to explain why we don't say things like this. Mostly I just frowned at her and tried to be serious as she stuck her bottom in the air. Weirdest 40 minutes of my life thus far, and some of the previous ones are hard to beat. Needless to say all joy drained from my body at that moment, and, in theory, I would have been able to write something meaningful had I had the nerve to turn and walk down the hall alone.

Third.

I would like to reiterate that I hate the cold weather. Maybe I should stop saying it makes me feel like I'm dying as Clare is obviously listening to me; however, the truth is that I feel like I'm dying when I'm cold. Really. Everyone is always cold when they're dying in the movies or on television so that must be why that thought is lodged deep in that thing I call a brain.

So for now, this is it. I will attempt to channel my extreme happiness into creativity as soon as I stop staring out the window and thinking about how happy I am, when I am going to die and be carried out by the firemen (is this why I am happy?), and begging God for warmer weather so that I don't die this happy and get carried off by said firemen while it's cold.

Clear and Resonating

2010-01-02T13:12:00.000-08:00

"I had been my whole life a bell, and never knew it until at that moment I was lifted and struck." -Annie Dillard

What do you do on the day you are struck and discover that you are a bell that should ring, and not the steady ticking clock you've always believed you were? It is a heavy weight when understanding for the first time that you, and only you, have stopped your music and instead preferred to function in some manner to which you were never fashioned to perform. It is an even greater freedom to understand that you are no longer bound by your misperception. I am experiencing both this weight and this freedom. An entire lifetime of seeking to recognize a familiar face in the mirror came to an end when I discovered I was looking at a picture, not in a mirror, when a wandering afternoon light hit the glass at a previously unknown angle. In that breath, the clock stopped ticking as if it had never been. Suddenly I saw the stiff little bell that was me. I was covered in cracks and dents from days gone by, but I saw myself and I smiled with the recognition. I no longer felt my features and noticed how they differed from the reflection. The idea and reality were now in agreement. I cautiously moved and with that movement I heard the sound that I hadn't known was there. I listened through the last wave into the silence and immediately wanted more. I delighted in the knowledge that I would prefer to ring out with varied tone, and realized that the perfectly measured tick had only ever sounded because I had allowed myself to be held still...paralyzed...but no more.

What do you get the family who needs everything?

2009-12-25T11:50:00.001-08:00

How about a giant, maroon rug with scrolling black and yellow flowers for our living room, where I sit every single morning and night and stare at the one that I have and that I like. Did I mention our living room is filled with cream, orange and red tones? No? Well it is! Nothing else in the room matched our "gift". I was stunned and really didn't know what to say. I shook my head up and down and smiled broadly with my hand on my cheek.

Uh, yeah, I now realize you don't like the way I've decorated my house.

I tried to be a good sport and put on a giant smile. I said, 'THANK YOU,' then immediately went into the kitchen and started washing breakfast dishes, the counters, the floor, the toaster oven, my finger nails, anything else that I could clean...anything not to be in the room with the rug so I didn't have to lie. I felt awful for my lack of gratitude. I just didn't know what to do. How am I going to tell Mason? Should I tell him now or just wait? Should I just buy a new chair and change the color scheme of the room and keep my mouth shut? All of these things ran through my mind. Mason saved me. He didn't like it either. I could have cried at the relief I felt when he admitted that to me. Oh, thank you Jesus! We still didn't know what to do, but I knew it wasn't staying in the living room now and that allowed me to breath a little. As soon as we saw them pull out toward the main road it was up and in the guest bedroom until we could figure out what to do. Everything was back to normal...sort of.

I didn't think I would ever long for socks and oranges on Christmas. That day has finally come. Merry Christmas everyone, and I wish you all a day filled with socks and oranges!

Must add a post script: The family handled this well. Mason told them the truth and they, always the fabulous family that they are, were super about it!

The Spider and the Fly

2009-12-23T05:13:00.000-08:00

There we were, the three of us, getting ready in our bathroom. I was in my usual spot to the right, Mason stood to the left, and Clare sat on the sink. We are a small family of three, but we are loud, constantly talking over one another without care as to what is being said. Playful chattering. We're like baby birds with full bellies in a nest vying for another dangling worm. On this morning, we chirped and preened in the mirror together.

talking, hair dryers, running water, electric tooth brushes, tapping toes, clapping hands, humming, singing, laughing

In all of this noise, I heard the faintest little voice coming from Clare. I did not notice what she was saying at first, as much as I noticed how quiet it was. Her face looked at a toy in her lap and she was repeating the word over and over. I stopped and leaned in to listen. “Damnit, Damnit, Damnit, Damnit, Damnit, Damnit, Damnit, Damnit, Damnit.” I recoiled and looked at her in the mirror without saying anything. She looked at me and smiled. It was a cunning look. The game had begun. I instantly asked her to repeat what she had been saying so quietly the moment before. Of course I had heard her, but Mason had not. He wasn't convinced. She continued with that irreverent smile and boldly said, “C-a-n-d-y,” at the same time she arched her eyebrows at me (daring me). I looked at Mason. We didn’t say a word. She had lied…to me…on purpose! I collected myself, looked straight at her as unaffected as I could, and told her that I knew she had definitely not said the word 'candy'. I told her she needed to tell me what she said. She refused. When backed into a corner she’s formidable, so I gave her room, and this empty game continued. “Clare, I know you did not say ‘candy’. Now you’re not going to get in trouble, but I need to know what word you were saying.” Her face soften and showed signs of giving in. I pressed on with less interest and more intensity. I wanted her to want tell me the truth. I’m not sure why I cared, but I needed it from her. Honestly, I don’t care if she lies. People lie. It’s part of human nature. I only care that she be able to tell the truth when the time is right.

“You know Clare, we’re Boyds and Boyds tell the truth. You know that right?”

Of course, this was a lie that she’ll figure out one day just like Santa Claus isn’t real…but that is another story. I tried to look at her with as little expression on my face as possible. She was reading me. Our game went on as I tried to pry the truth out of her with my under emphasized words. She tried (harder) to decide if I was worthy of the truth. My patience was wearing thin. She continued to refuse me, looking for cracks.

I once prayed for patience. I mistakenly thought that I would become patient overnight by some miracle. I didn’t realize that God has a wonderful sense of humor.

Finally, as I half pleaded with her to tell me the truth, she repeated the word, “Damnit!”
I squealed, hugged her, and kissed her face. I was proud of her, not only because she told the truth, but for the reason she told the truth. She did so when she was certain it was safe. It is a survival skill to be able to interpret someone’s intent. I think Mason was horrified. I’m not really sure. He shook his head as he walked out of the bathroom. Then it was just the two of us and we laughed. She is mine and I am hers.

Away in a Manger

2009-12-15T21:32:00.000-08:00

Clare’s Christmas play was at church last Sunday night, and the scene was perfect. There were trees, a manger, stars, warm lights and lots of shuffling parents trying to get into a premium position to film their little ones. I positioned myself on the front row and elbowed my way in for a good view so I could video the whole thing. I was not giving up my spot just because she didn’t have a speaking part…no, no, no. It was my Clare and this was her first! I knew her group would begin the show since they’re the youngest so I listened and waited for their arrival. The audience chatter grew silent and I heard little ringing bells coming down the hallway with clip-clopping shoes and tiny whispering voices. I saw the first little head peek through the door, and instantly clicked the camera on record. First Noah, then Anna, then Graham, then…there she was. She looked perfect and she had the biggest smile on her perfect little face! I trained the camera on her and just watched for her to be cute. She did not disappoint me. Once she saw us watching her, she started waving and playing coy with the camera. I got it all and quietly laughed so that I didn’t interrupt the filming. I was careful to catch her every movement while singing Jingle Bells, all of the ringing, dancing, waving and smiling. They were all so happy, so excited to be up there in front of us. So proud of what they were doing. I filmed her with short visions of the entire group, but mostly I trained the camera on her because I never wanted to forget how precious she was at that very moment. Next they sang Away in a Manger, which might have been cuter than Jingle Bells. They all put their arms in position to hold imaginary babies and began swaying them as they sang…away in a manger, no crib for a bed…next they gently put the palms of their hands together and laid them on their shoulders and swayed pretending to sleep…the little lord Jesus lay down his sweet head…arms and hands up and fingers flickering…the stars in the sky look down where he lay…arms gently swing down and one hand points to the ground…the little lord Jesus asleep in the hay.
All the while, I sit as still as I can and watch through the camera lens anticipating how much fun it will be to show everyone.
Finally, they were handed little battery operated candles (yeah, this was cute, the program could have ended at this point because they were EXCITED). Jessica explained that this was the class favorite song and even though it wasn’t a “Christmas”, they were wanting to sing it because they knew ALL the words. The lyrics to This Little Light of Mine started quietly until one little boy decided it was time to turn up the volume and then they all sang at the top of their lungs and swung their lights all around them. All of them still so proud, no fear, no nervousness, just beaming pride. They raced off of the stages to clapping and open mommy and daddy arms. It was a success. I clicked the camera off and sighed. I had it forever.
When we finally got home that night, Mason went upstairs to load it onto YouTube and send it out to family and friends. A few minutes later he came back down and said, “Something happened, you didn’t film it. There are three seconds and then nothing.” I told him if he was joking it wasn’t funny. His face told me that he wasn’t joking. I asked him to check again. He assured me he had. I stood there looking at the floor trying to figure out what I had done and how to fix it. It’s silly, but every parent out there understands my loss at that moment. Oh sure, I’ll be able to get a copy of someone else’s video, but it won’t be of Clare. It won’t be her face when she’s singing. How she lifted her chin to sing with more happiness and louder. It won’t be her silly smiles trying to make us laugh…. her rocking baby, her little light, her laughter. It won’t be her running off the stage to me. She’ll be in it, but she won’t be the star of someone else’s video. That was what I was supposed to be doing. I know why I was disappointed though. It wasn’t really that I didn’t get the program on film. It’s more that I am beginning to realize that my notion that I will never forget any of these details is misguided. My memory is fickle and there wasn’t any detail of Sunday night that I was willing to trade in order to remember all of her that night. I wanted to keep everything just as it was. I know that I try to pull so many memories back now, and I can’t. One day this will be one of them, too. So I was quiet and trying to make every memory stick…forcing each into an already full box and trying to sit on the lid to close it so that nothing is lost.
I lost a few Mommy points on this one. I’ve got a second chance on Wednesday for her school Christmas program and I bet you I don’t mess up this one for any reason. I’ll walk in there with reinforcements if I have to! If I’ve done my job correctly this time, you’ll have that as my next blog.

Locked Door

2009-12-06T06:55:00.001-08:00

The steady rhythm within, unaware of its erosion, whispers your name.

Only bits of brass and wood separate me from you.
My thoughts are fixed, retracing your countenance,

weaving in and out of memory;

Fears master me and I lean down to glimpse into the void,

where shadows dodge the pale light.

There is no end to this night.

I reach and the cold metal slips easily between fingers,

yet there is only a stillness that patiently awaits your return.

Knock Knock. Who's there?

2009-12-02T04:14:00.000-08:00

I’ve missed all of my blog friends. I’ve missed y’all a lot actually, but I took a much needed break. You know how it is? Two years and a half years of sneak peeks into my life had taken a toll. Plus we’ve had so much going on, and truly I haven’t known where to start this latest entry. But, it’s like seeing a friend’s name come up on caller id and not answering because you know the call is going to take a little bit more time than you have at that moment…then it’s five years later and if you’d just answered it five years ago and taken that extra fifteen minutes then you wouldn’t have had so much to talk about after all. All of that to say, I’m just going to jump in and recap.

