Sitting Still - and other myths?

Today has been an emotional one for my family, as we mourn the death of my grandma's brother. He was a very devoted Christian and family man. Strangely, he passed a day after the bishop of our church denomination also died suddenly in a car accident. Why? It's a legitimate question. Now, my great-uncle suffered from the effects of a stroke that happened 12 years ago until he was finally released from the suffering this morning. For most of us, the question of "why" came more when the stroke happened than when he passed away. The stroke diminished his capacities so severely that he was unable to teach Sunday School or help lead any ministries, as he had done for as long as most of us could remember.

Jesus Himself said in Matthew 5:44-46, "⁴⁴ But I tell you: Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, ⁴⁵that you may be sons of your Father in heaven. He causes His sun to rise on the evil and the good, and sends rain on the righteous and the unrighteous." There are many truths to be gleaned from the whole passage, but the message is clear in that God doesn't play favorites. Good things and difficulties befall us both equally. Now I recognize my blessings for what they are - acknowledging them as a gift from God. This seems obvious to me, but can you imagine giving gifts to someone every day, sometimes several times a day... handing the gifts directly to him/her and having his/her response be something to the effect of, "Wow. I sure got lucky today! This just fell in my lap. I don't know where it came from. I guess I just have good karma. I have great luck... either that, or I'm a really great person and good things just happen to me." Would you continue to lavish gifts on that person? It's a good thing God doesn't deal in emotional currency like we do or our blessings would be few and far between. However, I think He feels more blessed when we acknowledge what His Word has already stated, in James 1:16-17 "¹⁶Don't be deceived, my dear brothers. ¹⁷Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of the heavenly lights, who does not change like shifting shadows." He's the Giver of all good things, and He doesn't change. His blessings aren't dependent upon His mood or our behavior.

Now coming to death. I have a hard time believing that either Uncle Dick or Bishop are up in heaven right now saying, "Why me??! Why now?!" The thought of it seems absurd. We on earth don't have the luxury of the clarity of thought that they now have. This is a good and perfect gift to them. It certainly doesn't feel that way to us, but ours is coming... someday. As I sit here in the physical pain that I experience from an ailment nearly every day, all day... I can hardly wait for the gift of heaven. Don't get me wrong... the idea of leaving all of my loved ones is difficult to imagine, but since there will be "no tears and no sorrows and no pain" (Revelation 21:4) in heaven, I know that I would not mourn - for time would no longer be an issue either, and my loved ones would be in my arms in a blink anyway.

It comes back to us left on earth. I have seen funerals... the most beautiful of which are when the loved ones left behind are resolved and reassured and trusting in God over the timing of the death and the truth of where their loved one has gone. Why? Absolutely, why. But when we ask this about certain people and not others, then are we attributing more value to a certain type of person? (He/she was a good person, a minister, a servant of God, etc.) These men were Christians. They were in love with their Lord - with whom they now reside. Why them? Why not? They were ready to go. They have been for many years. They have walked with Him for a long time - sometimes through joy and sometimes tragedy. They have had their faith tested. They have walked blindly - seeing through dim glass... just as we do now. Their faith is now sight, and they were more than ready for it. I have more trouble asking why over someone who has not repented and who is not ready to meet their maker than over someone who is. If they ever questioned God's goodness in life, I'm sure they're not questioning it today.

Jesus himself said in John 14:26-27, "²⁶But the Counselor, the Holy Spirit, whom the Father will send in my name, will teach you all things and will remind you of everything I have said to you. ²⁷Peace I leave with you; my peace I give you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled and do not be afraid." He was preparing His disciples for His own absence. He was giving them comfort for when He was gone. He was helping them by giving them - not worldly comfort... but heavenly comfort. He knew they would want Him and that they needed comfort in their sadness. In John 16:32-33 He said, "^32'But a time is coming, and has come, when you will be scattered, each to his own home. You will leave me all alone. Yet I am not alone, for my Father is with me. ³³"I have told you these things, so that in me you may have peace. In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.'" Jesus anticipated a time when He would be alone in this world, and the fleshly part of Him definitely noticed it - almost seemingly in a worrying way (You will leave me all alone.) - but He didn't despair, and nor should we, for He knew His Father would be with Him. He also acknowledged what we all so painfully find out - we'll have trouble here. This isn't our home. We are here a relatively short time before we too join those in eternity. That's why we often feel uncomfortable, out of place, and as if we were created for more. It's because we were.

