Blu-Cool Waters

This is my latest bracelet.

Despite my dislike for the outdoors, I love to swim - lakes, oceans, pools...you name it! So, I chose glass beads for this bracelet that would reflect the light blue of sky and darker blue of nice, cool water.

I wanted it to look eclectic, but it actually takes much more time to make sure it looks haphazard. Patterns always want to emerge, so I had to restring the beads a couple of times.

Iridescent Exposure

My second attempt with the abalone shell beads was much more successful! I paired the shell beads with large iridescent beads and multi-colored seed beads to create this bracelet.

I've worn this bracelet more than any other, since it goes with virtually everything I own. It is especially suited to all the black, white, and gray in my closet. The nice thing about using iridescent beads is that you can wear them with gold OR silver.

Freebird

I had the MOST fun making this bracelet.

I love the idea of random charms, and I'm a writer, so word charms are fast becoming my favorite. This whimsical bracelet had one of my most-loved animals, a chirpy little bird, and the word "spirit" engraved on the silver charms on either side. The long purple bugle beads were too cute paired with my adorable little bird!

Sandy Shore

Sandy Shore was my first try at a multi-strand bracelet.

Since I didn't have any multi-strand closures, I made three bracelets and just wore them together.

I love the color of the glass and "sand" beads in the center bracelet. It just brought to mind the beachfront. The outer strands are made from brown, tan, and copper seed beads.

The Vaselet

Here is my first attempt at a bracelet.

I used abalone shell beads, but I made it too large. Since I was too lazy to start over, I decided to use it to decorate a vase in my kitchen. I think it looks nice on the vase and adds a touch of class to my kitchen.

R&B Necklace

Here is my first attempt at jewelry-making!

Heidi helped me choose the right beads, and both Robin and Heidi loaned me the start-up supplies for my first necklace.

I call this my R&B Necklace - both because it's red and black, and it makes me think of jazz!

Thursday Thirteen

Hat tip to my uber-cool friend and Christian broadcasting sensation, Cindy, for tuning me into the Thursday Thirteen.

Thirteen books I re-read at least five times during the year:

Bad Luck & Trouble
Lee Child

Body Politic
Paul Johnston

Dave Barry is from Mars and Venus
Dave Barry

Die Trying
Lee Child

Last Man Standing
David Balducci

Mama’s Boarding House
John D. Fitzgerald

Odd Thomas
Dean Koontz

Silent Joe
T. Jefferson Parker

The Bone Yard
Paul Johnston

The Chosen
Chaim Potok

The Hiding Place
Corrie Ten Boom

The Long Winter
Laura Ingalls Wilder

Visions in Death
J.D. Robb

Notes on selected favorites:
Bad Luck & Trouble
Die Trying
I’ve written about my undying love and appreciation for Mr. Child’s Jack Reacher series before, but these are (so far) my two favorite books in the series. Bad Luck & Trouble is the first book to feature an amazing ensemble cast, including characters who hold their own against tough-guy Reacher.

My favorite Reacher book, however, is definitely Die Trying. In a case of mistaken identity, Reacher takes part in the botched-up kidnapping of a female FBI agent. Along the way, there is a great story that includes militia mind-set, remote cult-like camps in Montana, explosions, and page-turning angst in who may or may not be a double-agent.

Body Politic
The Bone Yard
I discovered Paul Johnston, the amazing, award-wining Scottish crime-writer, after I checked out his Water of Death when it was given a 5 star review on The Mystery Reader. I became hooked on his Quintilian Dalrymple series which is set in futuristic Scotland and centers on a non-conformist private-eye.

My only regrets are that he has only written five “Quint” novels, and since they are published exclusively in the UK, they are very hard to find in the US. Currently, I only own the two on the list and have to rely on local libraries for the other ones – which I check out repeatedly.

Dave Barry is from Mars and Venus
I bought this at a garage sale for 25 cents when I was in high school, and I’ve had it ever since. I grew up reading Dave Barry’s humor column in the Sunday newspaper. Often, I’d read it out loud as Mom and Dad and I drove home from church. We usually laughed the whole way home.

When I was 15, Mr. Barry did a satirical column on why teens shouldn’t smoke. I sent him a letter about how great I thought the column was, and he mailed me a hand-written post card telling me how much he appreciated my comments!

This book, in particular, never fails to cheer me up, no matter HOW depressed I get. There are too many funny lines to remember them all, but I think one of my favorite-favorites is when he talks about people writing him nasty comments, but how he can’t reprint them since “this is a family newspaper. Let’s just say I get a lot of people who say ‘duck shoe’ to me.”

Mama’s Boarding House
This was a rare find at on old book store! I grew up reading The Great Brain juvenile series.

Mama’s Boarding House features the same cast of characters, but in a grown-up setting and written in novel form. All the old favorites come back, and we get to see them as they grow, age, and prove it doesn’t matter how old you are…what you do with your life matters to others.

The Hiding Place
My all-time favorite book will always be The Hiding Place, as it holds a special and sentimental place in my heart. In this post, you can read my thoughts after I first read The Hiding Place as a twelve year old.

What’s your favorite book?

Dessert & The Double-Standard

I’m going to preface this by saying I live by a number of double-standards when it comes to marriage.

For instance, I may take a nap whenever I want, but if my husband takes a nap when I think he should be doing something else, he may not take a nap. But he would never (never) dare to tell me (for whatever reason) that I could not take a nap simply because he didn’t think I should.

I am also free to tell Brett to take out the garbage NOW, but he would never think to tell me to clean the toilet NOW, because he knows I would kill him.

So, I am quite guilty (on occasion) of executing the double-standard maneuver.

However, I recently discovered my husband has his own little double-standard rule.

I guess I’ve known about it for some time, but I just thought he wasn’t a dessert person.

I, on the other hand, only eat the meal to get to the dessert. If society did away with meals in favor of desserts, I would die a happy, happy woman (you couldn’t fit me in a casket, but I’d be happy).

Brett comes from a family of non-dessert people. His family’s idea of “dessert” is (deep breath---oooh----this one’s a toughie) - FRUIT. Fruit! Can you believe it? Health food for dessert! Crazies.

Oh, and they make this pretzel crust, strawberry yogurt “dessert” (I’m putting it in quotes only because they think of it as a dessert) that is a HIT at all their family parties.

Pretzels AND fruit. Yeah. Sign me up for that.

I’ll never forget when I brought double-chocolate brownies to a Soderstrom party. I was the ONLY person at the entire 40 person party who had any. And just to be sure it wasn’t because they tasted bad or anything, I ate two.

Then again, I grew up in a family where we had ice cream every night. Brett had salad every night. I weep at the thought of his deprived, bland, and tasteless childhood.

In spite of their fondness for well-balanced meals, Brett’s parents loved to eat out. The four of us went to a LOT of restaurants when Brett and I were dating.

I began to notice a pattern. We’d eat our meal, and when the sever would ask if we wanted dessert, my three dinner companions would wave him away while I was mid-sentence of “Hot fudge sund….”

“No, no. We couldn’t possibly. We’re too full!” They’d cheerfully protest while I’d stomp on Brett’s foot and hiss in his ear softly. “I want ice cream, you fool!”

Despite our 12 years of togetherness, my husband is still in wonder that I crave sugar, chocolate, and pure decadence to cap off a meal out. He also thinks it’s ridiculous to shell out money for dessert.

“Can’t you just eat a candy bar at the gas station?” he’ll ask. (I did not marry him for his sense of class.)

But recently, I discovered his double-standard.