First, let me wrap up the trial from the last post. It was hard on me emotionally. We convicted him of Felony Murder because he actually committed the crime according to the evidence presented. Still, even knowing everything I know now, I still can’t help but think to myself that he was so young I’m not really sure he understood what it all meant – how taking a life isn’t really all that cool and going to adult man prison at 18 or 19 probably sucks worse than any degree of bad his out of prison life might have been. Seeing a mother grieve the loss of her only child and knowing the only joy that she’ll find in the future is that the person who did it might suffer too, well...that is hard as well. Selfishly I'm still mourning the loss of my innocence. I realize that sounds stupid, but at 33 there is so little innocence left, you know? I catch myself thinking about weighty matters that I have no control over and kind of grieving over them. It’s weird and I can’t really elaborate more than this. This is now a part of who I am.

Now, for something more fun.

Mason’s been hired as the new Youth Director at our church!

I know…I know, where did this come from? I don’t tell y’all everything…good grief. A girl has to have some secrets.

We’re working as a team with it, like we do everything in life. Mason works at the church, I organize Mason, and Clare comes along and interjects joy..joy..joy! It’s just what we do – Team Boyd. I wish I had two days to tell you everything, but I don’t. Here is the rundown. We started volunteering with the Youth in August and were scared because we had no idea what we were getting into, but we knew we wanted in. The first month was actually pretty brutal. We were right; we really didn’t know what we were doing, and the kids looked at us and interacted with us like we were aliens. Thank goodness everyone who was already involved (parents, preachers, volunteers) stood with us to help show us the way. The second month was less brutal. We were still right, we really didn’t know what we were doing, but we were getting the hang of it and we still had our amazing parents, preachers and volunteers (oh, don’t let me forget to mention our amazing kids…we finally knew all of their names by the beginning of month two - ha!). Also, we bought a book to help us figure out what to do! Ha! The third month was when we figured out we wanted to do this forever. I think it was one of our morning coffee sessions late in October when I first said to Mason, “if we’d had had a boy I would have wanted him to be like so-and-so, but so-and-so is so amazing and I hope Clare is like so-and-so” It suddenly clicked that in a way they were our children, too! All of these babies, they were a part of our life now too! What a honor. Of course they each had their own fabulous families, but they were now a part of our own family conversations. They were in our morning prayers. We missed the ones who didn’t show up on Wednesday or Sunday nights. We got excited about birthdays. We wanted to go to their events to be proud of them with their parents and families. We wanted to get to know them to find out what they liked and what they didn’t like – how to reach them. We wanted to talk to them and not talk at them. We wanted to find fun ways to get them to open up and feel safe with us. We wanted to equip them with biblical principles to help them weather the week’s storms. We feel personally responsible for teaching them to respect others and love others and share with others. WOW! It’s huge, it’s enormous, it’s humbling. It’s exactly what we do with Clare, and it comes from the same place.

We’re realistic though, we know Who is in charge and Who is leading this…all of this to God’s glory. So now we’re here. Yay! I wish I could see the reaction on some people’s faces when they find this out, I would get a good chuckle out of it. Dana, I’m a long way from those bright Sunday afternoon’s on the front porch honey. It’s good to see in my very own situation the ability God has to wash one’s soul clean and to refurbish a life.

There are other things, but you'll just have to wait for the next entry. This one is long enough. Let the blogging begin (again). It's certainly the right time for it!

Aside
I used to shy away from talking about God or church in my blog a whole lot because I didn’t want to run anyone off who might have been hurt in God’s name or hurt by the collective church or hurt by religion in general. I also didn’t want to be associated with the negative stigma of fundamentalist beliefs, which all people in church are labeled with it seems. My fear was that all of my lovely readers would be unable to separate me from that. I apologize to you in advance for this. Let me assure you that you can still come to my blog and expect to see many non-church things because I don’t live at church; however, you can also expect to see the veil lifted off of my absolute wonder and gratitude at God’s inner workings in my life because He lives in me and these kinds of things just pour out of me now. I understand that many people believe differently than I do and I will always try honor and respect that as best as I can. You have my words!

Fifth of Seven

2009-10-24T13:06:00.000-07:00

I’m writing to you from the comfort of my warm home. I’ve got my precious three year old daughter asleep in her bed taking a nap. It is cold outside and the sky is grey with cloud cover. The autumn trees are lighting my view with their sharp orange and yellow leaves. I catch myself staring out the windows looking for something that won’t be found out there – I’m looking for a way back to last Sunday, when I didn’t know what I now know and hadn’t seen what I’ve now seen or done what I’ve now done.

It’s been a long week

It started out annoyingly enough. I was summoned for Jury Duty, and I was to report on Monday, October 19th at 8:30. This was my second summons in three years. I wasn’t dreading it necessarily, but I wasn’t exactly excited about it either. The first time I served, I found out that I was pregnant with our daughter during that trial. This time I was introduced to Lane Smiley.

When they called our group of 52 people late in the afternoon on that Monday, I remember feeling a bit anxious. I looked around at the large group and wondered to myself, “why so many”? I know the answer to that question now. I remember the walk from the jury room to the courthouse and enjoying the feel of the downtown atmosphere. I like the noise. I like the sounds. I’m a city girl in my heart. Having made it through the juror security check in the Criminal Courthouse, we reached the elevator. Once we were all on the right floor, we lined up in the hall with both sides filled by people in single file position. I remember feeling slightly faint for some reason and taking deep breaths to keep myself from passing out. Finally, we were instructed to come forward by last name in groups of seven, and I entered this chapter of my life unremarkably as the fifth of seven.

I saw only two people at first: a grey haired, tall, and slender man and a petit woman with thick, long blonde hair and an otherwise beautiful face blemished by grief. They sat in the back row of the courtroom. I then looked into the room and saw five people watching us as we entered: a female judge, a 30 something blond haired man, a 30 something dark haired woman with smoky eyes, an extremely well dressed, middle-aged, African American man, and finally, a very young African American man with little expression on his face – he just looked tired. I immediately felt heavy inside. As a result of my name, I sat in the front row of the jury box from the very beginning. On the first day of juror selection I said only six things out loud: my name, where I lived, where I worked, what position at my job, my husband’s name and his occupation. The rest of the time I listened very carefully, sat very still, and watched everything. The next day I only answered one more question…turns out it was the right answer to the wrong question... that I knew absolutely nothing about guns, nothing. Time inched forward as we waited to be returned to the jury pool. Eventually the lawyers struck jurors off their lists in numeric codes and I watched their juror diagrams to see if I could determine if my location was crossed out. I couldn’t tell. When they were announcing the rules for those of us about to leave, I grabbed my purse expectantly and I waited for them to ask me to hand in my juror button. The judge gave orders for the people currently seated in the jury box to stand as she called the names. She did not call my name. I was not going home or back to the jury room. I was there to stay.

I…sat…stunned.

Fear gripped me and tears welled up in my eyes. I remember how cold I was at that moment - shaking. I willed myself not to be there. I knew immediately that I was not prepared for this, but there I was and there they were, and there we all were in this giant, tragic mess together, a turn of events set in motion almost two years prior to our meeting. Of course, by this time I knew it was a capital murder trial; I knew that the woman with the grief stained face was the mother of a boy who was dead; I knew that the young African American man was being charged with his death. The realities of all of my hypothetical discussions about violence, race and poverty were about to unfold right in front of my tear filled eyes. I cursed my luck, picked up my pad of paper and pencil, and prayed for Solomon’s wisdom. It was on Tuesday, October 20th, that I first heard Lane Smiley’s name and was introduced to him by race, height, weight, and finally date and manner of death. He was 21 years old on the day he died and the boy who had confessed to shooting him was only 18 when he did it.

How's Life?

2009-09-24T18:12:00.000-07:00

I’ve been stuck in this mental place for awhile. It’s not necessarily a bad place, but it’s a quiet, unfamiliar place. It’s hard when you can’t take anything at face value; when you keep looking at the zigzags of miniature black and white boxes, but you still don’t see the picture…but you know it is in there…you just know it!

I’ve started several posts about my daughter, who is about to turn another year older (please God let me tell you how this is breaking my heart). I have started several posts about life in general in an attempt to be funny (but really, how funny am I…seriously…). I’ve got a lot going on in my personal life that I can’t put into words (all good stuff). I’ve also got a lot of nothing that I want to write about too.

It’s mental constipation, and it feels as bad as it sounds.

you can all just thank your lucky stars that I settled on this as my picture representation

P.S. this little beauty lives on my desk and taunts me with her crooked, gaping mouth. It’s tantamount to office psychological warfare when I have a deadline.

Kudzu

2009-09-15T18:12:00.000-07:00

You either know what it is, or you do not. I cannot and will not explain its dual role in our world. I will note that it has an absolute strangle hold on The South, and when I look at it, I feel ambivalent because it is lush and green with long, purple flowers that dot the sea of leaves; however, it is a selfish killer. I think about kudzu a lot because it has ravaged the creek beds, and banks, and the accompanying hillsides that I run each week.

Today however, as I ran up to the entrance of the trail, I could not help but be overwhelmed by its beauty. It was everywhere. In fact, I was overwhelmed by its beautiful smell. The afternoon air was thick and warm and in it hung the most beautiful scent. It was so sweet and soft. I pulled hard on the air through my nose and allowed my head to swell with the contents of each breath. It was as I lifted my face to take these fat breaths that my eyes wondered to the swirling, clouded sky above me with its speckles of bright blue. The breeze that had been blowing over my body carried the noise of the flowers over me. This wind gifted me with a rare and full sense of touch to less mindful parts of my exposed skin. It was so delicate that my arms and legs and cheeks tingled. In my thoughts I joyfully prayed in unison with each foot striking the ground. I could hear leaves rustling, crickets rattling, birds madly chirping, swollen waters rushing past each lazy rock, and at moments...nothing. Each of my senses becoming more refined; each moment more unforgettable. My mind at rest, but my body at play in its movement and purpose. I felt wholly alive.

I am ever more grateful for this time...for the physical ability to run...and today, for the kudzu.

Hyperbole

2009-09-03T13:57:00.000-07:00

i will be ammending my original marathon post and substituting with the words half marathon

Silver and Gold

2009-09-01T13:11:00.000-07:00

I ran into my old friend, Karen, last night that I haven’t seen since she was in the hospital room with me the day after Clare was born. Her daughter was around Clare’s age now on that day. Since seeing her, I have been flooded with emotions ranging from happiness to sadness that I let all of this time slip away. I think her about all of the time and I really started wondering last night, “How in the world did three years pass and we just didn’t see each other? How does this happen in life?” This is a good person, someone I’ve laughed with, cried with, and played with. I was there when her first child, who is now in the 3rd grade, was born. He was the first baby I had ever held. She called me on her way into the hospital that night – I probably drove 100 m.p.h to get to the hospital on time because I had to drive 3 hours from Mobile to Montgomery and didn’t want to start my journey until morning. I gambled on her delivery time and won. Were it not for her, I might not have run back into Mason so many years ago here in Birmingham. She was in my wedding. She is the keeper of secrets that are old now, but not old enough that I have forgotten then. She is that kind of wonderful friend, not at all the kind you want to lose.