I was watching the river today. It was flowing quickly in one direction. I remembered what someone once said about being in a boat on that same river. He said that if he didn't row upstream, he would float downstream with the current. The oddest part is that it didn't feel like he was going anywhere. He felt as though he was sitting still. However, when he looked up he realized he had floated far downstream. He recognized at that point that if he was not rowing purposefully in the opposite direction of the current, He would be inadvertently transported downriver. That's the way it is with us. Sometimes I can get annoyed with people who seem "ultra-spiritual" as though they've attained some kind of higher ground with God than I have. But it's true. They have. It's not because they're more special. It's because they're rowing harder. For one reason or another they have not only discovered the key to a close relationship with the Lord (the same as it is with anyone else - close, intimate contact and constant communication) but (this is the part most of us have trouble with) they are continuing to strive at it - keeping up with it, making it work. Likely something happened to them along the way to drive them to God and motivated them to keep Him close. My divorce did that with me, yet even now I find myself taking God for granted sometimes. I think it's usually our difficulties that prove our faith - and where it is placed. Is my faith in me? In God? In my perception of God? Is it weak? Is it steadfast?

Life is precious, absolutely. So are those with whom we are blessed to spend our days on earth. But life on earth is just a tiny portion of that for which we were created. Some people get to eternity earlier than others. That's only a tragedy when they are not prepared for it. Our perspective (through no fault of our own) is temporal and physical, because it's all we know. We see life as precious because it is, but it's not over for either of these men. It's just the end of the season they spent on earth. We see the end of physical life as a curse or an injustice. I know I would feel that way - in particular if I lost a younger loved one. But I would still be wrong. Not to negate feelings, because they often seem more real than any knowledge we can possibly attain. They are extremely powerful, but they eventually fade and disappear in a way that truth never does. I remember losing my husband to another life. It was just as painful as if he was dead - moreso in a way because of the fact that he had taken himself away from me and our children intentionally. This was a pain that was so intense at times I was sure I wouldn't be able to draw my next breath. I remember talking to a widower during that time, and he said he was glad that he wasn't divorced, because his memories of his wife were at least sweet and he knew she didn't want to leave him and their children. However, today, for me, all that is left of that pain is a scar... a memory that's not painful anymore. It's just the facts - not the emotions - that remain.

I'm inspired today to press on toward the goal of better knowing Him with whom I will spend my forever. Why settle for superficiality? Why be quenched with "hallelujah"? Why be sated with religion? If there's more, then I want it. I don't want to feel awkward toward my Creator. When I see Him at last I want to feel joyful and restful in His presence. I want to be comfortable being close to Him now so that I be enthralled with Him later. Who wants eternity with a virtual stranger? Or even worse, who wants to spend eternity with One they thought was something He wasn't at all? I want to know Him. I want to row against the current that is pushing so steadily in the opposite direction.

I Ms.

As most of you know, I am home from my week long stay in California with my wonderful sister and brother-in-law. I went with my oldest, Austin. He is nearly 14. So he is virtually self-sufficient at this point. I looked forward, although with minor trepidation, to the opportunity for a week's break from the very busy everyday life that is mine with several young children. I imagined the excitement of using the restroom without anyone coming in to smear peanut butter on my knee while asking me for another glass of milk. I relished the idea of bathing, grooming, and dressing only myself - or even myself, as some days don't allow time for even that. I savored the thought of a night's sleep without the punctuation of visiting blanket and pillow thieves and toddler squeaks, moans, and cries reverberating from the baby monitor.

Despite frequent phone calls and photo/video updates by phone, by the end of day three, I was in tears at missing my little ones and my husband. I loved where I was and who I was with, but this didn't negate the fact that my heart was decidedly elsewhere.

I remember when I was first divorced. For awhile, I said several times a day - sometimes audibly, "I miss my husband." I continued to say it. At first, I really did miss the physical presence of someone I had cared for, known, and loved for 10 years and lived with in matrimony for nearly 8 years. After a year or so, I didn't so much miss his physical presence. As humans, we can become accustomed to nearly any type of discomfort, I imagine. However, I continued to say it - sometimes only in my mind. I often wondered why. I think it was because I missed the identity I had lost - the "wife & mother". I was still a mother, but that was only half the identity I used to have. "I miss my husband" was more about an identity crisis than missing a person... more about a missing me than a missing he. I learned during that time that I needed no one save God for fulfillment, but I love that He gave me a gift - that of family - to share my life on earth.

I felt this again when I missed my children. I found myself smiling at, waving at, and talking to strangers' children if only to feel counterfeit closeness to my own. I watched the other parents around the park - parenting. I thought, "I do that. Yeah, I'm a parent too." I almost wanted others to know it - wanted to wear a t-shirt declaring it or have it tattooed on my forehead. Why?? I knew that if my kids were there, Levi would be on his monkey backpack leash - pitching fits over sibling annoyances. Violet would be screaming to get out of the stroller and climbing anything that didn't climb her when she wasn't in the stroller. Claire and Sadie would be begging me to ride teacups and Dumbo's and other momits - things that go around and around till mom vomits. Austin would be putting the "middle school distance" between himself and his dorky family or picking mercilessly on the younger children. We'd have to stop at every shop and kiosk and try on every goofy (or donald or mickey or minney) hat in Disneyland. We'd be paying $120.00/meal to eat as a family, taking breaks every 5-15 minutes (alternating between potty/diaper change and water), and every photo I tried to take would have someone frowning, rolling his eyes, making a silly face, or holding bunny ears behind someone else's head. I had none of these "problems", but I was still missing the having of them! That's the insanity that is motherhood.