The man I love orders his meal just like I do. BUT he also consistently orders a full-size salad and a bowl of soup BEFORE his meal. Occasionally, he’ll even order an appetizer.

When I pointed out that his extra salad, soup, and appetizer add up to $10, and my measly little chocolate chip mini-pizza is only $4, he became indignant.

“But what I order is real food. You’re just ordering fluff!”

“TO YOU!” I said. “I happen to LOVE dessert, just like you LOVE salad, soup, and appetizers. No wonder you never want dessert. I’m surprised you can even MOVE after all that REAL food.”

My point is that if he can spend $4 on salad, then I can spend $4 on dessert. Turnabout, my friends, is fair play.

Still, it happens every time we go out to dinner. He’ll order hearty “starters” and a meal, and I’ll catch him rolling his eyes or holding his breath in hopes I’ll decide not to order dessert and add an extra $4 to the exorbitant bill he’s mostly created.

With our decreased income, we’ve had to lay off the outside dinners lately. However, we had some money recently to go out to eat. Brett wanted to “maximize” our money, so we couldn’t go somewhere where we’d have to leave a tip. He also made me promise not to order “some $5 dessert.”

When I tried to extract a promise that he wouldn’t order salad or soup, he said, “Sweetheart, I’ve got to eat, you know.”

Overall, I was a grumpy little camper as we drove to the restaurant, unsatisfied with the CLEAR double-standard taking place. Brett noticed my pooched-out lip and defiant posture and gently squeezed my knee, “I’ve just got to make a quick stop.”

The next thing I knew, he threw a candy bar in my lap. I looked up and saw the red and blue Mobil sign.

“There’s a little dessert for later,” he said, smiling, oblivious to my wide eyes and shocked expression.

“You really are an idiot, aren’t you?” I said.

“What? I thought you’d like it,” my husband said, clearly shocked I was not cheering in gratitude of his 49 cent thoughtfulness.

“If you’re going to be eating a restaurant-quality salad, soup, and appetizer, and expect ME to be satisfied with a GAS STATION CANDY BAR, you are sadly mistaken,” I informed him, eyes blazing.

“Fine! Fine! You can order dessert, okay? Sheesh!”

Then, I watched in amazement as he reached for the candy bar in my lap.

“What are you doing?” I asked, snatching the candy bar from his grasp.

“You obviously don’t want it,” he said. “I just thought I’d keep it.”

“You thoughtless boor. This is my candy bar. Mine. You understand?” I tucked the candy bar in my purse and glared at him.

“Okay. Okay. Let’s just go,” said my beleaguered husband as we backed out of the gas station.

We drove all the way to the restaurant in silence until my husband piped up, “I can’t believe I’m out 49 cents for nothing.”

Double-standard or not, it took all the self-control I had not to slap him.

12 Going on 20

Do you remember when twelve year old girls used to dress like twelve year old girls?

My friend Cindy just posted an excellent essay on the reemergence of modesty in the fashion world. If you’re tired of the twenty year old twelve year old, check it out for some great insight, laughs, and links!

On a Scale of 1 to 10 with 10 Being the Worst

This is a photo of actor, Dudley Moore. It is also a fair representation of how my hair looks today.

More Than Just Jewelry

A few days ago, I got my first taste of jewelry-making from Robin and Heidi, my jewelry-making gurus.

Before this, I’d had all about given up on my crafting abilities.

I grew up in a home where my mom created beautiful handmade goods, including eye-crossing cross stitch projects that would rival paintings in the Louvre. Her other specialties included crochet and a designer’s eye that had our house looking like a quaint country cottage, always in season.

My aunts - Kathy, Jan, and Louise, especially - shared Mom’s uncanny decorator’s ability to make any place look amazing. And, if you ever visit my cousins Charity and Colleen’s Southern abode, you would marvel at their beautifully arranged rooms.

In our family, I’ve long been known as “the writer.” I think everyone is just being kind, in recognition of my zero crafting abilities.

(And I just heard a chorus of Rehfeldt-blooded readers saying, “I’ve never called you 'the writer.'” Yeah, yeah, I know.)

I’ve tried candle-making (we’re still finding wax on the silverware), card-making (a friend thought my card was from her 5 year old niece), and soap-making (I, um, itched in uncomfortable places for WEEKS!).

So, when Heidi and Robin suggested I try jewelry making, I was understandably skeptical. H&R were insistent I at least TRY it, even after I warned them of my previous attempts at crafting.

A week or so before the event, Heidi met me at a craft store to help me pick out the jewelry-making necessities. “You don’t need to spend a fortune. You just need some reasonably-priced beads, and you can use our supplies for everything else.”

I stared at the beautiful rows of beads in every shape and color imaginable. I felt very much like young Charlie ushered into the bubble room. Greed and desire crept up my spine like icy fingers, and I realized I wanted them ALL!

Heidi, possibly the most practical and common-sense-having among all my friends, managed to point out that buying them ALL would be impractical, and of course, I would regret bankruptcy “based on beads.”

With her help, I picked out a string of red glass beads, silver ball beads twisted delicately around black beads, and some silver spacer beads (I, at this point, had no idea what spacer beads were or why I needed them.)

As she settled her three girls back in the van, she told me why she thought I’d like making jewelry. “It’s affordable, wearable, sellable, and it’s instant gratification!”

Well, she had me there. Instant gratification is my middle name. (Hey, I’m an American!)

I ducked out of work mid-afternoon one Monday, muttering something about going to a beading/prayer group (I prayed in the car!).

Somehow, I went perpendicular on all the right streets and ended up at Heidi’s house. A few minutes later, Robin’s van pulled up, and we all made our way inside.

Heidi has three girls, and Robin has three boys.

The older boys instantly whipped out some high-tech device (I believe Robin said it was Nintendo Super….something or another) and settled in to play games. The girls grabbed their American Girl Dolls, and (much to my surprise) the three adults were free to sit down and start beading within just a couple minutes.

Now, I’m going to stop right here and say I was pretty sure I wasn’t going to like jewelry-making. I was convinced (like card-making, candle-making, and soap-making) I wouldn’t have the skills, creativity, or patience to be any good at it.

And if you know me, you know I hate being mediocre. If I don’t excel at it, I don’t waste my time on it. It’s my way of protecting myself against criticism.

Anyway, in my mind, I was there for the sistership and good conversation. Heidi set up my station with beading wire while Robin walked me through the basics of beading.

She decried her abilities at teaching, but I will state right here that Robin is an excellent teacher. If I were just a little younger, I’d nominate her for a Golden Apple.

In just a few minutes, I was absorbed in creating a necklace pattern with the beads I’d chosen. As Heidi promised, I found almost instant gratification in arranging and rearranging the beads on Robin’s design board.

Meanwhile, Robin and Heidi were contentedly stringing their jewelry and answering my incessant questions. After a while, I started to string my necklace. As the three of us worked in tandem and conversation flowed, I felt something odd.

I felt the room around me melt in some kind of a whirl.

The kids running in and out of the room, asking for food or permission, playing with dolls and games. Heidi and Robin lifting their works-in-progress to ask questions. My own necklace even started to look a little blurry.

Everything was just slightly golden, almost honey-colored in tone, and I found myself realizing that this moment – the occasion itself – has most likely existed in every time in our human history.

Women gathering together to share and craft while kids run and play. The necklaces we were working on could have been quilts in the 1800’s. The Nintendo games could have been wooden soldiers controlled by sticks and strings. The American Girl Dolls could have been rag or corn husk dolls with painted-on faces.