I suppose it happened gradually. The phone calls turned into emails, and the emails got further and further apart and just finally stopped because it’s just too hard to respond, or too easy to make excuses?

I hope I don't let that time get by me again. I don't think I will. I feel like I've been given a present!

I lost the battle, but I'm still fighting the war (with a limp)

2009-08-20T13:34:00.000-07:00

Sharing
This invaluable life lesson just smacked me in the face. I was drying my hair when I saw my precious daughter’s face round the corner.

I lit up, ‘Hey big girl, whatchadoin?’

She held up a cheap bracelet that I often wear to go out.

I asked with a bit of a puzzled expression, “Have you been in Mommy’s jewelry box?”

She shook her head up and down and says, “Yes.”

“Well, Clare, you really need to go and put that away, it’s Mommy’s and you’re not supposed to play in Mommy’s jewelry box.”

In a way only she can pull off, she looked right at me without any intention at all of putting that bracelet up. Without missing a beat she says, “Mommy Share. You have to share.”

Do what? No seriously, put those words right back in your smarty little mouth you are not allowed to use my own words against me.

“Seriously Clare, go put it back in Mommy’s jewelry box. You shouldn’t have been in there in the first place.”

“Mommmmiiiieeee, you say we have to share. You have to share!” (With little arm and hand motions accompanying this song and dance)

I was quiet while trying to figure out the best way to handle the situation. On the one hand, she was right. On the other, I could have said, “I’m your mother, do what I say. I told you to put it up.” I was stuck for a moment. You know what I actually did? I shared, and then made a mental note to move the jewelry box until she’s older and we can go through the nuances of sharing verses staying out of my stuff. It was early, coffee hadn't really kicked in yet.
Clare 1
Mommy 0

Painting
NEVER EVER buy crayola squeeze paint on sale at the craft store thinking that you’ll use it "one day, but not right now". No no, you can stuff that cat back in the bag. You buy paint, it’s coming out whether you like it or not.

A little back story, our craft boxes are now kept safely out of her reach due to a previous painting party while I was in Baltimore (it involved glitter and glue and pipe cleaners, and Daddy not knowing that we don't just sit the craft box on the table and say "Go Get 'Em").

So being the resourceful one that she is, and not one to really adhere to ‘no’ really well, Clare enlisted an innocent friend in her scheme to get to that paint while we were occupied after I had already told her ‘No’ for crafts and paints. Twenty minutes into our study, I hear the obvious sound of a tube being emptied of its contents. I excused myself to go check on the girls. Clare’s precious friend is trying to get her to stop, while Clare is sitting in a puddle of red paint literally covering her entire body from head to toe and wallowing in the joy of paint. When I say wallowing, I mean, no natural skin color left on her arms or legs and only a little left on her face. Oh, and she’s rubbing it into the hardwood floors like it’s a new fur coat. A few minutes later and an unexpected bath while friends cleaned the mess on the floor and she’s good as new and no longer resembles a future Burning Man Festival attendee.
Clare 2
Mommy 0

Friendship
Not fifteen minutes after she’s been cleaned of paint and gently scolded, she’s back in motion. This time I’m watching her bossy almost three year old self out of the corner of my eye. At one point during one of her many clandestine trips from her play room to the upstairs, I see her walking slowly from the room with something in her hand and a look of complete guilt all over her face. I call out her name and one of my friends sitting on the couch starts laughing. “What happened,” I ask. Apparently the moment I said her name, she shoved whatever it was in her hand over to her perfectly innocent companion, and came walking passed me like nothing had happened. Yep, that’s right; she was ready to throw her friend under the bus so she didn’t get caught. I apologized to her friend’s parents and made ANOTHER mental note to discuss what we do not do. Most importantly, we do not let our friends get in trouble for things we are trying to get away with (good grief).
Clare 3
Mommy 0

I decided on a good Christian book by Max Lucado for bedtime reading that had all of the elements of sharing, friendship, honesty, obeying and forgiveness in it. As she drifted off to sleep, she was smiling and I know she was not listening to me and my moral story, rather she was dreaming about her red paint.

No way!

2009-08-17T06:12:00.000-07:00

A picture is worth a thousand words.

We took this little gem on our way home from picking Clare up at my parents yesterday afternoon. I don't believe you can read the sign to the right of the stuffed fox/coyote thing attached to the pickup truck (somehow), but it reads: "Mike's Mounts"

I mean really, what do you say?

Sometimes you just know

2009-08-01T06:55:00.000-07:00

I was around when Mason bought his first set of drums. We were just kids and he was clumsy sitting behind them, but we all thought he was the coolest guy. I was around when Mason played his first show. He and a guy playing guitar sat in an empty bar and played the same four songs over and over on a Sunday afternoon for free beer and in front of friends. I have a picture of this somewhere and am determined to find it. We all loved music back then. We loved very cliche college music, but we loved it just the same. Time isn't fluid though, and I lost track of my friend for years as we both went our separate ways, but then found our way back to each other through, who I call God, but you can call it fate or whatever makes you smile about thoroughly amazing coincidences. I was around when he received his first set of professional drums on the night that we got engaged (I thought I was surprising him, but he surprised me more). I was around for a first band, a first real show, a first band name, a second and third and so on. I have met more people over the years through all of this, so many that I now call friends. I have watched my nineteen year old, clumsy friend turn into an experienced, ageless man, who has a talent that I don't have to exagerate all of these years later. I feel comfortable actually inviting you into our world to listen....finally. I feel confident that you will like this sound and this music. I know it so truly that I want to actually share it and not just mention it in my writing.

I don't know how many of you have visited Jesse's blog over in my list, but let me encourage you to visit here if you have not (www.jessepayneonline.com). I don't plug things. I'm not a sales blog or a store blog or a win this blog; I'm a woman, a wife, and a mother without an agenda. I love this music. I love this album (EP for those of you who know the difference). I have listened to this baby being born from the comfort of my living room. I have smiled over passionate words and discussions and sounds coming from around me in my house. I have scowled when the winter cold carried it too boldly into my bedroom. I am on the sidelines, but no less proud of what these craftsmen have accomplished. The word musician is often over used. I don't like it anymore because anyone with an instrument can adopt it. I used the word craftsmen because it brings to mind the idea of taking things that do not fit together and using skill, imagination, and every available tool to create a masterpiece. I love this and wish to share their masterpiece with you. Allow yourself this guilty little pleasure. I know I will.

Little Post Note:
Early reviews are coming in and they're looking good. Check this one out. http://mp3hugger.com/2009/08/jesse-payne-yards-of-paint.html

Best Laid Plans

2009-07-23T19:52:00.000-07:00

Have you ever thought about what you would do if you were faced with a perilous situation?

I have.

I'm a planner.

I've got a plan for every scenario you can think of. Worried you'll fall off a cliff, I've got you covered. Worried about swine flu, come and see me. Worried about a drunk driver, um...I'm not so sure about this one...wait...

It's dark and I'm on the phone with Mason's mom as I drive to pick up Clare after I've been at an evening baseball game (with only a yummy diet coke as my refreshment). I've just turned into their neighborhood, down their road, and I am literally a couple of hundred yards away from their house. As I crest a small hill, I notice an SUV driving in my direction at an extremely fast pace considering they're about to come to a stop sign. I also happen to notice that something is very wrong. Without much more thinking, I realize they're in my lane and not just a little bit. This SUV was barreling bright lights and all toward me in my lane with no sign of adjusting course. Frankly, I couldn't really process what was happening. I lay on the horn and scream, but they don't move at all. Of course all of this is happening very quickly, but my mind was in slow motion. I instinctively try to get as far to the right as I can to avoid the direct impact, but I happen to be in a spot where there is nowhere to go so I just try to stop and continue to blow the horn and scream as this car drives straight toward me. As their headlights get closer, I brace my arm against the steering wheel and head against the headrest and think to myself, "well, this car better be as good as they say it is." In what seems like the last possible instant, they swerve and continuing racing toward the end of the road. Not a brake light. Nothing. I realize I'm still on the phone and I've scared Mason's mom because I'm laying on the horn and screaming. I hang up, come to a complete stop, and pull myself together because I'm stunned and shaking violently. You know what sucks? I had to put my baby into that car a moment later and take her back down that road knowing that the car and it's driver were still out there.

I write all of this as a reminder because I didn't say good-bye to one person before I left to go pick up Clare. I didn't kiss Mason on the cheek or anything. I thought I was coming right back. Kiss your babies, hug your husband and your friends, and make sure everyone you know is aware of how much you love them. Maybe I'm being overly dramatic, but I feel like I've been given a real second chance...an event that should have gone poorly for me that didn't and I know what a gift I received in that moment.

Happy (Early) Birthday To Me!

What I meant was...

2009-07-21T18:40:00.000-07:00

I'm sitting on the couch with my birthday princess crown upon my head, telling princess stories about how amazing my hair is and how wonderful the world is because I believe in puppies and stars and world peace. All of this is a very elaborate and melodramatic tale that I am weaving (in jest), but Clare is all eyes and ears. Suddenly, to my right, the peanut gallery in the chair (a.k.a. Daddy) groans out the word 'Baaarrrrfff' as he rolls his eyes. At that moment, Clare looks at me with wide eyes and excitedly belts out,

'BARF!'

We just died laughing - her comedic timing is perfection for an "almost" three year old. Even better (as I gasped for air), she started oinking like a pig and barking like a dog and mooing like a cow. She'd missed the adult reference and thought Daddy was making animal noises.

Misperception is so much funnier than reality.

Am I your armpit God?

2009-07-15T07:08:00.000-07:00

I have to let y’all in on a little secret regarding all of these wonderful dreams about ministry and helping children and wanting so desperately to put my faith into action…well…I keep running into brick walls. When I say running into brick walls, I mean slamming full force into something that stops me cold and I can't find a way around it. It’s not that I’m necessarily frustrated with God, but I’m frustrated with the process I guess. I’m missing the point of burdening a heart and spurring action only to continue to close door after door after door after door after door after door. Do you realize that I’m still at square? SQUARE ONE! It’s like some bad rerun of Groundhog Day and I’m Billy Murray’s trying to settle into the knowledge that I’m never (ever) going to move beyond square one until some nebulous stopping point that I have no control over and no idea of when (or if) it will materialize. (if you're counting, that is four different analogies that I've used in one paragraph for the same feeling: walls, doors, squares and a movie reference for good measure...I know, you're all jealous, it's a gift)

I’ve started to blame myself. Maybe I’m not listening. Maybe I’m not ready. Maybe I'm not praying the right words or for the right things. Maybe I'm not good enough. Maybe I’m not the kind of Christian who was ever meant to do anything much less with children. Maybe I was wrong to begin with and all of this was some elaborate need to be needed. You know, Mason said it best when he mentioned that someone has to be the armpit in the body of Christ. Maybe I'm the armpit, I guess someone has to be. Maybe I just don't like that I'm the arm pit. I just don't know. I get frustrated because another day passing without doing something is another child without a voice in a situation that they might need rescuing. It’s another day of waiting from him or her, too. But maybe armpits, maybe they don't do these kinds of things. Maybe they just connect the arm to the body and, like it or not, that's what they do. Lael "The Armpit". It's not really all that catchy.

Is my faith is big enough to support my failure to act in my past and the disappointment of feeling unable to act in my future? Last night I wondered if I was strong enough. This morning, armpit or not, I knew I wasn’t strong enough and reached out to the One I know who is.