I rarely have time to do this, but I read the blog of someone I don't know a few weeks ago. A few of my friends were following hers, and I saw that she had well over one hundred readers. She considers herself a writer/poet. I don't know what one has to do to become these things, but I would think, by most standards, it would involve a college degree and some paid work in the writing/poetry field. Anyway, I read one of her posts describing how she was newly pregnant with what would be her first child. She wrote about this in some detail, and then she exclaimed to her readers at the end, something to the effect of, "Don't worry. You won't find me writing about my pregnancy and child now. This won't turn into a mommy blog, because the last thing this world needs is another mommy blog!" The obvious disdain for mothers who blog their daily thoughts was palpable. This was a barb. It annoyed me. Of course, I am a "mommy", and I blog. I found it interesting that the few posts following that one that I skimmed through all mentioned her pregnancy. So... the reality is obvious. Once a woman becomes a mommy, even if just in belly, it changes her identity. She is no longer all about herself - if she has all of the mental and emotional components God intended - she is now about another person. *gasp* There is someone on earth that I consider more special than me!? But the part of me that is mommy no longer has anything important or worthwhile to say or write?

I couldn't wait to get home and hold my babies. They are so dear to my heart. Of all the special things I see them do on a daily basis, the depth of who they are still escapes me. That frustrates and fascinates me. It exasperates me and yet thrills me to my core. I get to learn more about the special, whole, younger people in my home. I suppose I'll never stop learning about them. I can't think of a more precious moment last week than the one that took place the night I got home - singing my baby girl to sleep while she strokes my hair and squeezes my shoulder with her chubby hand... while trying to shove her pacifier into my mouth. The joy of it's telling brings a lump to my throat. Is there any felicity in all the world that compares with this?

Independence is nice, but, for me, dependence is so much nicer. Me is okay, but me and him and him and her and her and him and her is so much more complete. Me and HE is all I really need, but He saw fit to give me more. My identity is loosely tied to those with whom I have formed the tightest earthly bond. I don't need them for survival, but I was given them for thrival. (Yes, I made that word up.) Sure, I am technically more than a Christian, a wife, and a mom, but who cares about that? I've all but forgotten who she was.

Why is it that I seem to overestimate myself and underestimate others? I thank God that I have more than me to impress me. I have my peeps, and they never fail to astonish me.

What's the Worst that Could Happen?

Irrational fears... I think we all have them to some degree. Some of us wouldn't like to admit it, but there is a part of us that worries about something we can't possibly control. Usually, it's something VERY unlikely to ever occur, but the truth of that rarely encounters the illogical worry on the other side of the door... the one between feeling and knowing.

Some of us call them "phobias"... which is just a derivative of the Greek word for fear. I was googling phobias the other day. I was astounded at the wide variety of phobias. I have two in particular myself. The first one is called "globophobia" - fear of balloons. My friends LOVE to tease me about this one, but I blacked out at prom during the balloon drop. The fact is that my fear may be more along the lines of "ligyrophobia" or fear of loud noises. I'm not so much afraid of balloons as of the fact that when they are present people seem to love to pop them. Why? I don't know what's wrong with you people. Along with the ligyrophobia is also the fear of fireworks, gunshots, ziploc bags filled with air, those little air sacks that they use for shipping these days, and McDonald's birthday parties. Now, this seems a pretty avoidable fear, but you'd be amazed how much you'd start to notice all the places you are with your kids that people want to give them a balloon. I would seem awful if I just said, "No thanks. We're not balloon people," and walked away. I mean, who's not balloon people? What kind of hideous creature would withhold a fun, colorful piece of helium-inflated latex joy from their child? I don't even enter the Publisher's Clearinghouse Sweepstakes for fear they might show up on my doorstep with balloons (never mind the enormous billion dollar check). I'd probably just black out or throw up on the person who took Ed McMahon's job, and they'd move on to the next house on the list.

My other phobia would be that of using an outhouse/pit toilet. I will not use one. Give me a patch of weeds and a somewhat questionable leaf over an outhouse any day. I wasn't able to find a phobia word for this one. Fear of toilets in general, however, is a phobia, and, believe me, I feel sorry for that guy.

I'll name some of my other "issues" - what I would classify more as worries than phobias. Most of these are ridiculous, but they've crossed my mind at least once - some of them daily. So I take these fears, and then answer them to their logical conclusions, as follows:

1) What if I had been born 100 years or more earlier than I was? What would I have done about the lack of indoor plumbing?

2) What if I had been born when there were no options for orthodontics or facial hair removal?

3) What if nobody takes pity on me when I get old and keeps up with my facial hair removal?

4) What if my words are forever etched on the internet? Will my grandchildren read them? My great grandchildren? I'm not sure I want that kind of pressure. I want them to remember me in some fanciful cloud of imagination... not as I really am.