And, in that moment, I got it. I finally understood what it was like. I understood why women do this. And the wonderful sense of sistership, family, community, (and in our case, spiritual support) it provides.

No wonder everything felt honey-colored.

Reality came rushing back in, as the kids clamored for dinner. After the small tribe was fed, the three of us sat down to Heidi’s delicious spaghetti and bread, my store-bought salad, and Robin’s so-good-they-should-be-declared-illegal homemade frosted brownies.

After dinner, I found myself with a beautiful red and black necklace. I raced to the mirror to see it on myself, and Heidi and Robin’s eyes mirrored my thrill back at me.

“Exciting, isn’t it?” Heidi asked me, no doubt remembering her first time admiring her own handiwork.

I headed out the door with a wealth of new information, just a handful of leftover beads, and a new work of Ann-Marie’s art draped around my neck.

At home, I showed Brett my new necklace. I was a little worried about starting a new hobby, and even a little more anxious telling my husband.

Brett is very supportive of all my endeavors (no doubt hoping I will someday discover my calling and make us rich beyond our wildest dreams…or at least rich enough he doesn’t have to work a 9-5 day). However, he has seen me fail at a number of crafting hobbies and has, on occasion, found wax on his silverware mid-bite.

I shouldn’t have worried. He complimented my necklace. “It looks like rubies,” he declared, sweetly. (No doubt thinking, “My lucky day! I’ll never have to buy her jewelry again!”)

Over the next few days, he cleared a working space for me. He found containers for my “tools” and my beads, and he even gave input on what colors he liked to see me wear.

And so it was, this past Thursday night, I sat at my new space stringing beads for a bracelet while my husband worked on our (ever-decreasing) checkbook.

Brett put the Read the Bible CD’s in our DVD player. He wanted to start with Revelations, but I talked him into 1st Samuel instead (lately, Hannah’s story has given me great inspiration).

So, the two of us worked quietly while God’s Word played on the airwaves above our heads.
The room went all blurry on me again. Again, I felt like Laura Ingalls working on some elaborate stitching project.

At least until the end of 1st Samuel, when we decided to settle in on the couch for a nice adventure movie from our extensive collection.

But even then, cuddled up and toasty (and yes, wearing my latest creation), I was pretty sure Laura would have understood.

Manic Monday

Just two quick notes!

My cousin BJ is a genius behind the camera. He’s taken some beautiful summer photos of my sweet not-niece (but his real niece) Brielle at Rock Cut State Park. The photos are wonderful and totally worth checking out! His Brielle photo post is here.

Also, if you were a student at Berean or Rockford Baptist Schools or attended North Love or Windsor Baptist Church, you might have known Kathy (Burton) Lerch. She was a music teacher at both schools for a short time and an involved member of both churches.

She taught me as a student in sixth grade, and later on we became good friends while attending Windsor. After our families left Windsor, Kathy and I were both part of the Girls’ Night Out group that helped us many of us through the transition to new church families.

Kathy passed away unexpectedly this past Saturday, June 21. Please pray for her family, especially Missy, her 9 year old daughter. I’m sure they will covet your prayers as they go through this difficult time.

Thanks so much!

Photo Freak Out!

Mom decided to put a photo of her daughter on her blog. This is the one she chose.

Tell me I’m not fully within my bounds to say…”Yuck!” I look like I need to be in a special school.

And for those of you interested, here’s a photo of my wonderful father! Handsome devil, wasn’t he? (heart)

Still Singing

This past Sunday was the first Father’s Day in nine years I didn’t break down during the Sunday morning service.

I’ve heard time heals all wounds, and having experienced real grief, I know there is truth to the saying. Every Father’s Day since Dad died has hurt just the tiniest bit less.

This past Sunday morning I found myself waking up happy with memories of Dad dancing in my head. Not Dad actually dancing - although that WOULD have made me smile.

I thought it would just be another Father’s Day. I’d grit my teeth during the emotional parts of the service and NOT FALL APART. Then, after church, we’d go home, and that would be that.

However, something so amazing – so wonderful – so uniquely of God – happened. I found myself re-evaluating just exactly how fully God knows and loves me.

To understand what happened, you have to understand a little bit about my dad.

Dad loved to sing. He didn’t have a musical background or any training, but he loved to sing. And he had the voice for it.

Of course, I, as his daughter, didn’t think so. After all, Dad didn’t sing like a regular person. He’d open his mouth and this operatic tenor would just spring forth with the utmost authority.

He wasn’t Michael W. Smith singing Friends Are Friends Forever (enjoying its heyday during my teen years), but he could do a mean, Met-worthy beat down on The Old Rugged Cross.

Nothing is more embarrassing as a teen than to have your Dad blast hymns like Pavarotti in your small church.

Or so I thought. Until…

Pastor asked him to lead the congregational singing.

“Well, better up there than standing next to me,” I thought at the time.

Dad took his new responsibility to heart with the same dedication, prayer, and humor he brought to his whole life.

I remember him – who had never touched a piano before – pounding out hymns on an old, out-of-tune electronic keyboard and practicing the director motions. He’d wave his arms in the air, directing an imaginary choir, while Mom and I would exchange glances over his head.

“At least he’s getting exercise,” Mom would say.

He began researching hymns and would give a little “Hymn History Lesson,” before some of the old favorites. We’d all heard the story of It is Well, but learning about the humble beginning of Silent Night brought tears to my eyes.

Dad also brought excitement and childlike joy to his new post. Many times he’d remark from the pulpit, “If we weren’t Baptists, we’d be clapping and shouting Hallelujah right now!”

His genuine thrill for worship brought smiles to even the oldest dyed-in-the-old-wool conservative Baptist among us.

Of course, since Dad wasn’t a trained musician, he did make mistakes. Big ones.

My personal favorite was when he tried to lead the congregation in the second verse…of a chorus. I still recall that confident voice saying, “Now, on the second…” And the brief pause before we all re-sang the chorus, so Dad didn’t have to belt it out all by himself.

Because my father was humble, he admitted his mistake that evening, and proceeded to do it again, much to the congregation’s delight. From then on, we sang most choruses twice on Dad’s loud, “Now, on the second…”

Dad’s other big mistake was having a favorite song…and making us all sing it…often. In fact, Dad made his favorite song the ending song after almost every evening service.

After Dad died, our good friend Tim (who IS a trained and talented musician) came up to us and said, “Man, I loved Bob! His voice, his direction, his enthusiasm…but MAN did he sing that song ALL the time.”

We laughed because it was true. Everyone knows when a song leader has a favorite song, it becomes a repeat entrée.

So, imagine my surprise this past Sunday when God led our Pastor (who never met my father) to close the service with Be Strong in the Lord – Dad’s oft-repeated favorite song!

I sang every verse as loud as I could. Lifting my voice as high as I could, in hopes Dad would enjoy his favorite song once more.

I found myself smiling, in shock and awe, that God would bless me this way – this so very-specific-to-me way. God, my heavenly Father, gave me a Father’s Day gift I will always remember.

He also brought to mind my earthly father now standing in the great heavenly choir and still singing.

Still singing joyfully, “Now, on the second!”

The List

Welcome to the first installment of Your Husband Might Be Unemployed If…”

For a while, I was at the perfect age.

Old enough to stay home by myself in the summer while my parents worked, but not old enough to get a summer job.

The freedom was awesome. I was home alone from 8:30 – 4:30 all summer long. I still remember rolling out of bed mid-morning, wandering around in my pajamas, eating cupcakes for breakfast, and watching In the Heat of the Night on cable TV.