As always, and in his infinite wisdom, he answered me the way he always does with his mysterious mercy at my child like tantrums and indignant attitude. He is God, after all. I don't have much right to make blind accusations and demand explanations (however, I do - A LOT). So...I opened my daily devotional and it dealt with this very thing and how God builds our faith through waiting (are you kidding with me?). That what may look like a “no” might be a “not yet”. He reminded me that Noah waited 120 years for God’s plan to be put into action. Abraham was promised fatherhood with his barren wife and had to wait until he was 99 to experience that promise. Moses…he waited around 40 years in a desert with a bunch of people complaining. The list goes on and on, but the one example that caught me off guard is that He even made his precious son wait for 30 years before it was time for him to act in accordance with His ultimate plan (30 years??? Oh my gosh, please don't make me wait so long. You didn't create me with much patience... you know this... so obviously I am oh so your fault God).

Why do we wait? It teaches us to trust in God. We learn that His timing is perfect.
One of the facts we have to learn is this: God's delay never destroys His purpose.
A delay is not a denial. Children must learn the difference between "no" and "not yet,"
and so must we. Many times we think God is saying, "No," but He is saying, "Not yet."

So, if you happen to be struggling with a ‘No’, then maybe it’s a ‘Not Yet’. Maybe today this will help you keep going when you’re ready to stop because “what’s the point of all of this, God doesn’t hear me anyway”. Maybe (just maybe) today will be your, ‘YES! Today is the Day! You've been heard, you get it, you see it, it’s finally here!’

If it isn’t, that’s ok. Tomorrow will find us all soon enough (armpits and all).

Safety First

2009-07-08T10:40:00.000-07:00

Mason got me a Volvo! For the safety features, of course. It was all about the box of safety... I mean really, you know you've done something right when your insurance agent gets noticeably excited on the phone when you tell him what car you're buying. Jeez, you don't think we did it for the tight turning radius, heated seats and sporty feel of a luxury car do you? I mean plueezz...this thing has practical written all over it. Did I mention the heated seats? Yes, oh...sorry. That's just part of the safety of the vehicle, warm drivers are safer didn't you know? So, it actually does make me feel safer and it has the intoxicating new car smell (stupid plastic). I know I should be ashamed that I'm this excited about a thing. I'll let you know if and when my shame sinks in. Until then, I will imagine that I am safer and be parking at the back of the parking lot.

Adjö´ så lä´nge! (loosely translates to later gator in Swedish)

4th of July holiday weekend

2009-07-06T10:19:00.000-07:00

Relax all day getting ready for fireworks - check

Buy fireworks at very sketchy, fully redneck fireworks store - check

Throw Snap dragons at each other in the street - check

Pick over BBQ ribs waiting for it to get dark enough to light fireworks - check

Set off practice firework in the backyard - check

Watch daughter burst into a million tears, scream bloody murder, and run as fast as her precious little legs would work as said firework blasts off into the air (do not laugh no matter what) - check

Beg daughter for half an hour into coming out from under her blanket to watch the $50 worth of fireworks that we are going to watch no matter what kind of emotional trauma we inflict - check

Convince daughter to come out of hiding by moving the chair from the back yard to the front yard, bringing a magic wand and making fireworks "happen" with said magic wand and lalala's - check

Hop into the car (unexpectedly) to catch Thunder on the Mountain that starts in 20 minutes (everyone has shoes right?) - check

Get a premium seat on the ridge in Vestavia just in time to see an amazing display of fireworks for 15 - 20 minutes (why do I have a beach towel in the car? Thank goodness that I have a beach towel in the car) - check

Carry a smiling, sweaty little girl back to the car to fall asleep and dream about fireworks - check

Fall asleep to the sounds of rogue fireworks in the neighborhood - check

I'm melting, I'm melting

2009-07-02T07:42:00.000-07:00

So, it turns out, being a "stay-at-home-after-work mom" is wonderful! Absolutely Wonderful! Since the last little breakdown I suffered when taking Clare out too late and to too many events, we've remained local. By local, I mean, we are at home...every...single....night. The only exceptions are for very short jaunts, usually on the weekends, and they're highly scripted with defined start and end times. We do not run random errands with our little pea pod, we do not go to the galleria, we do not do anything on the week nights except play at home...together...as a family. I thought this would be like the seventh realm of hell for me since I'm stuck at a desk all day every day and really like to get out and see the world, but it turns out that it's fun - super fun. We play pretend, discover the outside world around us, talk about her day and what we're doing, giggle, laugh, make things for daddy, cook in her kitchen, and she's finally named all of her dolls and stuffed animals. She even sleeps through the night better. I can't tell you what a sense of gratitude I have for this little period of awakening where we all realized it was time for a change and then clearly changed any offending behaviors.

It's not like we weren't doing these things before, it's just that it wasn't every night and on the scale that we committed to two weeks ago. There wasn't the comfort of a normal schedule before, but there is one now. Feelings of comfort and safety are manifesting themselves into happiness. Her happiness is obvious because her tantrums have all but disappeared. Her relationship with us is like night and day. She was even ready to go when it was time to leave Mason's parents house yesterday after she'd played with them all day (this is usually a HUGE ordeal where she doesn't want to leave and then she literally and figuratively spits at us for the next 24 to 48 hours...bet you can imagine how fun that was). This didn't happen last night! She was just ready to go?!?

Being a parent is the single most challenging thing in the world to me. Not because it's at all hard to love your child, but for me, I can't just be on auto-pilot and actually enjoy it like I was trying to do. I have to be involved, present, and interested in making changes that I sometimes push back against thinking I know what's best. I think I'm more amazed each day with how much Clare teaches me about how to live than vice-versa. Her way of living is so pure and so free from entanglement that's it's like magic when I inch back into that kind of simplicity.

I'm thinking blankets, mason jars, fireflies, and stories are a good plan for tonight? What about you?

Will you do me a favor?

2009-07-01T06:11:00.000-07:00

Go here:
http://www.gvephotography.com/blog/the-2nd-anniversary-with-a-contest/

Vote for my precious girl (she's #5).

Pleeeeeeaaaaaaaaseeeeeeeee :)

Oh, and if you live in the Birmingham area and you need family portraits, seriously, you should call Grethel. She was amazing.

Prayers People

2009-06-25T08:08:00.000-07:00

Hey, I know a lot of you who read this blog. Your turn to do something for me. I've been reading this blog for a long time. I don't personally know her, but you know how the virtual world works and isn't it an honor to be able to lift up needs in prayer to a merciful and present God?

Pray for Jamie, her family, and her friends. Put this on your church prayer lists and believe that God works miracles even in the unlikeliest of situations. Don't delay.

http://growingapair.wordpress.com/2009/06/25/a-heart-a-heart-my-kingdom-for-a-heart/

Reality is sinking in

2009-06-22T11:33:00.000-07:00

Week 1 over, Week 2 begins now...

I finished reading Marathoning for Mortals and have decided I should wake up a bit early to get some food in me before kicking off a 5 a.m. run. Food = fuel, and apparently running upwards of an hour without food is bad. I'm going to have to pick up a heart rate monitor, everything that I read talks about heart rate zones and I tried to take my pulse while running last week and nearly severed my aorta with my own fingernails. I'm still in denial, like I think I can do this. I must admit that the hugeness of my decision is beginning to sink in and that the distance is enormous, but I'm still excited. I will function in the primitive sphere of excitability until I can mature into something less sporadic and more consistent (i.e. patience).

So, lessons from week 1: 5 a.m. is a lot earlier than it sounds, it's hot at 8 a.m. and will damn near kill you if running during June in Alabama (don't sleep through that 5 a.m. alarm), I am wildly afraid of failing, staying up late and expecting to still get up and run in the morning is stupid, and finally, the thrill of actually training with the goal being to run a marathon is like the first time you checked yes on that "do you want to be my girlfriend" box!

I'll keep everyone posted on my painfully slow process.

Sometimes the truth hurts

2009-06-19T07:49:00.000-07:00

I had to let go of the image of us as a family last night. Whatever I thought would happen, it’s not happening. Whoever I thought I would be, I’m not. Whoever I thought Mason would be, he’s not. Whoever I thought my child would be, she’s not. I thought I could make some things happen through persistence and, the fact of the matter is, something’s cannot be willed and sometimes when you’re faced with an ugly reality, it stings.

My young child is a handful, and she knows it. I acquiesce to her superior willfulness and now it is time to change tactics, to learn from my mistakes, to build a better bridge. Being a parent to me isn’t so much about constant ooey, gooey love or never making a mistake…to me it’s about loving determination. I will never give up on morphing and shifting into the person she needs me to be to bring out the best in her. I will not continue to reach into the same bag of old failed tricks and expect it to work out differently. I succumb to the understanding that if it’s not working, move on…there is nothing to see here but the wreckage of failure.

I have always dreamed of having a very adaptable child (even before we had children). I wanted to be able to take her everywhere with us, do everything, expose her to everything, let her live a larger-than-life life. I talk of trips to foreign lands and imagine us three as this kind of team conquering life and the world. She’s having none of it. She needs and wants familiarity. She needs a set schedule. She needs the very thing that I dread the most, “the same”. We have so many meltdowns these days that it’s easy to see when, where and why they’re happening. She’s not home enough. We take her out too much. We don’t engage her passively enough. It’s go, go, go each and every day. We’re very busy people and we want her to fit into our very busy lives and she is saying, “I’ll pass” with every kick, scream, pinch, poke and word that comes out of her mouth. I came to understand last night, while manhandling her at a charity event that I had taken her to so that she could see her Daddy play, that 1) I should have left at least an hour and a half before I did; 2) and most importantly, she shouldn’t have been there in the first place. I took her because I wanted to go. That is honesty folks. She is not mentally ready to dragged around to all of these “cool” things and paraded in front of a million people who love her and want to dote on her. She’s not reached enough developmental milestones to understand that you go and have a good time and then you leave – this is what happens. She thinks every new moment should continue forever and I find her to be deeply resentful when the fun stops (thus the never ending tantrum/kicking/screaming/scratchfest that is my life now), and I end up deeply resentful that my best efforts blew up in my face. Up until last night, I obviously wasn’t developmentally ready either. I didn’t realize that no matter how much time I spend trying to give her “enough time” to enjoy herself somewhere (the park, a restaurant, swimming, swinging, watching daddy, etc), it cannot be enough right now. She doesn’t have and “enough” cup yet. I’ll have to try these in small increments and only on the weekends I’ve decided.

I’ve been blaming other people or activities or places for her behavior, but I think the responsibility lays squarely with the person who knows her best, me. She’s 2 ½. She’s not a terrible two, or a strong willed child, or something to be manipulated into doing what I want. She’s just a little girl and I’ve made life very exciting (by virtue of this, very confusing) for her and she doesn’t need so much excitement. She needs a mommy, who will sit down "right here" and play with her like she asks.

What will I wear?

2009-06-17T08:51:00.000-07:00

I will be running a marathon next February if God takes pity on me and I remain uninjured (must get the house sprayed for roaches to avoid mid-summer calf injuries).

I will be building my base mileage for the next 19 weeks and following every rule imagineable to prevent injury and to build habits for me to be successful. I will weight train, build core strength, and stretch.

I will actually start official “marathon training” the week of October 25 after having built up my weekly base mileage of 35 miles per week. 17 weeks from that point will end with the week of the Mercedes Marathon (I didn't plan this, it was just meant to be).