5) What if I'm like some people and never get famous but then somehow do after I'm dead and the only pictures they find for my biography are bad hair days? Or what if they put a musical montage of my life in pictures together for my funeral and someone like Arthur Hannes narrates?

6) What if I'm not remembered at all?

7) What if salon shampoo is no better than store shampoo - only more expensive?

8) What if organic food is just a government conspiracy to get rid of the smaller, less appetizing produce at higher prices?

9) What if the UPS man knows me better than most other people do, and I don't know him at all?

10) What if archival quality photo paper really isn't? Will all my photos fade and be forgotten?

11) What if too much hair goes down my drain and clogs it?

12) What if Liquid Plumber is bad for the water table?

13) When the word "googling" (above) was not underlined by spell checker, I immediately thought, "That's an actual word now? This world is changing so rapidly. I'm old now. What if I can't keep up?"

_________________________________________________

1) I would never have known the joys of indoor plumbing, and my parents might have always wondered with the grass behind the outhouse would never grow.

2) I would have been virtually unmarketable and would have had to join the circus sideshow.

3) I guess the kids will remember me as Grandpa Slagter or that scary old bearded lady who wanted a hug every Sunday during visiting hours.

4) Hopefully their reality check about me will be less disappointing than I anticipate. Chances are I'll be crazy old grandma anyway, and maybe viewing some former moments of semi-lucid writing will be a comfort to them. (Oh, and I'll be dead, and it won't matter.)

5) I'll be dead, and it won't matter.

6) I'll be dead, and it won't matter.

7) Then I'm wasting money on a label. People have done that for centuries for much more stupid things than shampoo.

8) Then I helped get rid of unwanted produce and feed farmers.

9) It's his job. He doesn't mind.

10) Maybe, but I'll probably be dead, and it won't matter.

11) Hello, Liquid Plumber.

12) Hello, actual plumber.

13) Then I'll fall behind and become an "eccentric"... which will make the frizzy hair and beard more socially acceptable.

My mom used to have a saying. I remember this saying, because I use it on my own children on a regular basis. Now, I know my mom didn't event this saying, because it's very common. However, when mom said it, it had a way of making the worst fears seem a little more ridiculous. She said, "What's the worst thing that could possibly happen?" She didn't just say it. She made us play it. She made us actually tell her the thought that had originated the fear and what the future would hold if such a thing should actually occur. It had a way of making the fear melt away almost every time.

I find this interesting, because as I have noticed in some of my older friends and relatives... the little molehills that they didn't deal with as younger people have become mountains as they grew into older people. The little worries and fears that they didn't hand over to a God big enough to handle them turned them into - in some cases - downright fear-ridden, worry-filled, controlling individuals. In most cases, that is very ugly. This concept is not just relegated to the world of fear either - anger, gossip, greed, paranoia, anxiety, and lust (amongst other things) like noses and wrinkles, get bigger as we get older. They make us into people who are sometimes downright difficult to be near. I think if more people would think on that question, "What's the worst thing that could happen?" they would, like I often do, find out that what they fear is actually not quite as horrifying as they originally imagined.

This makes me want to deal with my molehills before they become mountains. I know nowhere else to go but to the One who wants to bear my burdens... the One who bore my biggest burden to Calvary.

I was reading tonight, Psalm 34:2-4 My soul makes its boast in the Lord; let the humble hear and be glad. Oh, magnify the Lord with me, and let us exalt His name together! I sought the Lord, and He answered me and delivered me from all my fears.

I think these verses are worth another think or maybe two. For one thing, it's the humble who can hear the Lord. When I think I'm pretty great or pretty capable or pretty pretty, I negate my ability to hear what He has for me. When I magnify (or see in a larger scale) the Lord and put Him in His rightful place in my life, I (along with my issues) get smaller. When I seek to know Him better, He is more than ready to answer me and deliver me from all my fears. He sees every fear, and He knows the thinking that got me there. Ever wonder where all that ick comes from? Thought -->Feeling-->Action-->Result. And the cycle continues. Your feeling originated from a thought - usually an erroneous one if you're like me. Even if your thinking is just a tiny bit "off" - the rest spins out of control. Claiming truth over the thought restarts the cycle in the right direction.

Now, there are dozens and dozens of other verses that deal with fear and casting our cares where they belong. I am going to park it right here for now. Because I need to think on it. What's the worst thing that could happen?

Spoiled Camping?

I'm in California this week - visiting my sister and her hubby. I get to travel the world by visiting my sister - whose husband is in the Navy... stationed on either coast. This is nice for me and mine, as we still live in the Midwest - where I grew up.

The first couple of days here we decided corporately that RVing was a fun idea. I had never been RVing, and neither had they. So we all approached the concept with much optimism. We camped a lot when I was a child. My parents enjoyed the outdoors and they also enjoyed penny pinching - all of which made for a lot of camping trips. I have never enjoyed camping as much as it seems like everyone else in my family has. I didn't mind it as a young child, but it got less and less appealing as I grew older. I know this will sound incredibly girly and spoiled, but I don't care for dirt and bugs and smelling like campfires. I like daily showers and particularly relish indoor plumbing and all of its requisite benefits.