For some reason, I had an obsession with In the Heat of the Night. It didn’t help that USA ran continuous episodes all summer long. I started calling people by their last names and became a crime-watcher in my own neighborhood. I am still a little bummed I never got to make a citizen’s arrest.

The only thing I didn’t look forward to was The List.

Each morning, before Mom left for work, she’d leave me a list of a few chores I could accomplish in her absence.

Looking back, I realize how lucky I was. Some parents could have exploited child labor laws, and I could have spent my summer resurfacing the driveway or sanding down the deck.

Instead, she’d ask me to empty the dishwasher and fold the laundry. Sometimes, she’d ask me to dust the living room.

Mom would always write the The List in her cheerful cursive scrawl, put numbers by the chores (there were never more than 3), and end the note with, “I love you! Have a great day! Call me if you need anything! Love, Mom.

I hated The List.

The List just RUINED my day. I usually let myself eat my cupcake breakfast, and then I would grumble about slave labor as I finished the chore list as fast as I could.

I’d slam the dishes into the cupboard (Sorry, Mom, if you’re reading this, that’s how all the glasses got chipped. I know I blamed the dishwasher, but I was lying. When you’re an only child, you have no one to blame but the dishwasher.).

I’d stomp up and down the stairs with the laundry and fold it in front of the TV. And, when In the Heat of the Night took a commercial break, I’d dust the living room like Speed Racer on speed.

When my parents got home from their jobs, I’d sigh and complain about exactly HOW BUSY I’d been that day doing ALL the housework.

Because I made sure of it, Mom knew I hated The List.

Eventually, she started making her own little jokes. The List would have #4’s asking me to make a million dollars, watch TV until my eyes fell out, or slide down the wooden banister.

My mom, the jokester.

Eventually, I grew up and was old enough to get summer jobs. On my rare day off, Mom would still leave me The List. In fact, I believe I had The List all the way up until I got married.

Then, of course, I got to make The List. For myself. And, it has a lot more than 3 chores on it.

Lately, since Brett’s been unemployed, I’ve started making The List for him. Since I felt WAY too much like Mom leaving a written list, I just politely ask him to do a few things during the day.

I have little negotiations with myself before I even ask.

“Okay, so I’ll ask him to do one hard thing – clean behind the fridge. And two really easy things – put the dishes away, and bring hay in for the rabbits. Yeah, yeah. That’s not too bad. I’ll ask him like he has a choice, and he won’t even notice.”

Before I leave for work, I gently rub his shoulder.

“Sweetie, I’m leaving for work. No, no just keep resting. Hey, if you don’t mind, can you please clean behind the fridge today? Oh, and bring in some hay for the bunnies. Oh, and if you could empty the dishwasher? Thanks, honey! I love you! Have a great day! Call me if you need anything!”

I rush down the stairs and out the front door, satisfied I didn’t sound like a nag, and that I asked in the sweetest way possible.

Upon my return home, of course, is the inevitable letdown, and another sign Your Husband Might Be Unemployed If…

…he finishes a completely different list of chores than the ones you left for him.

Brett will meet me at the door with a big hug and a smile.

“Hi, babe! How was your day? Mine was really busy. I mean, I fell asleep on the couch for four hours, but otherwise I was SO busy. I’m completely wiped out. It was CRAZY around here.”

I start smiling. Until I see gunk still clinging to the back of the fridge.

“Didn’t you clean behind the fridge?”

“No, I actually didn’t have time to get to that. I polished the doohickey, though, and sanded the backhoe. Oh, and if you ever want to use that fondue set we got for our wedding eight years ago, it’s ready. And the garage floor is bug free!”

He stands there beaming at me, and I’m actually speechless.

For a second.

“Did you at least bring in hay for the rabbits and empty the dishwasher?” I ask, testing my English skills to be sure I wasn’t speaking a different language in the morning.

“Oh, right. No, I didn’t have time for that. I mean, polishing the doohickey took most of the day, you know. And those bugs didn’t leave under their own free will.”

He’s obviously so proud of the absolutely useless chores he’s accomplished, I can barely work myself up enough to burst his bubble.

But I am a trooper.

“Sweetie, that doohickey hasn’t seen the light of day since I bought it five years ago. It didn’t NEED to be polished. The rabbits NEED their hay. There is a REASON the fondue set was still in a box in the garage. Because we don’t fondue. You KNOW that. We’ve been together twelve years. Have we EVER had fondue? The dishwasher NEEDED to be emptied.”

The man I love is starting to get a little offended. “Hey, maybe I WANTED fondue, huh?”

“Yeah, well I WANTED a clean fridge. And why on God’s green earth did you kill all the bugs in GARAGE? It’s okay for bugs to be outside. That’s where they belong. You should have been killing this fungus that’s growing behind the fridge!”

“Fine! Fine!” Brett huffs into the other room and crashes onto our broken sofa with a martyr’s sigh. “I work my fingers to the bone for you, and you don’t even appreciate it!”

The unemployed husband I now fully support leans back on the sofa, flips on the World News, and gives another Oscar-worthy sigh.

I head back out to the garage, which is – admittedly – spotless. I say a little prayer for the bugs and heft hay into a bucket for the rabbits. Back inside, I snap on the gloves and give the fridge a resentful once-over.

Craning my neck, I see Brett is still pointedly ignoring me, and my sympathy for his ego and hard (still useless!) work kick-in. Before I know it, I’m offering to make fondue for dinner.

“No, thanks,” my husband says. “That’s too much work. How about pizza?”

Exasperated, I throw a pizza in the oven. Then, I sit down to make out The List of what needs to be done tomorrow. I try to decide which three things I should ask of my husband, knowing full well there is a possibility I’ll come home to more polished doohickeys and shiny wedding presents.

And somewhere, somehow, Mom laughs and knows The List lives on.

Still Waiting in Wonder

When I was a little girl, I heard an old adage that said, “When we pray, God doesn’t just say ‘yes’ or ‘no.’ Sometimes, He says, ‘wait.’”

For a long time, I thought “wait” meant waiting for a week, maybe a month.

I remember “wait” took on special meaning when our 45 year old pastor was diagnosed with terminal pancreatic cancer. We prayed and waited. We hoped “wait” meant he would be miraculously healed within the six months of life the doctors predicted.

Pastor endured a total of twelve months before he died on September 10, 2001. A mere day before tragedy struck the United States in the form of the 9/11 terror attacks.

That event redefined “wait” for me. And it drove home the point that sometimes God says “no.”

In the past, when I prayed, I laid my requests before God hoping for “yes,” and knowing “no” was a possibility. I took “wait” out of the equation.

After I graduated from college, I went through a very bleak time. After all, I had just left the comfort of some of the world’s most amazing women.

For four years, I’d lived shoulder to shoulder with wonderful women who’d become more than my friends. They’d grown into my family.

My roommates were more than people I shared a room with – they made me laugh, cried with me, and put up heroically with my sarcastic personality.

Without my friends, I felt like a tiny life raft separated from the Carnival cruise ship where I’d previously been docked.

Back home, I watched as the church I loved, the church I considered a second home, was slowly torn apart after the death of our beloved, spiritually-balanced pastor.

As my church friends seemed to evaporate, and my college friends moved on with their lives, I found myself completely isolated. After four years spent in warm friendship and happy acceptance, I was left out in the cold.

And I prayed.

I prayed fervently that God would please, please, please (I always use three “pleases” when I really want something from the Lord) grant me friends again.

And I prayed again. And again. And again.