If you’re counting, that means 36 weeks of full time commitment to something that will ultimately be thrilling, painful, seemingly impossible at times, and completely life changing. That, is the length of time it took me to carry, nurture and ready myself for bringing my baby into this world. Those are the words I would use to describe that process of facilitating her life. That time it was for her. This time it is for me. Just like her little body patiently built inside of me week-by-week, I want to develop in much the same way. I do not want to get ahead of myself or try to do more than is possible too soon. I want to generate a new appreciation for my life with each passing mile/day/week. I want to nurture my faith and my relationship with God by taking these moments and using them to develop my prayer life when I am running alone and learning how to lean on God, not just when I am spent but also when I am fully able and proud of what I am doing. I want to nurture my family by making time to do something that brings me joy and pride. How do I teach my daughter to feel joy and pride in her accomplishments if I’ve forgotten the feeling and only live with the memory of it?

The end result is that on February 14th of next year (how appropriate), I simply hope to finish. In finishing, I hope to find a new kind of love waiting for me at the end of this process. I hope to be surrounded by the people I love the most, collapsing into the person I know God wants me to be, and appreciating life like never before. It might sound dramatic to you, but it’s my dream. And at almost 33 years old dreams are still magical.

P.S. Hey mom, everyone in this picture looks happy.

Do you believe in Magic?

2009-06-08T06:35:00.000-07:00

So, a few posts ago I mentioned our photographer and our photo session downtown. Some friends of ours loved them enough to use her as well so I went to her website again today and was looking through their pictures, as well as, Grethel's blog and I came up on ours under this tagline, "Do you believe in magic". There they are! And, yes, to me they really are magical. I mean, they captured real magic for us. I hadn't posted them yet because I'm selfish and really they're so special to me that I haven't even know if I wanted to share them outright yet. Seeing them out though, I think I am ready.

I hope you enjoy the ones she posted and I will see if I can loosen the reigns and share some of my favorites from that day.

http://www.gvephotography.com/blog/do-you-believe-in-magic/

A photographer is a true gift if you can find one that sees life through the eye of their lens like you see it in live action.

Do you smell something?

2009-06-01T06:54:00.001-07:00

My 2 ½ year old daughter’s only reference point for something smelling bad is “poopy”. Lately, this is providing unlimited entertainment opportunities. Last week, she and her daddy were playing with him in close proximity to her face. They were laughing, it was late in the day, and he must have breathed on her. As the story goes, she looks at him, wrinkles up her nose and says to him, “Daddy, your breath smells like poopy.” I am still laughing about this.
Fast forward to Saturday.
Same two characters (dad and daughter).
Clare’s been playing outside all day. She smells like Coppertone and sweaty kid. Daddy leans in to kiss her neck and says to her, “ooh, you stink!” Again, as the story goes, she recoiled from him with a look of disgust and says “nuh uh. I don’t stink. You…you…you have poopy on your lips!” I’ve laughed so hard at this one that I had tears streaming the sides of my face.
I’m really not sure how long this will go on, but it happened again this morning. She and I were on our way to school and out of nowhere she says to me, “Mommy, daddy has poopy on his lips.” Of course, I just died laughing and I’m trying to tell her, “Please don’t say this stuff at school, there is no telling what your teachers will think.” Then, she looks at me and says, “Well, Molly has poopy on her teeth, she stinks very bad. She must eat poopy when she’s outside” Then she starts laughing this really loud, forced laugh to go along with it.
I almost wrecked my car, I was laughing so hard. Then I started to have the imaginary conversation with the police officer as to why I had the wreck and explaining the poopy and basically got stuck in an endless loop of laughing, which was making Clare laugh her forced laugh harder, and me laugh harder and she just started saying “poopy” and I just laughed more…it was a riot.
If you had asked me three years ago if there was anything funny about poop, I would have given you a look of disgust and sworn that the stuff wouldn’t ever become the topic of conversation in our house. Now, it’s freaking hysterical. Go figure. I love the transformation that has allowed me not to take myself so seriously!

(I think I love this because I know that there will come a day when I will tell this story and still laugh, and she will look at me with disgust and wonder why I keep telling that same old story time and time again because it really isn't even funny)

It's always better when we're together

2009-05-25T18:20:00.000-07:00

We had our first family photo shoot. It was amazing. We met early Sunday morning, pre-church, on historic Morris Avenue with Grethel (pronounced Gretel). It was raining up to the half hour before we were to meet, but miraculously the wind started blowing, the sun came out, and the sky turned blue with big billowing cotton clouds for the entire session. Not just any color blue, but storybook blue with a light that I would describe as delicate, which is odd for that first morning sun. Absolutely incredible I tell you. When I first saw Grethel's work, I thought to myself that she had "the eye" that I was looking for in a photographer. It turns out, she does and then some. She captured the love in our family in the setting we love. Every picture portrays some beauty that I dreamed of capturing. I cannot wait to get the pictures to post - to own the rights to every one of them because I couldn't pick any that I didn't want to keep forever. I'm content and grateful - and it's all because a picture is truly worth a thousand words.

http://www.gvephotography.com/

2009-05-22T14:05:00.000-07:00

I hear, I forget;

I see, I understand;

I do, I remember.

Open Road

2009-05-20T12:36:00.000-07:00

I’m going to let you all into my deepest most private thoughts. These are the things I day dream about and they’re pretty simple, but the impact could be so huge. What I need from people reading this blog is that you all hold me accountable – even if you don’t know me personally at all. Check in on me, pester me, and ask me about each of these things no matter who you are. Force me out of my contentment and encourage me to do more than just day dream. Make me get specific. Come out of your blog hiding and change a life. It could be your comment or suggestion that is the break through that I need – can you imagine having that kind of impact? Wouldn’t that make you smile if you knew you’d had that kind of impact? I know I would.

Things I want to do with my life…NOW… not just sometime before I die!

1. I want to be a great Mother and Wife. I want to do this by putting my family first and loving them with all of my heart and making sure that I cultivate a relationship with God that teaches me how to do this the right way. If I fail at this, nothing else on this list will matter.

2. I want to get involved with helping children in need, specifically children who are voiceless. Those who have no one willing to speak for them, care about them, think about them first. I don’t know if that’s abused children, orphan children, foster children, homeless children, or an unknown category that I have yet to be introduced. But I know in my deepest heart that I want to somehow give them a voice and teach us all to collectively care about each one of them in ways they never dreamed they would know.

3. I want to regularly travel the world. I don’t just mean I want to “see the world” for pleasure; I mean I want to go into the world and do what I can to help those in need the best way that I can in any given situation – either financially, physically, emotionally, spiritually…however I can be used to serve those in need. I don’t want it to be for my own gratification (although there are some places I would just like to see for very selfish reasons). I would like to do this as part of my faith, but it doesn’t really matter since I’ll be taking that faith with me no matter how this manifests itself.

4. I want to incorporate my running with these things. I’m not great now and that’s ok to me. I’m just doing it. You know what though? It’s people that are just “doing it” that get things done. I don’t have to wait until I’m amazing at something to be useful. I think that I’ll be good (maybe even great one day) at what I love to do, and I love all of these things so that’s a good start right? I only regret that I waited so late in my life to start thinking this way. I’ve wasted a lot of time thinking “when I get better at ‘XYZ’, then I’ll do ‘ABC’.”

5. I would like to run Marathons to raise money and awareness for #2. (Again, sketchy on the details since I’m doing good to run five miles right now and I’ve never been comfortable asking for anything in my life).

So, there you have it. I have no details. I have no real plan. I just have these five things and honestly that’s a great place to start if you ask me, as long as someone holds me accountable(many someones preferrably) for actually doing them.

Sometimes

2009-05-16T11:50:00.000-07:00

I feel like I'm playing "Where in the World is Waldo" with my life.

Mother's Day

2009-05-08T06:53:00.000-07:00

As we approach the day we celebrate our motherhood with other women, please let us remember that there are mothers out there who are in need. Please let us forget the trinkets we desire or the new outfit we want so desperately as a gift, and for a moment focus on and celebrate the women world wide who work so hard for their families and will probably never own anything new, but will work so that their children do. Did you know that among every race and culture on the planet the following statement is true, 'A mother will often be the last to eat – instead saving food for her children and other family members'. This is one of the many things we're celebrating on Mother's Day - the sincere gift of sacrifice. In that vein, I have borrowed the following pictures and statistics from the world food programme to share with you. Please consider helping as part of your gift to other mothers out there with very little to celebrate on Sunday.

Breaking the cycle of hunger and poverty at its roots begins with women. Hunger breeds insecurity and often exacerbates circumstances that lead to conflict and crisis, and creates situations where women and girls are often the victims of abuse, rape and violence.

Educated mothers have healthier families. Their children are better nourished, less likely to die in infancy and more likely to attend school. (Source: FAO) However, continuing high food prices have forced families to reduce their food intake while increasing the workload of women in order to earn more income to purchase food.

Women are the world’s primary food producers, yet cultural traditions and social structures often mean women are much more affected by hunger and poverty than men. Increasing opportunities for mothers has a particularly strong impact on hunger because women devote much more of their income directly to feeding their families than men do. One study found that increasing women's primary schooling could boost agricultural output by 24%. (Source: World Bank)

I hope when you read this today, that you will be moved to visit this website. You would probably be surprised to know that $25 can feed a child for half a year and $50will do so for a whole year.

www.wfp.org

Cinco de Mile-o!

2009-05-05T14:39:00.000-07:00

I ran my first 5 mile course today. It’s ironic isn’t it – I mean Cinco de Mayo? I was/am enormously proud and happy and grateful for this triumph.

When I felt like quitting, I just slowed down and thought about something else or tried to strike up a prayer conversation. Someone in far better shape bound past me late in the game. She was happy and cheerful and said something about the approaching rain. At the time, I was focused on not making the face that is creating the crevice in between my eyes, so I smile broadly at her while she passed me. As she sped away, I watched her in admiration. “I want to be like that,” I thought. For the last mile I pondered what “that” was, and it turns out to be someone who was capable and joyful, and capable of bringing joy by being capable and joyful (I was quite tired at this point please understand). This was my new standard of ability – not just the accomplishment, but the effect of the accomplishment.

I had this revelation about my faith and my running this morning that translated well into today’s personal achievement. I’ll see if I can clarify. I am totally obsessed with running now. I was never a runner before March of 2008. I had never run even a ¼ of a mile and the thought of running 5 miles seemed absolutely ridiculous. I mean, why would a normal person feel the need to run at all, much less 5 miles or more for that matter? But, I would hear people talking about it and they were so enthusiastic that it seemed they really enjoyed it and relished in the time and accomplishment. It was more than just running; it was an opportunity to grow as a person, to create friendships, to push yourself beyond your boundaries, to organize life in a way. I would listen and mock them all at the same time.
“Whatever…. you bunch of nutballs,” I would say to myself.
Now I’m the nutball running around telling everyone I speak to, “You’ve got to try this, it’s the best thing ever…seriously. I mean I’ve never felt so good. Here is what it’s done in my life…. I can’t tell you how great this is and it’s really easy and I used this program to get started and do you want the link? I would love to run with you as you get started. I promise this is good. Really, it’s not a trap to make you feel worse, it really is wonderful.” Guess what, I’m the one getting the “nutball” looks now and I know why because I’ve been there and I recognize the looks of intrusion and disbelief.