Why I thought I would enjoy camping more now than I did back then is a mystery. I love nature, but I'm doubtful that the feeling is entirely mutual. The first night went pretty well. I had showered the evening before, and I was able to avoid the opportunity to try out the pay showers at the first campground. These were nice showers, and had I known the kind of showers that would be in the next night's campground, I would have paid the 25 cents a minute to shower in the luxurious pay showers.

We stayed in the neatest campground - at the foot of the mountains next to a river rushing over big, beautiful rocks. I was able to find lots of geological specimens to take home to my girls - who LOVE rocks. I know if they had been there, we would have had to rent a U-Haul in which to take home our rocky treasures. We camped next to Canadians, Netherlanders, and Sweeds, which provided fun, interesting conversation and the chance to prove heroic to camping novices from foreign lands.

Lest you think all of this beauty and culture didn't come with a price... enter the showers. The showers were in a cement block building with a few core doors leading to 3' x 4' rooms. These 5 shower rooms were not gender specific and were roughly equipped with some plastic shower stalls that looked like they had been cut to fit. They were shoved into this cramped space with a dim lightbulb overhead. There were two hooks on the wall. The up side was that some of the doors to the outside even latched and locked.

It was a cold evening - in the 40 degree range that night. As I started optimistically toward the unheated shower rooms with my sister, I was met with the rude awakening of earwigs... a creature for which I have reserved a special kind of disgust within myself. They were crawling everywhere. I picked a shower with a latching door, but it had no bench on which to set my toiletries, towel, and dry clothing. So... hooks. I tried to hook every possible thing on the two small hooks provided. I was ready to give it the ol' college try. I turned on the water to disappointingly low water pressure and ice cold water. I thought it would warm up - it warmed to slightly less freezing than the water that was coming down the mountains from melted snow. I jumped in out of desperation, but all my dreams of a nice warm shower with the opportunity to sanitize and groom were all but lost. I shampooed and tried to jump out before a new and strange creature dropped into my hair or crawled up my leg. I wanted to shave, but I have been known to - from sheer distraction - shave only one leg or, even worse, shave the same leg twice, forgetting the other completely. Who knew what could happen to my poor legs under this duress. Not to mention that I also have a working theory about goosebumps making the hair on my legs grow faster.

When I got out, I did the after-shower hokey pokey. It goes something like this. You stick your left foot out; you dry your left foot off; you put your left foot in your clothes and shake it till they're on. You put your left foot in your shoe before it hits the ground. That's what it's all about. Right foot... and so on and so forth until you're dressed without ever having to touch the floor with clean, dry feet. I hadn't brought showering shoes, but those are the mistakes camping rookies make... especially when flying halfway across the country to camp.

Anyway, I sometimes wonder if other people do neurotic things like this, but I guess it doesn't much matter. I just realized as I was walking back to the RV - looking like a drowned rat - and feeling like one too - how spoiled I am. Ugh... I hate to admit that. I've even tent camped before. It's not like I don't like the great outdoors. But somehow I get the feeling, when visiting a campground, that they should be paying me to stay there. There are lots of people who live outside for free. Yet I'm paying $30/night to sleep outside, take cold showers, and eat cans of beans. All the while my home is sitting there - all paid for - with a nice, warm bed, hot shower, and good food. Ah, well... It's the experience.

(My sister and brother in law are great hosts, by the way, and fed us well and were great company - which was worth much more than we paid to camp. I say this, lest my dramatic flair and goofy rhetoric gives anyone the wrong impression about our delightful hosts.)

The next day, at Grand Sequoia National Park I actually used a pit toilet. But that's a blog for another lifetime. I am off to find a t-shirt that declares "I (heart) indoor plumbing!"

Chicken Little?

My parents are gone for the second week in Florida. During this time, my family and I are discovering that our world pretty much revolves around my mom. We've noticed this before, but it's so much more obvious when she's not there. She's the sun to our orbit. She's the glue to our cohesiveness. She's the hooves to our glue... the pig to our gelatin. In less ridiculous terms, she's important. Without her, we see less of one another. My grandparents have no doctor accompaniment, my sister and I have minimal childcare, and all of our lives run significantly less smoothly.

My immediate, in-town family consists of two pairs of grandparents, my sister and brother-in-law and their children, and my mom's sister and her husband and children. When all together with my parents, we are a group of 23. We get together on a fairly regular basis - about once a month at least for the monthly birthday party. We also see one another at church.

My sister and I decided this week to have a family get-together before my son and I headed to California for a week. We asked the rest of the family, and they were "in". My grandma (mom's mom) said she would be the hostess. We figured potluck style was good, and that we would each bring something. We often go with a main meat dish of chicken at such a gathering. I volunteered to bring the chicken.