I felt so absolutely, utterly alone. Even when we visited a church where we were sure God wanted us to be, I felt like a thorn among roses.

I desperately missed my friends. People who knew me, loved me, understood my twisted sense of humor, my secret fear of being left out, my anger that sprung at rejection, and loved, loved, loved me anyway.

Somehow, it didn’t occur to me that perhaps it would take time. That this request might actually force me to consider “wait.”

I continued to pray. And thanked God for my mom and my family who kept me afloat during those depressed years.

It started slowly. An acquaintance from my old church, someone I barely knew, heard that I liked to go to movies.

“Call me next time. I love movies!”

Hesitantly, I called her the next time I saw a movie preview.

Angie and I have been movie buddies for over five years now. We’ve spent countless hours in our cars - long after the movies are over - talking about our spiritual life, our husbands, our families, and our trials.

Without Angie’s stalwart spiritual support, and God’s unending grace, I would have left Brett in December of 2006. Looking back, it is crystal clear God brought Angie into my life to prevent personal tragedy and give me yet another chance to return to Him.

Slowly, sometimes painfully slowly, I’ve watched as God has answered my prayer for friends. The “wait” continues to be filled as God blesses again and again.

This is a lot of preface (you mean you’re just getting started?!) to say what I really wanted to say.

Which is…

The last couple of weeks sucked. (I apologize, but they did.)

I was overworked, stressed out, tired, and exhausted. With Brett still out of work, huge events looming at work, migraines, and no time to do anything – I felt completely swamped and overwhelmed.

And do you know what happened?

My friend Carleen just showed up one crazy day at work to deliver lunch to me. “I just thought you might need it today,” she said. She handed me a take-out salad, a HUGE diet soda, and left…knowing I didn’t have time to talk.

My friend Heidi called and arranged a quick date to pick out beads for an upcoming girl’s night. “I just wanted to help you pick out the basics so you don’t have to spend a fortune. You can use as much of my stuff as you want.”

My friend Cheryl stopped by my desk with a Reese’s McFlurry from McDonald’s. “It’s hot outside. I know how you hate the heat. I thought this might cool you down.”

My friend Alice commiserated with me on work issues. She offered her virtual shoulder for me to lean on and managed to make me laugh when all I wanted to do was curl up in a ball and cry.

My friend Angie called and reminded me that a “husband out of work” becomes “your personal errand boy.” And teased that now “he’ll have more energy to make that baby.”

And, recently, when I ran out crying in the middle of a church service, three women followed me into the bathroom, offering comfort, kind prayer, and tissues with lotion.

I could go on. And that sentence amazes me.

When I think of all the people who called, commented, and encouraged me after Brett lost his job…or the many women who came forward during my rough time in December of 2006 to say I wasn’t alone…I stand in wonder.

It’s obvious God did say “wait” to my prayers all those years ago. And this week, He made it clearly evident He’s still delivering on that prayer. He’s been saying, “yes, yes, yes” this whole time.

And I am befuddled with gratefulness.

Grateful for God’s grace. So grateful for the new friends He has provided and the old friendships He has sustained.

So, I raise my Diet Coke and toast –

To friends by birth
To friends by choice
To friends short and friends tall
If it wasn’t for God’s grace,
I’d have no friends at all!

(Because, seriously, you guys know I’m a handful!)

Migraine Town

I write to you today from a not-so-lovely city named Migraine Town. Migraine Town is very dark and gray with occasional soundbursts of thunder and blinding flashes of lightning.

Not unlike the weather in Northern Illinois these past few days.

It is unpleasant experiences like this that convince me I am my father’s daughter. As a child, I watched my dad suffer from migraines. During the week, he was fine as he dealt with stresses at work and home. Then, the weekend would hit, and he’d be flat on his back in a dark room hiding from light and sound.

He explained it to me once. He said his brain knew its job was to work all week, so it put aside the extra pressure and strain. It wasn’t until the weekend, when it wasn’t required to work at the same speed; it would decide to revisit all the stress of the week on Dad’s beleaguered head.

Dad spent a LOT of Saturdays in bed with a migraine. My childhood didn’t suffer from it, but I grew up with a healthy respect for what headaches could do. If it could reduce my active, caring father into a half-vegetable for two days, I knew it was formidable.

I didn’t have to deal with migraines myself until well into my twenties. I count myself among the fortunate to only have to deal with them sporadically.

But I have noticed a similar pattern.

This week was crazy for me. I worked long hours, evening hours, and even into the beginning of the weekend. Then last night, as I contemplated a relaxing Sunday and the blessed relief of being given Monday off…BAM! Migraine City.

So far, I have been blessed to struggle with my migraines in relative peace. There are no children who need my attention, and Brett is great about being quiet when I am suffering.

The bunnies are silent by nature, of course, and let me cuddle with them on the floor and stroke their soft fur. Which helps dull the pain.

And, somehow, writing it all down helps me. Being able to put words to the pain seems to rob it of its power.

So now that I’ve weakened the dastardly villain on the drum set in my head. I’m going to pop some more Excedrin Migraine and see if that helps even more than the healing power of words!

Pardon my tendency to wax morosely dramatic during a migraine – it’s a proven tendency on my part.

Oh, and if anyone has heard of migraine cures/prevention, I would LOVE to hear about it.

Back & Brief

It is I, the absent blogger.

My life has been busy lately, but that’s no reason not to blog. I feel especially bad you have all had to read my thinly veiled reference to sex the past couple times you’ve visited my blog. Sorry.

I am exhausted. This week was SO full with work-related things. My department has been planning a big event for nine months, and the actual event was this week. I was preoccupied with rehearsals, photography, media, advertising…you name it.

Things show no sign of slowing down, either.

I’m working all day this Saturday, and I have late evening hours already scheduled for Tuesday. It’s a never-ending parade around here lately, so it’s a good thing I like my job.

To test if I have ANY readers left after my absence, I’d like to offer up a couple of possible blog post topics:

You Know Your Husband’s Unemployed When…

I’d Like to Pull Their Ears and See If They Like It (or) Why Some Kids Shouldn’t Ever Be Allowed Near Animals.

I’ll look forward to hearing your preference.

In the meantime, I found particular joy in these two posts (Playing Red Rover at VBS and PowerPointing for the Lord) over at Stuff Christians Like.

*Things to Do at Home When You’re Poor

Well, okay, we’re not poor in a third world sense. We’re not even poor in a this world sense. Well, not yet, anyway.

It’s just that we are bored STIFF. Without extra money for the, well, extras, we’ve resorted to new entertainment opportunities.

Last night we had a sock fight.

We each took one of Brett’s size 16 bleached bright white socks and had a mock sword/sock fight on the furniture in our living room. Terms like “On guard!” and “My name is Inigo Montoya” were used frequently.

Another night, we heard Jimmy Buffet singing Margaritaville on the radio. Brett started humming about looking for his lost shaker of salt, and before I knew it, the radio was on full blast, and we were both karaoke experts belting out the entire song though our open living room windows.

Our neighbors love us.

People have suggested we enjoy the free things in the life like long walks in the park, flitting about the neighborhood, or stopping to smell the flowers.

I hate these people.

They obviously don’t know ME, at all. For one thing, my dislike for the out of doors is well documented. Why would I punish myself when I’m ALREADY hurting? Secondly, any nudge above the 70 degree mark has me sweating like a boar in a fur coat. So, any free time I might have is NOT going to be spent outside. At least, not willingly.

Also for entertainment, we’ve delved back into our extensive DVD collection. Of course, almost all of our DVD’s are intense action packed movies. This means we’re convinced that if we just drive our motorcycle into a helicopter or hack the right computer network, we’ll be set for life.