So, how does this parallel my faith you ask? The same thing is happening to me in my faith as is in my running. Up until a few years ago I wasn’t a practicing Christian. I had all but turned my back on my faith because of the image of what I thought the church embodied (just like I did with people who ran). I tell you what, it sure as heck didn’t look like fun to be like “church people” and everyone kind of sounded crazy and it made me uncomfortable. The truth is that I’m experiencing the same thing spiritually as I am with my running. I feel like I’m pushing out of this imaginary box of my own perceptions and into some kind of reality that has eluded me in the past. I’m forcing myself out of my comfort zone and waking up to a world of things I never knew I was capable of desiring (the enormous amount of love and patience and dedication and desire to help others beyond myself is bigger than anything I could have ever hoped to find when I started to go to church). I am again experiencing some very real things and telling people about it and getting the same “you’re a nutball” looks and I want to say (again), “No really, this is good. It’s not a trap. Seriously, the reality is far different than what it looks like.”

So, I will continue to run and tell people about my experiences. I will continue grow in my faith and tell people about my experiences. I will continue to get the crazy looks, but I will completely understand them because I’ve been on the giving end of those looks for so many years.

Happy Cinco de Mayo all – have a margarita or four for me! Oh, and watch Slumdog Millionaire - it’s awesome.

Putting the FU in fun

2009-05-01T12:24:00.000-07:00

I so hate it when people gossip. I hate it even more when I get sucked into it by proximity. I think the most amazing thing is that the people who do it are so damn oblivious to how much I hate it and how they're EXACTLY the same as the people they gossip about. I mean come on. I never shut up EXCEPT when you start gossiping around me and then I jump on the first opportunity to get out of the conversation. Pay attention people.

Seriously, when I hear it or get stuck listening to it, I get the physical sensation of being kicked in the stomach. ugh. And never fear ladies, I work with a bunch of men and we ain't go nothing on them. Men are vicious, and I mean vicious. Seriously though, I have absolutely no idea how to stop someone from gossiping to me. I mean, if it's someone I don't know and love, I can just excuse myself. But in the real world, my friends gossip and I can't just go all self-righteous on them and starting belittling them (I guess I could, but I wouldn't have too many friends then). So I listen, all the while looking for a point where I can change the course of the conversation so I don't have to listen anymore!

Increase this discomfort exponentially for vaguely racist conversations (oh, the swine flu has opened my eyes to a lot around here), political conversations where I'm the only democrat, and conversations about the role of women in the world (between other women!?!?!?). Sometimes, I feel like I'm going to jump out of my skin. Send some comment love my way on tactful ways to get out of these situations because I'm at a loss, and I've decided that a great big FU really isn't appropriate - ever!

Do they have a cure for this?

2009-04-28T06:18:00.000-07:00

The child is not being sweet, and by not being sweet, I mean extremely difficult to live with in a nice and caring mother "way". To cope, I just kind of shut down because it's seemingly never ending (find a happy place, find a happy place). Every thing that I do backfires and turns into a fit or whine fest. I'm on the verge of a mental breakdown or a heart attack at any given moment. On a really bad day, someone asked me about more children and I almost threw myself into a ball onto the floor and started rolling from side to side with my thumb in my mouth. More? Are you kidding?

The ride into school is now miserable. We do not smile and sing...no, no, no. We glare at mommy in the mirror and tell her that she's not our girl and that she wants her teacher. ok, ok, you're almost there! good thing I get to go to work after all of this - what fun!

Picking her up is miserable, too - no hugs, no kisses just, "Where's my juice?" wow, good to see you too

Trying to do something fun with her after school? Oh, no...I don't think so.

Trying to make her fun meals that make her happy? I spit in your face Mommy.

Want to know my favorite? Now if I make her mad she screams for her Nana (mother-in-law) and tells me she wants to go to her Nana's house (which means I've told her no about something, or really for no reason at all. Basically I've determined that because I'm breathing she's mad at me and wants to go to her Nana's house) This is my absolute favorite. I just love it! I do everything I can to be an active, loving, involved mother; however, I'm getting button-hooked by the lady who lets her do whatever she wants and won't quit taking her shopping or pumping her full of sugar no matter how often Mason and I beg her to stop (she did switch from taking her to the mall and instead took her to Wal-Mart. I'm not sure how this was better, but ok?). Love it! Hey Clare, where's your Nana when you're...(insert new and action packed hateful behavior here)? I'll tell you where, she's at home having her nice relaxing day with her glass(es) of wine in peace and quiet...laughing. That's where she is.

I love my girl, I do. Make no mistake about it. But right now she more closely resembles a rabid racoon, and she frightens me a little.

Her Morning Elegance

2009-04-27T06:11:00.001-07:00

To all of you,

If you can't see the above, follow the link. You won't be sorry.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2_HXUhShhmY

Music is indeed my pacifier.

Enjoy!

Business Time

2009-04-24T11:54:00.000-07:00

Here's the external link if this doesn't play for you because this is hysterical and totally worth watching. Maybe not PG rated though (more like PG-13), so if easily offended, probably don't watch.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WGOohBytKTU

So, it's Friday.

2009-04-24T09:07:00.000-07:00

I have written half a dozen posts this week, and deleted half a dozen posts this week. I hate these times. I have so much to write and to say, but I can't quite complete the thought and it drives me insane - absolutely insane. Serious personality flaw. The good thing about it is that it forces me to break and read other through blogs that are not related to my world. Of course, this lends me perspective and I often need that when I get like this.

P.S. I am so excited I became a part of the SITS network of blogs. I cannot write enough to express how much I enjoy the comments and finding new blogs through it.

Free Time

2009-04-20T14:09:00.000-07:00

We rode our bikes through the trails in the spring forest. The sun was peeking through gaps in the canopy above us, and we were surrounded by the green with often and sudden bursts of brilliant color. For this time, we no longer played the part of wives and mothers. Laughter radiated from the imperfect line of six, and it could be heard all over the mountain. Every face smiled as the downhill slide of the wheels created a fierce wind that could be heard in the tick, tick, ticking of the chains in need of shifting. One in the middle of the line took her hands off the handle bars and swung them out beside her…she was flying. On the uphill leg of the trail, the laughter got louder. Each body hoisted up and down to make it over the hill. Each smile broadened as the wheels became more and more unbalanced and the frame of the bike waved side to side. We had absolutely no idea where we were going, we were just on our way. I watched our line with joy. We were all little girls constrained by a cocoon of womanhood. I watched each of us breaking free as each leg, and each wing, and finally our heads emerged to take in that first gulp of air. We were on a retreat, but we were actually recapturing.

Each section this week will be dedicated to some portion of my women’s retreat this weekend. If you have never been on one, I highly recommend it. I have found that, when it comes right down to it, nothing will refresh your soul like someone who has been in your shoes and has the stories to laugh you through the miles you have yet to cover.

Running with the Devils?

2009-04-16T10:59:00.000-07:00

So...I've got a new running friend. I know, I know, the world is looking up. She works in my company and started coming out with our group on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Anyway, we have this really interesting conversation while we run and our pace is good, which makes the time Fly by. The best part, she's a red head too. I know, seriously, it's like it was meant to be!

I delight in my amazing little gift of Clare

2009-04-14T06:59:00.000-07:00

"The beauty of happiness"
She was in such a fun mood Sunday and you can see it in the twinkle of her eye here. She felt beautiful and was devouring the joy of the day, the smiles in church, the excitement and all of the wonder that comes on Easter. I can see it reflected through her in this picture.

"See my soul"
This may be my favorite of her. She is so curious and full of wonder and interest. She didn't just pick up her egg that lay hidden in the bush, she leaned down to gain perspective and looked intently at the object for which she would be reaching. Her purpose was clear. Again, so much of her beauty is already defined by her natural wonder and understanding of the world around her.

"Real Camouflage"This photo shows her ability to get the job done while remaining in complete control of her situation. I love the smile of joy and achievement on her face. She is too much wonderful for words sometimes.

"Perspective"
I have recently been teaching her to have a prayer posture when she prays at night. It's not that I think you have to do this particular motion to pray, but bowing her head isn't getting the point across that it's "prayer time" and this physical behavior gets the point across to her a little better. So, she was running around alone in this room Easter evening and the light was just perfect. I snuck in to see what she was doing and she was "praying" all over the room. I happened to snap this one before she saw me and I love the accidental uneven frame of the picture for the room. It skews it a bit. I like what this picture embodies for me. "When everything is unbalanced and it seems the world is leaning a little too much to stand, pray."

Gravity Waves

2009-04-13T18:13:00.000-07:00

Last night Mason and I slept through the horrible storms that wreaked havoc throughout the state and really the south in general. Essentially it was mayhem all around us this morning except for our little pocket of crazy, which seemed quite normal. I would even go so far as to say, it was a nice, calm morning here. We had coffee. It was good. In fact, I got a whole cup of coffee down before itty bitty woke up (no joke). It wasn't until we turned on our car radios and headed out that we heard (and saw) what we'd missed.

We slept like babies through it all. You want to know why? It's very simple, we're the parents of a 2 1/2 year old who finally slept through the night (for once). She slept through this particular night, when no one else was sleeping...creepy, and yet deliciously satisfying.

Want to know why creepy - the storms from last night were caused by gravity waves. What? Because I totally scratched my head with this one as I don't remember discussing this alongside Cumulonimbus clouds.

The child finally sleeps through the night and we have monumental, earth shattering, weird gravitationally described weather. That's my girl

Conversations

2009-04-10T07:54:00.000-07:00

Jesse – this is a hit. I’m taking up blog space to call it right now! As soon as you guys finish recording it, I’m putting it as my streaming song whenever this blog opens (with your permission of course). Oh, and If I am right about this, I get something for calling it first – like a shout out on Saturday Night Live when you play the show. (I’m calling that one too).

For those of you who haven’t heard this song YET, and you are obviously reading this blog, sneak a peek at Jesse – over there on the right, very cool blog in my list of others. However, put your thinking caps on my friends because it is not the 4th grade writing level of mine.

I am so not kidding about this song, do not look with a skeptical eye, you just wait until you open up my blog and hear it. You’ll know exactly what I’m talking about. In fact, I can’t wait – (mostly because I love nothing more than to be right!!)

Collective Awwww....

2009-04-07T08:06:00.000-07:00

Right before it was time for Clare to go to bed last night, she looks at me and says, "I had fun playing with you tonight." I think my heart melted a little more. Oh, and I woke up on Sunday to a high pitched kissing sound. I looked over at mace's side of the bed and there she is "waking daddy up with a kiss". Seriously, she's good.

How much do you really need a driveway?

2009-04-03T08:14:00.000-07:00

So, the never ending project that is our house roared to life again this week. We're trying to change our property ownership to a city verses county (we live in the city, only four of us are zoned county out of hundreds). Anyway, this requires inspections. Inspectors come and tell us what we know. You have a water problem in the middle of your driveway, you'll need to get this corrected. Yay for overflowing springs and no drought. Boo for underwater springs that have been eroding the integrity of our driveway and pooling into a nice muddy puddle for years. Our driveway has always been something of an oddity, but lately it's been more like Swamp Thing than a driveway. Spring rains are unforgiving.