My grandparents are getting to an age where they are "set in their ways" about a few things. Walmart chicken is the best is apparently one of these ways. I am what you might call a chicken rookie. I like chicken. I eat chicken. I cook chicken. (Although I did have to YouTube how to cut up a fresh chicken a few months back.) I very rarely order chicken. I didn't know that it could be a necessity to order it in advance of my immediate desire/need for it. If I drive through KFC, I holler into this little, round speaker - telling them how many pieces of chicken I want, what color meat, and with what kind of breading (if any), and they say, "It'll be $.... at the window. I drive up. I give them money. They give me chicken. Everyone is happy.

My grandma told me I should get the chicken at Walmart. I said, "Okay." About 45 minutes before the gathering, I called to tell my grandma I was on my way over. I asked, "Should I order the chicken now?" She said, panic in her voice, "You should have ordered it yesterday." Uh-oh, chicken rookie mistake #1. "Can I just go ahead and call them now, do you think?" I asked, which was met with a disappointed, "They're probably out. It's too late now." Hmm?? Too late? For chicken? It was 4:30 in the afternoon. Surely this was not too late for chicken.

I asked her to give me the phone number as I didn't have it in my phone. She gave me the number for Walmart that was listed in the phone book. As I called the number, I was met with, "Automotive Department". "You couldn't by chance help me get some chicken?" (Not realizing that by the time Wal-Mart was done with me, I might as well have gone back to Automotive and asked for their help running one over.) "Ah, um... they have the wrong number listed in the phone book." Ya think? "Oh, you probably get this all the time, huh?" "Yep, you want to call the main store number at ___." Huh? Apparently Walmart can't afford a calling system that transfers calls from one department, across the store to another department. I guess the small fortune I spend at Wal-Mart each year is not accompanied by phone transfer privileges. Memorize the number and call back... which I did while driving. When I received the bakery, I gladly got a very friendly lady who transferred me (possible, as I suspected) to the Deli to a less friendly gentleman.

"Can I get about 30 pieces of chicken in about 45 minutes?" After a confused stutter, he put me on hold for an even less friendly lady.

"I got 200 pieces coming out at 6:00," she said.

"Okay, is it possible for me to get 30 pieces?" I replied.

"No."

"Mmm...kay..." (pause)

"There's only 16 under the glass. So no."

"So I should wait until 6:00 then?"

"No. I only have 200 coming out then. So no."

Not speaking Walmart speak is apparently working against me at this point, because I don't understand why the 200 pieces coming out at 6:00 is not up for grabs. No thanks to this unfriendly associate. I fought the temptation to reply, "Well, I'll bet there are 30 pieces in the meat department right now. Transfer me to them, and I'll have them bring it over to you, and you can toss it in the fryer for me." I can't help but think that had she initially responded, "Well, I had a big order for 200 pieces come in, and I just can't accommodate your needs tonight. I apologize for any inconvenience," or something along those lines, I would have felt more warm and fuzzy inside - not to mention had a MUCH shorter conversation with less confusion. As it was, I said, "Okay, thanks anyway," and hung up.

Grandma was right - I had messed up. If mom had been here, this never would have happened. And everyone would have their Wal-Mart chicken.

However, I found County Market's number, and I asked them, "Could I possibly get about 25-30 pieces of chicken in (by this time) about 30 minutes." She said, "It only takes about 15 minutes in the fryer. What time is it now?" (I guess clocks near where we're taking orders is also a limited luxury.) I said, 5:05. She said, "Sure, we can do it by 5:30." From this point on, everything went fine, and we had a nice chicken dinner - in which nobody complained for lack of Wal-Mart's dry, limited engagement, poor customer service chicken. There was even a ziploc bag of 5 pieces left over that my grandma forced on me as I was leaving. They might have even seemed to have an iridescent glow about them - almost like a chicken miracle.

Now, this isn't a Wal-Mart bashing blog. I am positive that poor customer service is not limited to Wal-Mart by any means. (Although I think they can get away with it better than just about any other retailer.) However, I began to feel a little like the sky was falling when I was unable to locate a suitable main course for our dinner without mom. On the bright side, we figured out once again that we can do things without mom if we have to, and I'm getting lessons on being a little glue-like myself. Next time I will be able to respond with confidence, "Nobody panic. I'll take care of the chicken."

Communication Error

I speak English. Yes, most of the people I know speak mostly English, but sometimes even my husband and I speak a different language. I've only recently become fairly certain of one thing. I self-disclose much more than my husband does. This means he tells me about himself and his feelings way less often than I tell him about myself and my feelings. However, I figure this balances out in the long run, and I'll tell you how. I listen intently to his small, maybe 5% self-disclosure rate... then I add my own assumptions, fill in a lot of blanks, and come up with approximately (and this is a rough estimate) 35% Mark knowledge. He listens to about 50% of my self-disclosure, and forgets at least 15% of that... leaving him about 35% Marcie knowledge - even Steven. I used to think that would be so dissatisfying. You remember? Teenage dreams of a deep love - reading one another's thoughts, etc. Blech... now I'm glad I can't read other people's thoughts. I'll give you an example of why I feel this way.