Thankfully, we don’t have a lot of movies about the lottery.

We also started watching our movie collections. We’ve watched back-to-back showings of Indiana Jones, The Mummy, and the Lord of the Rings. And let me tell you, LOTR is one awfully long movie watched in one sitting. And it made us start thinking of naming our firstborn Arwen or Aragorn.

Speaking of our hypothetical first-born, there is another activity we’ve increased simply because it’s free and able to be done inside.

And, you know, it’s not a bad compensation for being broke.

*this is a tongue-in-cheek reference to the movie Things to Do in Denver When You’re Dead for the movie-challenged

Three Amigos Accolades

Watching The Three Amigos was even BETTER than I expected!

I remembered a lot of the lines and pretty much quoted 2/3 of the movie out loud (much to Brett’s chagrin).

I couldn’t tell you the last time I watch TTA, but I loved it on first sight! Unlike the cheesy, promiscuous Saturday Night Live-type movies before and after it, TTA has an endearing, hilarious charm. And it’s way better than Judd Apatow’s famously filthy smut that masquerades as comedy nowadays.

I’m not a Chevy Chase fan. Smug little man. I’m not even all that spun up about Steve Martin. I did like Martin Short for the ten seconds he was famous. BUT, in this movie, they are PERFECT together!

If you want a funny (relatively clean) movie, this is the ticket!

Baby Face Gets a Fresh Start

Tie a yellow ribbon ‘round the old oak tree!

Happy days are here again.

When I got home last night, I got a HUGE surprise! Brett finally shaved off that dreadful Fu Manchu. He met me at the door with his sweet, clean-shaven face and said, “A new look for new opportunities."

I was floored in an absolutely happy way. I abhor facial hair, even though Brett’s had it for most of our life together. My rule is that he can grow a mustache, goatee, beard, Fu Manchu, whatever…as long as he knows it means I will NOT kiss him. If he has facial hair, he gets cheek kisses or quick pecks, only.

I’m not a germ-a-phobe, but here are my own personal feelings on the matter.

Kissing someone with facial hair is equivalent to kissing a squirming den of caterpillars. It’s bad for your skin (the kissee). You have NO idea what microscopic food or germ particles might be trapped in the hair, and the fact that it’s directly under someone’s nose and mouth…well, that’s just gross.

So last night, we made out like a couple of teenagers!

Best line of the night was from Brett, “Remind me again why I ever grow a beard?”

Awesome.

Okay, So Whatever REALLY Doesn’t Kill You…

So, now, BOTH Brett and I have bronchitis!

We’re both hacking, coughing, sneezing, blowing, headachy, and deeply resenting our sore throats!

It’s gonna be one of THOSE weekends. When a “youngest” and an “only” get sick…watch out!

(And, frankly, you all KNOW how cranky I get when I can’t talk!)

Prayers, mediation, and hot soup appreciated!

Whatever Doesn’t Kill You…

It started with a phone call.

I had one of THOSE days and decided to call Brett and see if he wanted to divert to Panera on his drive home for dinner. I envisioned us devouring bagels and cream cheese and just talking.

But when I buzzed him on the two-way, he told me he was already home.

Knowing he’d been battling bronchitis, I just assumed he had come home sick.

“How was your day, hon?” I asked.

Silence

“Was it a bad day?” I asked, confused by his silence.

“Are you at home or work?” he asked me.

“I’m at work, but I’m about to head out for the day. Honey, is something wrong? Did something happen at work today?”

After 8 years of marriage, I know my husband well enough to know the difference between a bad day and something worse.

I heard his labored breathing on the phone, a quiet sigh, and then the words.

“They let me go today.”

I imagine it must be exceedingly difficult for a man to tell his wife that he lost his job. Especially if that wife is me.

I imagine it’s hard for anyone to tell their spouse this news. There is always a concern the other person might fly off the handle or get sick with worry.

“Did they tell you why?” I asked, keeping my voice neutral.

“They were letting a lot of people go. They used the E-2 as an excuse, and there were other things they were telling people as reasons.” Brett’s voice was cautious.

I breathed in very slowly and asked the Lord to weigh in on every thought that had just zinged through my head. I begged for guidance and a reaction that would glorify God, despite my all-too-human emotions cruising dangerously close to the surface.

“Sweetheart, I’m so sorry. How are you holding up?” I said.

I heard a whoosh of relief on the other end of the line as my husband seemed to finally relax.

“I’ll tell you all about it when you get home,” he assured me.

When I got home, I went into the living room and sat on the couch with him. He smiled ruefully at me, and I found myself wanting to wrap him in a big bear hug. Which I did.

We got settled on the couch, and he told me all about it. For almost two hours he talked to me.

This is very rare. Being married to Brett is like being married to a mime. I always joke he has a ten-words-a-day maximum.

Ever since we started dating, I’ve known he is a man of few words. He’s content to let me do the talking, babbling on and on like a shallow brook, while he sits there contemplating many layers like a deep lake that is only placid on the surface.

Last night he went way over ten words, talking like someone who’s been living in a monastery for twenty years.

He recounted being called to the Human Resource office where he was treated like a “broken piece of plastic someone dumps in the trash,” and told me about Gus, the man who fired him in a callous and unkind manner.

Forcing me to stifle a sudden sophomoric desire to crank call the guy and give him what for.

After being fired, he was forced to do the Walk of Shame, escorted by security guards, as he emptied his pitiful locker. He was walked to the guard shack and unceremoniously told not to return for his last check. It would be mailed to him.

“You know the strange thing?” He looked at me.

“When Gus was firing me, I felt this strange peace come over me. I knew I had done everything in my power to do a good job. Whatever was going on was clearly not in my control. I always thought if I got fired I would either cry or run around the office breaking things in anger, but when it actually happened, I just had this strange peace.”

I smiled. Brett’s temper could fit in a gnat’s suitcase (and still have room for tiny, little gnat socks), so the mental image of my gentle giant raging in an office and threatening to permanently affix Post-It notes to people’s foreheads made me grin.

“Honey, that sounds suspiciously like a peace God gave you.”

“Well, yeah, that or the drugs,” he hoisted his recent bronchitis medicine in the air.

(Oh, what – he gets fired and NOW he’s funny? Is that what it took? :-))

“You know, I was so afraid to tell you. I was afraid you would be disappointed. I really feel like I let you down. You don’t know what a relief it was that you weren’t upset.”

“Well, I love you. I know you gave your all to this job. Things like this happen. We’re in this together, you know.” I said, assuming my noble, long-suffering wife pose.

Inwardly saying, thankyouGod, thankyouGod, thankyouGod

“You know what we need?” I asked, getting up from the couch.

“A job?” says my suddenly-funny man.

“Well, yeah, but also some sugar and some chocolate!”

“Cookies?” he asked, hopefully.

“You bet your sweet, fired behind! I’m going to make you the best You’ve Just Been Fired Chocolate Chip Cookies you’ve ever had.” I said, heading to the kitchen.

Over the next couple of hours, I made cookies while we watched Deal or No Deal and made jokes about how Brett should apply, now that he doesn’t have to worry about getting time off from work.

When the YJBFCC cookies were hot out of the oven, I took a plate into the living room. We both ate a lot of cookies, yelling things like “You’ve been fired…into my mouth, Cookie,” as we got more and more slap-happy off the sugar.

We discussed possible new jobs for Brett. Fun ones that had him wearing a chef’s hat at IHOP, or shirtless as a bouncer at a bar. “The lady said she wasn’t interested, buddy. Move it or lose it!”