It's fun to watch people park at our house these days. They'll people park in front of the house, beside the house, in the street, four houses down and in the bushes, in the middle of the interstate, really just about anywhere but in our driveway. So, this week, we decided to do something positive about it. You know, make a conscious effort to improve the quality of every one's experience when visiting (and trying to eliminate the fresh mud that slings onto my car every single time I leave or come back to the house). Our intentions were noble, humble, even patriotic in this time of recession - we'll spend for the good! We felt good about ourselves. We were fixing something the right way and not just covering up a problem. It's amazing we could get out of the house with our egos, but we managed.

We found a guy who could do what we needed for the price we were looking for. He and his "crew" (this means wife and friend) worked all day. About 2 hours before I was to come home, I got a picture. I should have wondered when I received it, but I believed that it was going all right. But the image of the two foot wall of dirt in the middle of our driveway weighed on me. I casually called Mace to ask if we'd thought to cover the driveway before we covered the entire driveway in 2 feet of mud. Got any guesses about his response? I got home after dark so it looked like everything had worked out. We paid the guy and his "crew" and I drove into my garage. I noticed some additional dirt on my tires, but really thought nothing of it. It was different than what I expected, but looked all right - IN THE DARK. It was the next morning before I saw the entire picture. As the sun moved up in the sky and the birds were chirping and we were drinking our coffee, the disaster came into full display.

This is not the actual driveway, but a dramatization of the events described below

Mud was everywhere and I mean everywhere (ok, so maybe it wasn't that bad, but close). You might now be thinking, well, it'll wash away in time. No, no, you would be thinking incorrectly. It is not the kind you can just wash away. It's the kind that is going to stick around for awhile because, you see, when we built the house we remembered everything EXCEPT that the garage was about 30 inches higher than the driveway...oops (smart cookies I tell you). So we improvised as we did not have an additional $15K sitting around to fix our mistake and we laid gravel instead. This gave us immediate access at a tenth of the cost.

It's all coming together for you now isn't it?

Yeah, this mud, it's sitting on a nice partially graveled driveway, mostly broken to pieces driveway. No we can't pressure wash it without sending deadly projectiles throughout the surrounding neighborhood (maybe a good idea if we didn't like our neighbors, but we do). We discussed the possibility of using a hose and less intense sprayer, but it occurred to us that it would take exactly 150 years to clean it this way (and we really don't need additional water - see underground spring sentence above). So I looked out of the window in the early morning after all of the work had been done and sighed. I turned around to face Mason and asked in a defeated tone, "So when is something we pay to have done actually going to make things look better and not create more work for us?" He just shrugged his shoulders and laughed. So we have a nice retaining pool for the spring at the end of the driveway, mud flipping everywhere, muddy rocks everywhere, a further broken driveway (heavy machinery used to create retaining pool added new broken spots), but by god we do not have water pooling in the middle of our driveway anymore. Take that city appraisal inspector guy!

Instead, now we've got...well....yes, never mind.

2009-03-29T14:34:00.000-07:00

What is fear robbing from you?

The waves roll up and down and then back out and up and....

2009-03-28T08:57:00.000-07:00

This has been an emotionally turbulent week. I thought it was related to our weekend of freedom, but it finally occurred to me that my child has changed this week, very suddenly. She went from being inseparable to pushing away from me at every turn. Very healthy, very normal, very her - the only thing missing is that I was very not ready. My motherhood is the rug that gets ripped out from underneath me whenever I finally get comfortable.. so I am in the process of readjusting.

2009-03-25T11:53:00.000-07:00

My disclaimer so you can continue reading regardless of nationality or faith or whether. I’m aware that many people that are familiar to my blog are not Christians. I have never desired to convert people – it makes my Christian friends scowl at me to know this. Sorry. We are all privy to the same information. I cannot explain or tell people why I arrived here, and someone else arrives somewhere else. It is our individual journey that is the mark of who we are. I love you regardless of anything about you, return the favor. I will never judge you based on your choices, or think less of you, or feel sorry for you, or anything else. You are what you are. I am what I am. Are we square?

So…..may I just tell you what you don’t do?

You don’t exclaim dramatically that you’re drowning in mediocrity in a blog. Apparently, God reads blogs. He also knows the a “full on self” pity party is put to an end when you take the focus off of your boredom and put it squarely on REAL need. What an f-in world I live in where I have the luxury to be so insular. Jeez.

So, within a day of writing that little one liner above, I get a random email from someone who doesn’t know me well to call another someone I don’t know at all. This someone I don’t know is involved with an orphan ministry in her church; she’s specifically involved with a project to help an orphanage in the Dominican Republic. She tried Haiti, but it’s just politically such a dangerous environment that they couldn’t get in. Anyway, the person who sent the email to call the person I don’t know, remembered my impassioned plea in our church for people to donate money to the World Food Programme for Haiti. If you’re not aware, there were (still are) reports coming out of the country that mothers are having to decide which of their children live or die because they cannot feed them. I die each time I say this, write this, read this sentence. Donate to the World Food Programme – the link is one of mine on this blog. Ten dollars will help. Especially if ten people give ten dollars. (Ok, sorry for the pitch, but if you ate breakfast or lunch out today, then you can give up a meal or two to help those in real need who may have only eaten one meal today if any).

Back to my blog. So I called this person I didn’t know, this is still a mystery as to how I called her, but I called her. We met today at 11:00 for coffee. I might as well have known the woman I didn’t know three hours ago all of my life. We have something in common – we are here on this earth to take care of others, specifically children. When she pulled her bombshell out of her bag about the church is failing because of the enormous amounts of money and resources directed toward anti-abortion efforts when we should be taking care of the children who are already here and abandoned, in need, in the foster system, etc, I almost asked her to marry me (except that would be weird, and not legal yet, and I’m already married). I was like, “Oh my gosh, there are others in the world that think like this?” We talked for a really long time. It will lead to more talking and we’ll see where I am moved to act. I am patiently praying through this newness right now and just kind of in awe. She gave me a book to read, Fields of the Fatherless. I'll let you know what I read.

All of this to say, I withdraw the previous post. I admit, I am still no more mature at times than a 2 year old child who has all of her toys and wants more without regard to the needs of those around her.

“…for in you the fatherless find compassion.” Hosea 14:3

Need air....

2009-03-24T06:39:00.000-07:00

I am drowning in my own mediocrity. Is this ungrateful or normal?

Plato for $1000, please Alex

2009-03-23T12:32:00.000-07:00

Be kind for everyone you meet is fighting a great battle.

Look Mom!

2009-03-18T09:45:00.000-07:00

Clare and I baked our first birthday cake together this weekend. Can I just please tell you how cute the girl is? She stood next too me with her big girl eyes and her little girl body and was excited. I don't mean kind of enthusiastic, I mean excited. She helped me pour and count out the exact number of eggs that we needed. Together we checked our list twice to make sure we had all of our ingredients measured out, then she dutifully repeated each word and pointed at each item as I checked it off. When it was time, she helped me stir the batter before using the mixer(and did a really great job I might add); she got to lick the beaters while I poured the cake into the cake pan; she got the first piece of it once it was finished baking (from the bottom of the cake of course, where I could hide the hole); finally, she helped me ice and decorate it. The icing was by far the best. She ate about half of the container of icing and what she didn't manage to get in her mouth, she got on her hands, shirt, hair and feet (oh, and on me, too). It was so much fun. I laughed through most of it (along with the occasional admonishment of "don't do that"). When we were finished, I couldn't WAIT to take that cake to my mother. I had a "Look Mom!" moment at 32 years old and it felt great. Mason had captured the icing process through film and video. It's been years since I've been that excited to get to my mom's house with a gift, but those pictures and that video were worthy of the excitement.

While she was still trying to ice the cake, before the first taste

Yeah - so much for icing the cake

Totally taking the credit for the finished product

All of this made me remember the times I stood in a chair next to my mother making cookies or cakes or desserts of all kinds. It always felt so good to be so near her. She was always happiest when she was in the kitchen. I can't remember the words, but I can even recall her voice while we did these things together. I loved her so big and all I wanted was to grow up to be just exactly like her. I have to wonder if Clare will remember her times with me as well and with as much joy, and I have to hope that I can provide many more of them for her to enjoy with me (just in case it only sticks in your memory when fully developed through repetition, or maybe just because it was so much fun that I selfishly can't wait to do it again).

Very long, very real, very me

2009-03-13T08:59:00.001-07:00

I have been witness to no less than three miracles in the past two weeks. I share because I want to, because I am delighted, because I am jumping for joy inside and I must share my good news, not because I am trying to convince anyone to believe me.

Miracle One.
Mason has struggled for almost two full months with whether or not to move forward with his own business or to stay with Closet Tailors and move forward with the owner. When I say struggle, I mean agonized, prayed, discussed, debated, and fell just short of my saying, JUST MAKE A DECISION FOR PETE’S SAKE. For two months, it looked like God was really providing him with opportunity after opportunity for his own business to grow and he had people telling him to move on from Closet Tailors and move into his business. But…he waited. He continued to pray and ask for direction. He continued to talk openly and honestly with the owner of Closet Tailors. He continued to deliberate. He waited for an answer from God. He knew it would come if he just waited for it. It came blindingly fast. In one week, the owner and Mason laid out a new direction for Mason’s path with the company, he found out the other guy working with him would be moving on from Closet Tailors into another job, the PAC program of Alabama fell apart (this directly impacted the one HUGE job he had on the table for his own business because the family has three children and two of them about to enter college with that failed program as their college savings plan), and a friend he worked with long ago gave him a call about needing employment for two of the guys in his shop that he couldn’t keep because business had decreased. In the span of three days, and in this exact order, God had answered him. I would chalk it up to coincidence, but the exactness of the numbers doesn’t lie.

Miracle Two.
We’ve been trying to figure out how to pay for Mason’s business taxes. We’re ok financially like most people, but I don’t think many people can fork out a lot of money at one time and it not have a fairly large impact on their day-to-day life. Well, we got bonuses at work this year (that should be the miracle, but it just doesn’t stop there). Usually we are given the majority of our bonus in stock and have to wait to sell it. It takes a few weeks to get the certificate. It takes a few weeks after quarter close once you get it to get an open trading window to sell it. It takes a few weeks to get the check after you sell the stock. It’s been this way for eight years without deviation. Of course, with the stock market as disheveled as it’s been, there is no telling what the actual bonus would have been worth by the time I was able to sell it some time in May. You know what happened this year? We got cash bonuses. No, I’m not kidding. Really! We still got a small portion of stock, but the majority of it was in cold hard cash available today, not a month after April 15th when taxes would be due. It’s the amount that is so peculiar. The exact amount received minus taxes paid on the bonus itself is surprisingly close to the exact amount we needed to do this and one other thing causing us worry.