Usually when someone says something that just "comes out", it isn't very pleasant. However, it was in there somewhere. I remember when my husband and I were looking at houses together (which was pure realtor torture, by the way). We were in this lovely two-story home and looking at a remodeled bathroom. There was this beautiful sink with a brand new faucet and fancy hot/cold handles. The handles were shaped in a lovely spiral/corkscrew design or so I thought until I said, "Wow, honey. Look at the faucet handles! Aren't they neat?" To which my husband, who grew up on a hog farm, blurted out to my initial shock, "Looks like a boar's _____." (<--insert part of male anatomy here). Now we hadn't even been married a year at this point, and I am still getting pig lessons... this home viewing had apparently turned into a crash course in boar anatomy for me and the realtor. He is not one to make apologies... under nearly any circumstances, and he didn't then, unless, "Well, it does," counts as an apology. But I looked around to see if the realtor was within earshot in case I needed to crawl out to the car and begin the search for a new realtor. Not to mention that the house we were viewing had become officially tainted from the bathroom out. I would never have been able to use that bathroom sink without serious qualms.

The point is, most times if we blurt something out, it's the truest indicator of what's really inside. Luke 6:44-46 says, "⁴⁴Each tree is recognized by its own fruit. People do not pick figs from thornbushes, or grapes from briers. ⁴⁵The good man brings good things out of the good stored up in his heart, and the evil man brings evil things out of the evil stored up in his heart. For out of the overflow of his heart his mouth speaks." Honesty is the best policy, but sometimes how something is said is more important than what is being said. Ephesians 4:15 uses the phrase, "speaking the truth in love". It gives priority - not only to speaking the truth - but to saying it in a loving way. Truth is... what scripture says it is. Speaking my feelings is not truth. My feelings may seem true to me, but they are totally subjective.

Now there are those with whom I have the freedom to share my feelings, because they have proven that they are trustworthy with my vulnerability. However, they also have the freedom to wound me if necessary. Proverbs 27:5-6 says, "⁵ Better is open rebuke than hidden love. ⁶ Wounds from a friend can be trusted, but an enemy multiplies kisses." Those with whom I share my heart are those I know will point me in the right direction - toward the One my soul loves. I have come to a point where I welcome the wounds of my friends. I want to hear when they see I am being prideful or when they think I am wrong about something. I have chosen my friends, yes, but not because they'll fill my ears with honey - but because they'll pour in a little vinegar when necessary. However, they don't do it because they think I am wrong, but rather that they know the Lord and can see that my ways are contrary to His ways.

I guess maybe you have to earn the right to be honest with someone. Blurting is never a good idea, I've learned. It's hard to see what the end result will be, but I'm not always good at slowing down. I'm impatient, and my mind never stops thinking of words. A verse that I'm convinced the Lord keeps forefront in my mind is Proverbs 10:19, "¹⁹ When words are many, sin is not absent, but he who holds his tongue is wise." He's still working on the fewer words thing in me.

I went to a communication workshop awhile back. The premise is that full disclosure involves a sense (one of the five), thought, a feeling, a need or desire, and an action. An example of full communication would be, "I smelled fire. I thought that the house might be on fire, and I was fearful for my family. I needed to know they'd be okay, so I shouted fire and tried to evacuate the house." The person receiving the communication is supposed to repeat back what was said... giving the sender an opportunity to change anything necessary, therefore owning his own message. Then it goes back and forth. I have to be honest. When I've used this form of communication, although sometimes cumbersome, it has always, without exception, brought almost immediate end to disputes or misunderstandings.

I have found that, as a people-pleaser, I tend to have fewer words for people with whom I am completely comfortable. It's an odd thing, when I'm with someone who I feel dislikes or doesn't accept me on some level, my words multiply exponentially, and I end up babbling foolishly. When I am at ease... I can let conversation flow more naturally. I know that more words won't make me more acceptable, and, in fact, will almost surely have the opposite effect, and the little guy on the wheel inside my head is saying, "Shut up, shut up, shut up..." but my gums just keep flappin'.

Ah, well... we all have our issues. If only verbal excess was my worst vice... My husband tends to like the saying, "Better to remain silent and have people wonder if you're a fool than to speak and remove all doubt." I like that too... but I think it's too late for me. :)

Selfish in a Box

I am sitting here sharing a box of Sour Patch Kids with Levi. Candy is a guilty pleasure that I rarely allow my kiddos. They eat a lot of fruit, veggies, and whole grain snacks. My mom raised us that way. "What can I have to drink?" was always met with "Water or milk." My grandma still insists to this day that my sisters and I used to frisk her for candy when she came in the door of our house, because we were so candy deprived. Pop was a rare luxury saved for restaurants - one glass about once each month. Sweet cereals were saved for camping vacations when the variety pack of mini cereal boxes was busted out, and we all had to fight over who got the Lucky Charms. Of course, by day 3 all that was left were the Honey Nut Cheerios, and the real vacation (the one from shredded wheat, Grape Nuts, and oat meal) was officially over. My dad will mostly likely be reading this, and he will be disappointed if I don't mention the fact that when we went to McDonald's (which was a rare treat) he bought us each a hamburger, and then he made me and my two sisters share a box of french fries and a drink. He often wondered aloud why my sisters and I fought "like cats and dogs". I don't know, but I'm pretty sure that sugar deprivation and the resulting serotonin deficiency combined with the fry-sharing and fighting over the once-a-year tiny boxes of sweet cereal created an atmosphere that was less conducive to sisterly love and more conducive to fighting like wolf pups over a rabbit carcass. You do the math.