We topped off the night by watching an action movie, and lamenting our lack of movie- star good looks that would bring us multi-million dollar paychecks.

I headed to bed before Brett (since I still have a job). As I got ready for bed, I found myself thanking God for His abundant grace. He turned what could have been a horrible night filled with shouted accusations, guilt, and anger into a warm, loving bonding experience.

I could imagine myself, years later, asking Brett, “Remember that crazy night you got fired?”

And him saying, “Yeah, those were the days. Remember how God provided for us?”

And then moments later…

“Is it just me or do you suddenly feel like a piping hot chocolate chip cookie right about now?”

Immediate Prayer Request!

Um, so Brett was “let go” from his job today. They’ve been letting a lot of people go, and today he found out it was his turn.

Please pray with us. With his bronchitis and now the loss of his job, I know he’ll appreciate your prayers.

We’re sort of stunned right now. All we can see is the tangible. Please pray we’ll see the intangible in God’s perfect will for our lives.

Much thanks.

Ann-Marie

Bronchitis & Brett

I’m swamped this week, so my posts will probably be short and sweet (hey, like me!!!).

Just a prayer request today! Please pray for Brett! He is experiencing his bi-yearly bout with bronchitis. Unfortunately, we know the symptoms all too well. Last night was coughing, and since he is such a BIG guy, he puts a lot of force into his coughs and usually ends up throwing up for oh, about 30 minutes.

I’m no help of course, since I can’t be in the vicinity of vomit without getting sick myself. (It’s my compassionate nature.) So, I just yell encouragements down the hall and try not to gag.

With his bronchitis, tendency to throw up, and regular work woes, Brett is really down and discouraged. I know he would appreciate your prayers for his improved health and well-being.

Thanks so much!

Library Love!

It’s nice when the library loves you back!

About a month ago, I requested the library purchase The South Beach Dining Guide, and I just got an e-mail from the librarian saying they’ve decided to purchase it and that they’ll call me as soon as it comes in.

I love the library, and the library loves me. Wheeee!

Just to spread a little goodwill around, here’s a link to my favoritest library E-V-E-R!

I Shall Rise Up and Call Her Hilarious

A lot of people think being an only child is a lonely way to grow up.

But in my case, I grew up…laughing my head off.

God gave me the gift of godly parents who were (Dad) and are (Mom) two of the funniest people on the planet. The three of us had a constant party going on, so I’ve never felt cheated. I adored my parents, and adored the fact they treated me like an adult long before I was one.

Whether it was Dad wearing a ridiculous fur flap hat to shovel the driveway, or Mom trying to bake…anything that didn’t set off the smoke alarm, they taught me laughter is the best medicine to fix what ails you.

I’ve read some other mother tributes in honor of Mother’s Day, and it sounds like a lot of people think Proverbs 31 gets beat to death like an already dead horse this time of year.

Honestly? I always zoned out when the “Perfect Woman Message” was preached. I thought – “You know when I’ll listen to this? When a WOMAN preaches it!”

Hee! I was a tiny little feminist!

Now that I’m nearly 30 (gasp!), I’ve had a bit more time to reflect on good old Proverbia (that’s my unofficial name for the perfect woman whose skirts inhabit the 31st chapter of Proverbs).

And, I’ve come to really love the passage. It shows us how much God values women, how much society should value women, and gives us a snapshot of what women can accomplish by the grace of God.

Sort of like the Bible version of the Equal Rights Amendment.

If you’ve read my blog for any length of time, then you know how much I love my mom. And my mom loves me. It’s a mutual admiration society, and we know it.

What a lot of people don’t know is that Mom…wanted a BOY!

When she and my Dad were finally able to conceive after 11 years of marriage, they both knew it might be their only child.

Mom wanted a boy to carry on the Trotter name. Dad wanted a little girl all wrapped in pink!

Dad got his wish, and I came into the world.

Mom, of course, loved me at first sight. And Dad was gone over the moon.

You have only to look at our early family photos to see that we were three people deeply in love with one another.

Years later, Mom told me about wanting a boy. His name (my name!) would have been Nathan.

Over the years, I’ve joked with Mom that a son wouldn’t do this or that – and how lucky she is to have ME, as her daughter.

Mom decided to turn the tables at my wedding. When it was her turn to read a Bible verse, she chose a passage from the book of Ruth:

Ruth 4:13 – 15
13 So Boaz took Ruth, and she became his wife, and he went in to her. And the LORD enabled her to conceive, and she gave birth to a son.

14 Then the women said to Naomi, "Blessed is the LORD who has not left you without a redeemer today, and may his name become famous in Israel.

15 "May he also be to you a restorer of life and a sustainer of your old age; for your daughter-in-law, who loves you and is better to you than seven sons, has given birth to him."

Mom looked up with a smile and addressed the crowd and me. “My daughter who is here with me today is better to me than seven sons.”

I almost lost it right there, and we weren’t even into the ceremony yet!

So, I guess what it boils down to is that I love Mom exactly the way I love the Lord.

Because she first loved me.

Happy Mother’s Day, Mom!

Love,
Nathan

Thursday Thirteen

13 Things I Love about My Husband

1.) Kind
2.) Patient
3.) Chivalrous
4.) Affectionate
5.) Thinks I’m beautiful
6.) Understands my addiction to naps
7.) Could care less if the house is dirty
8.) Loves action movies as much as I do
9.) Complains when I don’t spend enough time with him
10.) Loves our bunnies with a sweet protectiveness
11.) Believes in me, my dreams, and the ability to accomplish them
12.) Listens, listens, listens to my constant stream of endless chatter
13.) Patiently waited four long years for me to finish college before we got married, just because I asked him to

Ann-Marie’s Accidental Attraction

Or
What the Weasel Wrought

I don’t mean to brag, but I have lost some weight.

As anyone who has tried and successfully lost weight will know, this brings a heady sense of accomplishment and a delusional sense of attraction from the opposite sex.

Or is that just me?

Anyway, I was looking and feeling good when Brett and I went on our Friday night date. Brett decided to take me to…the bookstore.

Now, a bookstore might not be a bad date. If you like bookstores.

Herein lies a fundamental difference between me and the man I married. He loves bookstores – the fresh smell of ink on newly minted pages, bright and shiny book covers, the aggressive eagerness of books seeking owners. He shines with delight over unowned books, pages free from dog ears and suspicious stains.

Brand new, all yours, for only $29.99.

I, on the other hand, am a library lover. I view dog eared pages as recommendations from fellow readers. I see stains in cookbooks as recipe reviews. I like my books with experience. Mostly? I like the fact that they’re free.

I can take them home, read, review, and not spend a penny for the experience. If I check a book out more than four times in a year, I‘ll often decide to purchase it. And I always buy paperback. Books are for reading, in my opinion, and if I can’t read it in the bathtub or while eating a pizza – what’s the use?

But, I acquiesced to my husband’s date night idea, because it also included dinner at my choice of restaurant (I’m nothing if not willing to compromise – at least when I’m hungry).

As soon as we hit Barnes & Noble, my husband scented the air like a hunting dog and galloped down the aisle.

This is the other thing I hate about Brett and bookstores. I always lose him. He’s over in something boring like Finance or Firearms while I’m languishing away in Humor and Health.

What good is date night if you only see each other on the walk back to the car?

I resigned myself to another evening of worthless browsing. I grabbed my pen and paper to write down any interesting tomes for a library search at another time.