Miracle Three.
Notice, if this hadn’t happened to me, I don’t know that I would have believed it myself. I’m a skeptic. Anyway, back to miracle three. I woke up this morning wide awake at 4:00 this morning. Frankly, this just does not happen to me. I am a sleeper. I love to sleep and much as possible. So, I woke up and I’m tossing and turning and snuggling and flipping covers off and adjusting pillows trying go back to sleep. Eighteen minutes later, I continue to be awake and finally get still. Then I hear it in my head. Get up! It’s time to do your Bible study. Strangely I responded with, I’m really tired, do I have to? Besides, I don’t have a study book. What good would it do? Then I stopped and looked around and thought, Oh my gosh, I’m crazy and hearing voices in my head. Crap. This is what crazy sounds like…great, just what I needed. Did I really hear anything or was it some kind of imaginary/sleep induced thing? I don’t think I’ll get up since I don’t want to be crazy. I heard the words again, very clearly, followed by the directions to go out to the car and get the purple binder and what I needed would be in there. What I needed? Well at this point I knew I wasn’t talking to myself and I knew I wouldn’t tell myself to get out of bed twice, and I knew I hadn’t touched that binder for two days or given it any thought for more than to carry it into Wednesday night church and then out of church Wednesday night after Wednesday night. Most of all, I knew for fact that I wouldn’t even in the best of circumstances tell myself to walk out in the cold, dark morning at four thirty to get a million dollars, much less a purple binder with something I needed in it. Needless to say, I got up and did the single most important thing I do all day, which is to turn the coffee pot on. Then, I went out to the car to get the purple binder. I came back inside and couldn’t remember where my Bible was, thought about it, remembered, then had to go back outside to get my Bible which is in the trunk of the car and has been for about a month. All of this to point out, I’m not a religious zealot; this was all REALLY out of character for me considering I haven’t done a morning bible study in over three months. The voice was very right. What I needed was on a blue sheet of paper from a session about three weeks ago that I never even glanced at. To explain in a nutshell, it was a lesson related to Sara, which reads about how God uses our weakness to demonstrate his promise and strength through us. That our whole existence is meaningful, not a multitude of punishments. I must admit like Sara, I have felt defective from a very young age. Circumstances beyond my control started that ball rolling, and the feelings have multiplied over and over due to newer circumstances and people and even decisions that I’ve made in my life. This morning, God saw straight into that place and quietly spoke to me saying, you don’t have to feel this way anymore. Listen to My Words; hear them in this quiet moment when the world is asleep; Look at them again with open eyes. Look at what you are to me, what you mean to me, at exactly who I meant for you to be. You are not defective or broken or worthless at all - you are Mine, and meaningful, and I love you just like this. The feelings that came next were overwhelming. I’ve spent the better part of 30 years developing this self condemnation and loathing. In one second, a single second, it was gone. I’m crying still. I can’t stop. I can’t explain what it’s like to be free from this. Not kind of free, not feeling better about it or working toward resolution. Free. In one quiet, crazy, moment.

I wouldn’t have written this blog before today. I wouldn’t have dared sound so crazy. Today, I’m honored to know the presence of God in my life and to have felt it so personally.

Actual Conversation This Morning...

2009-03-10T18:29:00.000-07:00

Clare was crying and wanting her baba (pacifier to those of you not living in our house - don't look at me like that, she made up the word, not us). I looked straight into her face and said "I have to tell you the truth Clare, the baba fairy came and got it this morning before you woke up. She'll bring it back tonight before you go to bed."

Mason just looked at me, "You have to tell her the truth huh?"

I think as parents we're so under prepared for the task at hand that it's a miracle that any child grows up with a decent set of morals and the ability to navigate the world we live in without believing that there are imaginary beings awaiting them with every malicious purpose around each and every corner.

2009-03-05T08:35:00.000-08:00

I had that morning this morning. That parent morning that moves in slow motion, but the clock is in fast forward. Tic-toc-tic-toc. It was a hectic morning where I was up working at 5:30 to fix something and Mason was unexpectedly called in early because one of the guys was sick. We were already late for a regular morning, and Mason still had to get the cat out to the vet (20 minutes away) for his scheduled nutectomy and rabies shot. Poor Clare. She woke up with her precious smile and desired our attention and we did everything we could to put her on “snooze”. We sat her on the couch with her waffle and her chocolate milk and her cartoons while the two of us rushed. No time for her this morning. Just time enough to take care of her physical needs, you know food, shower, but rush rush rush…everything was “hurry this, and hurry that.” No time for her playful needs or her smiles. “Come on Clare, let’s go, help Mommy out here.” I’m literally and figuratively at my wits end trying to get out of the house on time because I have a 4:30 hair appointment and lord knows I’m not giving that up (can you say desperately misguided priorities). So I rush my daughter over something stupid and unimportant. I pull her pants down for her to have a last minute teetee before we go to school. Any guesses what I found? She had peed in her pants. In my mind I lost my cool for a second. I stared down at the floor and her bare bottom and raised my hand to pop her, and I watched my hand move closer to her bottom. Then something stopped me. I think it was God. I don’t want to hit my child – at all – but much less over a little teetee in some pants on a morning where she needed my attention and this was her only way to get it. I didn’t pop her little precious bottom because we truly do want to be a no-hit family (and she’s just so cute). But I was still mad, I barked and growled at her about how she knows how to use the bathroom in the potty, yada yada yada…I stomped around to get her clean underpants and barked and growled some more because of her defiant behavior earlier that morning and how this and that and this and that. Tell me, at this point, who sounds more like the 2 year old?

So, we were not ok from that point forward, she was really quiet and confused and I was just rushing in a bad mood now. I got us both in the car and said something about stop tee teeing in your pants, blah blah blah, and then I turned on the news and we rode school and work in silence. This is not the way we go to school. We’re always singing, laughing, talking…this is not us. When we got to school, my most precious beautiful little girl looked at me sheepishly and said, “Mommy happy?” Oh my gosh, I’m such an asshole. I just started crying. “Yes baby, Mommy happy.” I probably hugged her a little too often, hung around a little longer than necessary at school and called to reschedule my hair appointment. She and I are going out tonight – to get ice cream.

I don’t hide my ugly, I put it out there for everyone to see. I do it because I think we’re all ugly inside and I wish we had the courage to admit it so we could learn from it and let go of it. I’m ashamed that I’m not perfect, I think this is normal…I think in some ways we all think we should be? Who knows why, maybe because we had mean old mommies who told us not to pee in our pants because it’s gross (only kidding here of course). I will say that I prayed after all this a prayer of thanks for God exposing this in me and I prayer requesting that God heal in me whatever made that behavior a possibility. I also think I would like for him to show me how to think through a situation to it's solution before the problem arises - I'm notoriously short sighted when I'm frustrated. I bet tomorrow morning, I make time for Clare and hopefully every morning after that. I can't change unexpected surprises - I can change my reaction.

Yesterday

2009-03-02T09:10:00.000-08:00

I need to be mushy for a moment. I need to write and feel mushy things about my family, my perfect, amazing family. If you get to choose your heaven when you die, then I will want mine to be to relive our life together from start to finish over and over and over.

I have a new favorite memory of the three of us burned into my mind from yesterday. We had gone downtown for dinner and Clare and I were chasing Mason afterward with something gross looking we found on her sleeve (turned out to be the new glow in the dark play doh we bought her, but it looked like doodoo until I could see it in the light). I was carrying her Superman style, she was trying to grab Mace to "get him", and Mason was really running to avoid getting the goo on him (no, I mean, really running away...it was awesome). The three of us were giggling and laughing and squealing with that kind of giggle and laugh and squeal that you only hear when there is sincere joy being shared. It felt like being a kid again. It was magic. They are magic. I am grateful to know these moments and how they feel.

I hope you find magic in your moments today.

For I come from Alabama....

2009-02-27T07:21:00.000-08:00

Racism

I’m from the South; this is a very real word in our vocabulary. Not because we’re more or less racist than anywhere else in the world, but because of our history…our distant and not so distant past. It’s still a raw wound down here because of the ignorance that rides around with the rebel flag, telling the off color jokes that people think are ok to tell, and hanging onto stereotypes that were cemented into our culture so long ago. Of course, I know these things are everywhere, but here, down here in our neck of the woods…we live in a world that not even forty years ago including bombing churches and beatings and lynching, signs, and every other inhumanity under the sun. I think you can call us sensitive at the broadest end of the spectrum and acutely aware of it at the smallest end. But it’s different down here. Most of us really try differently…we’re closer to the agony here. We try harder, I think in most instances, to rid ourselves of this ugliness as best as we can. Not everyone, of course, but most.

So, when a friend of mine was telling me about a psychology class she’s taking and that current content is dealing with being white and that we’re supposedly inherently racist as a result of being white, I bristled. Believing myself to be far more progressive than this ugly word, I bristled deep down. During the entire conversation, I found myself uncomfortable – for one, because there was a black man behind us and I was afraid about the conversation’s content and how it might be interpreted by him – but also because I truly don’t believe I’m even a smidgen racist. I don’t laugh at off color jokes. I scold people, even my family, for even the smallest offense. I take pride in my desire to break out of that mold. I believe I will be able to raise my daughter differently, to see beyond all descriptive differences, to truly be free of this nonsense. It was while I was parading my virtues through my mind that my friend said something that interrupted my thoughts. She was telling me how she had these same problems with the content so she went to talk to her professor. He listened to her, and guided her to do more with her feelings and this belief and understanding. He recommended movies and books to better explain the African American side of the argument and guided her through the process. But, then she said it. He told her that even she – as free from this sin as she was – was deep down a racist as well. I asked how. He reached into her brain and said to her, when you signed up for my class you were shocked on the first day when you came in here. She asked why he would think that. He demonstrated that when she signed up for a class taught by John Smith, that in her mind, John Smith was not a black professor. (I changed this name, but the point is that the name was very common). I literally heard these words through my head at lightening speed. As soon as she had said it, the thought went through my mind so fast that I couldn’t consciously stop it. There it was. It had been spoken and pretty veil of all of the right words and thoughts and ideals were lifted. In my swiftest of thoughts, I had betrayed myself and what I believed I stood for. I won’t minimize the truth or say to myself, “Well this doesn’t demonstrate anything other than my human desire to group based on known information.” I will admit, that the first thing I thought was, “That’s a pretty white sounding name, he’s right, I wouldn’t have thought he was African American.” After thinking it, I was like “WTF, your name is Lael??? Really you’re grouping based on name?”

So, I am at the “What now phase”. How do you turn on the lights of the world when you’ve got burnt out bulbs of your own? How do we collectively change? How do we really progress beyond our stereotypes and into a world of equality where the universal conversation changes? Is it possible? No answers yet, just recognition of the problem on a whole different scale. But....”Knowing is half the battle”

All you need is...a G1?

2009-02-22T14:26:00.000-08:00

Ok. I've already taken my new found constant connectivity too far. This morning I tried to check the weather during church. Mason gave me the look. I put the phone away. It all happened so fast that I really didn't realize
what I had done until it was too late. I am the first to admit, I have a new problem.

Blogging from my new google phone

2009-02-19T19:53:00.000-08:00

Oh, that's right. So very excited to be on the cusp of the technological revolution. Mason bought this for me so I could blog again. It seems work wasn't the appropriate place to do it and during the ride home made more sense somehow...no no, only teasing. We'll see how much more creative I can be if I can write whenever the mood hits. LOVE YOU MR. BOYD

Conversations blurbs from Mason's birthday dinner Saturday night (in no particular order)

2009-02-09T11:16:00.000-08:00

It's not pronounced "miss-chee-vee-ous" it's "miss-chiv-ous", you're adding letters to the word that don't exist!

Well, at least I don't say purie.

I heard there was a new bar in Southside, I think the name of it is Uranus.

You have too much facial hair to drink that, you'll catch your face on fire.

Call 1-800-YUM-YUM.

Where does one purchase a $100 sleeveless shirt?

Is there someone out here peeing in the parking lot?

I was literally sitting on a bomb.

What is this? What's on top of it?

No thanks, you can eat all the Salmonella you'd like, but I'm not going to.

I swear, I didn't tell them it was your birthday.

Do you remember the time.....