I think it's interesting how I swore I would never be like my parents, but I tend toward those ways of rationing certain types of food. I can look back and understand that it was done for my good - just like I am trying to do with my own children. I think mom and dad were hoping (as I do for my kids) that someday - a constant diet of nutritious food would result in an appetite for good things that would never go away. As my Sour Patch Kids binge would indicate, this may not have gone as planned. Don't get me wrong, my body loves healthy food, and I feel better inside and out when I eat it. It doesn't diminish the fact that I want greasy burgers, cheese fries, and Ben and Jerry's Half Baked ice cream. It almost seems worth the $4.50 a pint sometimes. My body has developed an appetite for nutritious food, but my taste buds sadly have not followed suit.

As I go through photos of my children, the only ones with them eating are with a cookie or lollypop. I guess they're more likely to smile when eating certain things. The carrot sticks and apple peels just don't bring out that smile. I guess they're called "cheesy" grins for a reason.

As Levi and I were eating the box of Sour Patch Kids I noticed I was only giving him the greens and yellows. With any luck, we'll get well past his 4th birthday before he even realizes there are oranges or reds. He doesn't mind, because candy's candy at this point, and when regularly deprived of sugar, sugar-induced delirium is a common outcome. This is clearly my own selfishness at work. I also keep pop in the garage that the children are allowed to look at but not touch. I love to grocery shop alone so that I can, on occasion, purchase a bag of Keebler's frosted animal cookies - the ones with sprinkles. Then I can hide them somewhere in the refrigerator and never have to share them. I know how my kids would love these, but they'll be 32 someday, and then they can buy their own.

I also have to be careful that I am not offering my children healthy foods but setting a bad example by eating mostly what is bad for me - the, "Do as I say not as I do," mentality. This is both a physical and spiritual concept, and, as I notice quite painfully sometimes, they are watching me.

I know that, were I to eat how I feed my children, I would probably be significantly healthier and less "well-rounded". The parallel to the rest of my life is obvious. My parents also fed me other good things when I was growing up - things like church, Bible reading, prayer, and right living. They undoubtedly hoped that feeding me these things would give me a healthy appetite for things that would be good for me. The bottom line is, I had to eventually choose those things for myself. I got to an age where no one was going to offer only those things to me anymore; I had to decide that I wanted them. For me, this didn't happen immediately - not without bingeing on the "junk food" of which I had been deprived first. After seeing that those things taste good for a time but carry with them a bitter aftertaste that sometimes lasts forever, I have had to choose to feed myself with good things. I was hoping that my body would develop more of an appetite for those things over time, and it has somewhat. Just like with my physical body - I feel better inside and out when I feed my spirit well. However, I would still much rather sleep in or watch a good movie than go to church some days. I would rather go to bed early than get my Bible out to read it. This just proves that what my flesh wants will never go away. It will still call to me like bacon bits at a salad bar.

My grandparents have discovered in their older age that healthy food doesn't just taste good and help you feel better... it is necessary for LIFE. They wouldn't go on living if they didn't eat right and take care of their physical bodies. Maybe sometimes this sense comes with age - or with the increasing probability of death. Whatever it is - it's the same with our emotional and spiritual health. "Religion" (or as I like to think of it - a relationship with our Creator) isn't just for old people. Old people just got smarter. It takes many of us a long time to appreciate the fact that some things are better for our well-being or even necessary for life.

Levi just came back and asked, "Can I have a little more of your snack, please?" I replied, "It's all gone." He said, "Can I check in your mouth a little bit?" As I opened up for inspection, I realized that, aside from the fact he doesn't seem particularly averse to eating regurgitated food - his own or, apparently, someone else's - it's okay for me to deprive my children of some foods for their own good. I'm not shoving carrot sticks down their throats or giving them tomato juice intravenously. I'm not forcing them to read their Bible or get on their knees each night to pray. I'm just offering them healthy choices. Despite my teasing of my parents, I'm a healthier person today because of the healthy choices they offered me - physically and spiritually. It helped me to realize that it was possible to live without Zingers and R-rated movies and that it feels very good to be healthy. I was bequeathed more than a good immune system, a strong body, and a shiny coat - I was given a chance at a different way of life. I was given not only the love of my parents but the love of One greater than my own flesh and blood. Maybe I've never said this to them before, but, "Thanks for the shredded wheat."