On one bottom shelf I found Tori Spelling’s new biography. I was actively scanning and even enjoying when I got the evil eye from teenager.

His raised eyebrow seemed to imply, “You’ve got a whole bookstore, and you’re reading Tori Spelling’s biography. Really! What did you? Just come out of the 90’s?”

I know. But it was a very expressive eyebrow.

Ashamed, I shelved the book and wandered over to the health section. Unaware my undoing loomed even closer.

I browsed for a while and eventually picked up a book on anorexia. Having tried my hand at both bulimia and anorexia and lacking the willpower to follow through on either, I have always been alternately fascinated and horrified by eating disorders.

The book, Thin, featured an emaciated teenager on the front cover. I propped the book open on the shelf and stood there reading for about 5 minutes. Just as I was getting engrossed in the first person accounts, I heard a throat clearing behind me.

A little weasel of a man stood there glaring at me. I guessed from his expression that he was annoyed, so I moved a little to the right, so he could get to the shelf. He continued to glare. So, I moved to the left. Still glaring. Chastened, I clutched my book and shuffled to another section.

He cleared his throat again, shot me another glare, and moved in to examine the shelf.

Whatever.

I stood there, my foot up against a display, and started reading my book. As I read about the disorders, and 82 pound girls who thought they were fat, I started shaking my head. “Um. Wow. Whew!”

I heard another throat clearing. I looked up and saw a very good looking young guy smiling at me. He nodded his head, gave me a terrific smile, and headed down the aisle.

Well, that was a confidence boost for my weight loss right there. I grinned to myself and went back to my book.

A few second later, I saw two guys looking at me. Both were smiling and nodding. Exuding confidence, I nodded back.

I thought, “Too bad I still don’t have my wedding ring. Talk about breaking hearts!”

I was on page 45 when I saw another guy give me smile, and I felt a little tingle go up my spine.

Now, I knew I lost a little weight…but this kind of attention seemed a little unwarranted.

I looked over at the guy and saw his gaze was fixed above my head. He dropped his eyes to me, gave a little laugh, and walked away.

Slowly, I turned around. And, for the first time, I noticed the display under which I had staked my claim. Right above my head, giant words proclaimed “SEX AND YOU! 101 EXCITING NEW POSITIONS!”

That’s right. I was standing smack-dab in the middle of the SEX section, holding a giant book with a skinny girl on the front, uttering words like, “Wow!” “Whew!” and “Oh, Boy!”

My backdrop the whole time had been books on positions, the karma sutra, and how to keep a man satisfied in bed.

I was embarrassed to death, now that all those smiles and head nods became painfully obvious! I shelved the book and headed to the b-o-r-i-n-g Finance section to tell my husband.

He was very sympathetic, even telling me he was sure it was ME who received all the smiles, not the suggestive reading materials.

On our way out, I asked him if he wanted to buy the book I’d been unknowingly advertising.

“I thought you didn’t like to buy books,” he said.

“Um, well, that’s definitely NOT the kind I’d ever check out of a library.” I assured him.

I don’t need my books to be THAT experienced!

Finding Family

I went to a business dinner last night. It was a big shindig for all the major non-profits in town. Since I work for a wonderful non-profit, I was there with a co-worker and one of our favorite volunteers. This particular volunteer is a believer, and the two of us have had many uplifting conversations about our shared faith.

Working for a non-profit, I have planned my fair share of big community events.

One challenge most non-profits face is the dreaded “invocation.” The invocation is that moment, usually before dinner is served, where a minister, priest, pastor, rabbi, or “religious” person gets up and offers some sort of thank you or welcome in a religious vein.

Everyone stays far, far way from the word “prayer.”

Most non-profits have core values that correspond with some part of their members’ faiths, beliefs, and guiding principles. But many times, in a community of multiple members, there is no one shared faith.

This is where the invocation process gets sticky.

I remember being at an event where the invocation was offered by a Unitarian minister who talked about “centering ourselves,” and “becoming one with ourselves.” (as opposed to becoming two with ourselves?).

I’m a Christian, so I couldn’t participate in the sentiment, but I respect people who have different faiths, so I listened intently and learned something from the experience.

The little old ladies behind me were furious! They were Catholic and listening to the “centering,” made them very angry toward the organization.

Most non-profits have learned to use safe middle-of-the-road religious persons – usually Lutheran or Methodist ministers. Occasionally, I have also encountered a Catholic priest giving an invocation.

In fact, one of the best invocation-ers I ever heard was Reverend John.

He wrote and read beautiful works of poetry that started the thanks at the crest of the moon and went to the sandy shore at the bottom of the sea. Listening to him was like hearing a great children’s book on tape.

Most religious officials offer a generic thank you to “heaven” and ask for an increased sense of community.

For most people, the invocation is just a quick pause before they can start tearing into whatever rubber chicken entrée is about to be served.

But, for those of us who actually do believe in something, it is often suspenseful to see how the invocation will be directed.

Last night, as my believer friend/volunteer and I bowed our heads, the pastor of Calvary (something, something) Church (okay, I WAS thinking about the chicken) came to the podium to give the invocation.

He started talking about a man.

A great and wonderful man who once hosted a dinner. As his guests clamored for him to begin the dinner, the man stood, tied an apron around his waist, and began to wash the feet of his guests.

My friend raised her head and looked at me across the table. Our eyes met. We knew where this was going.

Throughout the prayer (for indeed that’s what it was), the pastor talked about “this man.” He talked about how this man served, how all he ever did was in service of his father. He talked about how we should be like this man. He even said that we should do all things to the glory of God.

Near the end of the prayer, he had yet to say the man’s name. I was beginning to think he might chicken out – just let everyone assume it was a good man, a prophet, anyone – knowing what the Christians in the audience would assume.

As he closed the prayer, he asked all these things in the name of that man, the man who died on a cross for us, died willingly to serve His father.

The man…Jesus Christ.

He said our Lord’s name with power, strength, and unashamed conviction. A tingle went up my spine as those two explosive words rippled through the banquet hall like a thunder clap.

There was a slight, respectful pause, before people began talking and eating dinner.

My friend looked back at me, a smile on her lips. I smiled back.

For a moment, the clattering utensils dropped to the background, and I was looking at my sister. My sister in Christ, and we were smiling, genuinely joyful. Our brother had spoken our Father’s name and proclaimed His Glory to this great crowd of witnesses.

He had not taken the safe path, the wide path. He had risked his reputation and future speaking engagements to do the right thing.

His unselfish act sparkled like a diamond. He gave so much more than an invocation; he gave an offering. Of himself.

And he guaranteed I’ll never take another invocation for granted.

Thursday Thirteen

13 Things I Loved About My Childhood

1. My Smurfette Big Wheel

2. The light pole in our front yard (very British-looking and perfect for all my imaginary stories – I met many a prince at that light pole)

3. My tire swing – I’d swing and sing at the top of my lungs

4. Jason Cook, my across the street neighbor and partner in crime

5. Yellow shag carpeting in the basement

6. The venetian blinds in my room (positioned above my desk so I could mail “letters” into the blinds and have them delivered to me instantly!)

7. Dad’s patched brown leather recliner

8. Chalkboard Contact paper Dad stuck to the kitchen cabinets so we could leave silly messages for each other

9. Mom’s no-limit-on-popsicles-because-they’re just-flavored-water rule

10. Dad letting me drive his Moped into the garage

11. Playing tennis against myself in the basement (I was good, but I was better)

12. The freedom to talk to myself anywhere about anything

13. Reading Archie comic books at the breakfast table (while my parents did their devotions, no less!)